[open] If my will caves in, I'll be in the same boat as you.
Bad things happen in Chicago at night.
Cassie was sleeping. If that’s what you could call it. She fidgets in her sleep, worrying her covers like some sort of restless animal. Since Iris, she hasn’t been sleeping much - most nights have her up fretting over her friend. She spends the day exhausted, not really sure what to do with herself, other than wanting to bake and cook for Iris. And when she does manage to fall asleep, she’s restless and fitful. By just after midnight, she’s managed to get about an hour by now.
That is until she rolls over and falls off her bed. But instead of hitting the floor, a rift opens up and dumps her in the fountain at Grant Park.
She falls head first into the water, dropping only a few feet through the air. She wakes as soon as she hits to cold water, but it’s too late for her to let out a scream. Hitting her head off the bottom of the fountain, she pulls herself groggily to the surface and looks about, utterly confused and in pain. Noisily, she scrambles to her feet and crawls out of the fountain, her hair and night clothes heavy with icy water.
“Cold, cold, cold..” she utters as she clambers to her feet. Blinking owlishly, she hugs herself, teeth madly chattering and one hand cradling the swelling bump on her forehead. Well, that’s not going to look so pretty in the morning.
She looks about the park, semi-realising where she is and knowing that it’s not a dream. And then she realises she doesn’t have her journal to call for help and that it’s a long walk to get back to the Tower.
This is not good.
Elsewhere in Chicago, Dylan is out. She’s currently in a dirty alleyway behind a bar beating the crap out of a demon for information on the Chicago Liberation Front. The demon doesn’t really want to talk much, apparently too busy begging for mercy.
“You’re all the same,” she sneers, currently in her nasty bitch mode, “Filth,”
She’s more violent than usual. Her mind ready to explode with the hatred that’s been gathering up. The flashbacks of her childhood aren’t helping. She still sees it, watching helplessly as a young girl as a demon murdered her mother. The images mesh together with the pictures of the angel girl, battered and mutilated.
Dragging the sobbing, bloody mess of a man to his feet, Dylan slams him against the wall and pulls out her machete. Without missing a beat, she presses the blade to the demon’s throat, eyes narrowing with sheer loathing. “Now, tell me where he is,”
Cassie was sleeping. If that’s what you could call it. She fidgets in her sleep, worrying her covers like some sort of restless animal. Since Iris, she hasn’t been sleeping much - most nights have her up fretting over her friend. She spends the day exhausted, not really sure what to do with herself, other than wanting to bake and cook for Iris. And when she does manage to fall asleep, she’s restless and fitful. By just after midnight, she’s managed to get about an hour by now.
That is until she rolls over and falls off her bed. But instead of hitting the floor, a rift opens up and dumps her in the fountain at Grant Park.
She falls head first into the water, dropping only a few feet through the air. She wakes as soon as she hits to cold water, but it’s too late for her to let out a scream. Hitting her head off the bottom of the fountain, she pulls herself groggily to the surface and looks about, utterly confused and in pain. Noisily, she scrambles to her feet and crawls out of the fountain, her hair and night clothes heavy with icy water.
“Cold, cold, cold..” she utters as she clambers to her feet. Blinking owlishly, she hugs herself, teeth madly chattering and one hand cradling the swelling bump on her forehead. Well, that’s not going to look so pretty in the morning.
She looks about the park, semi-realising where she is and knowing that it’s not a dream. And then she realises she doesn’t have her journal to call for help and that it’s a long walk to get back to the Tower.
This is not good.
Elsewhere in Chicago, Dylan is out. She’s currently in a dirty alleyway behind a bar beating the crap out of a demon for information on the Chicago Liberation Front. The demon doesn’t really want to talk much, apparently too busy begging for mercy.
“You’re all the same,” she sneers, currently in her nasty bitch mode, “Filth,”
She’s more violent than usual. Her mind ready to explode with the hatred that’s been gathering up. The flashbacks of her childhood aren’t helping. She still sees it, watching helplessly as a young girl as a demon murdered her mother. The images mesh together with the pictures of the angel girl, battered and mutilated.
Dragging the sobbing, bloody mess of a man to his feet, Dylan slams him against the wall and pulls out her machete. Without missing a beat, she presses the blade to the demon’s throat, eyes narrowing with sheer loathing. “Now, tell me where he is,”