[Kora] Early morning; the moon has long since set. The sun remains a suggestion in western sky, sending long slanting shadows down over the downtown core. The streets are still dark, but the office towers are ablaze with light. The air has a certain bright crispness that turns bitter in the shadows, but promises warmth whereever the sun flares - on the compacted, melting snow, on the dull streets, the asphalt standed with salt deposits, on the gutters choked with trash, frozen, half-rotten leaves, run-off from the melting snow.
The office towers are distant - close enough that they dominate the view, far enough away that that that world of coffee bars and bagel places, briefcases and leather loafers feels both miles and years away from this red brick neighborhood that opens up from the old docks amongst which the Caern is hidden, following the course of the Chicago River toward some remnant of the old city's heart.
There are old dockhouses here, squat red brick warehouses, half-empty commercial strips, a rowhouses stacked together, shoulder to shoulder to narrow shoulder, with the occasional apartment building, few taller than three or four stories. In the middle of this nexus of the industrial, commercial, and residential sits a long-abandoned church. Cathedral, this - once-grand, built solidly of stone in the neogothic style. The whole structure is surrounded by a sagging, rusting chainlink fence, the interior choked with trees, shrubs, brambles, weeds and vines that crawl up the solid stone exterior blindly toward the stained glass window panels. Some intact, others long-shattered. The glass gleams in the morning light.
The chain link gate is open in front of the church proper, though the misshapen diagonal of its extended buildings are visible through the twisting limbs of the weeds that have grown up all around it, only the front doors, stout, iron-banded wood, are readily accessible. Someone's cleaned the walk, here, shoveled off the steps, left piles of snow on either side of the walk. In the early morning light, the place feels both grand and derelict, some great ruin left to return to the earth in the middle of the moving city.
[Melody Himinndottir] It's a horrible neighborhood, and that makes the young girl currently walking down the street stand out even more than she might otherwise have. The long pink wool coat and white scarf she's wearing suggests she certainly isn't poor, and anyone with a whiff of awareness of how the streets work might assume she's looking for someone to score drugs from, or maybe to just go slumming (of course, at this time of day, maybe she's already BEEN slumming and got lost on her way home).
The more predatory individuals often found in neighborhoods like this one might see her as being the perfect victim, but there's something about her that doesn't quite fit. Maybe it's the fact that she seems utterly unafraid of her current situation (maybe she's crazy?). Maybe it's the fact that she's walking around with string tied up in some sort of cat's cradle-looking design in her hands (maybe she's really crazy?). Or maybe the odd feeling she gives off to the more sensitive viewers that she's not quite as innocent as she seems (maybe she's the dangers sort of crazy... what are the odds she's got a gun hidden somewhere in that coat?).
Regardless of her reasons or capabilities, she seems to have a good idea of where she's going. Or, at least, she seems to be paying more attention to the pattern of string in her hands than she is to what passes for roadsigns or landmarks, even as she turns at one corner, takes a side detour down one road, or speeds up her pace a bit.
[Kora] The truth is - by now, Kora belongs here. The church has been hers for more than a half-turning of the year, and the neighborhood has been her home in Chicago for longer than that. When she came to Chicago, her clothes - the dedicated things - were threadbare, oft-scrubbed memories of a former life. A life where she was normal(ish), one of thousands American kids bumming their way around Europe, hustling until the money ran utterly out, begging for a few extra Euros from mom and dad back home then.
Her clothing's better now, the same old Doc Marten's, yeah, but new jeans, dark, not yet stiff with the memory of her own blood soaked into the seams, a second-hand wool coat, a dark color that seems black from a distance, but will resolve into something dark purple up close. Her pale hair is shrouded by a hood drawn up from one of the layers underneath the coat, though with the almost-balmy temperatures - above freezing in the sunlight, the night's frost already melting on the windshields of the cars - the hood just touches the crown of her head.
She carries a white paper bag in one hand, and a thermos in the other, walks with a long, moving gate, the paper bag swinging against her left thigh with every other stride. Few humans spend much time close to the church. The squatters who had inhabited it on occasion in the past have long written off. The wolves, though -
- the tall creature rounds the fence, takes a moment to squint up at the stone facade of the building, the way the light gleams off the surface of the stained glass windows, and starts up the steps. From behind, it's impossible to tell that she's pregnant. She's just a tall creature in winter layers, hood falling back down over a knot of hair that distends the fabric, her features familiar in profile, the twist of a generous mouth, the slant of dark eyes upward, the sharp lines of a distinct jaw she shares with her siblings, the pale, northern European skin, the sort that never tans.
