whiistleconcert.
Awful weather. The residue of raindrops slowly began to roll down the scratched, marred carmine of his helmet, covered in mud and scratches and faint hints of rust that he wasn’t sure of the true cause, be it true rusting or blood. Flickering lights shine off the edge of a flat black screen, a crimson circle glowing fuzzily indicating his line of sight. He was used to it- it was everything that ever happened. The only thing. There’d be good weather when this city was free.
In other words, never.
His scanners jumped at the notion of an organic being- a signal familiar to him, the heat signature telling him the figure was someone familiar to him. He knew everyone in this city, it wasn’t anyone special- but who would just be out and about in this weather, standing mostly still? With a couple of quick jumps, he leaped to examine the figure from afar, squinting.
Of course she didn’t notice him. She was too preoccupied with the rain falling on her face. She didn’t really care, honestly-- rain was cleansing. Soul-cleansing, if it wasn’t acid rain ( which this appeared to be ). Groaning, she rubbed the water off of her face and just sat there, too apathetic to move from her spot on the roof.
God, she was tired.
Everything was so strange and unfamiliar to her and it was so much worse than Harlithell, instead of the bubbling anger everyone seemed to possess people just seemed so very very resigned and by god did she loathe it, she hated this apathy, it was so foreign and she wished that she could just go home, where her friends were and where her home was, where she could just go to sleep in her own apartment and in her own city. This was not her city. This one had been dead for years.
“ I just want to go home, ” she mumbled to no one in particular.












