Phasma introduction v2
This is my second try at a compelling introduction. Would you read further?
This paper and pen are all I have now. I am not allowed to have anything else. The damn time police have to figure out what I am allowed to have. They don't want to blind me with the majesty of the future. Condescending bastards. I'm the reason they exist, and still they treat me like filth. They stepped on me and scrapped me off in this cell. I'm dog shit. Great.
Since all I have is this paper and pen I might as well use them. All I have left are my memories, and I don't want to lose them too. DAMNIT. Am I really writing my memoir? I HAVEN'T EVEN HIT THIRTY AND I HAVE NO PROSPECTS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Great. Now I'm super depressed. Good first memoir team. Hit the showers. OH WAIT, I DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY SHOWERS.
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Phasma threw the pen against the wall. It didn't make much of a sound. The walls were too soft. Or was it the door? He didn't remember. He had forgotten which wall had the door. For all he knew every wall had a door. The exactness of the architecture in this building was ridiculous. It was like the fricking pyramids. Everything fit together too perfectly. It was a wonder he had air to breathe. DID HE HAVE AIR TO BREATHE? He looked frantically around. In all of the swearing he had not yet taken full stock of his surroundings. Yeah, there were a pair of vents on two of the walls. One was about knee height, and the other was about seven feet off the ground. That's good. Suffocation would have been a shitty way to die. The vents also gave Phasma a sense of orientation. That was something. He sat for a while. He had no way of telling how long.
Eventually he focused his eyes back on the reality he found himself in. He half expected to find himself back in his lab when he came to. He wasn't. He was tired of sitting. He stood. Phasma slowly moved his eyes across every surface of the room and took stock. All of the walls were bright white. On the wall in front of him was the high vent. It was aligned to the left of the wall. That was all. On the wall left of that there was nothing but bright white. A pen lay on the ground near this wall. Behind him was the wall with the low vent. The low vent was also aligned left on this wall. To his right was, again, nothing but a blank, bright, white surface. The floor seemed to be a slightly translucent plastic. It felt pretty soft, but it had no blemishes except for a drain in its center. The drain, as well as the vents, were simply long slits too thin to fit much through. The ceiling was the same as the floor except there was a bright light bleeding through it. Phasma walked over to the pen. He got down on one knee and picked it up. He stood. He touched the wall. It was the same material as the floor, except that it was completely opaque. He sighed. "I'm trapped in a big plastic box. Great." He threw the pen back at the neat stack of paper on the other side of the room. He missed.
Phasma leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, starring at the paper. Why was there paper? The paper and pen were the only two things in the room other than himself. He stared at the paper for another indeterminable stretch of time. There sat, looking around at the nothing in the cell. Then he lay down. It was surprisingly comfortable on the ground. It was oddly soft, and it was a good temperature. Phasma closed his eyes. The light in the room dimmed. Phasma slept.
***
Phasma woke up to the sound of running water. There was water pouring easily out of the high vent. It wound across the floor and down the drain. Phasma showered in the fresh smelling water. He looked over at the paper and saw a tray next to it bearing a glass of water, bacon, eggs and toast. He savored them. If only he had orange juice. Oh well. He picked up the pen and began to write again.
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