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I'm getting really tired of not being able to find a goddamn kitchen, but I found a swimming pool that seems relatively harmless. So that's...a thing we have, I guess. In the vein of Betty's post, should we start trying to at least keep track of what rooms are here, even if they move around too much to map them?
I'm getting really tired of not being able to find a goddamn kitchen, but I found a swimming pool that seems relatively harmless. So that's...a thing we have, I guess. In the vein of Betty's post, should we start trying to at least keep track of what rooms are here, even if they move around too much to map them?
He nearly falls in when he first enters the room because there isn't much of a ledge between the door and a swimming pool bigger than one he's ever seen in person. Derek pauses looking across the huge room, though, considering. He's been in this God forsaken house for what feels like forever already and he's been sticking close to Cleo until today, now that she won't be alone if he wanders a little. He'd volunteered to look for more food to have a good reason to explore a little. Derek's always been the type that's only comfortable — or even marginally so — if he knows his surroundings.
More importantly, in his opinion, he hasn't been able to go for a run or lift weights or really do anything more than some pull-ups on a doorframe — until one broke on him and then he'd decided that maybe he better not — and then push-ups, which can only do so much for him. The lack of activity makes him bored and settles like laziness in his bones. So the idea of some exercise, even if it's just a swim, is appealing.
Derek sheds his socks and dress shoes, since that's all he's got, along with the jeans and plain white t-shirt he'd taken from that kid's collection, pushing them away from the door with the hopes of keeping them as dry as possible, and he dives in.
What's the worst thing that could happen?
More importantly, in his opinion, he hasn't been able to go for a run or lift weights or really do anything more than some pull-ups on a doorframe — until one broke on him and then he'd decided that maybe he better not — and then push-ups, which can only do so much for him. The lack of activity makes him bored and settles like laziness in his bones. So the idea of some exercise, even if it's just a swim, is appealing.
Derek sheds his socks and dress shoes, since that's all he's got, along with the jeans and plain white t-shirt he'd taken from that kid's collection, pushing them away from the door with the hopes of keeping them as dry as possible, and he dives in.
What's the worst thing that could happen?