twilight in tandem {d1 train thread}
Oct 14, 2018 20:57:06 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Oct 14, 2018 20:57:06 GMT -5
Her mother always told her to never let the tea go cold. Her father on the other hand, was a coffee-drinker who didn't really care what temperature it was when it went down his gullet. And as the clock strikes 1, Bette's chai sits on a side-table of the lounge car, steam long-since disappeared. She's holed up in a couch whose plushness threatens to drown her, dressed in maroon pajamas more luxurious than anything she's ever tried on.
Everything here seems unnatural; the chandelier doesn't even sway as they travel, crystals casting a dimmed glow that's freckled with reds and blues, citrine and violet. Bette can appreciate the technique, but while The Antiquary's lights were harsh and grating, at least it wasn't processed through a filter: a casket masquerading as a chariot.
As Bette clicks play on the hologram, she reaches over and takes a sip of the tea - her mother was right. Grimacing, she puts it back, but she won't ask for another. The look of the attendants who bring hot cups to her unnerves and infuriates her: it's pitying, and she'll have none of that while her heart's still beating.
More of her attention though, is focused on the 70th arena: a clocktower that collapses as Kirito Miristioma looks on in the throes of madness. She sighs, glances down at her notes, flicks the hammer of her pistol. On her paper there's one word written to describe this situation, this quelling situation:
Unprecedented.
Everything here seems unnatural; the chandelier doesn't even sway as they travel, crystals casting a dimmed glow that's freckled with reds and blues, citrine and violet. Bette can appreciate the technique, but while The Antiquary's lights were harsh and grating, at least it wasn't processed through a filter: a casket masquerading as a chariot.
As Bette clicks play on the hologram, she reaches over and takes a sip of the tea - her mother was right. Grimacing, she puts it back, but she won't ask for another. The look of the attendants who bring hot cups to her unnerves and infuriates her: it's pitying, and she'll have none of that while her heart's still beating.
More of her attention though, is focused on the 70th arena: a clocktower that collapses as Kirito Miristioma looks on in the throes of madness. She sighs, glances down at her notes, flicks the hammer of her pistol. On her paper there's one word written to describe this situation, this quelling situation:
Unprecedented.
