Johnny always liked that turn of phrase, the kind of line you read in a book with dog-eared pages and a crease down the cover. A halo; a transcendent mystique that trailed the silhouetted form of a client framed in the doorway. A dame with a cigarette hanging from painted lips, filmed in black and white. Really set the scene, he thought, really piqued interest.
‘Course, he wasn’t about to fool himself thinking the same ever applied in reality. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to Johnny like tar, the smog lumbering after him like a dull creature, giving up and dissipating halfway. Its orange tip burns bright as he swings open the office door—private investigator, if he’s got the address right—and the little glow reflects off of dark aviators worn even at night.
There’s not much in the way of a greeting. The heel of his leather boot—dark, like the rest of his clothes, save the silvery glint of his prosthetic metal arm—kicks the edge of the door closed when it swings back. A second to take stock of the place, another second to breathe out a huff of smoke like he were a dragon just having crawled out of his den, balancing the cigarette between two fingers of his organic hand.
@gunmettle.
Johnny always liked that turn of phrase, the kind of line you read in a book with dog-eared pages and a crease down the cover. A halo; a transcendent mystique that trailed the silhouetted form of a client framed in the doorway. A dame with a cigarette hanging from painted lips, filmed in black and white. Really set the scene, he thought, really piqued interest.
‘Course, he wasn’t about to fool himself thinking the same ever applied in reality. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to Johnny like tar, the smog lumbering after him like a dull creature, giving up and dissipating halfway. Its orange tip burns bright as he swings open the office door—private investigator, if he’s got the address right—and the little glow reflects off of dark aviators worn even at night.
There’s not much in the way of a greeting. The heel of his leather boot—dark, like the rest of his clothes, save the silvery glint of his prosthetic metal arm—kicks the edge of the door closed when it swings back. A second to take stock of the place, another second to breathe out a huff of smoke like he were a dragon just having crawled out of his den, balancing the cigarette between two fingers of his organic hand.
And then—]
What a dump.
[Yeah, hi.]