05 June 2012 @ 01:19 pm
[----audio popping to life, a voice muttering] How in the hell--what even is this crap, I don’t even spend a lotta time on my computer--

[Video clicks on---Monroe frowns, the device tilted at an angle as he tries to figure it out. There’s a light flashing now. Why is there a light flashing.] Great, what did I do.

Oh--uh--is this thing recording me or something? Hello?

[he lowers the thing, taking a look around--a bit frantic, and trying very, very hard not to be frantic, okay. Weird, unfamiliar scents all over the place, too many sounds--way, way too bright. He can’t smell out the Grimm anywhere. He can’t even figure out where he is in relation to his house. If he’s even still in Portland. Which, he’s pretty sure he’s not--this place is huge, and newer looking, and full of people--and not people--just breathe, Monroe, you’re not going to panic--even if this situation is cause for some serious freaking out, we’re not doing that, because it’s counter productive, and oh God, this is not happening.]


Look, if this is some kinda joke--Reynaldo? Nick? Not funny, okay? [He looks back at the device, trying to be stern, and failing.]

This is creepy, and fu...Crap. This is bad. Where am I. Where am I?

Okay--Nick? Nick Burkhardt, if this is your fault, I swear I’m gonna kill you. I’m--I got dropped in a freaking fountain, okay, and it’s loud, I mean, my head is pounding here--

Talking to a freaking palm pilot. Christ.