[b]Dylan Stroud[/b]

An explosive buzz tempered the hum of conversation, and demanded Dylan look up from his work, the world materialising around him anew as his eyes left the page. The thrumming electric lights, the stone floor, the aged armchair in which he found his form sprawled upon its beaten upholstery. Dylan stretched. There was something feline about his movements. When he yawned, the sharp incisors added to that parallel, and his eyes were half-closed and slow to blink. 

There seemed to be much excitement. He pocketed his tiny notebook.

Attacks by the rebels, no matter how frequent, always seemed to revitalise the young and foolish, filling their heads with such notions of glory. More often than not they found their tale concluding. Many of them left hurriedly, on the hopes they could get to the infraction before the fighting ended. 

Boots clapped the floor as Dylan made his way over to who might have been the most stoic man in the room.

“Lancelot, darling, do not drink yourself into a stupor,” He said, gently resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Events may unfurl tonight that require your attention, and I will be otherwise occupied.” And with that he breezed of, seeming to walk with infinite grace and purpose. It was almost ruined by his frayed jeans and baggy, grey-wool jumper.

The stars were absent from the sky that night. Brooding clouds smeared the heavens, and hid its gems from view. A chill wind bit through Dylan’s clothes, but encouraged no shiver. Stalking from shadow to steeple, he made his way through the city via rooftop and alleyway, hidden, if not for the tiny embers and trails of smoke from his cigarette. 

There was distant popping and thunderous crashes that rang through the hollow city, emanating from the city’s northern region.

Perhaps this is why his feet took him that direction. Before he got too close, though, he changed direction, winding his way towards the centre of the city as he listened to the twin melodies of death and triumph.  

Making his way into the rebel section was simple enough with an access key. Some here knew him as an informant, a double-agent, others as a friend. Most didn’t know him at all. 

It was not long walking before “The Ancient Cavern”, an establishment from which music and conversation bled, invited Dylan inside. He stomped out his cigarette. Inside was musty, but comforting. An old jukebox sang crackling records from the corner, forming a counterpoint with the gossiping huddles of fervent whispers. Those of the patrons that were not in huddled groups were staring deep into their drinks, except for a young lady with startling orange hair. Instantly, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Those which did not blend in with the crowd usually had the most interesting stories. 

Approaching from behind, he could smell her: sweat and coffee underneath honeysuckle soap. 

“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping up beside her, and, with a sidelong glance, “Might I buy us a drink?”