Or maybe it really is shock. If the terrain weren’t so damned familiar, Willard would probably be stuck still, himself (but that isn’t true, is it? jungle or no jungle, instinct always kicks in, and he’s trained to act, react, move). So maybe this guy’s convinced himself whatever the fuck’s just happened is normal.
That’d explain why he thinks shouting in the middle of the fucking jungle’s a good idea.
Well, shit. Even if he registers he’s in a jungle, maybe he doesn’t know better. It isn’t as if everyone’s spent time getting close to any kind of jungle, let alone a jungle crawling with enemies (and it is, isn’t it? has to be, because like it or not this is the jungle he knows which means tigers which means enemy soldiers which means friendly soldiers running wild which means death in many guises).
Hard to hear much over the jerk’s careless stomping (or that’s what it sounds like in Willard’s ears, an affront to the heaviness of silence and birdsong and the unhurried growth of plants, a cacophony making the noises around difficult to detect, making it impossible to say whether they’re being watched), but there’s another familiar sound at the edge of hearing. Closer than he’d like, close as he recalls it: the river, slow steady and inevitable.
What you can never escape. What will never let you go.
And there’s another thought: If this is the jungle, if this is even some copy of the jungle Willard knows, there’s a good chance the compound is here somewhere, too. And maybe, just maybe… Christ, no. Christ, that’d be too wretched. He can’t… He can’t exist here. Please, God, please, all the fucking gods that’ve never existed and never gave a shit, please don’t let him or any of them be here.
He has to move. He can’t stay here and he owes it - maybe - to the asshole to follow him. Much as he doesn’t want the headache. Much as his instinct tells him to stray from the noise of the man.
So Willard moves to follow the man, his motions a grace of tension, silent and swift. "I can't do that.
heyyyyy thank you <3
Or maybe it really is shock. If the terrain weren’t so damned familiar, Willard would probably be stuck still, himself (but that isn’t true, is it? jungle or no jungle, instinct always kicks in, and he’s trained to act, react, move). So maybe this guy’s convinced himself whatever the fuck’s just happened is normal.
That’d explain why he thinks shouting in the middle of the fucking jungle’s a good idea.
Well, shit. Even if he registers he’s in a jungle, maybe he doesn’t know better. It isn’t as if everyone’s spent time getting close to any kind of jungle, let alone a jungle crawling with enemies (and it is, isn’t it? has to be, because like it or not this is the jungle he knows which means tigers which means enemy soldiers which means friendly soldiers running wild which means death in many guises).
Hard to hear much over the jerk’s careless stomping (or that’s what it sounds like in Willard’s ears, an affront to the heaviness of silence and birdsong and the unhurried growth of plants, a cacophony making the noises around difficult to detect, making it impossible to say whether they’re being watched), but there’s another familiar sound at the edge of hearing. Closer than he’d like, close as he recalls it: the river, slow steady and inevitable.
What you can never escape. What will never let you go.
And there’s another thought: If this is the jungle, if this is even some copy of the jungle Willard knows, there’s a good chance the compound is here somewhere, too. And maybe, just maybe… Christ, no. Christ, that’d be too wretched. He can’t… He can’t exist here. Please, God, please, all the fucking gods that’ve never existed and never gave a shit, please don’t let him or any of them be here.
He has to move. He can’t stay here and he owes it - maybe - to the asshole to follow him. Much as he doesn’t want the headache. Much as his instinct tells him to stray from the noise of the man.
So Willard moves to follow the man, his motions a grace of tension, silent and swift. "I can't do that.
“Do you know where we are?”