10-09-2013, 07:08 PM
As much as she hated to admit it, Trano was right. There was something Reed wasn't telling him. But she wasn't going to explain it all right now. She did, however, toss him the flask. "You're going to need this."
The neighborhood was dour and grim, but it was still in fact a neighborhood. The road itself was lined with cars parked in like canned sardines. The few people out were collar-up and head-down. Moscovites liked their personal space, and did not appreciate invasions of privacy.
Around the corner from an all-night corner store, the car pulled into a skinny drive that wound to the back of a three-floor, three-unit apartment.
The driver pulled some keys from a compartment in the door and jumped out. Reed followed.
A crickety flight of stairs led to a dingy hallway lit by broken sconces. The hall itself smelled of cat piss and vomit. In fact, yes, there were more than one questionable stain on the tattered runner stapled to the stairs.
Three flights later, the car driver, who coincidentally was the same man that had been driving Trano around all week, unlocked the door.
Reed said something quietly to him, then went on in the apartment. He stayed behind. He cleared his throat, and nodded that Trano follow.
Inside, Reed dumped her things on a table and tossed her coat across the back of the couch like grandma's afghan. At least it smelled better in here. Barely. Her study of the room quickly included the splay of Wallet screens hovering above a table, two of which were on screensaver -- a dark-skinned beauty bathing under a Tahitian waterfall, a nude beauty. She quickly moved on. The trash can overflowed with old take-out boxes. Firearms stripped for cleaning had the look of someone bored to tears, as did a muted television screen.
She put her hands on her hips, turning in that slow circle back until she faced Nicholas once more. Just then, they heard a bathroom flush from the other room. The guy who came out rubbing his hands on an old tea towel was a lanky, dark skinned man in his middle years with a fuzz of black hair on his chin. The appearance of strangers in his place startled him.
"What the--!"
He muttered, accent neutral, but definitely not Russian. He blinked at Nicholas, whom he instantly recognized, then turned to Reed with a very ghastly stare."Shit, Sam!"
He dropped the towel and rubbed his chin. "What the hell happened!"
The neighborhood was dour and grim, but it was still in fact a neighborhood. The road itself was lined with cars parked in like canned sardines. The few people out were collar-up and head-down. Moscovites liked their personal space, and did not appreciate invasions of privacy.
Around the corner from an all-night corner store, the car pulled into a skinny drive that wound to the back of a three-floor, three-unit apartment.
The driver pulled some keys from a compartment in the door and jumped out. Reed followed.
A crickety flight of stairs led to a dingy hallway lit by broken sconces. The hall itself smelled of cat piss and vomit. In fact, yes, there were more than one questionable stain on the tattered runner stapled to the stairs.
Three flights later, the car driver, who coincidentally was the same man that had been driving Trano around all week, unlocked the door.
Reed said something quietly to him, then went on in the apartment. He stayed behind. He cleared his throat, and nodded that Trano follow.
Inside, Reed dumped her things on a table and tossed her coat across the back of the couch like grandma's afghan. At least it smelled better in here. Barely. Her study of the room quickly included the splay of Wallet screens hovering above a table, two of which were on screensaver -- a dark-skinned beauty bathing under a Tahitian waterfall, a nude beauty. She quickly moved on. The trash can overflowed with old take-out boxes. Firearms stripped for cleaning had the look of someone bored to tears, as did a muted television screen.
She put her hands on her hips, turning in that slow circle back until she faced Nicholas once more. Just then, they heard a bathroom flush from the other room. The guy who came out rubbing his hands on an old tea towel was a lanky, dark skinned man in his middle years with a fuzz of black hair on his chin. The appearance of strangers in his place startled him.
"What the--!"
He muttered, accent neutral, but definitely not Russian. He blinked at Nicholas, whom he instantly recognized, then turned to Reed with a very ghastly stare."Shit, Sam!"
He dropped the towel and rubbed his chin. "What the hell happened!"