[center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a9/88/a7/a988a74034faff6b35699a9dccad4663.jpg[/img][/center] [center][h1][color=#B66466]Dreda Meyer[/color][/h1][/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] [center][color=#812442][b]Location:[/b][/color] Dreda’s Apartment > Gutter’s End • [color=#812442][b]Time:[/b][/color] Dusk[/center] [center][color=#812442][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] - • [color=#812442][b]Mentions:[/b][/color] -[/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] The lock clicked, its matching key was withdrawn into a pocket of a long, off-black rain coat. The tennis shoes worn by feet trying to minimize their presence thumped softly on the floor of the hallway. Down, down the stairs they went, even and steady in descent. The door of the apartment building opened and shut. It was still raining. She pulled the hood over her hair. She kept her even pace down the street, shifting one plastic bag into her free hand as she waited for the light to change. The city had a pesky habit of never slowing down. There were always eyes, even if some were glazed-over. It was lucky that the police here were perennially overworked and under-competent. But it wasn’t something to get attached to. Maybe next year, the city budget would change. Maybe next year, they’d start learning. Maybe next year, the Wardens would catch a break. Dreda kept her gaze idle in its shifts. From the light to the sides of the road, and brief glances in the corners of her eyes elsewhere, she took in the world. There was no challenge without pretending things had stakes. In another world, they would have. It was that easy. A little skip over the puddle, and her shoes weren’t wet. It was almost disappointing that there was never another puddle, that the splash here was predictable and easy to avoid. And there was nothing more to it than knowing the splash was inevitable, that it would be small, and where to lift the other leg to keep water off her socks. As she landed, she smiled. It was routine, but it was worth making the little jump. When she was wearing sneakers, she could get away with the little skip instead of going around, or committing to a long step. They all had their merits, but a little skip had that charming morsel of spontaneity that dead blood called for. Three blocks on, she slowed for a moment. She cocked her head, let out a little pleasantly-surprised sound, and then carried on. That new restaurant must have failed to pay their rent. [center]…[/center] She paid in cash, boarded the subway, and got the last seat. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a middle-aged, exhausted-looking man in crutches making his way on. [color=#B66466]“Oh, just let me—”[/color] she exclaimed as she shot up, [color=#B66466]“Wipe this up!”[/color] She fumbled with her coat, shuffled her bags between her hands, then plunged her hand into a pocket. She bumbled with the plastic pack of tissues, still hunched and dripping over the seat. She opened them, then went in to wipe. A single, open tissue disintegrated in the water on the water on the seat as she pressed it in, and yet she kept trying to soak it up. [color=#B66466]“Sorry, sorry!”[/color] The man insisted it was fine, that he could manage with some water. Dreda apologized again, insisting it was too much water. She tried again with another wipe, to the same result. The doors of the subway closed. She produced the entire clump of tissues and began to successfully dry the surface. [color=#B66466]‘Five, four, three, two, one.’[/color] She did another sweep of the already-dry seat and withdrew. She stepped back, apologized again, and offered the man his seat. As he began to sit, she circled around, offering to hold his crutches for stability. The subway jerked to a start. The man fell into the seat. He grunted, then hissed. Dreda yelped a string of nonsense apologies. The man groaned out platitudes of gratitude. She pressed on. He seemed to grow increasingly frustrated, insisting he was fine. She relented. Dreda looked away from him. He looked away from her. The awkwardness dissipated slowly. She cast another glance his way. He sat tense, eyes closed, massaging just above where his cast began. She kept the nervous, apologetic frown in place. Her jaw twitched as she saw. She looked away again. She hadn’t noticed before; his boot didn’t cover the top of his cast. Shame she wasn’t dripping; it could have been ruined so easily. [center]…[/center] The man with the cast disembarked, no thanks to a small barrage of poisoned mitzvot on his way out. Dreda took her seat back. Her expression returned to its easy little smile. She sat perfectly upright, entirely still, her gaze cast lazily away from any eyes to contact. Soon, there were more people disembarking than embarking with each stop. The regular people dwindled. The proportion of obvious lycans was growing, as was the tension. They were, as she understood, inclined to being high-strung on good days as it was. And they were not inclined towards subtlety. The fact that they were trying to seem as if they weren’t stealing glances at her—that was the giveaway. She flashed a thin-lipped smile whenever she caught one of them looking, and pulled her coat in, putting her hand on the pocket holding her little canteen as she did. She knew, they knew, and there was no need to make a fuss. She had no plans to cause trouble. There were mixed responses. What could be done? There was no pleasing the whole pack with these things. She kept her stance relaxed, and settled her hands in her pockets. Best to make clear she understood that she was on thin ice. [center]…[/center] As the subway stopped again, she stood and gave the lycan sitting across from her a thin-lipped smile. She was getting off before she got too deep into their territory. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know that they were still staring daggers. A good reminder why the warehouse district was no place to visit on a full moon. Dreda shifted the two bags to one hand, and kept her other hand ready. Every few blocks, a surviving business sprouted from the urban decay. Dreda carried on forward for some time, until she finally took a right. She made her way to the alley, and found the only full dumpster. In the bags went, never to be seen again—once the trash pickup came tomorrow morning. She emerged onto the poorly-lit street and checked her watch. Good. There was still time to go home, change again, then catch the late service.