[h3][center][u][color=fdc68a][b]Laura Adam[/b][/color][/u][/center][/h3]

Wasn't she forgetting something?

Laura Adam leaned on the metal fence surrounding the small balcony that poke out from her "cozy" apartment on the third floor of her building. There was a burning cigarette in her right hand, and her left hand was nuzzled under her elbow. She breathed a puff of smoke into the air and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

Yeah, she was forgetting something.

She watched the sun slowly set over Confiance. Well, she would have, but the sun quickly vanished behind the large skyscrapers that made up this corrupt fucking city. Every time she thought of those smug pricks sitting in their big houses with their money and their power, and their stupid greed. It was unfair. It was bullshit. She wasn't allowed to go much higher than her second story- off limits due to "construction". Yeah, right. An empty floor, bricked up to keep the "undesirables" from sneaking into the upper section of the city.

Laura glanced behind her, and saw the letter laying on a table.
That was it.

Invited by the Ratpack. She'd forgotten about them. Forgotten about being a tagger; about being a rebel. It wouldn't work, she knew that. Those upper city bastards were dug in, and they couldn't give any less shit about some paint thrown onto a wall down here.

But she was going to go anyway. It's not like she had anywhere else to be. Maybe the Ratpack hadn't gotten the memo that she had given up a little under a decade ago. She wasn't one of those "Veteran" Taggers who still had their spunk, who still had some respect around here. No, that wasn't her. 

Nonetheless, she needed to get out of her house. It was getting stuffy in here. She hadn't put on a proper top in a few days, just wandering around her house, doing push ups and hitting her punching bag. She liked being able to see her whole tattoo in the mirror. It reminded her of better times. The tattoo was completely black, contrasting against her white skin. In spirals, it curved down of her arm, all the way down to her wrist. From her right shoulder, it dipped just under her chest and circled down, halting at the center of her torso. It hurt, getting that fucking tattoo.. It took a long time, cost a lot of money; but it was worth it. 

Still, she couldn't go out like this. She kept on her beige cargo shorts and put on a black tank top and slipped into some worn flat-bottom shoes. 

She grabbed an old duffel bag of hers and put in her old Gears. Jumpstart. There was a friendliness there, between her and Jumpstart. He was a reliable set of Gears. Served her well. She stuffed him in, and for the first time in a long while, put a spray can inside, as well. She hesitated as she held in her hand, considering taking more than one color with her. Maybe do a real Tag.

Nah.

After that, all she needed was her crowbar, and an extra pack of cigs.

You never know when you need to hit or pry something.

Placing the letter in the bag, she zipped up the zipper, leaving her house and flicking off the lights.

It was a long walk, and she took in the sights and sounds of the Slums. In her mind, images flickered of her dashing from rooftop to rooftop, grinning with a mischievous glee. It felt like such a long time ago.

It [i] was [/i] a long time ago. 

Duffel bag wrapped around her shoulder, she turned an alley way and saw the infamous logo of the Ratpack on a doorway. That must be it. IT was an obscure little place, and she had to check the directions detailed in the letter to be sure of where the right place was. 

She tried the door, and it opened. There were some folks in here already, and she didn't say anything as she entered. 

She slung her duffel bag off of her shoulder and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms and placing her long, ponytail over her shoulder so it wouldn't get in the way as she relaxed her head against the wall of the warehouse.