GrindAfter the door shuts and the footsteps die... Nothing is more comforting than the sound (or more, the lack thereof) of silence and trudging over to slump face-first on his couch, discarding his shoes along the way. The interpersonal difficulties, occupational hazard and daily grind of the long-heralded “real world” are stopped at the apartment door, blocked effectively enough by economy-level timber.The slightly-musty fiber of the pillow he’s subconsciously trying to suffocate himself with doesn't exactly help his outlook. “Vintage”. A budget piece. Nouveau-trash. A hipster’s-wet-dream that’s only here in the first place because rent comes before design. He’ll do some redecorating soon, he lies to himself. Maybe he’ll have time when he’s dead.There’s always seems to be a sentimental, adventurous glamour attached to being self-made. He has to assume anyone who romanticizes this must be blissfully, idiot
SK Snippet"So, did you find anything?""Well... yes." Sylvia furrows her brow. She doesn't want to upset the man, but there is no foreseeable way to break this sort of news without it being upsetting. "I found a man in armor like yours, but he wasn't in a salvageable state.""What do you mean, salvageable?" For the first time since she's encountered him, Barnaby shows some emotion, his tone indignant. "Surely you wouldn't leave an injured person...?""Oh, no, certainly not! He was very dead."From the look on Barnaby's face, it seems that now was not the time for dry humor.