[Melody Himinndottir] "KORA!"
The shout comes from behind her, light and feminine. There doesn't seem to be a tone of threat in it, but how many Garou have survived to become Fostern taking that sort of thing for granted? And so, as Kora turns to look (either with forced casualness or lithe action, ready for a fight), she notices the pink blur that is rapidly running towards her.
The girl starts to slow down a bit as she gets closer, though, once it's obvious that she's been noticed and Kora isn't about to slip away. Maybe she's aware that it's never a good idea to rush directly up to a Garou? Or maybe she's just already tiring from even that short burst of sprinting (she certainly looks frail enough). By the time she's within a dozen feet or so, she's already walking (and smiling a large, friendly smile), letting Kora get a better look at her. There's the aforementioned pink, of course, but now Kora can see the black boots (definitely a bit more style-conscious than her own), black leggings, and white purse. She can also see the pale face poking out above the fluffy white scarf, blue eyes twinkling, long golden hair flowing.
It's a half-familiar face, which is also to say it's a half-unfamiliar face. Nagging at Kora's memory...
"HAH! It was you. I knew it!" The tone of her (almost-familiar) voice is triumphant. "And Matt said I'd never find you. Owes me a dollar!" She grins.
[Kora] The half-turn of her head, a sharp, moving glance back over her shoulder. There's a certain familiar tension in her frame, a certain readiness obvious in her stance. She's on the steps by now, one foot higher than the other, poised between planting her foot and shifting her weight forward and rising from one step to the next.
Then the blur of movement behind her, pink and white, bright against the dull grays and browns of the neighborhood. Kora looks further, turning enough that the hood falls fully from the crown of her head, and is half-caught on a knotted mass of pale blond hair.
The last time Melody saw Kora she was 18, nearly 19, in an airport somewhere in Missouri, with closely cropped dyed black hair, carrying a laden backpack and a guitar case toward the security line, turning back once over her shoulder to wave goodbye to the family before she merged with the river of humanity and disappeared down the corridors of the St. Louis Airport. The hair's different, as is the expression in her eyes, on her mouth, but the rest is that familiar echo out of memory.
There's a moment of snap-judgment, poised between wariness and attention, and then her body follows her chin. Kora pivots on the steps, turning in a fluid arc, dark eyes fixed on the girl's face, a faint frown twist her generous mouth, pale brows drawn together above dark, steady eyes.
"I - " The white bag is full of bagels so fresh they were still hot when she picked them up. The sent of baking bread is strong in the air. " - who? I - "
The faint frown deepens with thought. She pickes the most neutral thing she can ask. "Who's Matt?" She looks like the name is at the edge of her tongue; it's just not quite there yet.
--
The side view is the most damning. Kora's winter coat is half-unbuttoned, short enough that it skims her hips and covers most of her stomach. Though not yes unbalanced with pregnancy, her stomach seems largest when viewed in profile, changing, entirely, the shape of her once-boyish frame.
[Melody Himinndottir] "Matt? Oh, Howls-in-Darkness. You don't know him, he's a friend of mine." The words come tumbling out a bit too fast, excited, hyper - but it's seemingly the good kind of excitement, easy-going and mirthful. "Said I was crazy to go looking for you myself instead of asking around in town, said I'd just get lost and frustrated and give up. HA!" And the fist-pump she does in the air only emphasizes that, whoever this Matt is, he's going to suffer a long bout of gleefully malicious needling in his very near future.
And then she falls silent for a moment, looking Kora over with smiling eyes and looking like she's barely repressing the urge to bounce up and down. "What, no hug?"
[Kora] "Liss?" Kora's voice is low, quiet really - a contrast, though not a studied one, to the girl's good-natured ebullience. "Dee?" Like she does not quite believe that the creature nearly bouncing on the cracked stone sidewalk leading up to the solid stone steps on which she stands is one of the twin terrors, all grown up and dressed in a fine pink wool coat. The girl is a bright splash of color in a drab, industrial landscape, the grays and browns and sepias of winter, the washed out salt stains on the sidewalks, streets, and cars, the harrowed hopelessness of the heavily pockmarked street.
Now she's turned about almost fully, Kora, steps down the second step, and twists, swinging the thermos of coffee from her free hand to grab it with deft fingers and hold it against the white paper bag full of bagels.
