[Sam Tyler] Lemme out, you wankers!
Nov. 29th, 2006 10:44 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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crossing_lostrpWho: Detective Inspector Sam Tyler
Where: A truly hideous flat(?)
When: Day 24, afternoon
Invited:Captain Jack Sparrow, Mayday
Status: Complete
After beating his fist against the door to his flat a few more times, Sam stopped and leaned his forehead on the cool, thickly painted surface. "Bloody hell," he grumbled. He couldn't figure out why the blokes at the station were doing this. It had been days -- well, days counting the 36 hours he'd been trapped in his shoebox of a flat-- since he and DCI Hunt last had a row. He and Carling hadn't even glared at each other in a while.
Sam paced the few steps to his fold-out bed and flopped onto the lumpy mattress. It, like everything else in 1973, smelled like cigarette smoke. (Like this bleedin' polyester shirt, no matter how many times I wash it.)
He took a deep breath to center himself. Once Sam was closer to calm he reviewed every escape plan he'd tried so far: phone (dead), windows (painted shut), air vent (too small), screaming at the top of his lungs (no one answered, not even crotchety Mrs. Peppinpot), beating down the door (damned sturdy Manchester craftsmanship), and trying to remove the doorknob and hinges (difficult when you don't have any tools other than your revolver).
"If I just had my mobile..." Remembering that the bleeding things hadn't been invented yet did nothing to hold back panic. Before Sam realized he'd made the decision, he threw his head back and shouted, "Hunt! Annie! Mum! SOMEBODY!"
Where: A truly hideous flat(?)
When: Day 24, afternoon
Invited:
Status: Complete
After beating his fist against the door to his flat a few more times, Sam stopped and leaned his forehead on the cool, thickly painted surface. "Bloody hell," he grumbled. He couldn't figure out why the blokes at the station were doing this. It had been days -- well, days counting the 36 hours he'd been trapped in his shoebox of a flat-- since he and DCI Hunt last had a row. He and Carling hadn't even glared at each other in a while.
Sam paced the few steps to his fold-out bed and flopped onto the lumpy mattress. It, like everything else in 1973, smelled like cigarette smoke. (Like this bleedin' polyester shirt, no matter how many times I wash it.)
He took a deep breath to center himself. Once Sam was closer to calm he reviewed every escape plan he'd tried so far: phone (dead), windows (painted shut), air vent (too small), screaming at the top of his lungs (no one answered, not even crotchety Mrs. Peppinpot), beating down the door (damned sturdy Manchester craftsmanship), and trying to remove the doorknob and hinges (difficult when you don't have any tools other than your revolver).
"If I just had my mobile..." Remembering that the bleeding things hadn't been invented yet did nothing to hold back panic. Before Sam realized he'd made the decision, he threw his head back and shouted, "Hunt! Annie! Mum! SOMEBODY!"
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Date: 2007-01-25 02:27 am (UTC)