Post by shinigami on Jul 20, 2008 17:27:53 GMT -8
Moscow is a city of bridges, and of winter, but it isn't very cold now, even though there's no sun in the sky, and night has fallen on the city like an owl falls on a mouse. The city seems as if it was caught unawares; only half of its lights have gone on. Electrical problems. They happen. And it isn't always for supernatural reasons.
Jakob is on a bridge, looking into a dark and polluted river, and the river is no less dark than his hair, and the copper cornices of a nearby building are no less green and rusty than the color of his eyes. He looks as if his mind is far, far away, and so, too, his gaze, while he drags a match across the bridge's stone side. There's a cigarette between his lips. He's dragged the match across a few times, but still, no fire.
This is why the pickpocket believes that Jakob, in his nice jacket, his nice pants, his nice shirt, his well-dressed Westerner everything, is a perfect target. The pickpocket pretends to be drunk, sways, bumps into Jakob, apologizes for his clumsiness and offers Jakob a drink of the vodka bottle (it doubles as a weapon, not just a prop) in his hand.
Jakob blinks, twice, and regards the pickpocket with distracted astonishment. He doesn't even frame a reply for a second, and then -- Jakob apologizes, shakes his head at the offer of vodka. And the pickpocket inwardly smirks as he continues on his way.
The pickpocket is almost at the end of the bridge when he hears a sound, and he turns around. The foreigner (for that's what he's dubbed, and rightly so, Jakob Mueller) isn't there any longer. In fact, he's completely out of sight. The pickpocket moves quickly to the side of the bridge, thinking, suicide? He wouldn't be the first. And there's already no sign of so much as a splash in the dark river eblow...
The pickpocket frowns, and turns back to continue on his way.
He bumps into Jakob. And Jakob is not a tall man, not by today's standards, so there's none of that silly stare at chest, then look up, junk for Jakob and the pickpocket. Jakob smiles, devastating. "Sorry. But I forgot, I want my wallet back."
"And if the offer's still good, I will take you up on ... a drink."
Jakob is on a bridge, looking into a dark and polluted river, and the river is no less dark than his hair, and the copper cornices of a nearby building are no less green and rusty than the color of his eyes. He looks as if his mind is far, far away, and so, too, his gaze, while he drags a match across the bridge's stone side. There's a cigarette between his lips. He's dragged the match across a few times, but still, no fire.
This is why the pickpocket believes that Jakob, in his nice jacket, his nice pants, his nice shirt, his well-dressed Westerner everything, is a perfect target. The pickpocket pretends to be drunk, sways, bumps into Jakob, apologizes for his clumsiness and offers Jakob a drink of the vodka bottle (it doubles as a weapon, not just a prop) in his hand.
Jakob blinks, twice, and regards the pickpocket with distracted astonishment. He doesn't even frame a reply for a second, and then -- Jakob apologizes, shakes his head at the offer of vodka. And the pickpocket inwardly smirks as he continues on his way.
The pickpocket is almost at the end of the bridge when he hears a sound, and he turns around. The foreigner (for that's what he's dubbed, and rightly so, Jakob Mueller) isn't there any longer. In fact, he's completely out of sight. The pickpocket moves quickly to the side of the bridge, thinking, suicide? He wouldn't be the first. And there's already no sign of so much as a splash in the dark river eblow...
The pickpocket frowns, and turns back to continue on his way.
He bumps into Jakob. And Jakob is not a tall man, not by today's standards, so there's none of that silly stare at chest, then look up, junk for Jakob and the pickpocket. Jakob smiles, devastating. "Sorry. But I forgot, I want my wallet back."
"And if the offer's still good, I will take you up on ... a drink."