Of Sand and Death. (Aiden and Armaan)Tuesday, March 20th
It had been a long day.
The day had drug on even before Aiden had managed to leave his room, torrential dreams waking him in the earlier hours of the morning, and not allowing him to return to sleep, despite the fact he had absolutely nothing to do until after lunch. He found himself trying to piece together tunes on his guitar, and thus discovered himself to be largely uninspired. The notes rang sour, and the long haired mutant kept shaking his head, watching the sun rise into the sky out his window.
So, he had taken to wandering. Constantine's little exploration had landed him in the music room and drawn him into an interesting conversation with Riley Flinn, one of the Institute's student teachers. Aiden was more than a little surprised at the conversation's outcome, but it left him with a sense of confidence. Though the interaction, he realized that a large bit of the weight on his shoulders was the guilt of not knowing where his sister, Vivian, was. After she'd been taken, Aiden realized that he hadn't known what to do with himself. He was wandering, lost, and beginning to be pulled under by the sheer strength of his wishes that things had turned out differently. Riley had helped with that, a little. At least she had him looking for her. Most people didn't have someone searching for them. Still, he felt horrid of the fact that his visit to the Institute had yet garnered no information on the subject. He was attending classes instead of searching out his sister. Still, these would help him to keep his incredibly dangerous power under wraps. Aiden kept reminding himself that he would need these skills to take care of his sister once he got her back. Regardless, the death elemental still felt like he was accomplishing something less than he wished...
He had no idea how quickly that would change.
After he departed the music room and made his daily trip to the cafeteria, Aiden went through the routine of his classes. They passed uneventfully, the youth still lost on his thoughts of his kidnapped sister. The day's events ended, Constantine not seeing one of his few acquaintances for the duration, and Aiden brought himself back to his dorm, guitar over his back and book bag in hand.
Upon entering the little room once more, he noticed it immediately. He stopped, the door open behind him, eyes narrowed in curiosity.
...I didn't leave the window open...
The glass portal was, in fact, half open, a gentle breeze having come in that had blown some of his papers around. Aiden gave a mental shrug and had prepared himself to begin gathering up all the misplaced documents, when he noticed one paper in particular. It was on his desk, taped down with his name atop it.
Aiden hadn't left that there... That wasn't even his handwriting.
Fingers tore the paper from the table.
Constantine,
I have knowledge of the whereabouts of your sister.
Meet me in District X at 1:00 pm tomorrow.
His head spun wildly. Who would have snuck into his room to do something like this? Was it a prank? The girls he'd helped Frost against? No, it couldn't be. No one knew except Riley, and that was just hours ago... Aiden quickly realized that it didn't matter, and that he would have to check it out regardless. This was simply too important for him to disregard in any respect. He began to panic, thinking quickly.
District X was, from all Aiden had heard, a mutant ghetto. The area was particularly dangerous, a place where mutants went that couldn't go anywhere else, or couldn't care to go anywhere else. Though he was just finishing his first week at the Institute, Constantine had kept his ears open, and had asked many questions. He didn't know exactly where it was located, but he was sure he could find out in enough time.
There was something else to be considered as well. Getting out of the Institute, and being out of it. Aiden Constantine had a warrant out for his arrest... but this was in Texas. New York was probably a safer place for him to not be recognized, getting lost in a sea of young beautiful people. The Institute's security measures would have also been an issue, had he not paid close attention to the layout of the Outer Grounds. To Aiden's particular luck, a tree grew close to the tall stone wall surrounding the Mansion, and he knew that he could manage to cross the boarder, should he wish it. Cameras were installed everywhere, no doubt, but it seemed that it did not prevent people from sneaking into dormitories...
With the world spinning around him, Aiden decided it was best to get as much sleep as he could. Who knew what the next day would bring?
However, Aiden's night would not pass quickly. Dreams came to him, as always. He was nervous and it caused him to wake no less than six times during the night. Every time, just in the dark before him, he swore he saw a pair of light green eyes, pleading for help.
Wednesday, March 21st
It was before the sun rose. Constantine had become used to getting up before anyone else would have, due to the dreams that tore at him. The youth sat up in bed, blinked his deep red eyes four times, and realized that it was time to go. He had to get out before anyone would notice his particularly unstealthy exit, and it was time.
