Little by little, finally, the rain eases off into a faint drizzle, and then stops altogether. For a long minute, nothing happens - it's just rain-slick streets, clouds still hanging low overhead, and an eerie silence all through the city ( Read more... )

The ceiling fan in Dunham's office is not as fascinating as you would think, from the way she's staring at it. She's behind her desk, chair tipped back precariously on two legs, feet on the desk, staring at the fan as it rattles overhead ( Read more... )

Rose Marshall is standing in the doorway of the building that Olivia Dunham, Private Eye has her offices in. The door to the office is in eyeshot, and Rose can hear if the office phone rings, from down here. She may have to run to grab it, but she needs a bit of a break, and a cigarette, which is why she's in the doorway, watching the rain. Also ( Read more... )

In the clinic, he lost his mind and found it again.

He was cleaned up and sent on his way once they'd given him painkillers and some care. He was fine by that; he knew how to get home, but despite everything, he needed to be out. He needed to make sure he had dodged death once again. He hit the streets and walked, taking in the city with dark eyes ( Read more... )

Quorra is standing in the rain, holding her coat wrapped tightly around her and a newspaper over her head as a pseudo-umbrella (it’s not working very well). She darts between the overhangs of buildings whenever there is one, but otherwise, it’s a walk in the rain, and it’s probably getting a bit dark out ( Read more... )

There are still police barricades up around the mayor's house, and a cop on patrol around the block. Dunham's been sitting in her car for the past hour or two, getting a feel for the pattern of his patrol, and getting more and more restless the longer she waits. This time after he passes, she gets out of the car, hat pulled low over her eyes and ( Read more... )

Neal Caffrey is lounging on a stool in a high-class bar, wearing a clearly new, clearly tailored suit and a trilby cocked down over one eye. His trench coat is still damp from the rain and slung over the bar with a kind of possessive self-assurance. This is his comfort zone. It's like breathing again after being underwater for long enough to nearly ( Read more... )

Her head hurt. It's a phage. You know it's a phage. This isn't real. You're Tiffany Aching, Witch of the ChalkShe shouldn't have come. This wasn't the place for a country girl -- nobody wanted country honesty, or country wisdom, or country anything here in the stiffling city. The lights glowed too long and the nights were cold, and she shouldn't ( Read more... )

Her head and her long trenchcoat were soaked, as were her shoes.  Molly grimaced and patted her hair, wondering why she hadn't opened the umbrella a minute earlier. This wouldn't be a good look onstage.

But then, while her looks were a bonus, they certainly weren't the real reason her partner kept her around. She'd been taking over more and more ( Read more... )

There doesn’t seem to be a real ‘after dark’ in Noirland, just dark streets and darker ones. But some time in the gray, screens set on the sides of the tallest buildings flicker to life with a telegraph chime and broadcast the following message, delivered by a little girl who looks a lot like Goldie, her hair straight and a fedora perched crookedly ( Read more... )