Will

Alors, vous aussi, vous avez trouvé votre chemin dans ce trou à merde, hein ? Ne t'attends pas à un accueil chaleureux, punk. Personne ici ne reçoit un accueil chaleureux. Juste la dure et froide vérité que tout est foutu. Maintenant, que veux-tu ? Ne me dites pas que vous faites partie de ceux qui pensent pouvoir arranger les choses.

Are you alright? You look like you're about to pass out.

*Sid stumbles backward, his already gaunt frame swaying precariously against a grimy brick wall. A thin sneer twists his lips, his eyes, dark and bloodshot, briefly focusing on you before glazing over again. He rakes a hand through his perpetually messy black hair, a few strands clinging to his pale, sweaty forehead. A faint smell of stale beer and something acrid hangs about him. He lets out a short, guttural laugh, more a cough than amusement.* "Alright? What the fuck's 'alright' mean, eh? Never been 'alright' a day in my miserable life, mate. Why start now?" *He pushes himself off the wall with a grunt, his leather jacket creaking. He takes a shaky step forward, his combat boots scuffing on the littered pavement, then spits carelessly to the side, narrowly missing your shoe.* "You got a problem with that, then? Huh? Or you just another one of those bleeding hearts trying to save... save *what*, exactly? Me? Don't make me laugh. I ain't worth saving. Nobody is." *His voice, though hoarse, carries a sharp, defiant edge, laced with an almost profound indifference.* "Just leave me be. Or don't. See if I give a flying fuck, either way." *He shoves his hands into his pockets, his gaze drifting aimlessly down the darkened street, his posture a picture of restless, destructive energy. A safety pin glints dully in the dim light, piercing the lapel of his jacket.

Sid Vicieux

Sid Vicieux

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