10: [location] bare your faces of the veil

[hasaheart]

The change of weather and the coming of April brought a few things to the forefront of Cain's mind. One day, while losing himself in the mundane murmur of household chores, he realized it had been close to six months since he first found himself trapped in this hole in the ground.

Six months in this monstrous metro-city, and he'd succumbed to the same apathy that he at first had accused his two dearest friends of.

Six months, and what had he done to find a way out?

What had he done to set things right?

Nothing. One big, fat, glaring nothing at all. He's given in to the grind of depression, to the oppressive lack of wanting anything to do with life, and the resignation that he doesn't have what it takes to end it once and for all (whatever it is, be it strength or weakness, guts or the lack of them).

What's more, if he's been here six months, it's ten months since Adora set out for the cottage beyond the white elm with their son, hoping against hope for a fresh start.

He realized he had no idea what she had done in the years before, when he was gone. He didn't know how she'd coped, what she'd had to sacrifice in order to feed her family.

Ten months, and sometime during the following four, she'd been murdered.

He realized, with chilling clarity, that he had no idea when his wife had died. He could live without knowing what had happened, because he knew it couldn't be as bad as his mind insisted in vivid, broad strokes of imaginary paint. He could live, not knowing how. He just wasn't so sure he could cope, not knowing when.

So, against better judgment, knowing full well he shared this prison with creatures who supposedly went around feeding on the blood of mortals, Cain once more took to walking the streets in the dead of night. The claustrophobia reared its ugly face one night too many, forcing him out into the deceptively open air - and if he had to choose between potentially infected, homicidal Extras and the walls of his rooms caving in, he'd take the Extras any day.

Comments

[location: a street somewhere] lalala willpower

[aintnoconvict]

Taken together, Glitch's nosiness and tendency to fret were a powerful combination. Powerful enough to send him out after Cain, despite possible lurking horrors and the ever-present concern of the tin man's temper.

He caught up, scuffed his feet on the pavement, cleared his throat, and generally made enough noise to indicate that he was deliberately following him. This was capped off with a casual-yet-hesitant "Hey."


ooc: my desire for them to end up at the carnival is STRONG

[imperial-long.livejournal.com]

There was a café not far from the Hyperion, and between sitting in his rooms and experiencing the draft and sitting at a table with a pot of tea and a book, Long preferred the latter-- even if the fine sport of people-watching was somewhat less than thrilling in Taxon, where most of the people weren't people at all, and were very dull to watch after the first few minutes.

Still, an occasional real person wandered by-- this one as he'd prepared to pack it up for the night and head home-- and Long glanced up at the purposeful stride before recognizing the fellow.

"Ah, Officer Cain, good evening," he called.

[stepintoshadows.livejournal.com]

The scenery may have changed, but the Purpose had not. A city was a city, no matter if it was New York or a prison that only looked like one, and wherever there were people there was accumulated filth, scum to eliminate. The Work was never finished, never would be so long as there was breath in his lungs, blood in his veins, and vice in the hearts of men, and so Rorschach had taken to patrolling this false city not long after his arrival.

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision, bright against the gloom that surrounded everything, and he turned his head to focus on it. The shadow progressed further down the street, and Rorschach followed, intent on finding out its business. Nothing good came from skulking in the dark, and he was certain that it was no less true in this instance. He made no attempt to conceal his own passage, although neither did he call attention to it. The figure was no doubt guilty of something, he just needed to find out what first.

[location: a building stoop in Wilde]

[verylittlesugar]

She's not out walking because somebody has appointed himself as her interim father, and Mattie knows he'll fuss if he thinks she's out doing anything with even the slightest potential for being dangerous. (If only she hadn't lost her father's pistol in the river...) But she feels too cooped up indoors tonight, in these odd, silent apartments, and to be frank, she misses her friends.

Her father's coat is wrapped around her against the coolness of the night, and his hat is a comfortable weight on her head, as she sits on the steps with her arms wrapped around her knees.

[location: certain half-deserted streets]

[selfmadman]

Don will never step--or stumble--out of a bar and mistake this place for Manhattan, but come nightfall it's easier to overlook the fact that the patches of light in the windows belong to people who aren't people at all, to take comfort in the sound of voices and footsteps without reminding himself who they belong to.

He walks past the man, taking in the hat and thinking nothing of it (he's at the stage of drunkenness where everything--including his intellect--is just a little softer around the edges, a pleasant blur). It's not until a few steps later that he experiences a twinge of recognition, turns.

"Evening." It's as much question as greeting.