and fly with aeroplanes out of here
It's been raining for three days straight, and Alex has been inside for two of them. She's been strangely listless, disconnected, ever since the bomb on the beach -- too much to think about, too much to remember, with no leads and no cases to distract her.
It's October here, and the little clock in back of her mind is ticking. She'd assumed based on evidence that time ran differently, faster, in her construct-world than in the real one, but nothing ever prepared her for constructs inside constructs; the rules have changed, and she's got no idea where she stands. One week until the day and nothing learned, no way back, no guarantee of ever seeing a familiar world again.
And two days of being cooped up indoors with those thoughts and Sam's awful orange cat for company have been just about enough.
Alex, wrapped up warmish and relatively dry in a bright-pink plastic raincoat, makes her way carefully down a path to the beach: it's not storming just now, only dripping unpleasantly, and she can bear it, even with the water trickling down her neck. The beach is deserted (a different stretch of it than the one she found her way to last time, thank God), and she wanders down as far as the tideline, staring out over the water. The horizon, hidden behind clouds, barely visible for a grey second at a time; full marks for detail, she thinks, even if the subjects leaves something to be desired.
It's October here, and the little clock in back of her mind is ticking. She'd assumed based on evidence that time ran differently, faster, in her construct-world than in the real one, but nothing ever prepared her for constructs inside constructs; the rules have changed, and she's got no idea where she stands. One week until the day and nothing learned, no way back, no guarantee of ever seeing a familiar world again.
And two days of being cooped up indoors with those thoughts and Sam's awful orange cat for company have been just about enough.
Alex, wrapped up warmish and relatively dry in a bright-pink plastic raincoat, makes her way carefully down a path to the beach: it's not storming just now, only dripping unpleasantly, and she can bear it, even with the water trickling down her neck. The beach is deserted (a different stretch of it than the one she found her way to last time, thank God), and she wanders down as far as the tideline, staring out over the water. The horizon, hidden behind clouds, barely visible for a grey second at a time; full marks for detail, she thinks, even if the subjects leaves something to be desired.