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Message: <blockquote data-quote="jkason" data-source="post: 6122772" data-attributes="member: 2710">Terry Quinlan, The GridTerry didn't remember much after the guns starting firing. There had been a hot, searing pain in his stomach, and he remembered something sticky on his hands. He flashed momentarily to some of the hypergore in some of his favorite shooters. This was tame in comparison, but the games didn't make him queasy, or take his legs out from under him. After that, it was little more that chaotic flashes. He mixed up sirens and screams, remembered a lot of jostling that made his stomach ache worse. He thought someone was speaking a foreign language, but he never knew when Uomo was going to shift to a new persona, anyway, so he just sort of assumed that was what happened. It wasn't until they were on the road that life stopped being some fading back-and-forth montage. Crowded in a van with his companions, as well as several new additions, Terry tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but it felt like someone was punching him in the stomach. He hissed and fell back again. His mouth was dry, his throat scratchy. He couldn't seem to manage words, so instead he just reached out mentally with a generic Where the hell are we?. The radio piped up something about being in between "your place for rock" and "your place for smooth jazz."  About as helpful as anything subjected to public airwaves was likely to be to him. Probably best they didn't have a GPS on the vehicle itself, anyway.So, they were on the road, at least. And alive. That was good, though he could do without the jabbing pain in his stomach.</blockquote>

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