﹙ lawrence . D E C C A ﹚ ` ` ☣ ﹥﹥「 Medic for the U S E F U L 」
" I ' v e d o n e s o me t h i n g w r o n g xxx h a xxxxx @leastI'vedonexxxxx s o m e t h i n g "
hereiam﹙ WAREHOUSE ﹚ x howiam﹙ INDIFFERENT ﹚ x whatisee﹙ MILLING ABOUT ﹚ x whatihear﹙ . . . ﹚ x
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The skyline knew no thing such as hope, nor did it recognize and submit to despair. The great, natural gradient of the sky could never dare to bother its nightly and daily activities of inspiring and tormenting the soul. Perhaps, though, if it, for once, put aside its selfishness, shelf its desire to be the first and last thing that those without a roof considered to be important, then, and only then, could it really touch the soul of one so indifferent, so uncaring, so utterly in need of a moving motion such as emotion. But with the blending of hues of orange and yellow, mixtures and swirls of red and peach, delectable commingling of purples and pinks, no such force could drive an immovable like such. So, with a stillness and a statue-like astral hue, he so immovable walked through the sordid streets of London.
Two score since the bombings had taken root in the soils of the world. Nothing was as it once was, not that anyone expected otherwise. The Immovable, Lawrence by birth, Jackass by public preference, had always assumed something of the like would take place. To believe, as many so foolishly did, that the world's end would be marked so distinctly on the calendar of a group of people who essentially let themselves be killed was utterly moronic. Though young, Lawrence had heard a great deal of the year noted MMXII, twenty-twelve, the end of the Mayan calendar and supposed end of the world. He never believed it; it was far too sour a taste to swallow for his sensitive pallet. For him, twenty-twelve marked the end of the world as human beings had come to know it and the beginning of a new world. How would that new world be? Well, Lawrence had always wished it to be that period of peace and warlessness and care for life as is described in Revelation. Sadly, no such luck was apparent, as, with twenty-thirty-two now being breathed in all persons lungs peace was a figment of imagination. It was not a hope. It was a dream. And it was not delicately painted on the red skyline yonder.
Boots, beige at one point but dirtied beyond recognition of an initial coloration, crunched along the debris in the day's light, walking only to the outskirts of the group. Nothing was done to make him particularly noticed; he blended in nearly perfectly with the morose street lines with his dark, chartreuse-like jacket, scarred in its own and heavy from the contents within it, his darkened skin, and his stained clothes. He was dirty, like all others, and he crept along the shadowline, like most people in the twenty-thirty-two year. His associate with the resistance was like a cold he wished to get over, but his hatred for the Crimson army made the resistance seem like but a tickle in the back of his throat. Hate it as he might, the resistance gave him a chance at redemption, and he was the only person particularly good with pharmaceuticals among those inside. At times he wondered if he was the only person with a true sense of the hell on earth that they were all required to live in as a result of the Great Mother. Personally, Lawrence didn't see what harm would come in it all ending right when those bombs hit. But he couldn't say that out loud, lest he be burned at the stake like a heathen witch, or just completely ostracized.Either way, it would probably be better than his current position.
He scanned the horizon once again, feeling the wind call viciously to him as he stared blankly at the now clouded horizon through glowing crystal eyes. He sighed, rubbing his ruddy face with a ruddy hand and cracking his ruddy knuckles against his ruddy cheekbones. "Red sun in tha mornin'..." Lawrence said under his breath, scanning the street one last time to be sure that there were Bloody Bastards on the streets surrounding, before turning to the building he stood before, his hand on the doorknob. "Sail-ahs take worn-in." An old farmer's trick that Rebeka had told him, depending on the time of the day, he could tell what the weather would hold in the upcoming day or two, hence he lacked any sort of surprise when the time of a few hours had passed from clear to overcast skies. But in this case, he saw the heavenly metaphor that was portrayed so clearly, that he wouldn't allow to be removed from his mind as long as he associated with the resistance. He turned the doorknob and entered.
Lawrence was an intelligent individual, but he was not a gambling man. He didn't play gambling games, be it in cards or in life. If there's no surefire sign that you're safe, the reasons for participating are few and none; at least, that Lawrence's view. He did enjoy, to an untold extent, watching the games though; doing the math out in his head of probabilities would entertain him more than anything. Scarcely, Lawrence glanced around the room at familiar faces that he had come to know. He briefly questioned whether or not they recalled his name. Off in the corner sat Audrey; he had seen her off in her own little space enough to know that she was not necessarily antisocial, but rather very religious. In some sense, he envied her devotion, even in such impossible times, but in other ways he pitied her for her trust in something as foolish as religion for all of life's problems. There were things that man needed to accomplish by his own hand. His attention turn back to the gamblers, in particular to the young James, a girl whose name the Brooklyn born medic often questioned. Never out loud, never in a voice that people heard, but to himself, in his whispers of the heart. Friendly and willing to socialize even at a time when strategies and fault should be addressed, Lawrence was not shocked that she would join in on the game. And then there was Tyr. Darker skinned, pale hair, never really an irritation; he was one of the few resistance members that Lawrence could stay in the presence of without wanting to walk away.
It was actually very fun to observe the resistance members enjoying the moments that they weren't in combat, or on the run as it were. There was almost a sense of morbid normality to it all.
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" T a k e m e b a c k t o t h e L o n d o n t o w nxxxxx thatbroughtmeup xxxxx c a u s e i t ' s b r i n g i n g m e d o w n. "
