too high to jump in jail; too low to dig, I might just touch Hell.
On this fine (cloudy, cool) afternoon in Chicago, there are a few people out and about and rockin' out.
Katja is downtown at a Trader Joe's. Just outside of one, actually, struggling with the two bags of stuff she's just bought, trying to get them to stay in the baskets of the little town bike she's recently acquired and swearing a lot in Russian at her lack of bungee cables. If anyone actually looks into the bags, they'll see that it's an assortment of things that people generally call food, but would make an incredibly interesting meal, given the combination. There's also a lot of alcohol. And a baguette.
Huck is on Navy Pier, a little ways away from the crowds that don't mind the cool or the cloudiness, doing handstands. She's trying to take her mind off of Jason and the fact that he hasn't been back to the inn in a few days. Coming downtown and taking a day off from working in the restaurant seemed like a good idea, though she hasn't decided whether she's going to use the money in her pocket for food or tickets for the rides. She's hungry, but she's used to that feeling, and she hasn't been on the rides in ages. So she's going to do handstands at the end of Navy Pier until she decides.
Arlin's walking briskly down the street in the middle of Chicago, carrying a backpack and grateful for the gloomy weather, as it gives him a proper excuse to have a jacket on. He's just finished a hit on what was supposed to be a regular, everyday college professor (and, coincidentally, a temeluchus) -- one of the remaining on the merry little list of CLF and 'wanderers' he was supposed to take out -- and the hit didn't quite go as well as planned thanks to a few unforseen circumstances that Arlin is still more than a little upset about. As a result, his shirt underneath the jacket is a bit bloody, hence the jacket. His facial features are also shifting slightly; not so much that anyone who knows him won't recognize him, but enough that any passers-by won't be able to answer any questions as to his appearance if they're asked.
And in Grant Park, on a bench somewhere a little farther away from the crowds, but not so far into the wooded area that it's lost, there's an angel. He's dirty and ragged and a little damp, and looks as though he slept on the bench. Which he did. He doesn't seem to mind this, however; in fact, he hardly seems to be aware of it. He's staring straight ahead into the middle distance, talking to himself, and doesn't notice any of the people walking past him or the odd looks they give him. There's a small journal in his lap, which he occasionally opens, stares at, and then closes. Eventually, in frustration, he just puts his head in his hands, muttering.
Katja is downtown at a Trader Joe's. Just outside of one, actually, struggling with the two bags of stuff she's just bought, trying to get them to stay in the baskets of the little town bike she's recently acquired and swearing a lot in Russian at her lack of bungee cables. If anyone actually looks into the bags, they'll see that it's an assortment of things that people generally call food, but would make an incredibly interesting meal, given the combination. There's also a lot of alcohol. And a baguette.
Huck is on Navy Pier, a little ways away from the crowds that don't mind the cool or the cloudiness, doing handstands. She's trying to take her mind off of Jason and the fact that he hasn't been back to the inn in a few days. Coming downtown and taking a day off from working in the restaurant seemed like a good idea, though she hasn't decided whether she's going to use the money in her pocket for food or tickets for the rides. She's hungry, but she's used to that feeling, and she hasn't been on the rides in ages. So she's going to do handstands at the end of Navy Pier until she decides.
Arlin's walking briskly down the street in the middle of Chicago, carrying a backpack and grateful for the gloomy weather, as it gives him a proper excuse to have a jacket on. He's just finished a hit on what was supposed to be a regular, everyday college professor (and, coincidentally, a temeluchus) -- one of the remaining on the merry little list of CLF and 'wanderers' he was supposed to take out -- and the hit didn't quite go as well as planned thanks to a few unforseen circumstances that Arlin is still more than a little upset about. As a result, his shirt underneath the jacket is a bit bloody, hence the jacket. His facial features are also shifting slightly; not so much that anyone who knows him won't recognize him, but enough that any passers-by won't be able to answer any questions as to his appearance if they're asked.
And in Grant Park, on a bench somewhere a little farther away from the crowds, but not so far into the wooded area that it's lost, there's an angel. He's dirty and ragged and a little damp, and looks as though he slept on the bench. Which he did. He doesn't seem to mind this, however; in fact, he hardly seems to be aware of it. He's staring straight ahead into the middle distance, talking to himself, and doesn't notice any of the people walking past him or the odd looks they give him. There's a small journal in his lap, which he occasionally opens, stares at, and then closes. Eventually, in frustration, he just puts his head in his hands, muttering.