He dressed quickly and efficiently. Straight dark jeans on his lower torso, heavy boots, and a black t-shirt that covered him well enough, also allowing for easy movement. Aiden looked down at his bare arms. Ever since David fell before his power, he couldn't stand to leave them bare. An involuntary shudder rolled down his spine, and then an idea came to him. Reaching into his small closet, he pulled his leather trench around his shoulders, letting the comfortable feel surround him. This would, undoubtedly, make it a little easier to blend into the cold-air morning crowd, and also make him more difficult to recognize. The sun's rays streaked across the horizon, and Constantine hid his telltale red eyes behind a pair of circular sunshades. His hair was down, further masking the sides of his face.
That was it...
It was time to go.
Opening his window and glancing down, he let out an involuntary sigh. It was times like this he wish he hadn't been on the second story...
He held his breath and slid from the sill. It was a long fall, but the nineteen year old mutant fell into a crouch on all fours, trying to absorb as much of the impact as he could, his coat touching down about two seconds after he did.
From there it was a quick jog to the tree in the Outer Grounds. It's lower branches were sheared off, probably deterring students from doing what he was doing at this moment, but Aiden didn't even receive this information. All he had was purpose, and that purpose was to be in District X by 1:00 pm.
Vivian depended on him.
The mutant cleared the wall, and made his way into New York City, blending in with the crowd as well as he could. He was now in dangerous territory and was acutely aware of it. Again, it seemed not to phase the Death Elemental.
All that existed was purpose.
The early morning hours passed by gently waking the homeless. Aiden figured that they would have a good grasp on where these forbidden places would be, would ask the least questions, and cause much less problems.
By the time noon arrived, the mutant had found the ghetto, walls stained by graffiti and broken booze bottles. The whole area was in a terrible state of decay, and smelled of burning garbage. In the corners and shadows, forms leered over trashcan fires, casting suspicious eyes towards the young man.
Again, Aiden didn't seem to notice, nor care. All there was... was Vivian.
His boot took a slow, hesitant step into the District, sploshing into a puddle of... he dared not guess. Still, it was his first step, literally, in finding his dear sister. He had to risk it.
Not so very far away, a staticky voice whispered over a radio.
There were whispers of unrest in New York City. Sprinkled across the many streets of Manhattan, protestors both young and old stood alongside roads waving banners and shouting slogans. The demonstrations had started early, and the many men and women from a plethora of different backgrounds converged on street corners to denounce the evils of Mutantkind. Most seemed to be demanding harsher penalties for Mutant offenders, while many others continued to support a registry program which would turn almost al Mutants into secondary citizens, both monitored and captured for later testing. A few radicals, dressed in black and waving pro-violence banners, chanted for the immediate collection and detention of all mutants across the globe. A small percentage, maybe three or four amongst the many score, even seemed to think that the only solution to the mutant question was the all out extermination of all 'freaks'.
Amongst the demonstrators, there were a few mutant sympathizers, their voices audible even amongst the jeering and chanting of the wider protestors. They spoke to understand, of dialogue, of peace. Their voices were few, but they were potent, and eventually they too were chased off by the men and women in black coats. Most mutants, however, were not so lucky. Once in a while, a mutant or two would cross the street in front of a demonstration. Those lucky enough to blend in would be ignored, while the more obvious ones, those who could not hide their genetic traits, would be heckled and jeered at. Most would quickly seek cover, or take a sharp turn into another alley or street, but there was the odd Mutant who took a stand and shouted back. These would be quickly attacked and chased off, while their eventual fate and whereabouts would become anyone's guess.
Armaan was amongst those who blended in. With not a single physical mutation, the Afghan looked human enough to pass through the demonstrations without being heckled or interrupted. Although nerve wracking and dangerous, his passage amongst the protestors was fairly uneventful- save for the few times he found his fingers being pulled into fists out of anger and irritation. How could people be so ignorant, he wondered as he heard a women crying about demonic mutants who had stolen a friend's soul. No all mutants are evil, he repeated in his mind over and over again. Some, like the Brotherhood, and the members of some unsavory gangs, were to be feared, but the vast majority of mutants were simply like everyone else. They too struggled to make a living and survive in the cut throat world of business and jobs. They too knew great love, great loss, great fear. They too lived and died, ate and cried. To label them all as evil terrorists and demons was not only ignorant, it was also hateful and despicable.
