While Tag grabbed his Hope, she grabbed a gun.
The chest sat at the foot of her bed. Inside slept steel, sterling like the heart jailed in her chest. Both had rested liked beasts, ready now to awaken and enact what had to be shook. Her eyes blazed a wide blue as she sat up in a blank room, a hotel room, where a sterile moon glared at her, peeked at her. Then gone in a smog of clouds, like a coin to a thieves' palm.
Pacing on threaded moonbeams she moved between the now and the future, this place where her slumbering form crashed and the waves of the coming days, where time mingled, as she geared for the journey. Metal jangled the soundtrack to a night where she in full exposure of all the doom would rinse and repeat - bullets, throwing knives, tack, like some awful breadcrumb trail to violence that she followed around that emptying room; Lofton to see her again. "When it rains it pours", and she laughed to herself, in the madness of melancholy. Her head heavy as her feet. Insomnia the latent demon, waiting, waiting. Dawn careened blindingly when she was done. Packed. Brushing hands over her side to rid dust. Then she moseyed to the mirror and drew the kerchief from the top drawer, let it fall and pulled it across the bridge of her nose, like some matron of the robber barons. .45 aimed at the reflection. And for the first time in a long time she recognised herself.
Pulling the material mask down to lace her throat she hung the hammers on her hips and buttoned sleeves and throat. Then she sat on the end of her bed like a woman with a bad sentence. Mojo was thick in the room. It cloyed in her head like opium. She waited for the dark man's knock. Telling her that it was... Time.
The chest sat at the foot of her bed. Inside slept steel, sterling like the heart jailed in her chest. Both had rested liked beasts, ready now to awaken and enact what had to be shook. Her eyes blazed a wide blue as she sat up in a blank room, a hotel room, where a sterile moon glared at her, peeked at her. Then gone in a smog of clouds, like a coin to a thieves' palm.
Pacing on threaded moonbeams she moved between the now and the future, this place where her slumbering form crashed and the waves of the coming days, where time mingled, as she geared for the journey. Metal jangled the soundtrack to a night where she in full exposure of all the doom would rinse and repeat - bullets, throwing knives, tack, like some awful breadcrumb trail to violence that she followed around that emptying room; Lofton to see her again. "When it rains it pours", and she laughed to herself, in the madness of melancholy. Her head heavy as her feet. Insomnia the latent demon, waiting, waiting. Dawn careened blindingly when she was done. Packed. Brushing hands over her side to rid dust. Then she moseyed to the mirror and drew the kerchief from the top drawer, let it fall and pulled it across the bridge of her nose, like some matron of the robber barons. .45 aimed at the reflection. And for the first time in a long time she recognised herself.
Pulling the material mask down to lace her throat she hung the hammers on her hips and buttoned sleeves and throat. Then she sat on the end of her bed like a woman with a bad sentence. Mojo was thick in the room. It cloyed in her head like opium. She waited for the dark man's knock. Telling her that it was... Time.