From here I look around to see what avenues belong to me. I can't tell what I've found.
The theatre of the Empress is empty, clean, silent. The chairs, destroyed by the skinwalker, are gone--the catwalk broken down and stacked to one side of the stage. Stains are all that remain of the skinwalker--even the rift that let it through closed up in the wake of its attack.
A new one opens some time past midnight, dumping a tiny, blood-soaked blond out backstage. There's pale, pinkish blood mixed in with the deep maroon.
She lays on her back for a few long moments, a little too still, a katana scored with smoke laying beside her right hand. Murphy shifts, runs her fingers over the hilt, and stills again.
This isn't happening. None of this is happening.
She is so done with it all.
A new one opens some time past midnight, dumping a tiny, blood-soaked blond out backstage. There's pale, pinkish blood mixed in with the deep maroon.
She lays on her back for a few long moments, a little too still, a katana scored with smoke laying beside her right hand. Murphy shifts, runs her fingers over the hilt, and stills again.
This isn't happening. None of this is happening.
She is so done with it all.