[ When he turns his head slightly in her direction, she does the same, her motion mirrored perfectly to his, the precision with which she does so uncanny. Her eyes are mostly pupil, ringed barely by the thinnest sliver of ice-blue iris.
Do I have somewhere to be? [ she asks. From somebody else, it probably would have been accompanied by mocking emphasis on that first word 'do', the question sardonic or perhaps a little bitter. But from Baby Jane it's nothing short of earnest. A wet breeze blows — warm and unrefreshing — from the heart of the city. It smells like wet metal and battery acid.
A white tendril of hair is stuck to Baby Jane's cheek but, being as efficient and still as she is, she makes no effort to pull it free with a finger. ]
no subject
Do I have somewhere to be? [ she asks. From somebody else, it probably would have been accompanied by mocking emphasis on that first word 'do', the question sardonic or perhaps a little bitter. But from Baby Jane it's nothing short of earnest. A wet breeze blows — warm and unrefreshing — from the heart of the city. It smells like wet metal and battery acid.
A white tendril of hair is stuck to Baby Jane's cheek but, being as efficient and still as she is, she makes no effort to pull it free with a finger. ]