(no subject)

[iceheart-isard.livejournal.com]

There is a woman. She is sitting at a table with perfect posture, rolling a stylus between long fingers and reading a datapad. Mismatched--one blue, one blood-red--eyes flick up every now and again, looking over her surroundings and nearby patrons; she is watchful. Maybe waiting for someone, something. Maybe not. Either way, her long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, with a thick white forelock hanging on either side of her sharp face. Her crisp uniform is red; her service blaster is black.