Writing Practice: Neon
Twenty-eight degrees was nothing to the locals but for Eisen Garvel who’d just spent six months in the frozen reaches of an ice world, it was enough to soak clean through his shirt, vest and the vest he’s put on to replace it. He refused to wear shorts out of a passionate dissatisfaction with the way they looked on him. So he stood in the dark of a room little more than a cupboard, wearing slacks with suspenders falling down his thighs, his chest bare, his hair forming a rough cross diagonally across it. Where the light of the neon strip crept in, red then blue, it caught the edge of his skin and echoed the colours in a pleasing way. The other inhabitants of his cupboard were a single cot, a small expanse of floorboards, his sweat stained clothes- one pile of, a Fabaricci thirty-eight carbine- with bipod stand sans scope, and six and a half feet of Isolus Creed. Creed was at the window. He was playing spotter, but also minder. His keen eyes swept up and down the stri...