Jan. 19th, 2012

bitten_notshy: ([neu] walking away)
Many things had changed in the four years since Sebastien had brought Jack to just after he turned 16. Russia had stepped even closer to outright war with England, and Jack ... was now a monster-in-waiting who mainly lived a hundred and ten years in the future.

One thing had stayed the same: The city’s January cold was a terrifying thing. It tore through Jack’s clothes and clawed at his skin, as if the combination of a good coat, thick wool sweater and scarf, and the warmest underthings 21st century technology could provide posed no challenge at all.

He huddled into his scarf some more, peering out just to satisfy himself that Moscow's onion domes against the cold sky were still beautiful. (They were.) And then he tilted his head toward his companion.

"The coffee shop we’re going to should be just past the next corner." Unless, of course, it had closed.

But Jack was hoping Kobalt -- and, more precisely, the crowd that gathered there -- would prove to be another thing that did not change.

[OOC: For she who is there. Loosely adapted from The White City by Elizabeth Bear.]

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Jack Priest

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