Rooftops
2:47 PM; somewhere in the outskirts of Mexico
The unforgiving Mexican sun. Every now and then, a massive pulse of heat would blare down, crushing desert under its iron gaze.
Sunset sank low in her position, camped against the crumbling remnants of a forsaken fortress. Every breath came out ragged and low from fatigue, the unbearable temperature taking its toll on her head. She felt as if life was just an illusion, another mirage brought upon her by the desert canvas in this fallout wasteland. When it was all over, she wasn't sure she'd exist; the only thing actually tying her down was the scrap of paper clenched tight in her trigger hand.
Her mission at this point was to quell the hysteria of a small uprising convent, members with such religious piety that they martyred themselves just to be closer to some unknown power. They would stand in the streets and line up, screaming their causes, and then litter the pavement with their corpses as they sprayed gallons of blood onto passerby with scored wrists and throats. Sunset knew the only reason she had to end this was because all this media coverage took attention away from anything the ORG did, and the Messiahs couldn't have that. The last thing they needed was for ORG to get away with another murder attempt, let alone of one of their team.
She dashed across the dusted plains, feet bound in silk so steps wouldn't echo in the distance. Wisps of dust weaved in and out of her eyes as she flickered across the expanse, sun wrapping her in mirages that meshed with the sands. With every step, she could feel her rifle
I broke the rules. I strayed from the path.
Time doesn't stop for mavericks. Time marched on, regardless of the boy I thought I was.
As the sun set, dark drifted over the apartments like astral ash, like the dust of dusk. California stars are too regal to show their faces, and the night sky was blank, vacant and violet. As the street lighting embers clicked on like lighters in the hands of evening men, shadows became anchored and sewn to the walls and halls. Everywhere lay skewed shade, umbrage running across the separate apartment sections in angles that made doors where there were none and took entire walls away into the other realm that was the night, cutting pieces away from what was visible.
2:47 PM; somewhere in the outskirts of Mexico
The unforgiving Mexican sun. Every now and then, a massive pulse of heat would blare down, crushing desert under its iron gaze.
Sunset sank low in her position, camped against the crumbling remnants of a forsaken fortress. Every breath came out ragged and low from fatigue, the unbearable temperature taking its toll on her head. She felt as if life was just an illusion, another mirage brought upon her by the desert canvas in this fallout wasteland. When it was all over, she wasn't sure she'd exist; the only thing actually tying her down was the scrap of paper clenched tight in her trigger hand.
Her mission at this point was to quell the hysteria of a small uprising convent, members with such religious piety that they martyred themselves just to be closer to some unknown power. They would stand in the streets and line up, screaming their causes, and then litter the pavement with their corpses as they sprayed gallons of blood onto passerby with scored wrists and throats. Sunset knew the only reason she had to end this was because all this media coverage took attention away from anything the ORG did, and the Messiahs couldn't have that. The last thing they needed was for ORG to get away with another murder attempt, let alone of one of their team.
She dashed across the dusted plains, feet bound in silk so steps wouldn't echo in the distance. Wisps of dust weaved in and out of her eyes as she flickered across the expanse, sun wrapping her in mirages that meshed with the sands. With every step, she could feel her rifle
I broke the rules. I strayed from the path.
Time doesn't stop for mavericks. Time marched on, regardless of the boy I thought I was.
As the sun set, dark drifted over the apartments like astral ash, like the dust of dusk. California stars are too regal to show their faces, and the night sky was blank, vacant and violet. As the street lighting embers clicked on like lighters in the hands of evening men, shadows became anchored and sewn to the walls and halls. Everywhere lay skewed shade, umbrage running across the separate apartment sections in angles that made doors where there were none and took entire walls away into the other realm that was the night, cutting pieces away from what was visible.
