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Offline 05-17-2017, 10:43 AM (This reply was last modified: 05-17-2017 10:43 AM by LittleBirdhouseInYourSoul.)(Edited by LittleBirdhouseInYourSoul.)
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Photo Sunshine

Light crawled in from between her eyelids and greeted her slowly to the golden, sunlit bedroom. Still entangled in her own bedding, there was a short-lived bliss before her eyes could meet with the clock on the wall. 9:58. While skipping wasn't originally her plan, she had slept in long enough for the decision to be made for her. Sliding out from atop the mattress, her shoes grounded with the wood floor and, with a little preparation, swung herself off the bed. A cursory glance peered out the window, and seeing that the red M├ęgane wasn't in the drive-way, she threw on a coat for the early Spring weather and slung her bag over one shoulder, propped up the window and slid out the back and over the backyard fence. It didn't matter if her father was at work or making his weekly trip to the whorehouse, it only meant that he wasn't home and wouldn't be home long enough to cram something entertaining into the day.

There was a sense of freedom that came with days like this, although it was a luxury that should be enjoyed with moderation. Too many days off and the school would be likely to send a call home, and nothing was worth having to bear witness to an angry father, and knowing him he was more likely to be drunk off his hinges when he actually decided to give a damn.

She dug her hands into the small black bag at her side and flipped open the ever familiar package. Only seven cigarettes left for this month. The thirteen year-old gave a prolonged, desperate sigh and came to the street corner. Even in the suburbs, the sun on the horizon was absolutely mesmerizing. Silver linings for living in such a small neighborhood was how the sun peaked just between the trees. It seemed to paint everything in it's gaze a shimmering gold colour, and even the shadows cast by it bowed their heads to its beauty. And it made the summer-wear in the midst of early spring all the better. In her eyes, she'd rather shiver her way to hypothermia and back than look like a tacky prep with a lack of fashion sense.

And like a good child, she swung her head both ways before making her way across. It was about the most her father could actually drill into her, especially with what happened to her mother. Not like her father meant for it to be put to use anyway, considering she knew that if he found out about her wandering the streets alone, there would be nails and planks outside her bedroom window by next morning.

Rounding the fence, her eyes locked with the champion of the sun. Hair like actual strands of physical sunlight, and blue eyes that were vibrant even from this distance. Her legs came to a cross while sitting upon the wood bench beside the bus-stop, and she herself seemed focused on something else entirely. As the taller, brown-haired individual approached the bench, the seated girl swung her head at the sound of approaching footsteps, and neither of them were ready for the smile that both of them shared. Wordlessly, the brunette sat down aside her, bathing in sunlight and their own joy. Everything else suddenly didn't seem to matter. Her alcoholic of a father. Her crumbling education. The birth of her ever-growing addiction to the once casual, now religious smoke. None of it seemed to amount to anything except for her. The tallest of the two slowly crept her hand across from her lap, and clasped the other girl's palm tightly.

And then the alarm rang. She snapped back to reality. Back to City 17. Back to hell.

Her eyes were struck wide open, and what warmth that was given by the surreal dream slipped away as if it were never there. She remained still for minutes, as if trying to cling to the dream even as she was wide awake, desperately reaching for it. Eventually, her arm reached out and slammed down on the digital clock, shutting it up with a deliberate smack. She slept in her clothes like she always had, and crawled out from the window curtain repurposed as a thin blanket. The one-armed woman slumped over to the bathroom and flung the light on, and shared her greetings and condolences respectively to the woman in the mirror.

It was hard to tell which was colder: The water coming out from the showerhead or the night before. The heater hadn't worked since last fall, and she didn't give enough of a damn to actually get it fixed. Dirt and ash slowly washed off from her like bad vibes and sunk down the drain, and a clean face welcomed the new day with a pessimistic and bitter expression. It took only a minute to fit on the plastic arm piece, and flexed the fingers out unanimously to ensure that they were working.

Gray tanktop. Flight jacket. Cargo pants. Work boots. A full pack of cigarettes and a canteen filled to the brim with scotch. The normal day, the normal get-up. Everything else was in the locker-room at work. And her shift began in less than an hour.

She locked the door behind her and peddled her way down the creaky, wood steps of the housing block. As the wind met her face, she looked towards it, and up at the industrial skyline. Smog stained the sun in a gloomy fashion; a pale orange parting between the clouds. It wasn't the same, and likely never would be again. The street around her stood colourless and grayed, and lacked any sign of liveliness. The sounds of a distant train roared ever closer, and she began to make her way across the street and into the station.

The ride lacked much conversation. Everyone looked at eachother and read each face like a book. The dead faces all told the same story of something precious taken away. And no one seemed to give half a damn when she lit one on the train, only the man across from her who asked if she could share one. The man looked like a bleached raisin with a crooked smile. She tossed him a single stick and extended her hand out, holding a lighter out across the isle. It was probably the most courteous thing she would do today, and it was helping another man slowly kill himself.
The train rolled to a stop at the next station. Some filed off. Some remained. One was stopped by masks, and was searched from head to toe. It wasn't her business. It wasn't anybody's business. Everyone walked away from it like they always did. Police brutality was the open secret: Everybody knew it existed. They just pretended it didn't.

She reached the large, metallic keep that stood at the hub of the entire district. She flashed a single card at the camera, and the door welcomed her in expectantly. The buildings cold, blue walls was just as monochrome on the inside, and just ahead of her stood the door to the locker room. Two suits slid out from the door, and she crept past them. Her day began in thirty minutes, and dressing down only took under five.

It was just like that old fuck had said. The mask doesn't conceal: It reflects. Every wolf of the pack needed to recognize that one simple truth if they wanted to last out there, and it took a whole year in the line of duty for 379 to recognize it. The last thing she wanted to do was to admit 404 was right, but damn he sure was. She pressed the button on the radio affixed to her belt, informed Dispatch of her on-duty status, and looked at the watch on her wrist. Twenty-five minutes early.

She pushed the double-doors outward and descended down the steps, and once again the sunlight shined through her portholes almost blindingly as a single hand rose as a visor to shield her eyes from it. She had long since forsaken the sun; its beauty had faded, and through that the beauty of the world, which died eleven years and seven hours ago.

[Image: fHcSINu.gif]
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