( otherearth ) ❚ on the rooftops of london.
With a sleep schedule like the one she has, Cat tends to avoid most of the day. If she could avoid sleeping, she would, alas, she needs it to have a full functional mind. Still, she can hardly sleep more than five hours. The fact that she tends to go to rest for some hours when the sun hits the sky means that by the time she wakes up, it is almost gone - that's English Winter for you. She doesn't mind it, though, not really, because what she needs prowls the night, hardly the day. London is a busy city, but the people have no idea how really busy it is. The underground and the Otherside move faster than any speeding car and more painfully than any rush hour traffic. At six in the afternoon, the sky is already dark and the flashing lights illuminate the city in a beautiful urban way. That, however, seems to fly by Cat as she gets out of the strip club, up to the roof of the building. She is dressing her leather jacket with a tired look as she walks up to the edge of the building, the cold hair of Winter making her skin crawl but she cannot be arse to go get warmer clothes; either they were too thick or too many and that would definitely deter her more fluid movements. Whatever parkour artists tell you, don't believe them: jumping from rooftop to rooftop is extremely difficult and a false step could mean a very nasty fall.
She leans her elbows on the cold rail of the roof, leaning forward slightly as she watches the streets below with a vacant look in her eyes. To most, it would seem that she was waiting for something, but she really isn't. The girl is simply thinking. Her mind hardly ever stops, a constant whirring of the tangled thoughts haunting her. Duty and guilt and the weight upon her young bony shoulders. Still, those are the moments she forgets about putting up that mask of stoicism and lets her eyes become transparent. There's a sadness to them that's nearly heart wrenching and she looks so small under all that black coat. She has slept very little again, nightmares coming to jerk her out of her sleep, waking up in sweat and shivering though she is not cold, with a hard to swallow lump at her throat and a throbbing in her chest. It's gone now, after a quick shower, she has learned how to deal with those feelings, burying them deep inside and closing them in a box. That's how she works. She doesn't know how to properly handle them. Her fingers, calloused and long, they touch idly at the dog tags around her neck, and she drops her eyes to them for a moment, before shaking her head. Sentimentalism will get her nowhere.
She runs her hand through her short hair, tugging idly at the back of it, before turning around and walking away from the rail. She rolls her neck, it pops, then stretches her back, spine silently cracking within, and she moves her fingers like a pianist about to play her final requiem. And then she runs, dirty old sneakers beating against the cement of the roof, before there's a moment of utter silence as she jumps over the railless side of the roof, to the one slightly beneath. She makes a small sound of effort as she barely lands on the edge, hands clasping it tightly. She pulls herself up, almost effortlessly, and walks through the several hung clothes. She stops as she hears something, suddenly turning around at a footstep that does not belong to her. Sure, it's a building where other people live and they are allowed to go up there whenever the hell they want, but Cat does not like to play odds. Her hand is already under the coat, on her back, fingers loosely around the grip of her gun. She doesn't say anything, but she is walking silently through the hung sheets and panties and other several clothes, frowning, squinting.
And as soon as she sees the silhouette, she doesn't hesitate in pulling her gun out and pointing at them; no voice, no questions asked, no nothing. Just a mean glare and an even meaner deadly weapon pointed at the footsteps' culprit.
( OOC | GIVING LOGGING A TRY! Alright, let's do this thang!! This is set in Cat's canon world, Otherearth, not Hamletville. Also, not completely unrelated, mood music! Or something, I don't even know. Oh, and there's a lot of stuff about her right here. )
She leans her elbows on the cold rail of the roof, leaning forward slightly as she watches the streets below with a vacant look in her eyes. To most, it would seem that she was waiting for something, but she really isn't. The girl is simply thinking. Her mind hardly ever stops, a constant whirring of the tangled thoughts haunting her. Duty and guilt and the weight upon her young bony shoulders. Still, those are the moments she forgets about putting up that mask of stoicism and lets her eyes become transparent. There's a sadness to them that's nearly heart wrenching and she looks so small under all that black coat. She has slept very little again, nightmares coming to jerk her out of her sleep, waking up in sweat and shivering though she is not cold, with a hard to swallow lump at her throat and a throbbing in her chest. It's gone now, after a quick shower, she has learned how to deal with those feelings, burying them deep inside and closing them in a box. That's how she works. She doesn't know how to properly handle them. Her fingers, calloused and long, they touch idly at the dog tags around her neck, and she drops her eyes to them for a moment, before shaking her head. Sentimentalism will get her nowhere.
She runs her hand through her short hair, tugging idly at the back of it, before turning around and walking away from the rail. She rolls her neck, it pops, then stretches her back, spine silently cracking within, and she moves her fingers like a pianist about to play her final requiem. And then she runs, dirty old sneakers beating against the cement of the roof, before there's a moment of utter silence as she jumps over the railless side of the roof, to the one slightly beneath. She makes a small sound of effort as she barely lands on the edge, hands clasping it tightly. She pulls herself up, almost effortlessly, and walks through the several hung clothes. She stops as she hears something, suddenly turning around at a footstep that does not belong to her. Sure, it's a building where other people live and they are allowed to go up there whenever the hell they want, but Cat does not like to play odds. Her hand is already under the coat, on her back, fingers loosely around the grip of her gun. She doesn't say anything, but she is walking silently through the hung sheets and panties and other several clothes, frowning, squinting.
And as soon as she sees the silhouette, she doesn't hesitate in pulling her gun out and pointing at them; no voice, no questions asked, no nothing. Just a mean glare and an even meaner deadly weapon pointed at the footsteps' culprit.
( OOC | GIVING LOGGING A TRY! Alright, let's do this thang!! This is set in Cat's canon world, Otherearth, not Hamletville. Also, not completely unrelated, mood music! Or something, I don't even know. Oh, and there's a lot of stuff about her right here. )