s o r r y .
s o r r y
s o r r y
b u t ` y o u ` r e ` [ N E V E R ] ` g o n n a ` d a n c e ` a g a i n . . .
b u t . . m y ` f e e t ` j u s t ` k e e p s ` m e ` m o v i n g .
[ AND I FEEL LIKE RUNNNING, AND I FEEL NO PAIN ]ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZBCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
[ I FEEL LIKE RUNNING ]ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZBCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
The weight of the air seemed colossal. Impressive on the surface of the earth, almost - as though, should it have gotten any heavier, the earth would collapse inward on itself. Nothing could have ever seemed this important, this influential in anyone's lives for it to have such power, such command.
The crystals of frozen rainfall cascade from the gray sky above. They covered the ground, some sticking while others melted to make conditions uncomfortable. The sight of each snowflake did not inflict the perpetual figure in the window, staring out through a fairly large window. The city, Centennial City, in the distance held him by an anchor: there were more than simple things that kept him here. They... They were things that were not exactly easily distinguishable from beneficial or detrimental. In fact, the distinction of right and wrong in those circumstances, when faced with confronting the dilemmas in regards to the city, was never as easy as it looked. Sure, he had to know the difference between right and wrong, and he had to choose the right [ if not for him, then for his grandmother and the others ] but it was never just that simple.
He watched a snowflake ride the temporarily vicious gust of wind that livened the party up and slam itself into his window. It melted right before his very eyes, likening itself to his life, to his conscience. Kin to this snowflake that was now nothing but a spec of water, his life was dedicated to a pattern that would lead him into chaos and destruction and carnage and violence. Even if he hadn't volunteered himself into Project Alpha, even if his grandmother never had told anyone of her troubles and his mother hadn't've sent him off to become a man on his own, he would still find his way to this path. It seemed to be a pre-ordained thing, he noticed.
His brown eyes darkened as his brows pressed themselves against the top of his eyes. He felt like, with any more pressure, they were going to implode. They'd no longer be as rich and dark as his smooth and nearly flawless skin. Appropriately endowed was a smooth and comforting voice that could easily accumulate enough commanding urgency to befit an exasperated and demanding admiral. From his full lips, which were now pressed against one another, not trembling from such an exhaustion of muscles and which hid this row of fairly common dental hygiene, came a sigh. The sigh sounded distressed, though it did not visually relieve him of any of the apparent compression this room was inducing. His strong jawline, visibly flexed from his clenched jaw, followed a wide outlet to small, obtusely adorable ears, and then continued to a square-like resolution of his skull. His short hair, cropped as it would be in the army [ he had worn it like that his entire life, even pre-recruitment, albeit a bit more unkempt ], didn't seem to be altered by the differences of the weather. The cold season never did him much of any harm. His body was rigorously conditioned for a worse environment.
There, in his humble abode, with a myriad of adults in his midst, all capable of making conscientious and intelligent decisions for their own sake and for the entirety of their faction as a simple courtesy to himself, he felt as though his rough edges and corners were being rubbed dull. There, he felt as though he was slowly falling out of his element.
The truth of the matter was that, not only was he completely out of his element, but there was simply not an element for him: he would need to adjust accordingly and ensure that the rest of the individuals within this association remained safe and secured.
It was the only obligation he had left to uphold for his grandmother's sake. For her honor.
He cleared his throat.
The desk behind him was moderately neat. Before he had risen, it was a mess with documents and files and clippings from newspapers - as though the olden days weren't so far away - and all of the stress of his entire life seemed to accumulate with that deceivingly comfortable seat of his. He turned, broad shoulders swinging like massive doors on fragile and succumbing hinges to face the desk. He watched as the monitor on his personal computer displayed the information he had been running through. He had requested an electronic copy of whatever it was Wyatt had wished to speak with him of a few days before, though he had yet to see the man. Heavy lids slid over his vision, his contacts awash for a short moment. As he opened his eyes, readjusting to the natural and bleak light, he realized something - his door was wide open, yet no one had passed by all morning.
