- (sonrisa) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-04 01:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | !wonderland, *log, daniel webster, lin alesi, russ campbell, sam alexander |
Alice's London, log: Daniel W, Sam A, Russ C, Lin A
Who: Daniel Webster, Sam Alexander, Russ Campbell, & Lin Alesi
What: stuff.
Where: Daniel's new Dom in fictionalized Victorian London
When: after this and this
Warnings/Rating: TBD
The collar of the formal off-white button-up, though the thing in general fit well enough, was abrasive, too starched or something. It felt like sandpaper. It chewed on the pale brown of Lin's neck as he traipsed through the people-choked streets of a London that smelled a hell of a lot worse than it did the last time he was here in the non-fictional future. The shit—the too-close buildings, the people with skin the color of dead fish—reminded him, for some stupid reason, of Fable. The time period was a strange limbo, a suspended age of mechanization, iron with bolts as thick as a man's neck binding them to earth, molded around packed dirt streets, chimney stacks belching black breath over roofs shingled by men by hand. A time of invention, innovation, and of fucking everybody else's shit up. Sorry, India. Sorry, Africa. Sorry, China. But, everyone knew the West was the pinnacle of man. Yes, that very fine, knock-kneed looking fellow, face red with drink despite the early placement of the sun, and his eyes bulging in his skull as he pissed in the gutter—that man was, indeed, a paragon. What an awesome being. Our God is a good God. Psych! Lin ducked under an errant elbow and around the piss puddle. He looked at the pisser, gave him a "girl, what even" look, which was totally communicated through the eyes, obviously, then took off running when the drunk man must have confused that look with something a little more meaningful or eyelash-heavy. Some men didn't know the difference between disgust and flirtation, Lin knew that first hand. But he was quick, flats of his once-shining shoes clicked behind him as he skirted 19th century Londoners. Thank God for 21st century healthcare and diet. Am I right? He looked different than most, but London was a big city. Big and miserable, and it was easy to let it swallow you up. Lin kept his (thankfully not-lined) pad of paper and a fucking steel-nibbed pen with him, clasped between thumb and four fingers, as he hurried toward what he hoped was actually the right destination. It was past the sticking ribs of the close-cropped tenements, up where the brownstones had some room to breathe. But whatever. Whatever, because you know what? Fucking anything was better than Wonderland. Lin was a zany little guy, yeah, but, Jesus, try staying somewhere like Wonderland, no matter your zaniness, and I give you two days tops before you're cavorting with fucking flowers like it's goddamn normal.—And, you know, like, generally, Lin had no problem with flowers or cavorting or cavorting with flowers, but when you did that as you starved? That was a problem, and the first step to solving a problem, was admitting you had one at all. Hi, my name's Lin, and I fucking thought I was a flower for a while there. The boy sagged as he neared the house he took for Daniel's. He steeled himself for what he might see—without the Beast's regenerative assistance, ...well, he just needed to be ready. |