There's something eerie about walking through an empty New York, a place that's supposed to be the opposite of a cowboy ghost town. At least there aren't any tumbleweeds. But it always leaves Peter feeling hallowed out in all the wrong ways, lost with nothing left to find. He doesn't even bother looking into the windows of empty buildings; he's done this too many times to know that there's nothing there to see, that there won't be anyone else looking back.

The sound of his footsteps echo far too loudly and Peter sighs, trying to ignore the part of him that keeps getting its hopes up at the turn of every corner. There's not going to be anyone there waiting. Not at this street or the next, and yet Peter peers around each street, down every alley, still searching for the remnants of people that might have passed by. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll hear something outside of the thoughts inside his own head.

He's already done all his shouting, he always tries it, seeing if the sound of his voice might bring any wanderers out from hiding. But he always stops just before going hoarse, there's no point. Turning at another street corner, Peter will never enjoy feeling as if he's the last person left on earth.


[ ooc; feel free to hit up this post however you'd like to -- be it prose or actionspam/brackets. i'll respond accordingly ]

It's not raining, nothing's going up in flames or coming crashing down in an apocalyptic fashion, and as far as Peter's concerned this is already a good dream. He's aware he has low expectations, but it doesn't matter because this dream is his own and when so few things are good, he'll take what he can get.

Wandering aimlessly through Central Park while dusk sets on the world has slowly started to become enough of a comfort that it's seeping into his unconscious when he needs it most. Nothing's expected of him here except for perhaps the occasional nod in greeting towards a passerby, and there's nothing he can do wrong as much as there's nothing he can do right. Even though somehow he's still ended up in his paramedic gear and the place is far quieter than usual, it doesn't matter. Because this isn't a rooftop, and this isn't work, and sometimes Peter still does actually enjoy taking a moment to watch the world pass by.



[ ooc; feel free to hit up this post however you'd like to -- be it prose or actionspam/brackets. i'll respond accordingly :3 ]

Hadn't he stepped to this tune already? He's off-meter and the beat is running thin. Not that he had ever been much for music. Adam could appreciate a tune, and even decently carry one, but he'd never been one to see things through. He had foolishly thought things could be different with Peter. Things were always different with Peter.

He confides in the only thing he knows; more accurately, the only thing that knows him: the ocean. Its endless and unchanging face studies his own, and he knows he's been made.

"Peter." His voice doesn't sound like his own, and he doesn't turn - he can't. There's nowhere left to run.

[The city below is eerily silent. Dead for the most part. Here and there bodies lay where they've fallen; man, woman and child. It makes no difference - they've been slaughtered - mercifully it was a quick kill each time. A figure in a dark cloak walks the rooftops in what could be called a slummish area, looking down indifferently. None of this matters - not really. He's spared one or two - told them to run and not looked back. He doesn't know, or care if they survived. That's a lie though. Somewhere, he still cares.

The hood's drawn up all the way, shadowing most if not all of his face. Very little can be seen under the cloak, but what can be seen suggests a body suit of some kind and dark red boots. In his hand's a sword, the hilt emblazoned with a phoenix; the blade pure silver, but stained with blood. His other hand - gloved in red and black with a gold chain and feather charm around the wrist, is at his mouth - he's licking the blood off it much like a cat would milk. then it falls back under the cloak as he looks up. He doesn't seem to notice that there's not a single thing in the sky. No moon, no stars... not even a cloud... It's just inky darkness.]


Time to move on, I guess... [His voice is oddly like that of a child, but with a dark undertone that taints whatever innocence this creature still has.

And then he looks back down and keeps on his way. He can't glaze at the sky forever, as much as he wants. He has orders to fill before the day begins.]



{{OOC: You can choose to play along with dream or not, but please let me know if you want a good ending [character gets away] or bad ending [death - because unn.. those were his orders...]. Cookies if you get the reffs before I fully reveal what this Ven is.. 8D}}

Ignore this!!