( It's the way of the subliminally lethal, crepuscular world, the smell of corporate efficiency supra-imposed on the surgical sterility of a soulless environment. They might be in the cardboard cut-out of a labyrinth, but they're here, now. Diffuse, sketched with a light hand, tentative. When Seishirou tips his head just so, perfectly feline in his assessment, he feels himself adrift, unanchored, entirely happenstance.
They've arrived at this moment, between shadows, the lurking, looming presence of others only gaining incremental contour. The light that bathes them might be neon or dappled moonlight or a heavy-handed smear of alabaster. They could be miracles of hazard or strategically positioned pieces before a capture en passant.
Pawns cannibalizing pawns. Between them, Kigai's hand looks like the hook that cleaves fish and calls it — sleep. )
iii.
They've arrived at this moment, between shadows, the lurking, looming presence of others only gaining incremental contour. The light that bathes them might be neon or dappled moonlight or a heavy-handed smear of alabaster. They could be miracles of hazard or strategically positioned pieces before a capture en passant.
Pawns cannibalizing pawns. Between them, Kigai's hand looks like the hook that cleaves fish and calls it — sleep. )
Are we running to, or from?