temperxnce
He doesn’t know why he’s here — he’s never been in New York before and yet everything had seemed so familiar and then his feet had developed a life of their own and he hadn’t stopped them, soaking in every corner, every street he had passed because it felt good. The shabby, old apartment he’d entered is nothing he would consider to live in but what does the Soldier know regarding this — he doesn’t live, he fulfills his missions and then he’s going to slumber in icy coldness again. The Soldier doesn’t need a home. There’s a tiny kitchenette and a bedroom and though there is no sign that more than one person lives here there is a second bed with clean sheets and the Soldier sits down there because it’s the right thing to do he supposes. It’s evening, the cold grey light of the night skewing the schemes of the furniture, but the Soldier is a child of darkness and so he has no problems to spot the drawings on the wall. He isn’t able to judge art — it’s unimportant, an unnecessary pastime — but he somehow thinks they’re nice. As though they would really mean something to whoever had drawn them. He’s about to reach out and take one of the pictures off the wall but his enhanced hearing notices the silent scrap of a key in a lock (the Soldier had used the fire escape and the window to get into the apartment, so the door isn’t broken) and with one swift movement he ducks down and hides behind the bed, his sharp knife ready to slash open every throat that would come too close.
