05-27-2014, 07:46 PM
Jensen walked out of the gas station on the corner of Vishna and Pyatnitskaya Streets. The station was a two-pump service stuck down the crevice of an ally and wedged between two stalinesque buildings looming on either side. The ally itself, a one-way, was barely large enough for a car.
Jensen shifted the helmet from one arm to the other in order to put a hand to his stomach. The cool fabric of his bike jacket did little to settle the heat washing acid up his throat. Luckily, there was nobody in line for the pump, because he promptly pursed his lips together and sprinted to a trash can.
And vomited.
His head was swimming when he wiped his forehead of sweat, but there was no relief. After thirty seconds of inquiry, the attendant in this tiny station at a random pump in Zamoskvoreche district knew exactly how to find what he called, "product." The word lurched new white across his vision.
He paid for sexual acts once. Although he put the cash in the man's hand, it didn't feel like prostitution. Maybe that was the way it was for everyone; when breaching horrors one tiny increment at a time, they never felt wrong. Tonight, merely feigning interest and Jensen was dazzled at how fast he found unspeakable options.
He returned to the bike, newly gassed up, and took off down the ally. Speed brought cool air creeping around the rim of his helmet washed his face with relief. With relief came determination.
The further south he drove, the more the district deteriorated. He recognized massive concrete buildings that made him think of the haunted city of Prypiat. All built from pre-fabbed slabs during the Soviet-era, they hovered like dingy fog carving its way between ghastly trees. What was still worse was the pockets of light glowing from those symmetrical squares. As a church bell rung in the distance, Jensen had to wonder what the daily lives of the people living there encompassed.
Coming to a canal, he paused at the crest of the bridge. The water sat dark and black below him, reflecting street lights lining the waterway in both directions. He was still not used to driving and working the map component lining the interior visor. Like the rest of the helmet, the face shield was blackened, and served his general purpose for anonymity, but the finger commands on the bike's hand grips were very different than what he was used to operating back in the States. He had to stop and orient his way.
The roll of heavy tires caused him to look sharply over his shoulder. The twin beams of a fast-approaching car blasted his face. The man behind the wheel was flipping him off and waving that he get out of the way.
Jensen picked up his feet and darted ten feet forward before the man could even honk.
At the bottom of the bridge, he expertly hit the bump and tilted into the turn with a casual wave goodbye. He knew exactly where he was going.
Several minutes later, he rolled to a stop in front of a dilapidated coffee shop. The parking lot was empty but for one car in the back that likely belonged to a worker. Big windows revealed a young woman behind the counter reading a book, Jensen guessed. A man with sunglasses sat at a table with a newspaper. The sunglasses made him smile nervously. Probably a vampire, Jensen chuckled. Given recent events, not only could the quiet joke be true, but it did little to alleviate his anxiety.
Thankfully, the helmet hid his emotions along with his identity.
Whoever he was suppose to meet would find him, he supposed. Wasn't that the way things like this were suppose to work? So he sat in the parking lot straddled on the bike and remained ready to dart away if necessary.
That's when he cleared his mind and took hold of the Gift. At least nobody would sneak up on him.
Jensen shifted the helmet from one arm to the other in order to put a hand to his stomach. The cool fabric of his bike jacket did little to settle the heat washing acid up his throat. Luckily, there was nobody in line for the pump, because he promptly pursed his lips together and sprinted to a trash can.
And vomited.
His head was swimming when he wiped his forehead of sweat, but there was no relief. After thirty seconds of inquiry, the attendant in this tiny station at a random pump in Zamoskvoreche district knew exactly how to find what he called, "product." The word lurched new white across his vision.
He paid for sexual acts once. Although he put the cash in the man's hand, it didn't feel like prostitution. Maybe that was the way it was for everyone; when breaching horrors one tiny increment at a time, they never felt wrong. Tonight, merely feigning interest and Jensen was dazzled at how fast he found unspeakable options.
He returned to the bike, newly gassed up, and took off down the ally. Speed brought cool air creeping around the rim of his helmet washed his face with relief. With relief came determination.
The further south he drove, the more the district deteriorated. He recognized massive concrete buildings that made him think of the haunted city of Prypiat. All built from pre-fabbed slabs during the Soviet-era, they hovered like dingy fog carving its way between ghastly trees. What was still worse was the pockets of light glowing from those symmetrical squares. As a church bell rung in the distance, Jensen had to wonder what the daily lives of the people living there encompassed.
Coming to a canal, he paused at the crest of the bridge. The water sat dark and black below him, reflecting street lights lining the waterway in both directions. He was still not used to driving and working the map component lining the interior visor. Like the rest of the helmet, the face shield was blackened, and served his general purpose for anonymity, but the finger commands on the bike's hand grips were very different than what he was used to operating back in the States. He had to stop and orient his way.
The roll of heavy tires caused him to look sharply over his shoulder. The twin beams of a fast-approaching car blasted his face. The man behind the wheel was flipping him off and waving that he get out of the way.
Jensen picked up his feet and darted ten feet forward before the man could even honk.
At the bottom of the bridge, he expertly hit the bump and tilted into the turn with a casual wave goodbye. He knew exactly where he was going.
Several minutes later, he rolled to a stop in front of a dilapidated coffee shop. The parking lot was empty but for one car in the back that likely belonged to a worker. Big windows revealed a young woman behind the counter reading a book, Jensen guessed. A man with sunglasses sat at a table with a newspaper. The sunglasses made him smile nervously. Probably a vampire, Jensen chuckled. Given recent events, not only could the quiet joke be true, but it did little to alleviate his anxiety.
Thankfully, the helmet hid his emotions along with his identity.
Whoever he was suppose to meet would find him, he supposed. Wasn't that the way things like this were suppose to work? So he sat in the parking lot straddled on the bike and remained ready to dart away if necessary.
That's when he cleared his mind and took hold of the Gift. At least nobody would sneak up on him.