Fandom Dressing

He didn't know where he was. He didn't particularly care.

"This popping me about shit is getting old." he muttered, walking into the bar with his head down and hands shoved in his pockets.

He didn't want to hunt. He didn't want to run. He didn't want to fight.

"Just give me something that'll knock me on my ass alright?"

The barkeep nodded, underage and covered in more scars than skin, picking up a bottle and passing it down. Oooh. Rotgut that didn't even bubble.

"Thanks."

First he'd drink, and if he didn't pass out, hopefully he'd get fucked. Before the world fucked him over too much to even enjoy that anymore.

One moment the twelve-almost-thirteen year old was slamming her door in the face of her disgruntled adoptive father, the next she was--well, wherever here was.

Sadly? This twelve year old had seen weirder, more perverse, things than this. (Truth be told: She was more likely to be considered twelve going on forty most days, depending on her mood.) She kept a relatively cool poker face for her age; inside she was screaming--and this was used loosely--WTF, because things like this don't happen!

Oh. Wait. She knew people that could. (And it didn't comfort her a bit.)

"Where am I?"