06-03-2018, 12:46 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-13-2018, 07:53 AM by The Vision.)
Five days in the ‘Omniverse.’ She still hadn’t eaten a thing.
Was this how it felt to be a sewer rat in Rapture? Her stomach growled and her mouth watered, but she didn’t die. She’d taken up residence in a damp corner of a dark alleyway, adopting rats and one creepy hobo for roommates. In her spare time—of which she had plenty—she basked in the opulence of Coruscant’s Tier Two and envied the fancy clothes of the people who passed, usually on their way to the top tier for their impressive job or some other sort of extravagant event.
Poverty wasn’t that bad. Relaxing, almost.
“Yo, cutie, you change your mind about that roll in the hay yet?”
Sometimes.
Eleanor’s expression remained stoic. She stared, as she had become wont to do, at the storefront across the street, and the beautiful emerald dress hanging on a mannequin behind the window. Against her better judgment, the sight of it brought a smile to her face.
Roger, the alleyway’s other tenant, waited politely and patiently for an answer he’d never get. His scraggly, graying beard dripped with gasoline, which for whatever reason he drank copious amounts of, and some too-big clothes limply drooped on his dangerously thin body. He slapped a hand to his balding forehead and struggled to his feet, staggering toward Eleanor.
“C’mon, I been lettin’ you live here for days, now, girl, ya owe me one—”
He stopped short when he felt a painful poking in the gap between two of his ribs. Eleanor held the point of her syringe against his abdomen, gently nudging him away with the tip. The blade was old and rusty, but she kept it sharp, and Roger wasn’t ignorant of the damage a weapon like that could pull off. “Got yer bayonet all whetted, I see,” he observed, taking a step back. “Well—you’ll be gettin’ nowhere with manners like that, little lady.”
“Hmph,” Eleanor grunted. She removed the blade from his torso and returned her focus to Theresa’s Threads across the way.
Something told her today was the day she was going to get that dress.
“Oh, she speaks, sorta,” Roger said, feigning amazement, “Speak again, angel. Is that the only noise we’ll be gettin’ today, cutie, or do you have more for me?”
“Hate to disappoint, Roger, but I think I’m moving out,” Eleanor spat, standing and charging out of the alleyway at a brisk pace. She walked across the street and pushed open the door to the shop, never taking her eyes off that dress. As she entered, a series of little bells jingled and a salesgirl perked up behind the counter.
“Welcome to Theresa’s Threads! Let me know if you need—”
“May I try it on?” Eleanor said in a small voice. The salesgirl eyed her nervously, but slipped out from behind the counter nevertheless.
“…I mean, if you’re sure it’s your style,” she replied, glancing over Eleanor’s armored body, “then I can go grab you one from the rack, absolutely.”
“No, I would like this one,” Eleanor clarified. She pointed at the dress on the mannequin. “It looks to be the right fit for me. May I try it on? May I try that one on, please?” The armored girl’s eyes swelled with desire. The salesgirl paused.
“Um,” she started, “I… suppose that’s fine.”
It took a few minutes, but she climbed up onto the window display and unzipped the emerald dress, shimmying it off the mannequin, and handed it to Eleanor, who hurried to an open stall in the dressing room. In a blast, the girl had shed her old, rusted Big Sister armor and stepped into the knee-length garment. It fit snugly and warmly, like an old, trusty pair of shoes still in the prime of their life. She stepped out of the stall and observed herself in the mirror.
The sight brought a smile to her face. She’d missed so many things while her mother kept her in captivity, locked away to be experimented on and not to meet other children or attend formal events or wear pretty dresses in public. The person standing before her in the mirror—she was a personification of the girl Eleanor had always imagined she’d be, if not for Sofia Lamb’s cold, choking death grip.
She’d rarely felt more beautiful.
“It fits impeccably.”
Eleanor jumped a little. The unfamiliar voice’s owner sauntered up behind her. She was a young woman, with dark skin, curly black hair pulled into a tight bun, and one of those smiles that curled up just a tad extra on one side. She wore a gray uniform—one Eleanor had come to recognize belonged to Imperial officers—perfectly pressed, every button spit-shined and every medal perfectly straight. “Just delightful looking, my dear.”
The big sister’s face scrunched up. She did not remember asking for the opinion of a strange woman, nor did she especially appreciate it, right now.
“I would say buy it, but I don’t suspect you can afford it,” she shrugged, “nor do you really need to. You’re a prime, after all.”
‘Prime’; that was an unfamiliar word that still somehow fit like a glove when she used it to describe her. What did that mean? She locked eyes with the officer. “Do I know you?”
“I see you outside my window every night,” she smirked, nodding his head toward the alleyway across the street. “That’s my apartment complex you’re squatting under, young lady.”
Eleanor’s chin dipped and her cheeks flushed.
The woman reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “No need to be embarrassed, girl,” the officer assured her, “Times are hard. Though you’ll draw the attention of the troopers if you don’t relocate soon; I’d have called them on you myself if I hadn’t found you so… intriguing.”
“You don’t even know me,” Lamb responded.
“Never said I did,” the woman replied with a chuckle. “Just that I see you. I’m apartment 305. Come knock on my door tonight if you’d like a warm meal. Au revoir.”
