I get it now, I'm the face, I'm the cause of war. We don't have to blame white coated men anymore.
Aniki is curled up in an armchair in The Coffee Shop, reading a book. Terrier, to be exact, though she seems to be reading the same section over and over again, running her fingers over the pages with a lonely look on her face.
Murphy is out drinking. It’s Holy Week. What else is a quasilapsed Irish Catholic Knight of the Cross to do?
Somewhere in downtown Chicago, a small gray tabby falls out of a rift to perch atop a traffic light. “Yow,” Cy says. “I tripped.”
Suou is getting a breath of fresh air outside of the Organization Complex.
With ice cream.
Always.
And somewhere in a small neighborhood park, Ruvin stands, circled by birds. She looks different--she’s wearing a tidy business suit, her hair drawn back into a braid. She’s been busy, been mostly in D.C., with occasional side trips to New York and the surrounding area.
The birds swill around her in drunken circles, looking as though they’re caught in heat waves as they bank and dip at odd moments.
Ruvin has been practicing. Using her abilities to arrange a meeting here, bump into a politician there, secure and invitation to this or that social function.
A bird at the rear of the flock drops to the ground dead and the rest scatter. Ruvin crouches next to it, runs her fingers over its wing. Her feelings show clearly on her face--sorrow, longing, but most of all grim solidity.
One thing’s certain; she’s not the girl she was when she left the city.
Murphy is out drinking. It’s Holy Week. What else is a quasilapsed Irish Catholic Knight of the Cross to do?
Somewhere in downtown Chicago, a small gray tabby falls out of a rift to perch atop a traffic light. “Yow,” Cy says. “I tripped.”
Suou is getting a breath of fresh air outside of the Organization Complex.
With ice cream.
Always.
And somewhere in a small neighborhood park, Ruvin stands, circled by birds. She looks different--she’s wearing a tidy business suit, her hair drawn back into a braid. She’s been busy, been mostly in D.C., with occasional side trips to New York and the surrounding area.
The birds swill around her in drunken circles, looking as though they’re caught in heat waves as they bank and dip at odd moments.
Ruvin has been practicing. Using her abilities to arrange a meeting here, bump into a politician there, secure and invitation to this or that social function.
A bird at the rear of the flock drops to the ground dead and the rest scatter. Ruvin crouches next to it, runs her fingers over its wing. Her feelings show clearly on her face--sorrow, longing, but most of all grim solidity.
One thing’s certain; she’s not the girl she was when she left the city.