Her dark eyes are intent; there's something reserved about Kora, that sense of history, of rootedness all the most apparent now that there's an explanation other than schizophrenia for the voices in her head.
"Shit." Kora says, with quiet and obvious feeling, free arm swinging wider now like she really might be about to hug Meldoy. Just not quite - yet. "Is that really - "
[Melody Himinndottir] She frowns, eyes narrowing. "Dee," she says firmly, and you can hear the emphasis in the word. An emphasis which almost contains the unspoken implication "you dumb-ass". Not that Kora was wrong to ask, but the twins always seemed to think it should be far easier for people to tell them apart than it was.
The moment passes, however, and the grin is back. "Yes, it is me, dearest sister, appeared as if out of the mists, like a fantasy made real, so that you may bask in my glory." She pouts, slightly. "You really should have come back and visited. Or at least wrote. Very rude of you." And then she's grinning again. "So now I'm here to punish you for your horrible transgressions."
"Prepare to suffer horrific torment - as I relentlessly subject you to undeniable cuteness and affection." She pauses, raising an eyebrow. "I am noticing there is still a distinct lack of hugs. This may go on your permanent record, young lady."
[Kora] "Jesus Christ, kid - " there's that note on her voice, changed by both time and memory, as Kora takes the last pair of steps down to be level with the strange girl - her sister - in the pink coat. She reaches out, wraps her free arm around Dee, palm open, firm, on the young girl's blond hair and pulls her in close. Kora smells of morning, the mist in the air and the fog of exhaust, of coffee - freshly ground, freshly made - and bagels, freshly baked. There's another scent - lotion, soap, something like that - layered beneath the rest of them, so subtle and close to her skin she herself would not notice it, not entirely.
Kissing the crown of the girl's head, Kora drops her mouth to the side, the gesture nearly an animal nuzzle. "You talk so goddamned much."
Kora's six months pregnant or more; her stomach is firm, obvious between them. Not an artifact of the many layers of winter gear she's wearing. "I didn't - " she begins, in response to the admonition that she should've written. Doesn't finish the thought, though, just shakes her pale head and lifts her chin toward the church. "C'mon. I've got breakfast. You're hungry, yeah?"
[Melody Himinndottir] Melody, for her part, smells a bit like jasmine and lilacs, some perfume that is (blessedly) not splashed on as strong as some women seem to feel the need to do. Still, the fact that she's wearing any at all implies that either she hasn't quite let go of her self-image as a ordinary human yet, or just goes out of her way to blend in better. Either way, it goes hand-in-hand with the clothes she's wearing at the moment (far more fashion than utility).
But she returns Kora's hug, and it's clear she's missed her older sister. And if she notices Kora's pregnancy (or indeed, if she's already long-since noticed), she gives no sign. Except perhaps not squeezing her sister with the death-grip of affection she might otherwise be subjecting her to.
"And you never talk enough. But maybe we can fix that, now that I'm here to save you from yourself." Not hardly, if Melody is anything like she used to be, doing most of the talking for both twins.
And then they're disentangling, and she gives Kora another smile. "I'm not super hungry... and I wouldn't want to be taking food out of anybody's mouth. I mean, you obviously didn't order with me in mind. Maybe I'll just nibble." And then she gives a little mock bow to Kora as she gestures towards the church. "Lead on, MacDuff."
[Kora] "Dee - " almost a cautionary note, when the girl announces that she might just nibble. As they disentangle, Kora cuffs her on the back of the head - the gesture is affectionate, familiar, half-remembered, and there's this moment as they are both turning to climb the steps to the entrance to the church where Kora leaves her arm around the younger girl, pulls her firmly against her side - just once, a firm squeeze of deft fingers around the younger girl's deltoid - before releasing her. " - there's plenty of food. And if we run out," this quick, ironic twist of her generous mouth as they start up the stairs. " - we'll go get more."
She takes the steps easily, opens the wooden doors with the firm press of her shoulder and elbow into the surface. The interior of the church is darker, illuminated by the way the morning sun streams through the clerestory, a long narrow strip of light in the middle of the massive space. In places, the ceiling is broken open, but most of those holes have been covered by tarps. The ceiling is lower immediately inside the building, underneath the choir loft, before it opens up to the rafters.
