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Description
The ward. Now there's somewhere he didn't want to stay again. After blowing up their engineer for a simple misunderstanding, he'd been shuffled there for a spell. But, drugged as he was, there was little he could do after collapsing to the floor other than lay about and make a bit of a mess with drooling on the floor.
There was even less he could do when the dreams came as the drugs deposited his mind in a well-deserved state of (unwilling) repose. They were always there, dancing just behind his eyelids whenever he shut them. Twisted bodies, snowy landscapes, shelled homes. Those he couldn't save haunted him whenever his eyes were closed, lingering on in his mind. They called to him, asked why he was too late, why he didn't do something.
Tighter and tighter they wound around him, until he couldn't move. They constricted his arms against his body so he couldn't fight back, could only squirm against the mass of limbs that suddenly began to move unlike any huma-
Tentacles. His nightmares had suddenly sprouted them. Twisted and writhing, they clutched at him tight, jabbing at his arms with thick, elongated needles-
The Soldier snorted as he awoke, all too soon thanks to only getting whatever was left in the needle that traitorous Kraut had jabbed into his neck and not the full dose. His arms still stung, but that was because they had gone numb. Someone had outfitted him with a new coat, one with buckles and straps that kept him from getting his mitts on anything.
A smarter man would have stayed quiet, maybe biding his time. But the Soldier was a man of action, damnit! Who cared if he didn't know where he was or if he had been moved or was being moved or how long he was out; all that mattered was that he had to get out of there and introduce some faces to Mister Pickaxe, and a little straight jacket wasn't going to stop him!
Once the foggy dredges of sleep allowed him to do more than just think about what he would do once he woke up, the Soldier tried to squirm, tried to talk and holler at that Goddamn Fritz that had done that to him. But things just wouldn't work out right, for now. All he could manage was a bit of squirming, maybe a little wiggling, and any and all noises he made came out garbled and sloppy, which only proceeded to enrage him further.
He didn't like this, the feeling of helplessness. Grown men didn't feel too frightened to open their eyes and take a look around, their pulses didn't race a mile a minute just at not having the use of their arms, and they definitely didn't give up and let some hippie Kraut with a pet thingy get the better of them.
Finally, with his heart in his throat and the sound of his pulse thrumming in his ears, the Soldier dared to open his eyes for a look-see. Just a little look. Surely, if the shouting and moving hadn't panned out so well, he must at least have his vision.
The darkness grew brighter, revealing a dark grey room that seemed to constantly shift from left to right in a hazed blur, with the only source of light coming in through the frosted glass window in the door.
See? Nothing. All that panic for nothing! He bit what he was pretty sure was his lower lip, pressing down until he could actually feel the pain. This must be the life Hippies lived. Drugged up constantly, marijuana making them afraid of their own shadows, afraid to get a real job, afraid to get a decent haircut!
He shut his eyes again tightly. The tentacles were weaving their way through his mind again, looking for a weakness in his brain to penetrate with knives curled in their tips. The tentacles trailed to the back of his brain, to the blue striped suit of their owner. The savage face of the monster flashed into his vision with violent vividness. Sharp teeth echoing its pained cry as the constricting slime seemed to take hold around his neck once more. Tightening. Tightening!
His eyes opened widely; his panting stinging his torn bleeding lip. Opening his eyes caused nightmares, closing them brought unexplainable terror... Why.
No!
Terror was unacceptable! What he saw couldn't be real. They couldn't be! He had served honorably in the war, even though no one wanted him to join! He had been blind sided by that monster in the doc's lab. And whether he was a spy or not, that doc drugged and dragged him in this cell! That was definitely grand treason!
He looked down at the jacket that backstabbing 'Medic' shoved him in. His arms were crossed and restrained tightly against his chest, leaving him more or less trapped to remain laying face down on his stomach; at least, until his legs woke up.
A shadow blocked out part of the window. Instinctively, the soldier looked up to see the cause. Tentacles crashed through the plate glass window and quickly started coiling around the soldier with a crushing force.
"Hey, doc, I think he havin' a stroke 'r somethin'." Scout stepped back from the glass window and let the new medic have a look. The soldier writhed on the floor, making a rather interesting combination of a scream and a gurgle, punctuated by slurred curses.
"Uck, he's fine." Medic said with a wave. "He's under zhe influence of a very potent narcotic at zhe moment. Nazhing fatal, I assure you but schtill,"The medic took a pen out and wrote on the clipboard hung on the wall next to the door. "I zhink it would be best if ve leave him in zhe ward for about a veek, 10 days at zhe most.
"Ya sure he'll be alright, doc?" The Engineer spoke up "I mean, he's looking pretty bad in there right now."
"I've treated Schpy Paranoia before, Engineer." Medic smiled "Usually all zhey need iz some rest und relaxation. But..."
"Und zhiz is un Big Butt!" Scout mocked in a fake German accent with a laugh
"Jaaaa." Medic sighed in annoyance "But, if he continuez to have zhe delusions, zhen I'm afraid I vill be forced to petition our employers to strongly conzider... reliving our poor zoldier of his pozition."
