Post by Johnny on Sept 4, 2017 1:59:16 GMT
Johnny's half-asleep on his feet when his fingers find the handle of the coffee-shop door, and part of him wonders why he's even bothering when the line is practically on the sidewalk. It's not even a popular coffee shop, not the one closest to the city center, but one thing he's learned in his short stay in the glorified suburbia is that the residents of Tomodachi have some strange, unabashed addiction to coffee. And that's saying quite a lot, considering his particular line of work. He's seen the dirtiest of the dirty, average people at their absolute worst. Even though he's long since cast off the vice of needles and spoons held over lighters, he's seen (and felt) firsthand the affects of addiction.
So it's almost a surprise, really, when he joins the back of the growing line, arms crossed over his chest. He's not nearly as put-together as most of the people here. Several of them are wearing their clothes for work; uniforms, three-piece suits, sundresses — and he's wearing a particularly grubby pair of jeans matched with a ripped t-shirt. On the whole, he's out of place, a spot of grime on a pristine white canvas. His cheeks heat, a bloom of anxiety pricks at his mind. No, he tells himself. You don't need him right now. Men and women chatter, the speakers in the shop play some indie rock bullshit that sounds too breathy, too — poetic. He's never settled for something so shallow. He wants guitars, drums, throaty voices and power ballads.
He's focusing on the music when he feels his eyes — quite literally — begin to droop shut. He blinks hard, knuckles the blurry vision away. He'd spent all night traversing the alleys, dealing to the scum of the city, his identity safely tucked away by his trusty gas mask. But he's got a deal scheduled in a few hours — and if he expects to be awake to make the exchange, he needs a pick-me-up. Soon.
His wishes are granted, for once, when out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blond flash of hair. He pays it no attention, eyes zoned on a notch in the opposite wall, but he's snapped quickly out of his trance by the feeling of burning liquid sliding down the front of his shirt. He lets out a sound akin to a bark and jumps back, slamming into the person who's sidled up behind him in line. Hot coffee sizzles against his skin and he fights a scream as he jerks his head up, meeting the eyes of the offending person. "What the fuck?" is all he can think to say, and his voice is scratchy, angry.
Lydian Nicos ;; it's funny because I actually love indie music
So it's almost a surprise, really, when he joins the back of the growing line, arms crossed over his chest. He's not nearly as put-together as most of the people here. Several of them are wearing their clothes for work; uniforms, three-piece suits, sundresses — and he's wearing a particularly grubby pair of jeans matched with a ripped t-shirt. On the whole, he's out of place, a spot of grime on a pristine white canvas. His cheeks heat, a bloom of anxiety pricks at his mind. No, he tells himself. You don't need him right now. Men and women chatter, the speakers in the shop play some indie rock bullshit that sounds too breathy, too — poetic. He's never settled for something so shallow. He wants guitars, drums, throaty voices and power ballads.
He's focusing on the music when he feels his eyes — quite literally — begin to droop shut. He blinks hard, knuckles the blurry vision away. He'd spent all night traversing the alleys, dealing to the scum of the city, his identity safely tucked away by his trusty gas mask. But he's got a deal scheduled in a few hours — and if he expects to be awake to make the exchange, he needs a pick-me-up. Soon.
His wishes are granted, for once, when out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blond flash of hair. He pays it no attention, eyes zoned on a notch in the opposite wall, but he's snapped quickly out of his trance by the feeling of burning liquid sliding down the front of his shirt. He lets out a sound akin to a bark and jumps back, slamming into the person who's sidled up behind him in line. Hot coffee sizzles against his skin and he fights a scream as he jerks his head up, meeting the eyes of the offending person. "What the fuck?" is all he can think to say, and his voice is scratchy, angry.
Lydian Nicos ;; it's funny because I actually love indie music