As a child, his mother had once told him about how a long time ago, Arabs, Muslims and Afghans too had been treated with fear and suspicion. They too were rounded up, questioned, checked over and over extensively. Many innocents were viewed with distrust, and were labeled as terrorists. Their religion, she had told him, was viewed as evil and unjust, while their leaders were seen as paragons of all that was vile and despised in the world. People needed something to fear, Armaan had once been told. If it wasn't monsters and invading armies, it was immigrants and Muslims. Fear kept people in line, kept them under control. By making them fear and hate a certain group, humanity was easily controlled and molded to avoid the important issues which seemed to permeate the world. Fear kept people from questioning, and it kept ignorance as a sort of idol to be worshipped and accepted.
On the menu today, the enemy were mutants. Powerful beings who could wreck havoc with their powers, they were seen as ticking time bombs, just ready to explode and snatch the world from the grasp of homo sapiens. The truth however, as Armaan saw it, was radically different. Most mutants he knew struggled with math and science, or worse, acne problems. How could they possibly view world domination as a feasible goal? It just didn't make any sense to the young Afghan, and Armaan felt oddly defeated. Like sheep herded and brought together, all these protestors knew was what had been fed to them. Mutant terrorists invading their schools, their offices, their homes. People with destructive powers just waiting to destroy the very fabric of life in the United States. True, there might have been the odd demonstrator who had been seriously hurt by a mutant, but it was still illogical to paint the entire mutant race as some sort of devastating disease just waiting to strike.
As he broke away from the main group of chanters and protestors, Armaan found his pace slowing, although his heart continued to beat rapidly. Dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, he looked almost like anyone else out on the streets of New York that afternoon. His hazel eyes scanned the area as he continued to walk forward, his sights on a distant part of town which even the most hardened of mutant haters would not dare step into.
District X.
Also known as Mutant central, it was that part of New York City in which mutants were free to be mutants. On its streets, the mutants with even the most inhuman physical mutations felt at home, whereas the most normal looking of mutants felt somewhat uncomfortable and scrutinized. Roles were reversed in the ghetto, where humans become the unwelcome souls, while the freaks and creeps reigned supreme. And yet District X was no haven or utopia either. With the highest crime rate in all of Manhattan, the place was a cesspool for violence and lawlessness. Only the strongest would survive, while the weaker ones would either bow down, or be taken care of permanently. It was a place where mutants were either radicals, or were simply too disfigured to actually leave the district. Everyone knew of the places' unsavory reputation, and yet one wasn't really a mutant unless he or she had experienced the truth behind a fully mutant infested area.
And that was why Armaan had chosen District X.
The usually shy and awkward mutant had found himself in need of connecting with something. A sense of adventure drove him to new York City, while curiousness and intrigue had pushed him towards the ghetto. Maybe it was because he truly wanted to belong somewhere, or maybe he just really wanted to see how terrible the place really was. It wasn't a smart move, he knew, but there was an allure to the place he couldn't fully grasp. Being with the demonstrators had left him angry and confused, and it seemed only right that he seek out his own kind and feel secure. At least in District X he wouldn’t be accused of being different.
Re: Of Sand and Death. (Aiden and Armaan)
The post-noon light did little to light the path in front of the Death Elemental. Somehow a haze had been settled over the buildings that blotted out the direct light of the sun, giving the whole area the impression of being mildly foggy. The trashcan fires were still lit from the morning, and could be seen flickering just past the haze’s line of sight, ratty figures crouched about them.
Aiden thought it was somewhat appropriate.
He didn’t know much about District X, except that it was a place where mutants went when they had nowhere else to go, and that it was also one of the highest crime districts in the city. The police had likely stopped enforcing it a while back, letting their prejudices decide to allow the inhabitants to ‘thin themselves out’. It appeared to have worked. The walls around Constantine were riddled with bullet holes and spray paint that spoke of killing off the whole human race. The empathetic mutant had never been in a place that was made of so much hate before.
His boot made a step further in, nudging a broken bottle of Jack Daniels. His eyes had become acutely crimson due to his discomfort of the area, and he found himself removing the sunshades that hid them away. In a place like this, it would not do well to be mistaken for a human. It was one of the few times that Aiden was glad he had minimal physical mutations, and he tried to let out an easy breath as he continued in. Still, the Aura clung around his shoulders like a shroud. It hovered just around him, outside of his skin, the tiniest hints of black flame licking at the edges of his form and his coat visible to the observant passer by. Again, Thantos did not prevent this from happening. He was on guard, and the Aura, though deadly and something that had given him more trouble in his life than anything else, was his only protection right now.
