isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost, Ilde Decima and Ivan.
What: An invitation accepted.
Where: Gutters.
When: Now.

On the surface, time is dictated by the sun, a given constant. Down here, it's a subjective measuring of wound watches and the steady, relentless tick of digital numbers, but it can also be measured by the amount of people flowing through the underground passageways that stem into Gutters.

Otherwise, the lighting doesn't care. The shadows are thick where there isn't that piercing sheen of artificial light staining the concrete walls, iron bars and steel pipes, and that's just the corridor, currently playing host to the nightlife ducking down underground. The space itself is as impervious to the logical progression of time as the people it caters to, permeated with the scent of the underground, water and earth, with cigarette smoke, with copper and salt. Music aches through the floor, a heavy bass, and security isn't particularly overt, but certainly present - that isn't counting the guy at the door handing off the money people give to get in.

This isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking.

But it is Deacon Frost's natural habitat regardless, for all that he doesn't feed here, doesn't dance much, doesn't strike up meaningful conversation a hell of a lot. He's moving out of the backrooms and into the larger space, doing up the sleeves of his shirt with his CiD gripped in one hand, and going about his evening. Eventually, he's going to need some fresh air.