I got no excuse. Is that all right?
It's different when the day ends and night begins, right when the light starts to fall. Lately, it's different all the time, but night always carries something else in it. Rogue supposes it's simply a part of the dark and shadows, not seeing things clearly or knowing what's out there until it's closer than it should be. It's a lack of control, even if the notion of any kind of control in Chicago is just plain silly. Patrol is something necessary, and it's something that gives her a sort of comfort in it's familiarity. The reason making it such a necessity in the here and now is something that makes her skin crawl. She can't think of that video without feeling sick, and it makes her angrier all the time.
When she turns a corner and is met when a snarling mass of teeth and talons, she's relieved. It's always easier to beat the shit out of something than it is to think. Getting thrown against a store wall doesn't upset her. If anything, it fuels the anger, and she gets up, ignoring everything but the current focus of her attention. There's a face she's seeing, and it's not the one the monster is wearing. There's just the hitting, again and again, until her gloves are stained and torn. When it's quiet and still, she hits the wall. "Hell." She can hear the jingle of the bell from the store's front door opening and she starts walking away across a nearly empty parking lot.
Nikolas Demidov cares not for the video. He's standing across the street from the Kashtta, watching the front door. He's waiting. The time has come to speak with Jo, as he's weakening in his resolve to draw this out. It's not that he doesn't want to make this all last, it's more that it's so difficult. Anticipation is only satisfactory for so long, and he needs to see. He needs to feel something when the anticipation is hers, instead. She needs to know. Results are something he appreciates and he wants to see her reaction. He wants to see a lot of things. Leaning against the side of his car, he continues to watch, his keys dangling on his hand. There's a rather shiny dog whistle attached to his keys. It's a newer addition, and a testament to his astonishing sense of humor.
The Doctor has been attempting to break into a building. Unfortunately, it's the middle of the day, and there are people constantly walking in and out of the entrances. Security is up, and without an appointment, even an individual with recommendations from the president aren't being allowed in. He's decided that the best, and least troublesome, way to get inside the building is through the roof, and he's currently scouting several blocks for a ladder or some rope.
Apparently, people don't like leaving their ladders lying around, and he's yet to find one. The sound of a metal trash can being kicked echoes down the street, and he glares down at where his shoe is lodged in a freshly-made dent. He's not really frustrated at his inability to find a ladder, or even at the problem with the building (there really isn't a problem, he needs a problem). It's this place and what it does to the people here. It's gnawing at him, and the feeling is only growing more persistent.
Kicking furiously, he sends the trash can tumbling several feet away. Birds are leaving the area, due to the racket. It's loud.
When she turns a corner and is met when a snarling mass of teeth and talons, she's relieved. It's always easier to beat the shit out of something than it is to think. Getting thrown against a store wall doesn't upset her. If anything, it fuels the anger, and she gets up, ignoring everything but the current focus of her attention. There's a face she's seeing, and it's not the one the monster is wearing. There's just the hitting, again and again, until her gloves are stained and torn. When it's quiet and still, she hits the wall. "Hell." She can hear the jingle of the bell from the store's front door opening and she starts walking away across a nearly empty parking lot.
Nikolas Demidov cares not for the video. He's standing across the street from the Kashtta, watching the front door. He's waiting. The time has come to speak with Jo, as he's weakening in his resolve to draw this out. It's not that he doesn't want to make this all last, it's more that it's so difficult. Anticipation is only satisfactory for so long, and he needs to see. He needs to feel something when the anticipation is hers, instead. She needs to know. Results are something he appreciates and he wants to see her reaction. He wants to see a lot of things. Leaning against the side of his car, he continues to watch, his keys dangling on his hand. There's a rather shiny dog whistle attached to his keys. It's a newer addition, and a testament to his astonishing sense of humor.
The Doctor has been attempting to break into a building. Unfortunately, it's the middle of the day, and there are people constantly walking in and out of the entrances. Security is up, and without an appointment, even an individual with recommendations from the president aren't being allowed in. He's decided that the best, and least troublesome, way to get inside the building is through the roof, and he's currently scouting several blocks for a ladder or some rope.
Apparently, people don't like leaving their ladders lying around, and he's yet to find one. The sound of a metal trash can being kicked echoes down the street, and he glares down at where his shoe is lodged in a freshly-made dent. He's not really frustrated at his inability to find a ladder, or even at the problem with the building (there really isn't a problem, he needs a problem). It's this place and what it does to the people here. It's gnawing at him, and the feeling is only growing more persistent.
Kicking furiously, he sends the trash can tumbling several feet away. Birds are leaving the area, due to the racket. It's loud.