Colliding Realities
The sirens cried, irritating and insistent, in the snow-muted early evening of a mid-winter Moscow.
They had seen the distant flames and climbed atop one of Balcov Abbey's periphery walls, gazing earnestly towards the dark trees cresting an icy ridge that spouted great mushroom clouds of oily black smoke. They didn't know what had started the fire or how it would end, nor did they care. It simply served as an excuse to avoid meal-time in the cafeteria, which every night invariably led to a riot. Tala and Ian, nestled deeply into their mittens, scarves and wolverine-furred, wool-lined expedition coats, were not eager to end the grueling day any more bruised, headached and angry than what had directly resulted from training, and was thus inescapable. The pair, vastly and apparently different from one another while deeply allied through necessity and convenience, huddled side-by-side under a darkening sky, bright sets of cerulean and ruby eyes wandering between their white puffs of breath and the shadowed puffs of smoke.
"Something bad is happening out there," Tala carelessly observed.
"You mean worse than in here?" Ian slyly questioned.
And on that note the two boys laughed bitterly and stood to head back inside.