tired of the white fists of old letters

POSTED: Fri Feb 02, 2018 9:46 pm

OOC: All Welcome, thread prompt! With the dogs gone, Concrete Jungle has become easier to explore. Not much remains after the fires and years of scavenging, but perhaps the squatters left some valuables behind. Someone can chat and patrol with Clover, or perhaps yell at her for wasting booze we could trade?

IC:

Clover avoided the city for some time even after the dogs were driven out. It was full of too many memories for the woman: some recent and fresh enough in her mind that she could smell the blood, the booze; others so old they were lost to all but her subconscious, waking her at night with terrible dreams she knew were really real.

But now she wandered the streets, not really knowing why. Perhaps she just wanted to make sure that the dogs were truly gone, since not all of them were dead. If asked, that was what she’d say anyway.

Clover walked until she found something: an old overturned van, with the fading stench of mongrel and urine and alcohol hovering around it like a curse. She glanced down into the vehicle and frowned. She’d been small enough to fit behind those pedals once; now she realized she would be hard pressed to fit into the driver’s seat comfortably.

Her eyes narrowed as she spotted the glint of an old bottle. Her hand reached down; she seized the neck of it and lifted it to the sun, watching it glow through the amber liquid. It was half full of the stuff.

Coldly, she turned and smashed the bottle against the side of the van, shattering it and spilling the alcohol everywhere.
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