thought i saw the future

[magnetic]

Who: Erik Lehnsherr and OPEN to... someone with a death wish, possibly? Anyone who enjoys talking through a door?
What: Arriving.
Where: Arrival cells, The Valhalla Inn.
When: Late Misdi night, and however many hours/days afterward.
Notes: me so angy
Warnings: None at this time.

Shunted from her purpose by a living whirlwind, the prototype jet spins and spins, her extremities breaking apart, the wind skinning her and flinging her pieces into the sea. The little bodies inside her rolling, white-knuckled, dreading the inevitable crash. Erik is affixed to the steel hull by means of his gift, and through his palms and his knees and his skull he feels every vibration, every groan and shriek of rent metal, and through his chest he feels the resonance of his friend howling in terror beneath him. He will be safe, held there, or they will all of them die together, screaming.

Erik collides with something hard, then—only him, Erik alone, the Blackbird's hull suddenly absent from his awareness—and rolls away from it purely by the rebound, confused by the loss of momentum even before his body stills. He stirs again not a moment later. It is with the drunken, but dogged movements of a stunned body yet determined to rise that he then lifts himself from the floor, aware even through the mess of dizziness that he recognizes nothing, that everything he knows is gone. A wall—it was a wall. He's in a room. A cell. The surge of emotion triggered by this realization is unnameable, and it is deep, and fierce, and it consumes him in full.
The meat of his fist is first to find the door, and again and again, then both palms banging hard, and his voice raises above them, raw, defiant of language. In a sudden cessation his forehead touches the door's surface, and he waits there, panting, hoarse. Listening for anything, any sign of a presence. He waits. Nothing. Head clearer, he now steps back from the door and gestures as though tearing it, miming handfuls, meaning to disfigure and make useless this prison that he hates. Straining hard. Teeth bared at no one. Nothing. His breath creaks loose and then comes in a sudden rush, out and back in, and with tears flowing freely from all his futile effort he goes utterly berserk.
A powerful racket follows—not merely powerful, but sustained. Inanimate groaning, squealing, slamming; a long, splintering crack; something like metallic hailstones. Each time the noise abates, the man inside the cell is temporarily silent, or gasping audible breaths, or else he cries out you can't do this or I almost had him or where are they or the most subtle I'll kill you, only to begin again.

Over an hour passes before he is worn to weakness, before his body is too weary to keep up with his will, and by then the cell door is not only seriously dented from the inside, but it has bowed outward. The entire door, still sealed around its edges, now faintly convex toward the hallway.

In Baedal, it is standard procedure not to release immediately those who arrive in the throes of violence. Such creatures are to be left locked away until they reach a manageable state, whether that means internal calm, or malnourished weakness, or death. Often, death seems most prudent. (These rooms are tiled for a reason.)
Erik shows his teeth to the first official to ask after him and, by grace of the wards, but certainly not for lack of trying, fails to drive a now sharpened table leg through the man's head. Nonplussed, the official tells him to have it his way, and leaves behind a sign on the handle of the door. It's inn standard, the same as on any rented room: DO NOT DISTURB.