twiststheblade (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
twiststheblade) wrote2006-06-01 09:22 pm
twiststheblade) wrote2006-06-01 09:22 pm
Angels: Act One.
The door opens onto a room, not small, not large. Bare, pale walls that could be made of paper, but aren't. There is a window, shuttered against the sun, pale light struggling weakly in to lie in stripes across the wooden floor.
The bed(futon) hasn't been made, white sheets tangled and draped half off onto the floor.
The only splash of colour in the room comes from a vase containing a single spray of yellow flowers, which sits atop a simple lacquered chest. Also atop the chest is a single, dog-eared book, titled 'Koshoku ichidai onna', and two small brown glass bottles, safety capped, labelled in japanese.
Miho steps noiselessly through the door, one finger to her lips, although of course she doesn't have to remind the others of the need for caution. She's all in her habitual black - soft jeans, well broken-in boots, tightly laced, the usual short-sleeved shirt and a loose kimono jacket over it all. There's a knife at each hip, and one at the small of her back. She has her forearm sheaths, as usual, and the bandolier of shuriken. There is a knife in each boot. No swords. Not. . . yet.
I can do this. It's not different than any other place. And I'm not alone. I don't have to be alone.
She raises her eyebrows to Goldy, and tilts her head to the door, a deceptively heavy affair, locked from outside.
The bed(futon) hasn't been made, white sheets tangled and draped half off onto the floor.
The only splash of colour in the room comes from a vase containing a single spray of yellow flowers, which sits atop a simple lacquered chest. Also atop the chest is a single, dog-eared book, titled 'Koshoku ichidai onna', and two small brown glass bottles, safety capped, labelled in japanese.
Miho steps noiselessly through the door, one finger to her lips, although of course she doesn't have to remind the others of the need for caution. She's all in her habitual black - soft jeans, well broken-in boots, tightly laced, the usual short-sleeved shirt and a loose kimono jacket over it all. There's a knife at each hip, and one at the small of her back. She has her forearm sheaths, as usual, and the bandolier of shuriken. There is a knife in each boot. No swords. Not. . . yet.
I can do this. It's not different than any other place. And I'm not alone. I don't have to be alone.
She raises her eyebrows to Goldy, and tilts her head to the door, a deceptively heavy affair, locked from outside.
no subject
She'd started her engine as Goldy had, and not wasted time with theatrics - her bike had leapt neatly forwards. She was checking their getaway in her mirrors, and just caught the accident.
She slams on the front brake, pulls a perfect endo, rolls forward a few feet, then twistts the bike in the air, and drops it back down, gunning the engine and racing back the way she'd come.
Comes to a spray stop, ready to take any action that needs taking. Hoping she's not going to have to do anything other than head off again.
And it's her damned fault - Alanna wouldn't have expected the bike to be so fast, why did she tell her to hold behind?