Post by StrathWriters on Nov 19, 2009 10:58:33 GMT
Knowing that you’d just miss your train if you messed around, you join the general bustle that has just broken out on the platform and start heading towards the lower platforms. You overtake the majority of the rather sluggishly moving passengers and head down the escalator to the lower levels. A few moments of uneventful walking pass until you hear some commotion from behind you. Turning around to see what’s happening, you almost get flattened by a scarlet haired girl who runs right into you. Two police officers appear out of nowhere and attempt to grab the girl but you get in the way of one of them, still stunned from your collision. The girl wrests free of the other officer’s grip by some factor of luck and manages to put some distance between her and the law enforcers. They give chase, leaving you bewildered in the middle of the stone corridor. You feel your arm where the most of the girl’s force pounded into you. It’ll probably bruise. You glare after the girl, though she is long gone down a distant corridor. You hear the echo of shouting ahead, and it slowly fades into the ambience of people walking through the station.
What few people had actually stopped to watch the chase had by now resumed their journey to their trains, and you decide to do the same. You take your time, the train not due for a while yet, and you wonder why the girl was being chased. The exposed money in the old lady’s purse comes back to mind, but you shake your head. What were the chances someone would be dumb enough to pull something like that in the middle of a busy station? The girl did seem to make a good getaway though, you conceded. Well, that was the last you were going to see of her in any case.
You leaned against a pillar next to your platform. You’d prefer to sit but all the benches are taken. Some drunk or hung over looking middle aged woman was out like a light on the nearest bench. You shake your head and grimace slightly when you see drool run down her cheek. Urgh!
You sigh with relief when your train finally arrives. The people now standing around the platform don’t look like they have the combined brainpower to articulate speech. They shuffle onto the train, and when they sit most of them almost lose consciousness. You try to remember if there was some kind of drinking holiday on yesterday that you didn’t hear about.
Moments before the doors are due to close, you see that scarlet haired girl sprinting down the steps and propelling herself into the compartment in which you’re sitting. The train’s doors close. She breathes heavily, catching her breath as she sits in the seat opposite you. As the train begins to move she quickly glances out of the window back onto the platform. You follow her gaze and see four police officers glaring at her, already on their radios, no doubt setting up an intercept at the next station. You stare at her until it looks like she’s about to look your way, and you quickly look elsewhere. Your glance returns to her within a few moments and you soon realise that she isn’t looking at you or anyone else on the train. Her eyes are firmly fixed to the large number of bank notes in her hand. Her breathing slows as she regains her breath and she holds the money to her nose and inhales deeply.
You then watch as she puts the money away and removes her scarlet hair, revealing it as a wig that has been covering up much shorter black hair. She then puts on a large pair of glasses and changes her jacket for one that she had been carrying in her backpack. Finally, she brings out some blush and applies it to her face, paling her skin somewhat.
As you stare at her you see the completeness of her transformation and are somewhat impressed. Any officer that had been given a description of her from the previous station would struggle to identify her quickly on the train now.
Just as you realise that you’ve been gazing at the girl for a fair while, her eyes shoot up at yours and narrow considerably. If looks could inflict pain then this would be an expressional equivalent of an insanely overpowered fireball.
“What?!” she demands in a tone that makes you wish you’d taken the bus instead. You find your focus quickly though, and are able to respond.
You confront the no-longer-scarlet-now-in-fact-black haired girl about the money she is carrying. You are, after all, dead certain that it is the same money that stared you in the face earlier: Turn to page 8
You shrug, apologise for staring, and wait for the next station to come along, fully intending to inform the police there of little miss ex-scarlet hair’s change of appearance: Turn to page 9
You mutter a “nothing” and avoid looking at her for the rest of the journey. You really don’t feel like getting mixed up in all this crap going on. Bring on Motherwell: Turn to page 10
What few people had actually stopped to watch the chase had by now resumed their journey to their trains, and you decide to do the same. You take your time, the train not due for a while yet, and you wonder why the girl was being chased. The exposed money in the old lady’s purse comes back to mind, but you shake your head. What were the chances someone would be dumb enough to pull something like that in the middle of a busy station? The girl did seem to make a good getaway though, you conceded. Well, that was the last you were going to see of her in any case.
You leaned against a pillar next to your platform. You’d prefer to sit but all the benches are taken. Some drunk or hung over looking middle aged woman was out like a light on the nearest bench. You shake your head and grimace slightly when you see drool run down her cheek. Urgh!
You sigh with relief when your train finally arrives. The people now standing around the platform don’t look like they have the combined brainpower to articulate speech. They shuffle onto the train, and when they sit most of them almost lose consciousness. You try to remember if there was some kind of drinking holiday on yesterday that you didn’t hear about.
Moments before the doors are due to close, you see that scarlet haired girl sprinting down the steps and propelling herself into the compartment in which you’re sitting. The train’s doors close. She breathes heavily, catching her breath as she sits in the seat opposite you. As the train begins to move she quickly glances out of the window back onto the platform. You follow her gaze and see four police officers glaring at her, already on their radios, no doubt setting up an intercept at the next station. You stare at her until it looks like she’s about to look your way, and you quickly look elsewhere. Your glance returns to her within a few moments and you soon realise that she isn’t looking at you or anyone else on the train. Her eyes are firmly fixed to the large number of bank notes in her hand. Her breathing slows as she regains her breath and she holds the money to her nose and inhales deeply.
You then watch as she puts the money away and removes her scarlet hair, revealing it as a wig that has been covering up much shorter black hair. She then puts on a large pair of glasses and changes her jacket for one that she had been carrying in her backpack. Finally, she brings out some blush and applies it to her face, paling her skin somewhat.
As you stare at her you see the completeness of her transformation and are somewhat impressed. Any officer that had been given a description of her from the previous station would struggle to identify her quickly on the train now.
Just as you realise that you’ve been gazing at the girl for a fair while, her eyes shoot up at yours and narrow considerably. If looks could inflict pain then this would be an expressional equivalent of an insanely overpowered fireball.
“What?!” she demands in a tone that makes you wish you’d taken the bus instead. You find your focus quickly though, and are able to respond.
You confront the no-longer-scarlet-now-in-fact-black haired girl about the money she is carrying. You are, after all, dead certain that it is the same money that stared you in the face earlier: Turn to page 8
You shrug, apologise for staring, and wait for the next station to come along, fully intending to inform the police there of little miss ex-scarlet hair’s change of appearance: Turn to page 9
You mutter a “nothing” and avoid looking at her for the rest of the journey. You really don’t feel like getting mixed up in all this crap going on. Bring on Motherwell: Turn to page 10