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Jan. 29th, 2006 12:51 amIt is dark and raining in Basin City, fitfully and with little enthusisam. A miasma of tiny water droplets hang in the air, and neon striplights have unearthly halos, their light reflecting garishly off slick surfaces. The air is close, stifling and crackling with electricty. Any moment, the skies are going to break and release a deluge of biblical proportions. Dark clouds boil across the sky with a promise of thunder and lightening.
A small figure, all in black, slides into view, swings around a corner, and is gone. The twin tracks left on the damp sidewalk by the wheels of her rollerblades close slowly, as the swirling trail she leaves in the wet air dissipates. All traces of her passing are gone within seconds.
Suddenly the streets are lit up, brighter than daylight, and the few unbroken street-lamps, and the neon signs, look pale and sickly in comparison. There is a sharp crack of thunder, followed by a staccato rumbling, as the clouds fulfill their promise, and the streets are filled with a near-solid sheet of water.
A few streets over, the small figure is caught in the sudden rainstorm. She skids to a halt, spinning into the nearest doorway to escape the downpour. She doesn't mind the rain, herself, but she carries things that will not appreciate being drenched.
She is always alert, and so her ears prick up at the sounds coming through the doorway, and her nostrils flare at the faint but unmistakable smells of a bar on the other side. A bar. In Old Town. A bar that she does not recognise. A bar that is obviously not paying for the privilege of running in Old Town, or for the protection that comes with that privilege.
She will have to come back to this place, and in force. But for now, it will be dry inside, and warm. And if she has to come back, it will be as well to know the layout of the place.
As she slides through the door and lets it slip smoothly shut behind her, one perfect willow-leaf eyebrow raises a scant millimeter. It is. . . larger, than she had expected. Richer, somehow, and older.
A gentle push with one foot, and she is rolling smoothly towards a table at the side of the room, near the fire. She slips off a short black silk kimono, that she had been wearing open, and hangs it on the back of a chair, nearest the fire. Water begins to drip onto the floor and shortly there is a small puddle under the chair. The kimono begins to steam slightly.
She pulls a chair back and spins it sideways so that she is sitting with her back to the wall and the table on her left, and sits. She pulls a sash with attatched scabbard, a japanese saya, over her head and shoulder, and inspects the saya for rain damage. Satisfied, she slides the tachi out of it's holder, and places the saya on the table, as far away from the fire as possible. It must not dry too fast. She pulls a scrap of white silk from the back pocket of her tight black jeans, checks that it is not damp, and begins to slowly and carefully polish the sword dry.
A small figure, all in black, slides into view, swings around a corner, and is gone. The twin tracks left on the damp sidewalk by the wheels of her rollerblades close slowly, as the swirling trail she leaves in the wet air dissipates. All traces of her passing are gone within seconds.
Suddenly the streets are lit up, brighter than daylight, and the few unbroken street-lamps, and the neon signs, look pale and sickly in comparison. There is a sharp crack of thunder, followed by a staccato rumbling, as the clouds fulfill their promise, and the streets are filled with a near-solid sheet of water.
A few streets over, the small figure is caught in the sudden rainstorm. She skids to a halt, spinning into the nearest doorway to escape the downpour. She doesn't mind the rain, herself, but she carries things that will not appreciate being drenched.
She is always alert, and so her ears prick up at the sounds coming through the doorway, and her nostrils flare at the faint but unmistakable smells of a bar on the other side. A bar. In Old Town. A bar that she does not recognise. A bar that is obviously not paying for the privilege of running in Old Town, or for the protection that comes with that privilege.
She will have to come back to this place, and in force. But for now, it will be dry inside, and warm. And if she has to come back, it will be as well to know the layout of the place.
As she slides through the door and lets it slip smoothly shut behind her, one perfect willow-leaf eyebrow raises a scant millimeter. It is. . . larger, than she had expected. Richer, somehow, and older.
A gentle push with one foot, and she is rolling smoothly towards a table at the side of the room, near the fire. She slips off a short black silk kimono, that she had been wearing open, and hangs it on the back of a chair, nearest the fire. Water begins to drip onto the floor and shortly there is a small puddle under the chair. The kimono begins to steam slightly.
She pulls a chair back and spins it sideways so that she is sitting with her back to the wall and the table on her left, and sits. She pulls a sash with attatched scabbard, a japanese saya, over her head and shoulder, and inspects the saya for rain damage. Satisfied, she slides the tachi out of it's holder, and places the saya on the table, as far away from the fire as possible. It must not dry too fast. She pulls a scrap of white silk from the back pocket of her tight black jeans, checks that it is not damp, and begins to slowly and carefully polish the sword dry.