Get off of me, you Goddamned tentacle-hippie-tentacle thing! The Soldier wanted to scream when he was suddenly assaulted by that monster from the tank, but his cotton-dry mouth still produced nothing but an inarticulate slur. He couldn't fend it off, could only scuff the shiny steel toes of his boots against the floor and shake his head from side to side to get it off. Of course, with there really being nothing latched onto his skull, the crazed American was doing a bang-up job of bruising and scraping his face against the floor.
And still, tighter and tighter around his head it wound, no matter what the weakened soldier tried. He could hear the bones in his head scraping and crackling, could feel his brain swelling up as shards of his skull forced their way into the soft tissue, and yet, it seemed to be taking its damned time with him. Somehow, he was still alive, still fighting through the agony to break free.
It seemed a lifetime before the all-too-real illusion of the thing wrapped 'round his head disappeared, leaving the soldier to mull over his pounding headache in cold silence. Body trembling from exertion and the chill sweat that broke over his form, it was all he could do to breathe, and even that was a hassle with his face on the floor, leaving him free to suck up all the grit and dirt he could.
Still, he had to grin and bear it for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly, the fire in his lungs subsided and the frantic beating of his pulse slowed, even if he could do little about the waves of nauseating pain permeating his skull. Goddamn hippies must have dropped him on his head when they moved him here. Always trust a hippie not to be strong enough to carry a paper bag, let alone a person.
That left more questions for the Soldier to mull over as he lay there, waiting for his strength to return. Surely, that scrawny Kraut wasn't nearly strong enough to carry him on his own, with or without the whatchamacallit in the tank. He must have gotten others from his team to help him. Traitors and fascists the lot of them! He'd have them all court martialed for this, if it was the last damn thing he did.
One step at a time. No use in getting ahead of himself. The thought of all those hippies on his precious team made his blood broil, and that went right to the ache in his head, which made him just want to throw up. And throwing up definitely wouldn't help him here.
Firstly, he needed to at least get his face off the ground. That was a good place to start. Testing his legs, he found that he could at least sort of maneuver them a little. Right, that was good. Slowly, using his shoulders and hips, he managed to wiggle onto his side, then attempted to sit up after taking a moment to recuperate his strength.
Bad move. He managed to right himself, but just went toppling over to the other side, bruising his shoulder and giving himself a rather nice crack to the skull. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and he swore that the entire room was suddenly made entirely of windows with vague shapes behind them, watching him.
Well, let them watch. He'd kill 'em all, too.

Description
The ward. Now there's somewhere he didn't want to stay again. After blowing up their engineer for a simple misunderstanding, he'd been shuffled there for a spell. But, drugged as he was, there was little he could do after collapsing to the floor other than lay about and make a bit of a mess with drooling on the floor.
There was even less he could do when the dreams came as the drugs deposited his mind in a well-deserved state of (unwilling) repose. They were always there, dancing just behind his eyelids whenever he shut them. Twisted bodies, snowy landscapes, shelled homes. Those he couldn't save haunted him whenever his eyes were closed, lingering on in his mind. They called to him, asked why he was too late, why he didn't do something.
Tighter and tighter they wound around him, until he couldn't move. They constricted his arms against his body so he couldn't fight back, could only squirm against the mass of limbs that suddenly began to move unlike any huma-
Tentacles. His nightmares had suddenly sprouted them. Twisted and writhing, they clutched at him tight, jabbing at his arms with thick, elongated needles-
The Soldier snorted as he awoke, all too soon thanks to only getting whatever was left in the needle that traitorous Kraut had jabbed into his neck and not the full dose. His arms still stung, but that was because they had gone numb. Someone had outfitted him with a new coat, one with buckles and straps that kept him from getting his mitts on anything.
A smarter man would have stayed quiet, maybe biding his time. But the Soldier was a man of action, damnit! Who cared if he didn't know where he was or if he had been moved or was being moved or how long he was out; all that mattered was that he had to get out of there and introduce some faces to Mister Pickaxe, and a little straight jacket wasn't going to stop him!
Once the foggy dredges of sleep allowed him to do more than just think about what he would do once he woke up, the Soldier tried to squirm, tried to talk and holler at that Goddamn Fritz that had done that to him. But things just wouldn't work out right, for now. All he could manage was a bit of squirming, maybe a little wiggling, and any and all noises he made came out garbled and sloppy, which only proceeded to enrage him further.
He didn't like this, the feeling of helplessness. Grown men didn't feel too frightened to open their eyes and take a look around, their pulses didn't race a mile a minute just at not having the use of their arms, and they definitely didn't give up and let some hippie Kraut with a pet thingy get the better of them.
Finally, with his heart in his throat and the sound of his pulse thrumming in his ears, the Soldier dared to open his eyes for a look-see. Just a little look. Surely, if the shouting and moving hadn't panned out so well, he must at least have his vision.
The darkness grew brighter, revealing a dark grey room that seemed to constantly shift from left to right in a hazed blur, with the only source of light coming in through the frosted glass window in the door.
