Re: Alleyway
Iris had been working late. It was stupid, but she'd also been walking home late, so not only was she wearing a knee-length wool coat, she also had her purse over her shoulder and she'd been on her feet when the flash came, dropping her in the middle of a crowd. She stumbled from the disorientation, and someone swore at her in another language. French, she identified. Iris had a knack for tongues, and French was one of those she knew. She wasn't great with grammatical structure and obscure concepts, but she could imitate the sounds and catch on to meaning fast. The problem was, she hadn't spoke French for a good several years. Her understanding of what the crowd was saying around her was middling, but she knew from the dress and her immediate environs--way better than any movie set or reenactment--that this was no joke.
She tried to extract herself from the crowd, ducking and dodging, pulling her coat collar up to hide her hair and face, concealing her figure as best she was able while she moved fast to avoid anyone looking straight at her. She didn't fit in here, and this was a mob, and she needed to be one with the mob or she was going to end up bleeding on the cobblestones.
Desperate, Iris burst from the edge of the crowd, still clutching her purse tight from where it hung over her body, and darted into a helpful alley.