![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Jul. 23rd, 2005 11:53 amRaguel walks.
He's not looking for evildoers or researching a 'case' or going anywhere in particular. Just walking. It is just before noon in the City of Angels, and the sky is a burning blue disc, heavy with haze.
He isn't thinking about much except how deeply he hates Los Angeles. It's all the same color here. Everything is concrete or some hideous variant on stucco, and even the ones that are painted look yellowish under the merciless sun. They are stunted, sprawling structures - beaten down, it seems, from above, faded and repetitive.
His head hurts. He's starting to get used to it feeling crowded in there, which scares him more than he will admit to himself. The voices break in without warning, and he has to remind himself each time that they are other than his own.
He glares at a newly-built monstrosity as he turns a corner - just the same as the one on the last corner - hating the sight of them, the utter lack of reprieve to their squat ugliness. The light finds them, filtered through the filth in the air, bright and hot and mindless. He had forgotten how long it had been since he'd come out in the daytime.
No, wait... there is one difference here, he notes grudgingly. There’s a kid sitting on this corner, probably around Adam’s age, scuffed shoes lounging in the street. Raguel looks at him and the knowledge filters in unbidden. He knows that the kid has been up all night. He knows there’s a pistol with a couple of bullets left in the bottom of his dirty backpack. He knows there are red droplets spattered on the t-shirt he’s so carefully covered with a jacket in the heat of the day.
They place themselves in his path so willingly. Maybe he should just do his fucking job. (Do your fucking job.)
And now, again, the source of his thoughts is no longer identifiable. He stops walking to concentrate and watches the boy, who glances up to meet his eyes. As though realizing who watches, the kid looks away, then stands up and slings on his backpack. With a poorly-concealed glance behind veiled lids, he slouches toward a parking lot behind the nearest eyesore. Raguel stares after him.
Mercy is disobedience. (Mercy is disobedience.)
The angel follows.
The sunlight continues to blaze down, and here, now, at high noon there is a second light behind a dirty pawn shop that competes with the glare of the sun.
No one notices. It doesn’t last long.
Within a few minutes, Raguel comes back out to the street and pauses. He stares directly into the sun for a long time, and the expression on his face could be categorized as a sneer. After a while, he walks on. He does feel a bit better, actually. Even his limp has lessened.
Ten minutes later, a confused boy reaches the street. He doesn’t remember why he went into the parking lot, but somehow the question doesn’t seem very important. Hoisting his bag, now mysteriously a few pounds lighter, he takes off in the opposite direction. He suspects he might be late to meet his friends.
The hint of a shadow skims beside him; the sun has passed its apogee and is beginning the long descent toward nightfall.
He's not looking for evildoers or researching a 'case' or going anywhere in particular. Just walking. It is just before noon in the City of Angels, and the sky is a burning blue disc, heavy with haze.
He isn't thinking about much except how deeply he hates Los Angeles. It's all the same color here. Everything is concrete or some hideous variant on stucco, and even the ones that are painted look yellowish under the merciless sun. They are stunted, sprawling structures - beaten down, it seems, from above, faded and repetitive.
His head hurts. He's starting to get used to it feeling crowded in there, which scares him more than he will admit to himself. The voices break in without warning, and he has to remind himself each time that they are other than his own.
He glares at a newly-built monstrosity as he turns a corner - just the same as the one on the last corner - hating the sight of them, the utter lack of reprieve to their squat ugliness. The light finds them, filtered through the filth in the air, bright and hot and mindless. He had forgotten how long it had been since he'd come out in the daytime.
No, wait... there is one difference here, he notes grudgingly. There’s a kid sitting on this corner, probably around Adam’s age, scuffed shoes lounging in the street. Raguel looks at him and the knowledge filters in unbidden. He knows that the kid has been up all night. He knows there’s a pistol with a couple of bullets left in the bottom of his dirty backpack. He knows there are red droplets spattered on the t-shirt he’s so carefully covered with a jacket in the heat of the day.
They place themselves in his path so willingly. Maybe he should just do his fucking job. (Do your fucking job.)
And now, again, the source of his thoughts is no longer identifiable. He stops walking to concentrate and watches the boy, who glances up to meet his eyes. As though realizing who watches, the kid looks away, then stands up and slings on his backpack. With a poorly-concealed glance behind veiled lids, he slouches toward a parking lot behind the nearest eyesore. Raguel stares after him.
Mercy is disobedience. (Mercy is disobedience.)
The angel follows.
The sunlight continues to blaze down, and here, now, at high noon there is a second light behind a dirty pawn shop that competes with the glare of the sun.
No one notices. It doesn’t last long.
Within a few minutes, Raguel comes back out to the street and pauses. He stares directly into the sun for a long time, and the expression on his face could be categorized as a sneer. After a while, he walks on. He does feel a bit better, actually. Even his limp has lessened.
Ten minutes later, a confused boy reaches the street. He doesn’t remember why he went into the parking lot, but somehow the question doesn’t seem very important. Hoisting his bag, now mysteriously a few pounds lighter, he takes off in the opposite direction. He suspects he might be late to meet his friends.
The hint of a shadow skims beside him; the sun has passed its apogee and is beginning the long descent toward nightfall.