The space is quiet, a handle of couches, pews, and the like scattered about, kept warm with space heaters. Kora moves through the space with a certain familiarity, setting down the breakfast on one of the tables beside a stack of empty pizza boxes and starts unbuttoning her own winter coat. "Jesus. You look like - a Barbie or something, man. Did you tell Li you were coming?"
The office towers are distant - close enough that they dominate the view, far enough away that that that world of coffee bars and bagel places, briefcases and leather loafers feels both miles and years away from this red brick neighborhood that opens up from the old docks amongst which the Caern is hidden, following the course of the Chicago River toward some remnant of the old city's heart.
There are old dockhouses here, squat red brick warehouses, half-empty commercial strips, a rowhouses stacked together, shoulder to shoulder to narrow shoulder, with the occasional apartment building, few taller than three or four stories. In the middle of this nexus of the industrial, commercial, and residential sits a long-abandoned church. Cathedral, this - once-grand, built solidly of stone in the neogothic style. The whole structure is surrounded by a sagging, rusting chainlink fence, the interior choked with trees, shrubs, brambles, weeds and vines that crawl up the solid stone exterior blindly toward the stained glass window panels. Some intact, others long-shattered. The glass gleams in the morning light.
The chain link gate is open in front of the church proper, though the misshapen diagonal of its extended buildings are visible through the twisting limbs of the weeds that have grown up all around it, only the front doors, stout, iron-banded wood, are readily accessible. Someone's cleaned the walk, here, shoveled off the steps, left piles of snow on either side of the walk. In the early morning light, the place feels both grand and derelict, some great ruin left to return to the earth in the middle of the moving city.
[Melody Himinndottir] It's a horrible neighborhood, and that makes the young girl currently walking down the street stand out even more than she might otherwise have. The long pink wool coat and white scarf she's wearing suggests she certainly isn't poor, and anyone with a whiff of awareness of how the streets work might assume she's looking for someone to score drugs from, or maybe to just go slumming (of course, at this time of day, maybe she's already BEEN slumming and got lost on her way home).
The more predatory individuals often found in neighborhoods like this one might see her as being the perfect victim, but there's something about her that doesn't quite fit. Maybe it's the fact that she seems utterly unafraid of her current situation (maybe she's crazy?). Maybe it's the fact that she's walking around with string tied up in some sort of cat's cradle-looking design in her hands (maybe she's really crazy?). Or maybe the odd feeling she gives off to the more sensitive viewers that she's not quite as innocent as she seems (maybe she's the dangers sort of crazy... what are the odds she's got a gun hidden somewhere in that coat?).
Regardless of her reasons or capabilities, she seems to have a good idea of where she's going. Or, at least, she seems to be paying more attention to the pattern of string in her hands than she is to what passes for roadsigns or landmarks, even as she turns at one corner, takes a side detour down one road, or speeds up her pace a bit.
[Kora] The truth is - by now, Kora belongs here. The church has been hers for more than a half-turning of the year, and the neighborhood has been her home in Chicago for longer than that. When she came to Chicago, her clothes - the dedicated things - were threadbare, oft-scrubbed memories of a former life. A life where she was normal(ish), one of thousands American kids bumming their way around Europe, hustling until the money ran utterly out, begging for a few extra Euros from mom and dad back home then.
Her clothing's better now, the same old Doc Marten's, yeah, but new jeans, dark, not yet stiff with the memory of her own blood soaked into the seams, a second-hand wool coat, a dark color that seems black from a distance, but will resolve into something dark purple up close. Her pale hair is shrouded by a hood drawn up from one of the layers underneath the coat, though with the almost-balmy temperatures - above freezing in the sunlight, the night's frost already melting on the windshields of the cars - the hood just touches the crown of her head.
She carries a white paper bag in one hand, and a thermos in the other, walks with a long, moving gate, the paper bag swinging against her left thigh with every other stride. Few humans spend much time close to the church. The squatters who had inhabited it on occasion in the past have long written off. The wolves, though -
- the tall creature rounds the fence, takes a moment to squint up at the stone facade of the building, the way the light gleams off the surface of the stained glass windows, and starts up the steps. From behind, it's impossible to tell that she's pregnant. She's just a tall creature in winter layers, hood falling back down over a knot of hair that distends the fabric, her features familiar in profile, the twist of a generous mouth, the slant of dark eyes upward, the sharp lines of a distinct jaw she shares with her siblings, the pale, northern European skin, the sort that never tans.
[Melody Himinndottir] "KORA!"
