@ofacquiescence
New York is a living entity, a beast waiting for the unsuspecting and snatching them while they’re still reeling. It’s louder than any place he’s ever been, and Warren aches for the quiet countryside, for some piece of mind.
That’s why he’s here, he has to remind himself - hiding on a mountainside or in the desert won’t get him answers. Like many things, thoughts of Laura push him out of the gaping subway entrance and into the throng of marching bodies, staring up at the skyline with mouth slightly agape.
Someone bumps him (which he deserves, the gawking must be annoying for the locals), and it forces his attention back at the sea of people, smart phone in his hands after a beat so he can get out of this mess and onto someone’s sofa. That particular idea is daunting too, but he’s next to broke, so there’s not much choice at this point.
His first stop is the bank, to pull what little money he has out to have on hand, and its about as stressful as a busy bank in a new city sounds. Impatient people, frustrated people, quiet people, all with places they need to be. Warren isn’t in any hurry, but he finds, standing in one of several lines, that he’s already thinking about dealing with not having any cash.
Or he would be, if the gunshot ten feet to his left didn’t have him jumping half out of his skin.
The screams of those around him glue him in place, carved stone as he swallows and finds the shooter - there’s two, shouting and shooting skyward, and he hasn’t even been here an hour yet. The pair holler for everyone to hit the deck, and Warren doesn’t want to draw attention, but he’s already past the fear, his gut telling him to rebel. A yank on his pant leg by a lady already on her stomach has him taking a knee, breath coming harsh but eyes fixed, brows pinched.
He won’t lay here and wait for someone to get shot.
