07-29-2013, 11:38 AM
Continued from: Baccarat Gala
Light, he couldn't believe he got away. That first night, he was pretty much ready to be shot in the back any second, but kept pounding pavement anyway. The next day, every time he thought about it, which was pretty much every waking moment, he would shake his head and laugh at his luck. But on the third day of laying low, the adrenaline finally burned itself off and the weight of questions squeezed his head. Like, what the hell was that white room? Who were the blokes in it? And how did they know he was coming?
Of course, the longer he thought about it, the firmer a grip his ignorance squeezed in his chest. He was laying low these first few days, but he wasn't idle.
Jaxen rolled off the bed to stretch. He was in a shoddy hotel room in Kitay Gorod, about a block on the other side of Moscow's Red Light district. Which meant this was the sort of place where one's privacy was respected. His room was littered with the remnants of hermit life: cans of energy drink were poorly tossed on the floor around the world's smallest trash can, a mostly empty vodka bottle swam in a bucket of melted ice, discarded boxes reeked of old take-out, and on the wall the television was flashing an infomercial. He flipped channels to one streaming all-night news but kept it muted while he made to take a shower.
Not long after midnight, he tasted fresh air. As fresh as one could find in these narrow streets. His short bike jacket covered a brand t-shirt and jeans, and kept his Wallet holstered and out of sight. Jax smirked as he zipped up the coat. He'd be rather annoyed with someone trying to slip the tech out of his possession on these dark streets. At least not without buying him a drink first.
Another door several rooms down from his opened about then and a man strolled out. They looked at one another briefly, Jaxen suspicious of the coincidental timing, but the stranger locked up behind him and went the other way. Jaxen frowned and took the opposite direction.
Two blocks over he stopped at a vending machine. He swiped a pre-loaded cash card across the dispensery's control panel then went through the mundane ritual of selecting a variety of purchases. Two small tubes eventually came tumbling down, and Jaxen pocketed one. The other, he unscrewed the cap, popped the pill, and chucked the empty container toward the nearest trash can.
He wandered back to his room after that. By way of a liquor store of course. But about twenty seconds after he shut the door, he heard another one close. By the sound of it, the door was a couple rooms down from his own. But the worse news? He forgot to get more ice.
"Screw it."
He double checked the lock behind him, unzipped the jacket and dropped back on the bed, warm bottle within arm's reach, and started flipping channels.
Light, he couldn't believe he got away. That first night, he was pretty much ready to be shot in the back any second, but kept pounding pavement anyway. The next day, every time he thought about it, which was pretty much every waking moment, he would shake his head and laugh at his luck. But on the third day of laying low, the adrenaline finally burned itself off and the weight of questions squeezed his head. Like, what the hell was that white room? Who were the blokes in it? And how did they know he was coming?
Of course, the longer he thought about it, the firmer a grip his ignorance squeezed in his chest. He was laying low these first few days, but he wasn't idle.
Jaxen rolled off the bed to stretch. He was in a shoddy hotel room in Kitay Gorod, about a block on the other side of Moscow's Red Light district. Which meant this was the sort of place where one's privacy was respected. His room was littered with the remnants of hermit life: cans of energy drink were poorly tossed on the floor around the world's smallest trash can, a mostly empty vodka bottle swam in a bucket of melted ice, discarded boxes reeked of old take-out, and on the wall the television was flashing an infomercial. He flipped channels to one streaming all-night news but kept it muted while he made to take a shower.
Not long after midnight, he tasted fresh air. As fresh as one could find in these narrow streets. His short bike jacket covered a brand t-shirt and jeans, and kept his Wallet holstered and out of sight. Jax smirked as he zipped up the coat. He'd be rather annoyed with someone trying to slip the tech out of his possession on these dark streets. At least not without buying him a drink first.
Another door several rooms down from his opened about then and a man strolled out. They looked at one another briefly, Jaxen suspicious of the coincidental timing, but the stranger locked up behind him and went the other way. Jaxen frowned and took the opposite direction.
Two blocks over he stopped at a vending machine. He swiped a pre-loaded cash card across the dispensery's control panel then went through the mundane ritual of selecting a variety of purchases. Two small tubes eventually came tumbling down, and Jaxen pocketed one. The other, he unscrewed the cap, popped the pill, and chucked the empty container toward the nearest trash can.
He wandered back to his room after that. By way of a liquor store of course. But about twenty seconds after he shut the door, he heard another one close. By the sound of it, the door was a couple rooms down from his own. But the worse news? He forgot to get more ice.
"Screw it."
He double checked the lock behind him, unzipped the jacket and dropped back on the bed, warm bottle within arm's reach, and started flipping channels.