London & Open
London left the shop for a smoke break. Q had decided to stay open later for the folks at Le Cirque to get tattooed and that was fine by him. The more he worked the less time he had to accidentally fall asleep. Over the course of three days he had gotten maybe two hours of sleep from short cat naps here and there (he never allowed himself enough time for his REM cycle to kick in). He lit a cigarette and zoned off as he smoked, his mind wandering. He got to a point where nothing even registered and when he snapped back to his senses he noticed people walking past talking in hushed voices about something going on at the Lagoon. Curious about the goings on, he followed.
It didn't take any sort of special gift to feel the tension in the air as he approached. He stood back and watched, suddenly not entirely sure that he was awake. There was no mistaking the blood in the water. It has to be a dream, he told himself. Shit like this just doesn't happen. Everything looked sharp and real, though. But most of his dreams did. There were very few now that were blurred or vague. But why would he dream about something like this? Usually his nightmares were about something happening to him or someone he loved. Or the Hag.
"This isn't real," he muttered to himself. "Just a dream." He remembered the cigarette he was still holding and spared a glance at the still glowing tip. There was always one way to check if he was asleep. He touched the ember and dropped the cigarette when his fingertip burned. "Fuck." He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and looked back at the tank. He wasn't dreaming.