Jacob has never seen a fucker like this before. The demons back in the City, Angel on her worst days, they come close. But it isn't the same. Fangs and talons and wings? Burning jets of light from it's... nostrils?
That's the strangest opium dream he's ever had for sure.
Jacob hasn't met the others. He doesn't want to. What he does want to do is get out of this labyrinth of corridors and find a weapon. He has some, but they're impossible to access under the protective layers that protect him from all the toxins in the air. He's going to have to improvise, and that means grabbing a box as he dashes past and tearing into it.
B - London's Calling
He doesn't actually know what this thing is, what VR means and so he doesn't expect, when he steps in, to step onto a tiled roof. He's a good forty feet above the ground, and below him is a crossroads of streets around a statue, carts and carriages bustling around. Chimneys smoke into the dusk, a train chugs by in the distance.
He breathes it in, the smog and the stench of too many people and horses and the river. He's not been gone long, but he knows he isn't bad, not really. This is a memory, but it's a beautiful one. One he is happy to crouch down and watch, as the sun sets over the spires and chimney stacks.
Jacob Frye - AC Syndicate - CRAU from City of Sin
Jacob has never seen a fucker like this before. The demons back in the City, Angel on her worst days, they come close. But it isn't the same. Fangs and talons and wings? Burning jets of light from it's... nostrils?
That's the strangest opium dream he's ever had for sure.
Jacob hasn't met the others. He doesn't want to. What he does want to do is get out of this labyrinth of corridors and find a weapon. He has some, but they're impossible to access under the protective layers that protect him from all the toxins in the air. He's going to have to improvise, and that means grabbing a box as he dashes past and tearing into it.
B - London's Calling
He doesn't actually know what this thing is, what VR means and so he doesn't expect, when he steps in, to step onto a tiled roof. He's a good forty feet above the ground, and below him is a crossroads of streets around a statue, carts and carriages bustling around. Chimneys smoke into the dusk, a train chugs by in the distance.
He breathes it in, the smog and the stench of too many people and horses and the river. He's not been gone long, but he knows he isn't bad, not really. This is a memory, but it's a beautiful one. One he is happy to crouch down and watch, as the sun sets over the spires and chimney stacks.