1:30pm
Normal people awoke to an alarm clock.
Vander was awoken by a sharp ache coursing through her body. A quiet groan escaped her lips, and she curled up tightly on the old mattress. Through the dirt-streaked window of her messy studio apartment, hazy sunlight poured in. She closed her eyes tightly as the light threatened to trigger a headache. Still, the hateful sunlight pierced through her closed eyelids. Raising a hand to cover her face, Vander felt her fingers trembling.
Shaking hands. Aching muscles. Headache. Peering through her fingers, Vander looked across the room, where a digital projection of the time flickered on the wall. Sleep had evaded her last night, until early morning when she crashed, hard, into a haze of dreams she could no longer remember. It was now the afternoon. She wasn't sick. It was just a withdrawal. Rolling off the mattress, Vander stumbled her way to the kitchen. A syringe sat on the counter, ready and waiting. She grabbed the hypodermic and rolled up her sleeve. With the practiced motion of someone who had done this too many times before, Vander slid the tip of the needle into the crook of her elbow in spite of her shaking hands. Relief came quickly. The ache faded away, and the shell of a woman leaned back against the counter in relief.
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6:15 pm
Lucid makes everything more real. Colours are brighter. Sounds more distinct. Your feet are planted more solidly on the ground. But when the high wears off, the world isn't the same. Everything is grey and dulled in comparison, until you take the next hit. Addicts have a tendency of seeking out sensation as they come down from the high. Sounds, lights, scents and flavours. Anything strong enough to register in their dulled minds.
Vander's day had taken a turn for the worse when she realized that her stock was running worryingly low. The little vial of Lucid she had last acquired was drained. A few drops remained at the bottom, but it was a quantity that barely qualified as a tease. She'd torn her apartment apart, even more so than it already was, scrounging up what little money she could. Enough to afford a few drinks. A hit of Lucid? Maybe one. Enough for a few more days? Not likely. But she could always pray for charity. Or luck.
It was early evening now, and she was walking slowly down the street. The neon lights of bars and shops, on the tail-end of a Lucid high, looked as bleached out as a fluorescent bulb. The traffic on the street beside her was a dull roar. It was a trek to District 13 from her apartment, but that was her destination. The Spit. Her ears craved the loud music and the heavy scent of cigarettes, alcohol, and humans. It opened early, it was always busy...and even at this hour, someone was likely drunk enough to leave their wallet lying around. She was, at heart, a good person. But in a choice between thievery and an agonizing withdrawal, Vander would always choose the former.
She entered the club. A wave of sound and scent greeted her, powerful enough to break through the haze. Guitar, yells, laughs, and the clamour of the Spit's metal cage fight. Cigarettes, booze, sweat. She hated herself for liking it. Vander moved along the wall, keeping to herself, and observing the gathered individuals. She simply watched. A part of her hoped to see a misplaced wallet, a lonely purse. But truthfully, she was content to simply observe. And observe she did. It didn't take long before something caught her eye. Watching from the shadows, Vander saw an individual who looked thoroughly out of place. Pale, dark-haired. Completely put-together. Amongst the leather jackets and torn jeans of The Spit, her clean clothes and fancy-looking leather purse stood out. And, even stranger, she looked alone. As she watched, a handful of men circled the poor woman with grasping hands and undoubtedly vulgar taunts. Vander split away from the wall, moving across the room, her dark eyes never leaving the scene. The woman broke away from the small group as Vander reached her, falling back against the wall of the fighting cage just as the fight finished.
The crowd erupted into cheers. The fighter was a favourite, undefeated in the ring. Vander seized her chance in the sudden din of excitement. Without a second of hesitation, her hand reached out. Bony fingers encircled the Alpha woman's hand, pulling her firmly away from the center of the club's attention. "Come on, this way," Vander coaxed her, gentle voice barely surpassing the crowd's noise.
She pulled her to the side, and prayed that she wouldn't be as terrifying to the young woman as the desperate men or the brutal fighters. Audrey would be greeted by the sight of a woman who was everything she was not, straight out of Zone Beta. Ripped black jeans and a raglan sweater, the front adorned with the name of an obscure punk band, and the sleeves long enough to hide the track marks on her forearm. But despite her appearance, her words and demeanor were kind as she guided Audrey away from the cage. Vander had lead her to the base of a disused staircase at the side of the club, the door at the top leading to an empty Manager's Office. "You okay? The Spit gets rough sometimes, sorry," she apologized sincerely.
A hint of a smile played on her face as she looked once more at the woman's clothing. "It helps to try to blend in a little bit. I mean, don't get me wrong, people from Alpha come to slum it all the time. But you look like you're dressed for Dead Ce-..." her words trailed off as she registered the woman's expression, and the blood of the poor soul in the ring that was still on her cheek. The lightheartedness was once again replaced with sincerity. "Hey, you all right?"
Lord Wyron