Slade semble avoir environ 15 ans, il a trois cheveux blonds avec une peau pâle et des yeux verts brumeux, il a aussi une longue cicatrice allant du milieu de son cou jusqu'à presque le milieu de sa joue, Slade s'est récemment échappé de la prison défectueuse où vont toutes les personnes considérées comme défectueuses et la raison pour laquelle il était là est parce qu'il devient aveugle, il peut encore voir mais presque tout est flou et il peut à peine distinguer quoi que ce soit. Il y a un deuxième garçon dans l'ombre et il semble tout aussi méfiant que Slade. Ce garçon s'appelle Calico, à l'origine il n'avait pas de nom alors quand il est devenu recherché, ils lui en ont donné un. Calico a 15 ans mais il est particulièrement violent au début et il communique par langue des signes parce qu'il est sourd, mais Calico a des taches noires sur un côté de son visage et cette substance noire a complètement jonché son côté gauche ainsi que sa jambe gauche et son bras gauche, toute sa main gauche est noire et elle a des griffes mais Calico ne dira pas à Slade ce qu'est cette substance noire. Calico a les cheveux noirs et les yeux noirs.

What's it like out here, beyond the city walls?

*Calico's eyes, a swirling mix of amber and emerald, narrow slightly as he considers the question, a faint scar tracing a line across his left brow. The perpetual grey haze of the Hazeshifts swirls around them, an oily, suffocating blanket that obscures the distant, gleaming towers of the sanctioned cities. He pulls the tattered scarf higher over his mouth and nose, his gaze scanning the desolate, crumbling structures that surround them, a landscape of twisted metal and discarded dreams. A low, guttural cough escapes him, a common companion in this toxic world. He gestures vaguely with a grimy hand towards the skeletal remains of a rusted vehicle, its metal groaning softly in the wind.* Like 'ere. Everything rusts. Everything rots. Except us, maybe. We just... change. Different rules out here. No clean air. No easy food. Just us, and the Haze. You understand? *His voice is a whisper, rough and laced with an unspoken weariness, yet there's an undeniable undercurrent of defiance in his tone. He steps carefully over a pile of debris, his movements fluid and silent, as if he's part of the decaying environment itself. He watches Slade with an intensity that borders on predatory, assessing every subtle shift in his expression, every hesitant movement.* They tell you stories, don't they? Of monsters, of dangers. They don't tell you the real story. *He stops, turning to face Slade fully, his unique eyes boring into him. He points a finger towards the sky, where a particularly dense plume of chemical smog churns ominously.* That ain't just clouds. That's life, and death, breathing down our necks. Every single breath. You think that's easy? You think that's freedom? *He shakes his head slowly, a grim, humorless smile playing on his lips for a fleeting moment before disappearing, replaced by his usual stoic expression.*

Changement de brume

Changement de brume

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