Option 1: In town Dom's sitting at a table by the window in Java Joe's, a hot Americano and a scone in front of her, watching the passersby outside. Looking for—something. Someone. The itch to ask questions, to study, to investigate—it never stops. It's annoying, but it's also comfortable. It's as if it's the thing she was always meant to do.
Maybe she was a journalist. Or a detective. Or just a nosy bitch all up in everyone's business all the time; anything's possible.
As people come into the shop or pass her table, she glances up at them, occasionally meeting their gaze just a little too directly—as if they're someone she knows. Which she doesn't. It's another thing she can't seem to stop doing.
Option 2: Into the woods
When she heard the scream, Dom's hand went instantly to the place where a gun shoulder holster would be—a reflex as smooth and unthinking as an eyeblink. She'd think about that more, but the urge to see if someone's in trouble is stronger.
Now here she is lying in the ground, barely able to lift her head. That's what you get for following some random-ass boot prints, she thinks. She scrabbles a little in the dirt, trying to scoot herself backward. Maybe if she goes back the way she came, she'll be okay.
Dominique DiPierro | Mr Robot
Dom's sitting at a table by the window in Java Joe's, a hot Americano and a scone in front of her, watching the passersby outside. Looking for—something. Someone. The itch to ask questions, to study, to investigate—it never stops. It's annoying, but it's also comfortable. It's as if it's the thing she was always meant to do.
Maybe she was a journalist. Or a detective. Or just a nosy bitch all up in everyone's business all the time; anything's possible.
As people come into the shop or pass her table, she glances up at them, occasionally meeting their gaze just a little too directly—as if they're someone she knows. Which she doesn't. It's another thing she can't seem to stop doing.
Option 2: Into the woods
When she heard the scream, Dom's hand went instantly to the place where a gun shoulder holster would be—a reflex as smooth and unthinking as an eyeblink. She'd think about that more, but the urge to see if someone's in trouble is stronger.
Now here she is lying in the ground, barely able to lift her head. That's what you get for following some random-ass boot prints, she thinks. She scrabbles a little in the dirt, trying to scoot herself backward. Maybe if she goes back the way she came, she'll be okay.