Dusk Neva : Thread 1 : CSI Reruns
Dusk stares intently for a long while before shrugging. The investigators are clearly incompetent verging on criminally negligent, but if she's being honest, she doesn't have the skills to handle something of this nature herself. And so, as tempting as digging into the matter is, she finally just shrugs and walks away, closing up for the night and locking the door. It was looking like she was going to need to find new employment soon anyway.
Walking outside, she is struck as always by the raw, fervent intensity of the Vegas night. The neon blazes around the clock, mad and feverish, as people come and go with drunken laughs and sad sighs. This is a city born of the dreams of forgotten youth and the sorrows of forgotten age, a mutual agreement to pretend just for a night that the world really does work the way you always dreamed of. It's openly predatory and everyone has just agreed to act like it's kind. It's alien, artificial, rejecting nature so profoundly as to be nearly a religion in the sheer intensity of its refusal to bow. It's horrible. It's wonderful.
She walks through the flickering neon shadows, almost in a trance, feeling the heartbeat of the city almost more strongly than her own. Thought without words, movement without thought, letting her feet go where they will in a sort of walking meditation. This city is so strange, so perfectly imperfect. Everything from the Heart Attack Grill and its open malice towards its customers through the casinos and their eerie, timeless cages of light and noise and hope to the back streets and their collection of castoffs who have been broken and abandoned by the city. It's a life lived with no thought for the day after tomorrow, all intensity and feverish passion and impulse.
Finally, she draws to a stop on a corner between two streets that don't matter, not far from where Tupac Shakur got shot. It's far enough from the main strip to be less intense, but not so far as to get into the places only locals know about, in that grey area of strip clubs and drive-through wedding chapels in between the two. A scrawny, scruffy youth of perhaps eighteen is sitting on the corner there, drumming out a beat on a collection of pots, pans, and overturned buckets. His face is split in a wild grin, and the beat is fast, and she begins to dance, slowly at first, but then picking up speed until she follows the beat. She dances with an unearthly grace and a raw intensity that no normal dancer could dream to match.