8th Dimension Mall [PM to Join]
Posted: 24 Jan 2018, 05:49
Like a robot, Grey functioned on autopilot. Her emotions were harvested somewhere deep inside the body that Micah Andras had saved beneath the city. Harper Rock had been a very cruel fortress for the Allurist. A woman who had experienced all of the beauty and hatred one life had stored up to spew into her open hands, Grey stood underneath the shower heads that ravished her bruised body with its boiling, cleansing streams.
She breathed as any Allurist would, most in touch with the human side of the Undead life, the tiny beads of water that ran over her face were tossed off by the exhale from open lips. They were red. Having just fed, reluctantly, but from torn open blood packs. The plastic wrappers had been sucked dry. The open packets were strewn across the floor of that given bedroom.
She never slept in the bed. It was small, and Grey had demanded that she did not need anything extravagant. Gone was the woman that enjoyed new things. Gone was the woman that enjoyed what was new and fresh and clean. Gone was the woman that laughed easily, whose eyes danced at beauty and pleasure. Gone was the woman that was so easily enraptured by colors and places and new sights or sounds. Instead, a woman who glorified herself to blend into society had replaced the luxury once never spared.
Having taken advantage of Micah’s gym, the skeleton body she had worn for the last year and a half started to gain a little weight. The muscles still weren’t enough to be defined, and the weakness was not something she cared to be pitied for. It was will. It was her lack of will that drove her to still dress in layers, to pull on long sleeves and a hoodie and a winter coat all black with various shades of old or new.
There was no cell phone. There was no beloved Apple to titter over. All her books were stored on an iPad she had crushed. Shattered that screen into a million pieces when she saw that piece of mail worm its way through. A message. A hint. An exasperation. She no longer cared. No. Nothing. Her mind had been locked down so tight, it was difficult for even some of the best crafters and trackers to find the woman that could easily pass as a street rat once more.
It had nothing to do with pride. It had nothing to do with candor. It had nothing to do with the devastation that she still had a bitter taste to swallow. The sewers were her haven now. The rats were her dinner and her bed served as storage for a journal that now had been torn to shreds. It was her old life.
Not her new life.
Brock had not paid her in weeks. Months. Jesus, her sick time must have all been used up now. She did not dare ask Micah for anything. Money had no meaning to her any more. Coffee was a secret pleasure. Gadgets were pointless to her. She traded in expensive jewels and gems that she found along with lost keys for change. Gingerly, besides those gun metal grey sunglasses that hid the clouded over eyes, Grey’s pale fingers secured that olive green satchel over her shoulder.
It was the only thing that she wore that wasn’t black. She didn’t know who gave it to her. It came Christmas morning. She unwrapped it, only after carefully inspecting that tag. It was designer. It felt expensive. And part of her wanted to refuse it. But, she could not bring herself to say no thanks. She was anything… Anything, but the ungrateful wench that she was once so particularly made out to be.
Grey never said more than a handful of words at once now. She refrained for the most part from speaking at all. To get her to go to any sort of family function was something beyond a miracle. She often stood behind Micah and to the side. Close, but not so far away that he could not protect her if that was the case. Her bare hands tucked that new olive green satchel more firmly against a sharp hip.
It had zippers. Flaps. Pockets. A ring for the set of keys Brock once gave her to close Auto Doc by herself. It had an area that held her most precious possessions. A weathered photograph of her true blood-father and a tome that Micah had given her.
It held her wallet. It was in a pocket within a pocket within the zippered inner pouch. She took out $40 from the ATM on her way out. It was enough. It should be enough to see if Brock still employed her. And… It should be enough for a new journal.
This mid-twenty-something year old woman could not help but clutch her other side. That security measure was with her. That glock was secured. Her long hair was free, held down over her ears that heard everything.
With those black, lace-up military boots, she started to walk.
And she walked with one goal in mind; the 8th Dimension Mall.
She breathed as any Allurist would, most in touch with the human side of the Undead life, the tiny beads of water that ran over her face were tossed off by the exhale from open lips. They were red. Having just fed, reluctantly, but from torn open blood packs. The plastic wrappers had been sucked dry. The open packets were strewn across the floor of that given bedroom.
She never slept in the bed. It was small, and Grey had demanded that she did not need anything extravagant. Gone was the woman that enjoyed new things. Gone was the woman that enjoyed what was new and fresh and clean. Gone was the woman that laughed easily, whose eyes danced at beauty and pleasure. Gone was the woman that was so easily enraptured by colors and places and new sights or sounds. Instead, a woman who glorified herself to blend into society had replaced the luxury once never spared.
Having taken advantage of Micah’s gym, the skeleton body she had worn for the last year and a half started to gain a little weight. The muscles still weren’t enough to be defined, and the weakness was not something she cared to be pitied for. It was will. It was her lack of will that drove her to still dress in layers, to pull on long sleeves and a hoodie and a winter coat all black with various shades of old or new.
There was no cell phone. There was no beloved Apple to titter over. All her books were stored on an iPad she had crushed. Shattered that screen into a million pieces when she saw that piece of mail worm its way through. A message. A hint. An exasperation. She no longer cared. No. Nothing. Her mind had been locked down so tight, it was difficult for even some of the best crafters and trackers to find the woman that could easily pass as a street rat once more.
It had nothing to do with pride. It had nothing to do with candor. It had nothing to do with the devastation that she still had a bitter taste to swallow. The sewers were her haven now. The rats were her dinner and her bed served as storage for a journal that now had been torn to shreds. It was her old life.
Not her new life.
Brock had not paid her in weeks. Months. Jesus, her sick time must have all been used up now. She did not dare ask Micah for anything. Money had no meaning to her any more. Coffee was a secret pleasure. Gadgets were pointless to her. She traded in expensive jewels and gems that she found along with lost keys for change. Gingerly, besides those gun metal grey sunglasses that hid the clouded over eyes, Grey’s pale fingers secured that olive green satchel over her shoulder.
It was the only thing that she wore that wasn’t black. She didn’t know who gave it to her. It came Christmas morning. She unwrapped it, only after carefully inspecting that tag. It was designer. It felt expensive. And part of her wanted to refuse it. But, she could not bring herself to say no thanks. She was anything… Anything, but the ungrateful wench that she was once so particularly made out to be.
Grey never said more than a handful of words at once now. She refrained for the most part from speaking at all. To get her to go to any sort of family function was something beyond a miracle. She often stood behind Micah and to the side. Close, but not so far away that he could not protect her if that was the case. Her bare hands tucked that new olive green satchel more firmly against a sharp hip.
It had zippers. Flaps. Pockets. A ring for the set of keys Brock once gave her to close Auto Doc by herself. It had an area that held her most precious possessions. A weathered photograph of her true blood-father and a tome that Micah had given her.
It held her wallet. It was in a pocket within a pocket within the zippered inner pouch. She took out $40 from the ATM on her way out. It was enough. It should be enough to see if Brock still employed her. And… It should be enough for a new journal.
This mid-twenty-something year old woman could not help but clutch her other side. That security measure was with her. That glock was secured. Her long hair was free, held down over her ears that heard everything.
With those black, lace-up military boots, she started to walk.
And she walked with one goal in mind; the 8th Dimension Mall.