And she swept out of the shop, leaving a curious Eleanor in her wake.
Was this how it felt to be a sewer rat in Rapture? Her stomach growled and her mouth watered, but she didn’t die. She’d taken up residence in a damp corner of a dark alleyway, adopting rats and one creepy hobo for roommates. In her spare time—of which she had plenty—she basked in the opulence of Coruscant’s Tier Two and envied the fancy clothes of the people who passed, usually on their way to the top tier for their impressive job or some other sort of extravagant event.
Poverty wasn’t that bad. Relaxing, almost.
“Yo, cutie, you change your mind about that roll in the hay yet?”
Sometimes.
Eleanor’s expression remained stoic. She stared, as she had become wont to do, at the storefront across the street, and the beautiful emerald dress hanging on a mannequin behind the window. Against her better judgment, the sight of it brought a smile to her face.
Roger, the alleyway’s other tenant, waited politely and patiently for an answer he’d never get. His scraggly, graying beard dripped with gasoline, which for whatever reason he drank copious amounts of, and some too-big clothes limply drooped on his dangerously thin body. He slapped a hand to his balding forehead and struggled to his feet, staggering toward Eleanor.
“C’mon, I been lettin’ you live here for days, now, girl, ya owe me one—”
He stopped short when he felt a painful poking in the gap between two of his ribs. Eleanor held the point of her syringe against his abdomen, gently nudging him away with the tip. The blade was old and rusty, but she kept it sharp, and Roger wasn’t ignorant of the damage a weapon like that could pull off. “Got yer bayonet all whetted, I see,” he observed, taking a step back. “Well—you’ll be gettin’ nowhere with manners like that, little lady.”
“Hmph,” Eleanor grunted. She removed the blade from his torso and returned her focus to Theresa’s Threads across the way.
Something told her today was the day she was going to get that dress.
“Oh, she speaks, sorta,” Roger said, feigning amazement, “Speak again, angel. Is that the only noise we’ll be gettin’ today, cutie, or do you have more for me?”
“Hate to disappoint, Roger, but I think I’m moving out,” Eleanor spat, standing and charging out of the alleyway at a brisk pace. She walked across the street and pushed open the door to the shop, never taking her eyes off that dress. As she entered, a series of little bells jingled and a salesgirl perked up behind the counter.
“Welcome to Theresa’s Threads! Let me know if you need—”
“May I try it on?” Eleanor said in a small voice. The salesgirl eyed her nervously, but slipped out from behind the counter nevertheless.
“…I mean, if you’re sure it’s your style,” she replied, glancing over Eleanor’s armored body, “then I can go grab you one from the rack, absolutely.”
“No, I would like this one,” Eleanor clarified. She pointed at the dress on the mannequin. “It looks to be the right fit for me. May I try it on? May I try that one on, please?” The armored girl’s eyes swelled with desire. The salesgirl paused.
“Um,” she started, “I… suppose that’s fine.”
It took a few minutes, but she climbed up onto the window display and unzipped the emerald dress, shimmying it off the mannequin, and handed it to Eleanor, who hurried to an open stall in the dressing room. In a blast, the girl had shed her old, rusted Big Sister armor and stepped into the knee-length garment. It fit snugly and warmly, like an old, trusty pair of shoes still in the prime of their life. She stepped out of the stall and observed herself in the mirror.
The sight brought a smile to her face. She’d missed so many things while her mother kept her in captivity, locked away to be experimented on and not to meet other children or attend formal events or wear pretty dresses in public. The person standing before her in the mirror—she was a personification of the girl Eleanor had always imagined she’d be, if not for Sofia Lamb’s cold, choking death grip.
She’d rarely felt more beautiful.
“It fits impeccably.”
Eleanor jumped a little. The unfamiliar voice’s owner sauntered up behind her. She was a young woman, with dark skin, curly black hair pulled into a tight bun, and one of those smiles that curled up just a tad extra on one side. She wore a gray uniform—one Eleanor had come to recognize belonged to Imperial officers—perfectly pressed, every button spit-shined and every medal perfectly straight. “Just delightful looking, my dear.”
The big sister’s face scrunched up. She did not remember asking for the opinion of a strange woman, nor did she especially appreciate it, right now.
“I would say buy it, but I don’t suspect you can afford it,” she shrugged, “nor do you really need to. You’re a prime, after all.”
‘Prime’; that was an unfamiliar word that still somehow fit like a glove when she used it to describe her. What did that mean? She locked eyes with the officer. “Do I know you?”
“I see you outside my window every night,” she smirked, nodding his head toward the alleyway across the street. “That’s my apartment complex you’re squatting under, young lady.”
Eleanor’s chin dipped and her cheeks flushed.
The woman reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “No need to be embarrassed, girl,” the officer assured her, “Times are hard. Though you’ll draw the attention of the troopers if you don’t relocate soon; I’d have called them on you myself if I hadn’t found you so… intriguing.”
“You don’t even know me,” Lamb responded.
“Never said I did,” the woman replied with a chuckle. “Just that I see you. I’m apartment 305. Come knock on my door tonight if you’d like a warm meal. Au revoir.”
And she swept out of the shop, leaving a curious Eleanor in her wake.