This is where we insert our characters to participate in this noir story?
Southern Style Scribe
As the grim streets wore at Sophia's cheeks with moist fog, she strode - weaving amidst the people with a less-than-hurried pace. Her black boots gave an urgency in her heels with each step, and that was why if you saw her she seemed to be carrying on an errand of sorts. She was only heading home, no more, with thoughts of canned spaghetti for dinner.
Her elevator trip down allowed her enough solitude to relax, if briefly, until the doors opened to Elmiera Station, a darkly lit way with dirt and gunk on the floor. She sat on one of the benches beside the man inching his nose in a paper newsletter. It was nice to have a feel for what you're reading, she admitted.
The sign said 6 minutes until next train arrival. That should give her enough time with reading Countless Desire on her jeejah.
Southern Style Scribe
Douglas heard the girl's footsteps, and looked to his left. Keep your mind on the job, he thought. Worry about women later. He felt his prosthetic leg, a gift from the Lunar Separatist troubles, jitter in the numbness. In the early mornings, when he got himself out of bed, he felt nothing down there.
He felt the leg freeze in place, so he lowered his newspaper for a second and adjusted it with a slap on the knee. A lot of privdicks are veterans, and that's what Natasha's Scarlets are on the lookout for. It shouldn't show.
Southern Style Scribe
Don't die on me, thread.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
A place like this, the strong took what they liked from the weak. A place like this, hope for the kind went to die. A place like this, people were desperate for even the tiniest fragment of succor. A place like this was perfect.
The man now calling himself Joshua was weak here. One good bullet, and he'd be a goner. But that was acceptable. He knew he could find strength soon enough. Oh, sure, there were seals in this place, and he didn't dare break them. But if somebody else did, well, that would be just fine. They probably wouldn't even know they were doing it.
For now, though, he had his wits. And the fine, ivory-handled revolver worn at his side. Oh, yes, he'd spared no expense readying himself for this place. He dressed in a manner that seemed appropriate: a black shirt, gray camo pants, and a matching jacket. Military, but worn in a lazy, informal way that suggested it was surplus. Or stolen. His hair was brown, and his face suggested he'd been a few days without a proper shave.
He took a seat with the reading woman and the man with the newspaper, sitting by the latter. He seemed more likely to be of use. He pulled out a cigarette, then searched his pockets, ignoring the lighter he found within. That wasn't really the point right now. Instead, he removed his hands from his pockets and said, "dammit. Anyone got a light?"
1. Keep it noiry.
2. No OOC moments.
3. Third person limited, one character at a time.
4. No hijacking other Janus City inhabitants, please.
5. There are no happy endings. Period.
CHARACTER FOR THIS SCENE
Douglas Ravine, nee Riccoli- A privdick hired by the USDR to investigate black market redesigning in Janus City. A native, he knows the city inside and out. He's an old-fashioned type, and is thinking of retiring early and having some kids. He's a decent man trying to make a living. Raised Catholic in an impoverished part of Janus known as the Gallows. No experience on the force, joined his privdick company five years ago. Strong sense of justice. A little nostalgic. Prefers riding on the streets due to vertigo.
EPISODE 1: Janus City Blues
Douglas Ravine sat on a bench in a subterra station where the higher society ended and the ghetto began. He was thumbing his way through the newspaper. He was genuinely surprised to find one of these pulpy things laying in the corner near the escalator, which itself, was an antiquity.
It was dated thirty years ago, when he was just some kid wandering around the outskirts of the Gallows. Now, he was a privdick doing hired snoop work for the U.S Department of Redesigning's Criminal Management division, which wasn't so different from running around the Gallows in his eyes.
At least it payed good. His Oldsmobile was neatly parked on the street above. If his sources were right, Natasha Grant's right hand woman, Connie Vanhorn, would be arriving on the next bullet.
edited 11th Feb '12 2:51:12 PM by ConnorBible