(no subject)
Early twilight is the best time to be downtown for Simon. Late enough that the sun's left the streets, too early for the cheap neon to flicker and glare. The small young man waits on a street-corner, affecting nonchalance but chewing at his lip, averting his eyes from the headlights of the occasional car. His shades dangle loosely from his fingertips, indecisively. On, he looks like a dealer. Dark clothes, dark hair, nervous hands. Junkies are always armed, but never smart. Off... If he leaves them off, brushes his hair from his face, straightens his back just this way, he might attract richer prey. He has before. But that's dangerous, people who might be missed, who will be searched for, even those who just by virtue of being themselves may have brought dangerously observant eyes and cameras to the slums.
He puts the glasses on, moves back from the curb into the deep blue shadows. "Smokes?" he offers to the next person who passes, hands thrust in his pockets, wrapped around the knife there. "'Ludes, trips, got it all."
He puts the glasses on, moves back from the curb into the deep blue shadows. "Smokes?" he offers to the next person who passes, hands thrust in his pockets, wrapped around the knife there. "'Ludes, trips, got it all."