i write sins, not tragedies.

[larue]

[ London, 2063.

The fog is thick tonight. It paints the world a particular shade of gray that blends streets and buildings together, so much that the glow of the street lamps seem to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

A curious thing that you see though, is the sight of a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a deep crimson suit as he comes to a stop at one corner. There's a distinct click as he lights up a cigarette, the same hand that stows the gunmetal Zippo back in his pocket fishing out a phone that he brings to his ear. ]

All quiet on my end.

Comments

[ktotheatothez]

[The boy walking along the bridge in the fog looks casual, like one out on a midnight stroll. Odd, but not unheard of. He's been smoking the past few minutes, just leaning on the bridge and looking out at the river.

He presses on the comm in his ear.

It's silent out here too. Penny for your thoughts, big brother?

[fourthbase]

[ please have a lady wearing neon pink armed with a bloody bat in her arms ruin the dark atmosphere, because that's always a good thing! ]

It is pretty fuckin' quiet around here. Maybe we should make some noise. [ she laughs a little and rubs the tip of the bat, admiring it like it's her god (it is). ]