See? Nothing. All that panic for nothing! He bit what he was pretty sure was his lower lip, pressing down until he could actually feel the pain. This must be the life Hippies lived. Drugged up constantly, marijuana making them afraid of their own shadows, afraid to get a real job, afraid to get a decent haircut!
He shut his eyes again tightly. The tentacles were weaving their way through his mind again, looking for a weakness in his brain to penetrate with knives curled in their tips. The tentacles trailed to the back of his brain, to the blue striped suit of their owner. The savage face of the monster flashed into his vision with violent vividness. Sharp teeth echoing its pained cry as the constricting slime seemed to take hold around his neck once more. Tightening. Tightening!
His eyes opened widely; his panting stinging his torn bleeding lip. Opening his eyes caused nightmares, closing them brought unexplainable terror... Why.
No!
Terror was unacceptable! What he saw couldn't be real. They couldn't be! He had served honorably in the war, even though no one wanted him to join! He had been blind sided by that monster in the doc's lab. And whether he was a spy or not, that doc drugged and dragged him in this cell! That was definitely grand treason!
He looked down at the jacket that backstabbing 'Medic' shoved him in. His arms were crossed and restrained tightly against his chest, leaving him more or less trapped to remain laying face down on his stomach; at least, until his legs woke up.
A shadow blocked out part of the window. Instinctively, the soldier looked up to see the cause. Tentacles crashed through the plate glass window and quickly started coiling around the soldier with a crushing force.
"Hey, doc, I think he havin' a stroke 'r somethin'." Scout stepped back from the glass window and let the new medic have a look. The soldier writhed on the floor, making a rather interesting combination of a scream and a gurgle, punctuated by slurred curses.
"Uck, he's fine." Medic said with a wave. "He's under zhe influence of a very potent narcotic at zhe moment. Nazhing fatal, I assure you but schtill,"The medic took a pen out and wrote on the clipboard hung on the wall next to the door. "I zhink it would be best if ve leave him in zhe ward for about a veek, 10 days at zhe most.
"Ya sure he'll be alright, doc?" The Engineer spoke up "I mean, he's looking pretty bad in there right now."
"I've treated Schpy Paranoia before, Engineer." Medic smiled "Usually all zhey need iz some rest und relaxation. But..."
"Und zhiz is un Big Butt!" Scout mocked in a fake German accent with a laugh
"Jaaaa." Medic sighed in annoyance "But, if he continuez to have zhe delusions, zhen I'm afraid I vill be forced to petition our employers to strongly conzider... reliving our poor zoldier of his pozition."
Get off of me, you Goddamned tentacle-hippie-tentacle thing! The Soldier wanted to scream when he was suddenly assaulted by that monster from the tank, but his cotton-dry mouth still produced nothing but an inarticulate slur. He couldn't fend it off, could only scuff the shiny steel toes of his boots against the floor and shake his head from side to side to get it off. Of course, with there really being nothing latched onto his skull, the crazed American was doing a bang-up job of bruising and scraping his face against the floor.
And still, tighter and tighter around his head it wound, no matter what the weakened soldier tried. He could hear the bones in his head scraping and crackling, could feel his brain swelling up as shards of his skull forced their way into the soft tissue, and yet, it seemed to be taking its damned time with him. Somehow, he was still alive, still fighting through the agony to break free.
It seemed a lifetime before the all-too-real illusion of the thing wrapped 'round his head disappeared, leaving the soldier to mull over his pounding headache in cold silence. Body trembling from exertion and the chill sweat that broke over his form, it was all he could do to breathe, and even that was a hassle with his face on the floor, leaving him free to suck up all the grit and dirt he could.
Still, he had to grin and bear it for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly, the fire in his lungs subsided and the frantic beating of his pulse slowed, even if he could do little about the waves of nauseating pain permeating his skull. Goddamn hippies must have dropped him on his head when they moved him here. Always trust a hippie not to be strong enough to carry a paper bag, let alone a person.
That left more questions for the Soldier to mull over as he lay there, waiting for his strength to return. Surely, that scrawny Kraut wasn't nearly strong enough to carry him on his own, with or without the whatchamacallit in the tank. He must have gotten others from his team to help him. Traitors and fascists the lot of them! He'd have them all court martialed for this, if it was the last damn thing he did.
One step at a time. No use in getting ahead of himself. The thought of all those hippies on his precious team made his blood broil, and that went right to the ache in his head, which made him just want to throw up. And throwing up definitely wouldn't help him here.
Firstly, he needed to at least get his face off the ground. That was a good place to start. Testing his legs, he found that he could at least sort of maneuver them a little. Right, that was good. Slowly, using his shoulders and hips, he managed to wiggle onto his side, then attempted to sit up after taking a moment to recuperate his strength.
Bad move. He managed to right himself, but just went toppling over to the other side, bruising his shoulder and giving himself a rather nice crack to the skull. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and he swore that the entire room was suddenly made entirely of windows with vague shapes behind them, watching him.
Well, let them watch. He'd kill 'em all, too.