07-12-2017, 11:52 AM
You sit on the stained seats of a Fifth Tier subway car. The rickety old carriage hasn't been serviced by the Imperial authority in ages and as it clacks down the tracks you pray silently for the day you can afford an apartment outside the 34th Precinct. You are wearing a modest length dress that reaches midway down your shins. The pale white skin above your ankle is freshly shaved, giving only the minimum hint of almost virginal sexuality. A floral pattern is printed across your chest. You're single and hoping to find Mr. Right, but you know better than to ask for trouble on your evening commute.
The train car isn't packed, but all the seats are filled and a handful of men jostle against each other while hanging on to the cords meant for standing passengers. An old woman who stinks of piss sits alongside you to your left. Her lap is covered with plastic bags full of tin cans and dumpster dived treasures. As she twitches through a dream, you clutch your purse a little tighter.
A curly haired man sits half awake directly across the aisle from you. He must have gotten aboard the train at an earlier stop since unlike you, he was able to stick his luggage in his neighboring seat, sparing himself the stench of some homeless old hag. The man looks barely older than 20, but his white face is a little smudgy in the way that all the itinerant poor look in Corsucant. Hutt graffiti has been sprayed on all the walls inside the train car and the big puffy curls of the man's hair obscures some dirty word on the window behind him.
The train pulls into the next station with a wheeze and a mechanical voice crackles through an ancient speaker announcing the next stop, “Fulcrum Park.” As the momentum of the subway gradually fades, the man's neck snaps with the lurching stop. You watch him bat his eyes open, startled to now be awake. He looks around the train car through his bleary eyes, then suddenly realizes you are staring at him. He looks at you in the dumb way people do when they've just risen from a well needed nap. You smile coyly. He's cute, in his own way.
He rubs an eye with one hand while the other stays firmly atop his luggage. Blinking, he smiles sheepishly back. You don't want the man to get the wrong idea so you glance at your watch, as if the current time interests you more than him. He looks away, perhaps getting the message.
From the corner of your eye you watch the man adjust the luggage that sits beside him. The stop must have nudged it a bit, and the man is very intent on keeping it firmly in place. The luggage is a large wicker basket about three feet wide and two foot tall. A simple little metal latch and pocket lock keeps the lid on the top shut. After arranging the basket on his seat to his satisfaction, he again places the weight of his arm on it's lid.
Passengers get off at Fulcrum Park, but very few new ones take their place. The night has grown late and you are slowly moving past the terrible crime ridden neighborhoods of the 34th Precinct and nearing your own stop on the Westside. Crime syndicates rule the streets there, but at least the mafia bosses enforce some semblance of order. You wrinkle your nose at the urine soaked woman at your side. The curly haired man flashes a knowing smile at you, and you stifle a shared and secret laugh between the two of you.
The train bucks and weaves along the tracks as you pass through a tunnel and the lights within flicker out. You clutch your purse tighter and your fingers twist around the leather strap as well-warranted fear grips your heart. Punks and thieves often rob or grope young ladies during these quick blackout moments. The homeless woman doesn't stir, which keeps you more at ease, but you can feel eyes staring at you from across the aisle, peering through the inky dark, intermittently illuminated by bright flashes through the window of the train car as it passes emergency beacons along the rail.
There are two pairs of eyes drilling into you and they feel like pins sticking into your chest. A millisecond of light shines through the train window, reflecting onto the dull but leering eyes of the curly haired man. Within half a gasp, the man's face is once again hidden in the darkness, yet you can feel, you can see the devilish amber glow of a second pair of eyes burrowing into your soul. Through the narrow slits of woven twigs, you see the malevolent eyes within the wicker basket.
The train car isn't packed, but all the seats are filled and a handful of men jostle against each other while hanging on to the cords meant for standing passengers. An old woman who stinks of piss sits alongside you to your left. Her lap is covered with plastic bags full of tin cans and dumpster dived treasures. As she twitches through a dream, you clutch your purse a little tighter.
A curly haired man sits half awake directly across the aisle from you. He must have gotten aboard the train at an earlier stop since unlike you, he was able to stick his luggage in his neighboring seat, sparing himself the stench of some homeless old hag. The man looks barely older than 20, but his white face is a little smudgy in the way that all the itinerant poor look in Corsucant. Hutt graffiti has been sprayed on all the walls inside the train car and the big puffy curls of the man's hair obscures some dirty word on the window behind him.
The train pulls into the next station with a wheeze and a mechanical voice crackles through an ancient speaker announcing the next stop, “Fulcrum Park.” As the momentum of the subway gradually fades, the man's neck snaps with the lurching stop. You watch him bat his eyes open, startled to now be awake. He looks around the train car through his bleary eyes, then suddenly realizes you are staring at him. He looks at you in the dumb way people do when they've just risen from a well needed nap. You smile coyly. He's cute, in his own way.
He rubs an eye with one hand while the other stays firmly atop his luggage. Blinking, he smiles sheepishly back. You don't want the man to get the wrong idea so you glance at your watch, as if the current time interests you more than him. He looks away, perhaps getting the message.
From the corner of your eye you watch the man adjust the luggage that sits beside him. The stop must have nudged it a bit, and the man is very intent on keeping it firmly in place. The luggage is a large wicker basket about three feet wide and two foot tall. A simple little metal latch and pocket lock keeps the lid on the top shut. After arranging the basket on his seat to his satisfaction, he again places the weight of his arm on it's lid.
Passengers get off at Fulcrum Park, but very few new ones take their place. The night has grown late and you are slowly moving past the terrible crime ridden neighborhoods of the 34th Precinct and nearing your own stop on the Westside. Crime syndicates rule the streets there, but at least the mafia bosses enforce some semblance of order. You wrinkle your nose at the urine soaked woman at your side. The curly haired man flashes a knowing smile at you, and you stifle a shared and secret laugh between the two of you.
The train bucks and weaves along the tracks as you pass through a tunnel and the lights within flicker out. You clutch your purse tighter and your fingers twist around the leather strap as well-warranted fear grips your heart. Punks and thieves often rob or grope young ladies during these quick blackout moments. The homeless woman doesn't stir, which keeps you more at ease, but you can feel eyes staring at you from across the aisle, peering through the inky dark, intermittently illuminated by bright flashes through the window of the train car as it passes emergency beacons along the rail.
There are two pairs of eyes drilling into you and they feel like pins sticking into your chest. A millisecond of light shines through the train window, reflecting onto the dull but leering eyes of the curly haired man. Within half a gasp, the man's face is once again hidden in the darkness, yet you can feel, you can see the devilish amber glow of a second pair of eyes burrowing into your soul. Through the narrow slits of woven twigs, you see the malevolent eyes within the wicker basket.