Rebeca
Rebeca stuffed her hands into her jacket as the woman’s thoughts came to the forefront. Lands filled with snow, a massive castle, and vampires of both friends and enemies. It was an odd experience, converting sound into images. But it still happens none the less.
She did not let her faze her, at least externally. “Yep, it’s kinda a no-no zone for people. Also a lot of people don’t like talking about it.” She shrugged, “They really don’t like being reminded there is an entire population that basically views them as food.”
It scared people, even if they didn’t acknowledge it. People are just afraid of things bigger than them; it’s why most people in the Nexus don’t even talk about the supernatural. Because it is something more, something bigger than them, something they cannot control or really even defend against.
It was even more horrifying for Rebeca, because the supernatural could not hide from her, and because she understood how everyone felt. She was more aware of it as a side effect. And it horrified her.
She kept talking about the city, and I sort of filtered it into the backdrop as I sorta of just... looked around. I looked at shops, looked at offices, looked at people going home.
There's one thing I noticed: Wasn't even that late, and everyone was looking over their shoulder, shops were closing with steel grates and offices had the whole steel grate security from Die Hard coming out of the walls like they were expecting a terrorist assault, or the police in an RV.
I guess with stuff like vampires, werewolves and ogres (oh my) running around, people were legitimately scared.
Hm.
Hmmmmm.
The slightest hint of nervousness settled in my chest as my head developed twitches directed at looking at the surroundings.
HEY DIMENSION MAGIC, SURE BE A NICE TIME FOR MY HUGE-ASS WINCHESTER KNIFE.
...Nope, no such luck.
Before I'd even taken notice of how long we'd been moving, I saw it in the distance. In the long reaches of Port Manor Road, rested a castle 'pon which lay the glowing words: MMA CHOPPERS, with a backdrop of a motorcycle ridden by a fist.
...That's the most ridiculous thing I'd ever seen, and I wanted in. I walked up to the door, dead to the world and the women around me, and saw through the closed glass door, to a sheet with numbers on it. I looked at a street corner where some ugly British streetclock was sitting, and then returned my gaze to the door.
I should have expected it to close early, in a dangerous city. Still, the sadness rousing up in my bosom made me say a single thing to the sweet air of the winter night:
"Fuck!"
And so, in front of a closed gym, I was sad.
;_;
