#* mikhail

“Fall is my favorite season,” he said to Mikhail. His voice lacked real enthusiasm, and actually seemed a little bit bitter about the fact. “This isn’t what fall should feel like, though. It should feel breezy, and crisp. I think the dome is standing in way of the ideal autumnal atmosphere.” He slipped the scarf off his neck, bundling it up in his lap, kicking his feet over the edge of the roof, dangling three stories up. “I suppose we should be used to it, but the changing of seasons makes our whole situation seem so immutable.”

"To rotten freedom then," Given, they were experiencing it a little differently, Isla imagined that he could perhaps be enjoying it a little more than she was. Given, she didn't believe that there was anyone that could really pull him into line; he didn't exactly come across as someone under the thumb. A sentiment that made her inwardly cringe at her sense of loyalty. Had her incarceration happened prior to securing a respectable place among the Rutherfords, she would have undoubtedly unleashed hell upon the streets of London as she so often had; but now, there was much more to consider, and it fucking irked her to no end. "And company that isn't entirely fucking miserable."