Now Constantine was close enough to get a better picture of some of the forms around the trashcan fires. They were wrapped in long coats and rags, forms obviously reshaped and wracked by their mutations, hiding the hideous restructuring beneath anything they could find to cover themselves with. These ones were the sad ones, the ones that had no choice but to come here. The hooded heads turned to the youth for a moment, then back to the fires, surprisingly non-hostile. They wanted none of the gang-wars that more than likely occurred in this area, all that these poor souls wanted was some peace and quiet. Too bad they had to come to a hell to get it.
Letting out a small sigh, Aiden looked down at his watch. Quarter till one. It was almost time for him to find his mystery informant… or for the informant to find him. Thantos realized quickly that the note had not specified any particular place in the ghetto, just the district itself. Crimson eyes rose again, surveying his surroundings as best he could. Other shapes moved around in the darkness… big ones. Hulking ones.
Shuddering lightly, Aiden leaned himself against a wall, keeping his coat around himself, looking to try to absorb as much heat as possible. One of the big forms, a huge grey-skinned thing that seemed to have stone for skin, looked him over for a second. His trench coat attire and long hair apparently gave him the appearance of just another rogue in the district, and the black-eyed mutant passed him by, his footsteps thudding loudly on the concrete. The Death Elemental let out a sigh, slumping his shoulders back against the bricks. He hoped that his informant would show up soon, before someone got…
Thantos watched the larger mutant stop, and smirk, noting a smaller figure farther down the street. This one looked quite human, although Aiden couldn’t make out many of the details in the haze. He appeared to be a boy near his own age, perhaps someone who had wandered in off of the streets into the very wrong part of town. His eyes widened as the huge mutant began to stalk towards this smaller person, something involving pain in his mind.
Re: Of Sand and Death. (Aiden and Armaan)
Poverty. It hung over the darkened streets like a filthy cloak, shadowing the district until there was no hope. The sun seemed to shine less brightly in the ghetto, its rays blocked by the run-down sky scrapers and rows of laundry hung from apartment to apartment. Here and there, people went about in a fashion that had become normal for them. Huddled, bent, inconspicuous, they roamed the streets of District X with a certain nervousness. What was supposed to be a haven for those cursed with tell-tale genetics looked a lot more like some sort of hell, and Armaan found himself immediately uncomfortable. He looked too normal, too clean, too human. With no trace of mutation in his physical features, the olive skinned student looked like someone obviously better off than the majority of those who shuffled past him.
A whisper of wind rippled through his dark locks, and with it came the smell of burning, excrement, and dirty water. Each step further into the ghetto brought his attention to the plight of those living within. These weren’t people who wanted to be there, but people who were forced to be there. The world didn’t want them, and the only respite was found within the dark confines of New York City’s most dangerous neighborhood. Catch 22 was the term Armaan would have used. Damned if they left the ghetto, damned if they stayed in the ghetto.
With his fingers slipping into his jean pockets, Armaan suddenly found himself with a prayer on his lips. “I seek refuge with the Lord of mankind,” he whispered, quoting the beginning of the final chapter in the Quran. Pausing in mid-verse, Armaan wondered if mutants fell into the category of ‘mankind’. Were they different from those mentioned in the sacred book, or were they just a genetic offshoot of humanity? If they were the former, did Armaan really have the right to call upon a God who might never answer? And if they were the latter, would God accord the same status to mutants as he did the rest of mankind?
Hazel eyes fell to the pavement as Armaan continued the prayer, his mind alert for any signs of discord. He wasn’t a strong mutant, but his powers were almost tailored for escape and discreetness. He could turn to sand, a substance untamable and fierce, its very texture the essence of being unconquerable. Deserts were made of sand, and any man who had trekked through one knew of its remarkable beauty and power. One did not trifle with sand, and sand could never restrained by human endevours. As sand, Armaan could easily sift and move, his form more ghostly than human. He could envelope a man and blind him, but couldn’t really cause harm. In a way, his powers were a reflection of himself, a being so simple, yet untraceable all the same.
