[ For his age, Minho has seen much of the world. From his first home in Hanseong all the way to the vast former colonies of America, and now, London. Such is their network. Thomas and Newt and Teresa and a long list of more names, spread far out and thin across the map these days. Minho, at least, grew up knowing about the monsters in the dark (and sometimes hiding so well in the light). They are not "the" rebellion, and this is their advantage, not drawing eyes so much quite yet. But they're young and too bright, with their eyes too open to sit quietly and watch what happens to the world. Too restless (and many of them too angry) to share the resignation, acceptance, indifference, or disbelief of their elders.
The rebels, as all organized groups, are suspect as far as they're concerned. They're all of them slow to trust, each for their own reasons. But maybe, maybe they'll have to find more allies. Ressources don't appear from thin air, after all. Not all of them are from well-off backgrounds.
London, though. To Minho, London is a cesspool as well as a powderkeg. He sticks out as much as he expected. "Go to Newt," they'd said, "he'll help you wait this mess out" and here he is, but-- things got complicated and too close too many times. He's spent as much time trying to find out the city's secrets, peeling away at it layer by layer, as he's found himself becoming one of them. And from there, it's only a matter of time until someone else seeks him out. Or something. And Whitechapel? That place is a maze if he's ever known one. It draws him in, more than most places in this city do, like a riddle to solve, to learn every detail of. If he can't go find his friend yet, once he knows this place enough, he could lose anyone in here. Maybe if he can get away without having to put down his pursuers, they'll actually lose interest. Wouldn't that be something.
Not yet, though. He hasn't had the time to master this maze. Evidently. Even as he turns around, he draws himself up to stand a little straighter, his head cocked, all easy confidence. In the darkness of the narrow streets it isn't obvious, but the thin, sprawling scars the lightning has left him with reach up the side of his neck. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and though he doesn't quite hold himself like a soldier, it comes close. Suspicion in his narrowed eyes and a ready tension in his stance as he musters her and the shadows past her - he doubts she is alone. Or maybe she is, but then she's likely to be more of a problem rather than less. Either way, there is a long knife under his jacket, even if he's not reaching for it yet.
His tone is flat as he responds. ] You could say I'm new to the area.
[ Sarcastic, perhaps, pointing out the already obvious. By the sound of him, he most certainly isn't English. He might not even be American, either, where his native language colors his pronounciation just a little, but not so much as to be glaring. He does not dash or cower, and his eyes do not dart in search of an escape route. If he is scared, he has learned to forge his fear into something different. ]
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The rebels, as all organized groups, are suspect as far as they're concerned. They're all of them slow to trust, each for their own reasons. But maybe, maybe they'll have to find more allies. Ressources don't appear from thin air, after all. Not all of them are from well-off backgrounds.
London, though. To Minho, London is a cesspool as well as a powderkeg. He sticks out as much as he expected. "Go to Newt," they'd said, "he'll help you wait this mess out" and here he is, but-- things got complicated and too close too many times. He's spent as much time trying to find out the city's secrets, peeling away at it layer by layer, as he's found himself becoming one of them. And from there, it's only a matter of time until someone else seeks him out. Or something. And Whitechapel? That place is a maze if he's ever known one. It draws him in, more than most places in this city do, like a riddle to solve, to learn every detail of. If he can't go find his friend yet, once he knows this place enough, he could lose anyone in here. Maybe if he can get away without having to put down his pursuers, they'll actually lose interest. Wouldn't that be something.
Not yet, though. He hasn't had the time to master this maze. Evidently. Even as he turns around, he draws himself up to stand a little straighter, his head cocked, all easy confidence. In the darkness of the narrow streets it isn't obvious, but the thin, sprawling scars the lightning has left him with reach up the side of his neck. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and though he doesn't quite hold himself like a soldier, it comes close. Suspicion in his narrowed eyes and a ready tension in his stance as he musters her and the shadows past her - he doubts she is alone. Or maybe she is, but then she's likely to be more of a problem rather than less. Either way, there is a long knife under his jacket, even if he's not reaching for it yet.
His tone is flat as he responds. ] You could say I'm new to the area.
[ Sarcastic, perhaps, pointing out the already obvious. By the sound of him, he most certainly isn't English. He might not even be American, either, where his native language colors his pronounciation just a little, but not so much as to be glaring. He does not dash or cower, and his eyes do not dart in search of an escape route. If he is scared, he has learned to forge his fear into something different. ]