[ Waking up in a bed that isn't yours surrounded by things that aren't yours in an apartment that used to be yours with a badly patched hole in the wall twice your height likely isn't anyone's idea of a good time. So, she thinks as she stalks down the hall toward the elevator (out of order) and takes an abrupt turn for the stairwell (mostly not a mess), she can be forgiven for the glass she threw when a stranger in her kitchen asked her what the hell she was doing there. She and her body that feels and her mind that buzzes, full of a digital landscape that wasn't there when she doesn't remember drifting away, can be forgiven for whatever words poured out of her mouth and whatever small pieces of property damage she inflicted on her way out the door.
Soon enough Laura Moon is out on the street, each step a blow to the ground at her feet, and though she's small she makes no move to give way to any oncoming pedestrian traffic.
So it's inevitable that she eventually slams into someone, shoulder barging into a torso or an arm. And when that someone doesn't automatically crumble, she lets the momentum of the impact spin her around so she can try a different kind of violence - ]
Get the fuck out of my way.
THE FIGHTING RINGS
[ She needs to figure out where she stands, how long she's been gone, fill in the gaps. Where to go, then? She knows exactly where, and it doesn't take much asking around to find out where the fights are going to be held for the next few nights. Inside, she can be found... ]
a) [ Watching the cage, betting small increments here and there but mostly just standing amongst the rabble, quiet and sharp-eyed, intent on both the fighters and their audience. ]
b) [ At the bar, nursing a bottle of something disgusting and catching the bartenders in snippets of conversation when they're not busy. Anybody who presses up to the bar in an attempt to flag one down will get a: ]
You got a minute? I'll buy.
c) [ Getting into a fight that isn't in the ring. Somebody gives her the final thoughtless shove in a long line of shoves and she snaps, shoves back, shoves hard. But she isn't what she used to be and she's forgotten what she is instead. So rather than sending them through a wall, she's hardly got time to shriek out surprised and furious pain from the awkward twist of her arm before someone's rounding on her.
At 5'1" and barely any pounds, clutching her damaged limb, she doesn't look like anyone who's ready to absorb a hit. ]
FOOD TRUCKS
[ Catch her perched on a bench somewhere, absolutely decimating the selection of different dishes perched haphazardly around her: on her thigh, on the bench, in her hand, some half-finished and some not yet started. She's making a mess, sauce all over her fingers and down the front of her shirt, but she also visibly does not care as she tears into some kind of vegetable skewer dripping in a rich brown sauce. ]
laura moon . american gods
[ Waking up in a bed that isn't yours surrounded by things that aren't yours in an apartment that used to be yours with a badly patched hole in the wall twice your height likely isn't anyone's idea of a good time. So, she thinks as she stalks down the hall toward the elevator (out of order) and takes an abrupt turn for the stairwell (mostly not a mess), she can be forgiven for the glass she threw when a stranger in her kitchen asked her what the hell she was doing there. She and her body that feels and her mind that buzzes, full of a digital landscape that wasn't there when she doesn't remember drifting away, can be forgiven for whatever words poured out of her mouth and whatever small pieces of property damage she inflicted on her way out the door.
Soon enough Laura Moon is out on the street, each step a blow to the ground at her feet, and though she's small she makes no move to give way to any oncoming pedestrian traffic.
So it's inevitable that she eventually slams into someone, shoulder barging into a torso or an arm. And when that someone doesn't automatically crumble, she lets the momentum of the impact spin her around so she can try a different kind of violence - ]
Get the fuck out of my way.
THE FIGHTING RINGS
[ She needs to figure out where she stands, how long she's been gone, fill in the gaps. Where to go, then? She knows exactly where, and it doesn't take much asking around to find out where the fights are going to be held for the next few nights. Inside, she can be found... ]
a) [ Watching the cage, betting small increments here and there but mostly just standing amongst the rabble, quiet and sharp-eyed, intent on both the fighters and their audience. ]
b) [ At the bar, nursing a bottle of something disgusting and catching the bartenders in snippets of conversation when they're not busy. Anybody who presses up to the bar in an attempt to flag one down will get a: ]
You got a minute? I'll buy.
c) [ Getting into a fight that isn't in the ring. Somebody gives her the final thoughtless shove in a long line of shoves and she snaps, shoves back, shoves hard. But she isn't what she used to be and she's forgotten what she is instead. So rather than sending them through a wall, she's hardly got time to shriek out surprised and furious pain from the awkward twist of her arm before someone's rounding on her.
At 5'1" and barely any pounds, clutching her damaged limb, she doesn't look like anyone who's ready to absorb a hit. ]
FOOD TRUCKS
[ Catch her perched on a bench somewhere, absolutely decimating the selection of different dishes perched haphazardly around her: on her thigh, on the bench, in her hand, some half-finished and some not yet started. She's making a mess, sauce all over her fingers and down the front of her shirt, but she also visibly does not care as she tears into some kind of vegetable skewer dripping in a rich brown sauce. ]