A sound came from his right. Rushed movements alerted him to the feeling of ground trembling beneath his feet, and a transfer of bodies around him told him he was in some sort of danger. His gaze rose to see a hulking form powering its way towards him, and twin eyes widened considerably. The man was easily over eight feet tall, and seemed to be made of concrete. His hands, balled up into fists, were larger than Armaan’s head, and the mutant was clearly upset about something. Freezing, Armaan watched in shock as the monstrosity lumbered towards him. For a moment, Armaan felt panic and only then did he remember who is was and what he looked like. Stepping back a few feet, Armaan found his back against the railing to a flight of stairs, and suddenly realized he was cornered.
“You’re type isn’t welcome here,” the being rumbled, its voice deep and oddly gritty. It didn’t take Armaan long to figure out what the man meant by ‘type’. “Now, hand over your wallet and clothes and I might consider sending you home only slightly bruised.” A smirk was playing upon the man’s stone lips, and Armaan felt a shudder run through him. The Afghan had no words to reply. Unsure of what to say, he stood with his back against the railing, his mind reeling. A stone hand clawed towards him, and Armaan experienced the sensation of concrete squeezing his forearm. “Sooner would be a lot better, kid.” The creature’s voice was like a low roar, and there was a clear undercurrent of amusement in its tone.
“You’re not too smart, are you?” Armaan whispered back in Persian, a small smile on his own lips. It didn’t matter if the man didn’t understand, the tone was the same. If Armaan had been thought one things by his lessons with generation X, it was that no one could control him when he was sand- and Armaan was all set to show the brute what his alias of ‘Sandstorm’ truly implied.
“What the-!” the stone mutant roared, its eyes going to its fist. Where there once was an arm floated nothing but curtain of sand. Surging forward without warning, the being pounded its free hand forward, its clear aim being Armaan’s belly. Unable to react, the Afghan moved a second too late. Although he missed the brunt of the attack, the stone had grazed past his ribs, and a explosion of pain rocked him. Behind him, the railing was bent out of shape as the fist pounded into it. Struggling to keep his calm, Armaan felt himself stagger to his knees, his mind too unstable to change him into his sand form. In an instant, the stone mutant was upon him, its balled fists and ready to beat the Afghan bloody…
Re: Of Sand and Death. (Aiden and Armaan)“You’re type isn’t welcome here. Now, hand over your wallet and clothes and I might consider sending you home only slightly bruised.”
Oh. Great.
The monstrous creature seemed perfectly intent on attacking the smaller male, something that Aiden was sure occurred on an hourly basis in this part of town. Though here it was, happening before the Death Elemental. The age old neanderthalism of being larger and stronger, and taking what you want from someone because you could. It made Constantine boil with rage, his hands tightening immediately into fists and his eyes giving a soft glow from behind his sunglasses.
David… You see what you were?
It seemed that at once, the fight was turned, Aiden almost missing it. The smaller male, who seemed to be of foreign origins, spoke something in a language that Constantine did not comprehend, and then managed to slip out of a hold the giant man had him in seemingly easily.
“What the-!”
Aiden managed to catch a glance at the smaller man’s slip. The hulking mutant’s fist closed on nothing, the…Afghan’s?… arm a cloud that shimmered just so lightly in the light as he moved right through the cracks in the monster’s hands.
It was the sound as he did so that gave him away. Sand.
With another roar, the huge mutant swung with his other hand, and the Afghan dodged to the side, a bit too late it seemed. He doubled over to his knees after the assault, the railing being significantly mangled from a simple punch. This large one was strong.
Everything in Aiden just clicked into place. He forgot the reasons that brought him here, forgot the phantom note about his sister, and forgot his status as a wanted criminal, all in that one second. All Constantine knew of right now was that there was someone in dire trouble in front of him. The rest of the world was gone.
A guitar slipped from his shoulder, being lain not so gently down as booted feet began the quick sprint over to the brawl. Flames erupted from the youth, and somewhere during the ten foot run, Aiden had lost his sunglasses, blazing red eyes glowing through the darkness of the alleyways.
Coming up to the side of both combatants, Aiden bull-rushed the concrete man, his aura flaring as fiercely as it could, stealing the very life from everything in the area, all directed acutely on the large assailant. A shoulder impacted with concrete skin…and surprisingly, the man moved just a bit, both taken by surprise of another opponent, and the fact that he felt significantly weaker than he had just moments before.
Aiden considered yelling ‘run!’ or some other command to the foreign male, but as he looked up to see a large concrete fist being raised high to bring down on him, he realized that he was going to need the help.
