And then he noticed him. Bissell's Least Favorite Person at the Bar. Laying crotch-down on the bench near the door, up on his elbows, expressionless, lost in the displays projected onto the back of his sunglasses. Wearing that goddamned brimmed hat.
That posture and that hat represented everything Bissell hated in this world. Pretense. Privilege. Bissell sneered and returned to his drink. He'd taken just one more sip, hoping for something to distract from Least Favorite Person, when he heard some commotion on the street.
"Out of my way!" he heard a young voice shout. Then some distant screams.
Suddenly a man ran into the bar. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a loose-fitting white t-shirt. His eyes were bright, even in the dim light of the bar, partly due to the fact they were as wide as tea saucers. Bissell looked directly into those eyes, and he knew.
"This way!" he commanded as he rotated off his barstool and headed towards the back of the bar.
Tris didn't know why this stranger was commanding him, but he knew he was out of options. The horsepeople and the parkours were only seconds behind. His knowledge of the twisting streets of the East District had only just barely kept him alive once they were once again on his ass.
The pair's footwear made sloppy sounds as they rushed towards the back of the room. Tris quickly caught up to his flip-flop-clad leader, his choice of footwear slowing him down as he traversed the sticky floor. Soon enough, however, they arrived at a door well concealed in the back corner of the establishment. Bissell threw a shoulder into it and they slid through. He carefully closed it behind them just as the shouts of stout women and agile men became audible just outside the bar. Bissell prayed they would interrogate Least Favorite Person with prejudice.
That posture and that hat represented everything Bissell hated in this world. Pretense. Privilege. Bissell sneered and returned to his drink. He'd taken just one more sip, hoping for something to distract from Least Favorite Person, when he heard some commotion on the street.
"Out of my way!" he heard a young voice shout. Then some distant screams.
Suddenly a man ran into the bar. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a loose-fitting white t-shirt. His eyes were bright, even in the dim light of the bar, partly due to the fact they were as wide as tea saucers. Bissell looked directly into those eyes, and he knew.
"This way!" he commanded as he rotated off his barstool and headed towards the back of the bar.
Tris didn't know why this stranger was commanding him, but he knew he was out of options. The horsepeople and the parkours were only seconds behind. His knowledge of the twisting streets of the East District had only just barely kept him alive once they were once again on his ass.
The pair's footwear made sloppy sounds as they rushed towards the back of the room. Tris quickly caught up to his flip-flop-clad leader, his choice of footwear slowing him down as he traversed the sticky floor. Soon enough, however, they arrived at a door well concealed in the back corner of the establishment. Bissell threw a shoulder into it and they slid through. He carefully closed it behind them just as the shouts of stout women and agile men became audible just outside the bar. Bissell prayed they would interrogate Least Favorite Person with prejudice.