@bloodedundine
Meagan is reluctant to leave her rooms. Room? It comes with a toilet. That has to count. Standing with her hands on her hips in front of the bed, she shakes her head. Rooms or room, it doesn’t matter. What does matter, though, is that she’d pushed the bed in front of the door minutes after her awakening, and now that it’s time to push it out of the way, her reluctance is rising in her chest.
She’d much rather there was a different way out of here. She doesn’t know what lies beyond her door, and that’s an unfamiliar enough feeling to her that she’d rather not chance it. Still.
She has the leg of her chair, tucked into the back of her trousers, hidden under her long coat, and her reflexes are sharp. She has her train pass in her pocket, everything to lose in staying put, and everything to gain from a venturing spirit. So. Task one: get her bearings. Subtask? Assess the levels of risk at play. Assess the locals. Find the underbelly. Every place has them, none are without. Meagan Foster has lived her whole life in them--she’s reasonably confident that she’ll be able to find her way to a comfortably dingy portion of whatever city this is.
Turns out? This place is fucking gorgeous. It’s also like nothing else she’s ever seen. It’s unnerving. Her boots are made for tramping around in sand and mud and every other conceivable nasty, so she doesn’t much bother with the water that laps over the sandbars. What she wants to find is a hub of movement.
Pulling her phone out, she scrolls the contact list one more time while she keeps looking for the train station. Her eye catches on Lizzy Stride’s entry, and she fights back the fog of memory to think. After a careful moment, she hits call.