He could vouch that each individual, even Jacob and his dependencies, were capable of providing for their own... Still, it was a bit queer that no one would have stopped in to greet him yet. He checked his view over the city once more, squinting at the remnants of retrospect. With a sigh, he looking longingly at it, as he had once done approximately seven or so years prior. This time, the weight on his shoulder was not from the bags he had over his shoulders, leading him to a militant life, but from the burden of reality, something much heavier.
The jagged corners of his cherry-wood, mahogany desk glistened as they beckoned him, cajoled him to return to his work. As he had risen from his seat, the tails of his shirt caressed a corner, his stocky arm filled in folds with folders and a stainless steel canteen in his hand. He looked like a businessman, minus the fancy tie and suit jacket. In fact, he couldn't recall a day in his life when he chose to wear such an outfit on his own. His mother, at the very least, would brush the knots from his wiry head of hair [ or lack thereof ] and tuck his arms into a small, dual-toned blazer and shove shoes that were a bit too small for his growing feet when he was a squirt. They took their brandished glory to join a community of individuals who believed and performed upon their beliefs in a way he, himself, no longer could uphold.
He sighed as he pulled at the chain tether of his desk lamp, turning fully in the opposite direction to square off with a pathway that would weave him around a chair before his desk and out the door. The rich and beautiful mahogany door of the study remained open in his wake.
The canister found that it had reached his lips and was presently seeping of its contents, a bitter and dark liquid swimming through his lips. The coffee was strong, just as the individual who drank it. As his heavy, combat boots clomped against the hard surface floors beneath each steady step. Each step through the relatively narrow and modest corridor brought him closer to the means of getting through the other levels. He checked his wrist, wide and scarred from his experience of combat, reading the time of the face upon the underside of his wrist.
Approximately three hours, and not a soul had passed him by. Not even Aubrey had made any signs of showing her face, making it known - as per usual - that her very presence was to be acknowledged and very appreciated. The leader, confident and mature, would normally have chuckled at this, dismissing the girl and her antics and carried on, inadvertently marching his way to the main floor to greet the others. They didn't have a daily regiment, though he did.
The elevator was preoccupied. He was fond of physical activity though, and the stairs always proved to get his gears working. That with the strong, black coffee was a punch right in the system. It was all he needed.
His heels cracked at the loose tile at the bottom of the stairwell, the one he had witnessed being broken when Wyatt and Riley had one of their first quarrels. Maybe the duos they had been paired up with weren't the most efficient, but they were the most comfortable, the most experienced of their rotations. He, himself, didn't even think he would need to discuss with any one individual of their faction of any sort of battle tact. In fact, he believed that he had a basic routine that was simple enough to fit well in all of their pockets, though he had enough personal room to fabricate his theoretical maneuvers. Naturally, it was just like facing another enemy with his standard in arm and his battles all about him.
Another sigh barreled to escape his lips, though he heard the doors of the elevator open up behind him, having idly stepped to the vast space that was their main level, it was quickly trapped by the sensitive innards of his mouth. His instinctively-trained sights were set on a particular angle, as to gain a view of who was behind him before they had even managed to get within arm's length.
Interestingly enough, they didn't seem to be expecting to approach him in such a convenient manner, if at all. The male scratched a corner of his forehead, watching the woman scuttle by in apparent confusion and her permanent distrust and discontent. All he required of her, ever, was for her to retain and reign in her personal vendettas for the time being - he needed ruling this group of persons to be as simple and as least strenuous on him as possible. He quirked a brow and nodded at her, his round chin dipped slightly as he opened his mouth for a split-second, thinking of what to say to her.
The nod would suffice in a greeting.
"Have you seen Wyatt?" He looked past her discreetly to see if he was in the levee with her, which he was not. He then checked the door frames on either side of them, finding that those were vacant as well. The man's gaze returned to the rather grim and morbid woman before him, her graceful countenance maimed by the harsh cruelty that was their lives.
"Or anyone, for that matter?"
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZBCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ. . . - WHEN I`M LOST WITHIN MY FRAME - . . .