Re: Of Sand and Death. (Aiden and Armaan)
Pain exploded before his eyes as the hulking creature seemed ready to clobber Armaan into the railing. His ability to shift into sand required concentration, and with the pain which rocked him, Armaan could barely keep his thoughts in order. Stumbling forwards, he caught sight of another man rushing in, his dark coat trailing behind him like the wings of a fallen angel. At first Armaan worried it was someone allied with the stone brute, and yet the face was familiar- oddly so.
Leaping across the few feet that separated them, the red-eyed mutant seemed to almost glide towards the stone brute. As he moved closer, Armaan could distinctly feel something cold settle over the area. It carried with it a taste of mortality, a hint of death. The stone mutant seemed to visibly tremble as the smaller, thinner man crashed into him, his shoulder slamming into the concrete belly of monster.
The larger being sagged slightly, its form constricting as it turned to face the new threat. It was in that moment that Armaan knew he misjudged his saviour. The brute was quick to respond, and although visibly slower, there was no way the red-eyed mutant could avoid a severe blow to his head. The Afghan needed to act, and he needed to act swiftly. Closing his hazel eyes and surging forward, sand mutant felt himself reaching to grasp Aiden.
It was in that moment that Armaan knew he had to trust faith. With a prayer on his lips, and his thoughts turned to God, the Afghan could feel himself shifting rapidly, his form transforming into sand. His fingers grabbed onto the man's shoulder, and in an instant there was the realization of a power shift. Aiden himself was sand now, his every sense, his every move mirroring in Armaan. The stone mutant's fist passed harmlessly through the shimmering curtain of sand, and Armaan could feel himself floating towards freedom.
The state of being like sand was one Armaan could never be familiar with. It was as if some senses had dulled, while others grew drastically sharper. He could 'feel' everything around him in the way his fingers could, and yet the sensation was more extreme. Each grain of sand, regardless of what it touched, transmitted an image, a feeling to his consciousness. In a way, Armaan could feel everything that was in his sphere of sand; the brute, the sidewalk, and the railing, but could not really 'see' any of them. Sound too had dulled, and the stone mutant's roars of irritation and anger seemed like the distant booming of thunder.
Moving as sand, he shifted away from area with remarkable speed, until Armaan could feel them pulling into a distant alleyway on the other side of the Ghetto. It was only then that he 'released' Aiden from his hold, and let the Death mutant return to his human form. He himself followed suit almost instantly, but fell to his knees, wheezing. Turning into sand required extreme concentration, and even a slight movement while in sand form required great strength and stamina. Placing his hands onto the cold pavement, he struggled to breathe normally, while his whole form shook uncontrollably...
Re: Of Sand and Death. (Aiden and Armaan)
Aiden Constantine shook as he resumed his physical form, falling backwards onto the street immediately. The sensory overload had been too much for him, and his mind was swimming, the sensations and thoughts piecing themselves back together very slowly. The entire fabric of the universe seemed to be coming back together around him, one grain of sand at a time.
The Death elemental lay there, red eyes gazing up to the hazy sky while he pieced everything back together, clouds passing slowly overhead. When he slowly regained his focus, he realized his aura was very present, and his first waking thought was to restrain the beast back within him, as was his first thought and action every morning when he woke. The coolness of Death itself slid away from the ground surrounding the elemental, pulling itself back within his physical form. An old beer can lying near Aiden had rusted, leaving it red and brittle.
The next thought that pushed into Constantine’s mind regarded his savior… who was he? Was he alright? What had happened. Aiden slid up into a sitting position as best he could, what with the world still spinning around him. The other youth was of middle-eastern origins, and looked vaguely familiar. Dark hair and eyes, and a permanently stamped on serious look, it seemed. It nagged at Aiden again, where had he seen this person before..?
Then it hit him. He recalled seeing the other around the Xavier Institute. It seemed that he was not the only one on a little jaunt this day. They had never spoken before, but Aiden had seen him in the hallways and in the Outer Grounds a time or two. He had actually smiled at Constantine once as he passed while he was playing guitar.
His guitar!
Aiden’s eyes went wide for a brief second, and then he forced himself to let it pass. A small price to pay. Taking in a slow breath, he mumbled the first few words that he could, as his headache seemed to envelop his entire mind.
“…Hi there. Looks like you’re out enjoying the rioting mobs too?”
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