[The knock resonates loudly, through the wood and around them. Enough to spook MothJon to leave entirely, going back to the panic room.
The door cracks open, slowly. An invitation, a welcome. The room inside is dim. A large open space with some desks and a vanity dresser lining the side walls. Books, boxes of tapes and file folders are stacked anywhere out of the walkway, on every flat surface. And scattered around the room are even more that are loose. Here and there are trinkets, bits of memory held dear of his loved ones. One of Algric's favorite mugs. One of Tim's favorite models. Sasha's laptop. A book of sheet music from his gran. All neatly arranged wherever they are, a bit of organization attempted in the chaos of his life.
The back wall is a series of floor to ceiling windows, with no curtains so the Eyes can look in. All eight of them. Never blinking, always focused. It watches all the thick, white strands of webbing that take over the room. From the ceiling, to around certain memories, files, cassette tapes. It makes it so there is no clear path through or around the room as the strands are everywhere. But they all come to a focal point: a pit in the center of the room. It's a large hole, completely covered over with webbing, but every web in the room ends there.
The room is filled with the sound of scitters, hundreds of spiders making their way around. And the sound of magnetic tape running, intermingled with the web threads here and there.]
no subject
The door cracks open, slowly. An invitation, a welcome. The room inside is dim. A large open space with some desks and a vanity dresser lining the side walls. Books, boxes of tapes and file folders are stacked anywhere out of the walkway, on every flat surface. And scattered around the room are even more that are loose. Here and there are trinkets, bits of memory held dear of his loved ones. One of Algric's favorite mugs. One of Tim's favorite models. Sasha's laptop. A book of sheet music from his gran. All neatly arranged wherever they are, a bit of organization attempted in the chaos of his life.
The back wall is a series of floor to ceiling windows, with no curtains so the Eyes can look in. All eight of them. Never blinking, always focused. It watches all the thick, white strands of webbing that take over the room. From the ceiling, to around certain memories, files, cassette tapes. It makes it so there is no clear path through or around the room as the strands are everywhere. But they all come to a focal point: a pit in the center of the room. It's a large hole, completely covered over with webbing, but every web in the room ends there.
The room is filled with the sound of scitters, hundreds of spiders making their way around. And the sound of magnetic tape running, intermingled with the web threads here and there.]