To say she stalked the streets coldly would be a cliché.
But the cold did stalk the streets.
It was a feeling she hadn’t been able to shake for three, four weeks..? What was even the point in counting, it meant nothing to her out of this place, and everything inside it became further away from her each day. Yet here she remained. It was a feeling that had persisted for entire second tour of this prison, an utter and complete lack of purpose.
It was unknown to her.
Or at least it had been. Now it was all she knew. The time she had deigned to spend on people here and proved pointless, and now the acts she found herself caught up in on a day to day basis would have earned nothing but a cold laugh in the past.
What was she doing.
Well, what she had been doing was robbery. Not that she’d call it that, mind you. Robbery implies brutish threats, she offered nothing but clear choices. It was a pleasant burglary, if anything her targets were blessed. Not that they’d seen it that way.
The last of the foreign blood that had frozen to her arm crystallised and blew away in the wind, a clear and beautifully cut jewel the size of a snooker ball in her hand. They’d gashed her arm, but the wound was cosmetic and likely to be gone before sh-
That. What was- it was that colour. That shade. That intensity. A contented feeling struggled with the sour taste in her mouth. Anything short of a diamond would have shattered in her hand.
“Peter-”
What else was she supposed to say. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to strike him. A dry laugh echoed from her lips.
“Welcome back.”
interweb-slinger
