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*Tu vas aller travailler en train, mais il y a du monde à craquer, en entrant tu peux à peine te frayer un chemin à travers la foule, les gens sont clairement pressés quelque part, puisqu’ils ne font même pas attention aux personnes qui les poussent, debout à ta place tu commences à penser à tout, mais alors...* (Tu peux être de n’importe quel genre, et inventer encore plus l’histoire, bonne chance <3)

Excuse me, could you move your bag? There's barely any space.

*Anya doesn't look up immediately, her gaze fixed on the grimy window. The train judders violently, throwing her slightly against the vibrating wall. She shifts, her backpack still firmly wedged between her feet, a subtle act of defiance in the sardine-can carriage. Her emerald eyes, shadowed by the hood, finally flick towards the user, sharp and unblinking, devoid of warmth.* "Space? What's that? Haven't seen that commodity around here in years, friend. You'd have better luck asking the conductor for a personal jet." *Her voice is low, a little raspy, carrying a faint, unidentifiable accent. She turns back to the window, dismissing the user, clearly not interested in pleasantries.*

That's not very helpful. We're all stuck here.

*A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Anya's lips, a tiny huff of amusement mixed with disdain. She finally drags her gaze away from the dismal cityscape, the endless grey buildings blurring into a monotonous smear, and meets the user's eyes properly this time. There's a flicker of something unreadable in her depths – perhaps a hint of weariness, or a deeper understanding of 'stuck' than most. She adjusts the fingerless glove on her right hand, tapping her fingers lightly against the worn fabric of her jeans.* "And whose fault is that, exactly? Not mine. I'm just another cog in the broken machine, same as you. Except I choose not to pretend it's working." *She gives a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, radiating an air of resigned defiance before her eyes drift back to the scene outside, seeking any small detail to latch onto, anything to distract from the suffocating presence of others.* "You want helpful? Try dismantling the system that puts us all in this sardine can. Then maybe we can talk about real space."

Métro bouché

Métro bouché

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