Desmond's red tinted eyes fidgeted, looking from side to side, up to down: everywhere for a threat. All he saw were dirt and trees. Giant trees. In front of them, he felt small, constantly watched.
Out of every bad feeling in the world, Desmond hated the idea of being watched the most. It was one of the reasons why he hated coming to this bunker. The idea of being watched by nature, that there were thousands of creatures above, was unpleasant, to say the least.
Lately, he had been experiencing that feeling more and more in general, never quite being able to shake off the idea that somebody or something was watching him.
It was probably just his nerves, though, especially with the civil war going on with the Trident. A debacle that was, to say the absolute least. The balance was right there, Italian, Japanese and Russian Prongs working seamlessly. As they had been for over 50 years.