The shout comes from behind her, light and feminine. There doesn't seem to be a tone of threat in it, but how many Garou have survived to become Fostern taking that sort of thing for granted? And so, as Kora turns to look (either with forced casualness or lithe action, ready for a fight), she notices the pink blur that is rapidly running towards her.
The girl starts to slow down a bit as she gets closer, though, once it's obvious that she's been noticed and Kora isn't about to slip away. Maybe she's aware that it's never a good idea to rush directly up to a Garou? Or maybe she's just already tiring from even that short burst of sprinting (she certainly looks frail enough). By the time she's within a dozen feet or so, she's already walking (and smiling a large, friendly smile), letting Kora get a better look at her. There's the aforementioned pink, of course, but now Kora can see the black boots (definitely a bit more style-conscious than her own), black leggings, and white purse. She can also see the pale face poking out above the fluffy white scarf, blue eyes twinkling, long golden hair flowing.
It's a half-familiar face, which is also to say it's a half-unfamiliar face. Nagging at Kora's memory...
"HAH! It was you. I knew it!" The tone of her (almost-familiar) voice is triumphant. "And Matt said I'd never find you. Owes me a dollar!" She grins.
[Kora] The half-turn of her head, a sharp, moving glance back over her shoulder. There's a certain familiar tension in her frame, a certain readiness obvious in her stance. She's on the steps by now, one foot higher than the other, poised between planting her foot and shifting her weight forward and rising from one step to the next.
Then the blur of movement behind her, pink and white, bright against the dull grays and browns of the neighborhood. Kora looks further, turning enough that the hood falls fully from the crown of her head, and is half-caught on a knotted mass of pale blond hair.
The last time Melody saw Kora she was 18, nearly 19, in an airport somewhere in Missouri, with closely cropped dyed black hair, carrying a laden backpack and a guitar case toward the security line, turning back once over her shoulder to wave goodbye to the family before she merged with the river of humanity and disappeared down the corridors of the St. Louis Airport. The hair's different, as is the expression in her eyes, on her mouth, but the rest is that familiar echo out of memory.
There's a moment of snap-judgment, poised between wariness and attention, and then her body follows her chin. Kora pivots on the steps, turning in a fluid arc, dark eyes fixed on the girl's face, a faint frown twist her generous mouth, pale brows drawn together above dark, steady eyes.
"I - " The white bag is full of bagels so fresh they were still hot when she picked them up. The sent of baking bread is strong in the air. " - who? I - "
The faint frown deepens with thought. She pickes the most neutral thing she can ask. "Who's Matt?" She looks like the name is at the edge of her tongue; it's just not quite there yet.
--
The side view is the most damning. Kora's winter coat is half-unbuttoned, short enough that it skims her hips and covers most of her stomach. Though not yes unbalanced with pregnancy, her stomach seems largest when viewed in profile, changing, entirely, the shape of her once-boyish frame.
[Melody Himinndottir] "Matt? Oh, Howls-in-Darkness. You don't know him, he's a friend of mine." The words come tumbling out a bit too fast, excited, hyper - but it's seemingly the good kind of excitement, easy-going and mirthful. "Said I was crazy to go looking for you myself instead of asking around in town, said I'd just get lost and frustrated and give up. HA!" And the fist-pump she does in the air only emphasizes that, whoever this Matt is, he's going to suffer a long bout of gleefully malicious needling in his very near future.
And then she falls silent for a moment, looking Kora over with smiling eyes and looking like she's barely repressing the urge to bounce up and down. "What, no hug?"
[Kora] "Liss?" Kora's voice is low, quiet really - a contrast, though not a studied one, to the girl's good-natured ebullience. "Dee?" Like she does not quite believe that the creature nearly bouncing on the cracked stone sidewalk leading up to the solid stone steps on which she stands is one of the twin terrors, all grown up and dressed in a fine pink wool coat. The girl is a bright splash of color in a drab, industrial landscape, the grays and browns and sepias of winter, the washed out salt stains on the sidewalks, streets, and cars, the harrowed hopelessness of the heavily pockmarked street.
Now she's turned about almost fully, Kora, steps down the second step, and twists, swinging the thermos of coffee from her free hand to grab it with deft fingers and hold it against the white paper bag full of bagels.
Her dark eyes are intent; there's something reserved about Kora, that sense of history, of rootedness all the most apparent now that there's an explanation other than schizophrenia for the voices in her head.
