[sixteen] - [open to Grady]
[Gabriel sits across the street from the Police Station, under a convenient tree. He's drinking bourbon straight from the bottle, cheap shit. In truth, no matter how much you pay for alcohol in this place, it tastes cheap. He hasn't had anything that tastes better than cough syrup in years.]
[He studies the building, nondescript and outwardly harmless, in that candy-coated Mayfield way. He gauges the distance, and feels it might be a bit of a stretch. The more he drinks, the less he things it's impossible.]
[Years ago, he'd learned to pick a lock. It wasn't hard at all to do with his teke; it just took a bit more concentration, as it was harder to feel the nuances of the tumblers and the inner workings as they were manipulated. He'd gotten good at it, cracking difficult locks in under a minute. But was it too far away?]
[Was it pickable? What would happen if he could do it? Nothing? Or would it be more sinister? He'd been droned and killed, had died slow and painful of illness, had lost people he cared about, and at home he'd been tortured and threatened with more than death. What was there to fear?]
[The more he drank, the more numb he became. Half way down. Maybe...]
[Gabriel reached out with a thin, thin, invisible tendril of power, across the street and to the door of the building. When it touched the door, the energy spread out like liquid, finding the knob and the locks. He paused. Or would it be easier to slip through the cracks and feel around? No, he didn't have the energy to do that. Just the locks for now. Closing his eyes, he let his concentration center on his task. The locks faintly rattle.]
[Back across the street, bottle held lightly in one hand, his nose starts to bleed.]
[He studies the building, nondescript and outwardly harmless, in that candy-coated Mayfield way. He gauges the distance, and feels it might be a bit of a stretch. The more he drinks, the less he things it's impossible.]
[Years ago, he'd learned to pick a lock. It wasn't hard at all to do with his teke; it just took a bit more concentration, as it was harder to feel the nuances of the tumblers and the inner workings as they were manipulated. He'd gotten good at it, cracking difficult locks in under a minute. But was it too far away?]
[Was it pickable? What would happen if he could do it? Nothing? Or would it be more sinister? He'd been droned and killed, had died slow and painful of illness, had lost people he cared about, and at home he'd been tortured and threatened with more than death. What was there to fear?]
[The more he drank, the more numb he became. Half way down. Maybe...]
[Gabriel reached out with a thin, thin, invisible tendril of power, across the street and to the door of the building. When it touched the door, the energy spread out like liquid, finding the knob and the locks. He paused. Or would it be easier to slip through the cracks and feel around? No, he didn't have the energy to do that. Just the locks for now. Closing his eyes, he let his concentration center on his task. The locks faintly rattle.]
[Back across the street, bottle held lightly in one hand, his nose starts to bleed.]