Quarter to noon, Wyatt sits in his office overlooking the bustling street down below. He sits waiting, impatiently scanning the crowds for a familiar face, a familiar glint of metal weaving itself through the crowd at an amiable pace and with a not quite steady rhythm, but a wholly unique rhythm, nonetheless.
Ten to noon, he makes his way downstairs past knowing smirks and slaps on his back. He's gained the respect of his coworkers over the time he's spent getting reacquainted with the station, and more and more, he'd like to believe, the other officers are looking at Glitch differently. Not as the headcased Advisor to the Queen herself, but as someone set apart from both those characteristics. As someone truly himself, and no one else's to define.
Five to noon, Wyatt stands vigilant outside the double doors of the station, eyes watching the crowds and never wavering. Ambrose is late. It shouldn't mean anything that he is, just because Glitch never fails to glide his way through these doors before the clock strikes. It shouldn't mean anything bad that he's late, but logic has nothing to do with the way his heart grows ever harder, constricting ever tighter as if to protect itself from an unforeseen blow.
Half past noon, Wyatt is pushing through the crowds down familiar roads and alleyways, telling himself that it's just another few steps, just another corner before he spots Glitch and everything will be okay. He'll just be distracted looking at puppies or whatever it is that's caught his attention this time around. A shop full of gadgets or trinkets or shiny things, or an apothecary with a new wonder drug, or a bakery. He sighs, pushing onward through the crowds, growing steadily more annoyed.
Within the hour, annoyance has turned to concern, and refusing to go back to work. In no time at all, his concern has grown into worry, when no matter where he goes, no matter what circles he runs in, there's no sign of Glitch or Ambrose.
Later, who knows how much later, he's running for the palace, heart racing in his chest like that of a tiny little bird. Frantic and fluttering and frail. There's a murderer loose. There's nothing suggesting he's still in town, but there's nothing to suggest he isn't when they have nothing to go by, and Ambrose is... Glitch is...
no subject
Ten to noon, he makes his way downstairs past knowing smirks and slaps on his back. He's gained the respect of his coworkers over the time he's spent getting reacquainted with the station, and more and more, he'd like to believe, the other officers are looking at Glitch differently. Not as the headcased Advisor to the Queen herself, but as someone set apart from both those characteristics. As someone truly himself, and no one else's to define.
Five to noon, Wyatt stands vigilant outside the double doors of the station, eyes watching the crowds and never wavering. Ambrose is late. It shouldn't mean anything that he is, just because Glitch never fails to glide his way through these doors before the clock strikes. It shouldn't mean anything bad that he's late, but logic has nothing to do with the way his heart grows ever harder, constricting ever tighter as if to protect itself from an unforeseen blow.
Half past noon, Wyatt is pushing through the crowds down familiar roads and alleyways, telling himself that it's just another few steps, just another corner before he spots Glitch and everything will be okay. He'll just be distracted looking at puppies or whatever it is that's caught his attention this time around. A shop full of gadgets or trinkets or shiny things, or an apothecary with a new wonder drug, or a bakery. He sighs, pushing onward through the crowds, growing steadily more annoyed.
Within the hour, annoyance has turned to concern, and refusing to go back to work. In no time at all, his concern has grown into worry, when no matter where he goes, no matter what circles he runs in, there's no sign of Glitch or Ambrose.
Later, who knows how much later, he's running for the palace, heart racing in his chest like that of a tiny little bird. Frantic and fluttering and frail. There's a murderer loose. There's nothing suggesting he's still in town, but there's nothing to suggest he isn't when they have nothing to go by, and Ambrose is... Glitch is...