"Shit." Kora says, with quiet and obvious feeling, free arm swinging wider now like she really might be about to hug Meldoy. Just not quite - yet. "Is that really - "
[Melody Himinndottir] She frowns, eyes narrowing. "Dee," she says firmly, and you can hear the emphasis in the word. An emphasis which almost contains the unspoken implication "you dumb-ass". Not that Kora was wrong to ask, but the twins always seemed to think it should be far easier for people to tell them apart than it was.
The moment passes, however, and the grin is back. "Yes, it is me, dearest sister, appeared as if out of the mists, like a fantasy made real, so that you may bask in my glory." She pouts, slightly. "You really should have come back and visited. Or at least wrote. Very rude of you." And then she's grinning again. "So now I'm here to punish you for your horrible transgressions."
"Prepare to suffer horrific torment - as I relentlessly subject you to undeniable cuteness and affection." She pauses, raising an eyebrow. "I am noticing there is still a distinct lack of hugs. This may go on your permanent record, young lady."
[Kora] "Jesus Christ, kid - " there's that note on her voice, changed by both time and memory, as Kora takes the last pair of steps down to be level with the strange girl - her sister - in the pink coat. She reaches out, wraps her free arm around Dee, palm open, firm, on the young girl's blond hair and pulls her in close. Kora smells of morning, the mist in the air and the fog of exhaust, of coffee - freshly ground, freshly made - and bagels, freshly baked. There's another scent - lotion, soap, something like that - layered beneath the rest of them, so subtle and close to her skin she herself would not notice it, not entirely.
Kissing the crown of the girl's head, Kora drops her mouth to the side, the gesture nearly an animal nuzzle. "You talk so goddamned much."
Kora's six months pregnant or more; her stomach is firm, obvious between them. Not an artifact of the many layers of winter gear she's wearing. "I didn't - " she begins, in response to the admonition that she should've written. Doesn't finish the thought, though, just shakes her pale head and lifts her chin toward the church. "C'mon. I've got breakfast. You're hungry, yeah?"
[Melody Himinndottir] Melody, for her part, smells a bit like jasmine and lilacs, some perfume that is (blessedly) not splashed on as strong as some women seem to feel the need to do. Still, the fact that she's wearing any at all implies that either she hasn't quite let go of her self-image as a ordinary human yet, or just goes out of her way to blend in better. Either way, it goes hand-in-hand with the clothes she's wearing at the moment (far more fashion than utility).
But she returns Kora's hug, and it's clear she's missed her older sister. And if she notices Kora's pregnancy (or indeed, if she's already long-since noticed), she gives no sign. Except perhaps not squeezing her sister with the death-grip of affection she might otherwise be subjecting her to.
"And you never talk enough. But maybe we can fix that, now that I'm here to save you from yourself." Not hardly, if Melody is anything like she used to be, doing most of the talking for both twins.
And then they're disentangling, and she gives Kora another smile. "I'm not super hungry... and I wouldn't want to be taking food out of anybody's mouth. I mean, you obviously didn't order with me in mind. Maybe I'll just nibble." And then she gives a little mock bow to Kora as she gestures towards the church. "Lead on, MacDuff."
[Kora] "Dee - " almost a cautionary note, when the girl announces that she might just nibble. As they disentangle, Kora cuffs her on the back of the head - the gesture is affectionate, familiar, half-remembered, and there's this moment as they are both turning to climb the steps to the entrance to the church where Kora leaves her arm around the younger girl, pulls her firmly against her side - just once, a firm squeeze of deft fingers around the younger girl's deltoid - before releasing her. " - there's plenty of food. And if we run out," this quick, ironic twist of her generous mouth as they start up the stairs. " - we'll go get more."
She takes the steps easily, opens the wooden doors with the firm press of her shoulder and elbow into the surface. The interior of the church is darker, illuminated by the way the morning sun streams through the clerestory, a long narrow strip of light in the middle of the massive space. In places, the ceiling is broken open, but most of those holes have been covered by tarps. The ceiling is lower immediately inside the building, underneath the choir loft, before it opens up to the rafters.
The space is quiet, a handle of couches, pews, and the like scattered about, kept warm with space heaters. Kora moves through the space with a certain familiarity, setting down the breakfast on one of the tables beside a stack of empty pizza boxes and starts unbuttoning her own winter coat. "Jesus. You look like - a Barbie or something, man. Did you tell Li you were coming?"
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