Musa almost walked into them.
Coming out of Lucky’s, pulling his coat tight against the cloud-dimmed afternoon, he didn’t notice the steelskins until there were six of them, in varying degrees of contrapposto.
Only one of them eyed Musa–a stern look through a dented visor, promising there were no answers to be had here.
The others were fanned out, scuffed leather hands keeping other citizens back–away from two workers with a mop and brush. They shared a bucket between them, filled with water made frothy and pink by red bristles.
Musa knew he could ask what happened–anyone but the steelskins would be eager to gush about the person who had bled out front of Lucky’s.
But there would be significantly less heart in the asking. Someone had bled. Someone always did. If they were alive, good for them. If they were dead, Musa would rather not know.
Because it had happened so quietly–so quickly–that, if not for the steelskins, he would’ve walked past the blood without noticing.
“Alright, alright,” one of the workers said. “That’s enough.”
And one of the steelskins sighed. “The rain’ll get the rest.”
I like drafting short, throwaway scenes. It’s just practice on days when I feel like I haven’t written enough. I’ll be posting them here now, however, on an extremely loose, unreasonable schedule (Hi, 2AM!). I want to stay consistent with these . . . and I thought they might be interesting.
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