+ LAURA ( @lookatlaura )
SATURDAY 13TH FEBRUARY. THE WAREHOUSE. Life works in cycles -- time, seasons, life and birth and death. It always has and it always will. Some are slow; you miss them if you aren’t paying attention. Others are quick. Unexpected. They take the shape of fate and irony, playing out echoes of the past and whispers of the future.
Gunshots ring out through the warehouse, the sound ricocheting off old brick walls. Panic swells with the music, people scattering. Alert in an instant, adrenaline piercing through the haze of alcohol, Kitty is quick to spring into action like there’s a creature always lurking under her skin that expects trouble. She heads to the nearest fire escape, the heel of her palm slamming into the push bar. The door opens, its alarm unheard over the chaos within. Cold winter air meets her, nipping at bare skin, a responding shiver dancing up the length of her spine. Fingers to her lips, she whistles clear and sharp to coax the attention of the nearest party-goers who head for the newfound exit like startled sheep in a pen. She watches them pass, people spilling out into the night from similar exits.
Emotions from the riverside fighting play out through her mind again: where is her family? Are they safe? Did they need her help? She supposes this is to be commonplace now, never quite certain of their safety if they aren’t standing directly in front of her. It’s a haunting thought and warrants another shiver.
The stream of fleeing guests slows and with a methodical sense of duty Kitty heads back inside, the sole of her heels crunching over hastily dropped glasses and an assortment of lost sequins and feathers. Unarmed, she picks up the broken stem of a shattered champagne flute, grip curling tightly around it, somewhat settled by the reassuring feeling of a makeshift weapon. Continuing steadily, the Virtue spots the shape of a body on the floor and moves to crouch beside them. Their silver-coloured dress has turned a dark crimson colour, their limbs pallid. She presses her fingertips beneath their jaw and stands a moment later in defeat-- only to freeze at the sound of movement a little way off.
A young woman appears, motions unsteady, but it’s not Carman on the banks of the river this time. Another cycle. Another person she’ll help in the midst of violence, because it makes sense to; because she’s always been prone to protecting those who aren’t in a position to protect themselves when they deserve it; because being ruled by your heart means letting it win over any sense of logic. “Fuck,” Kitty breathes out, defensive glass sharp lowering. “Laura?”
