Dirty Life's Dirty History

Spring 2005, I ... think. Definitely 2005.

It was dark, in Soho, which was surprising, consdering the fact that it was Soho, Ryan Bertrand -- Corin Beauregard, rather, at that particular moment, as he wasn't even thinking of himself as Bertrand -- mused, gathering two large shopping bags in his arms and cringing as he put weight on his left foot again. The pain would pass, though, and at some point he'd get back to an area with more light.

The current plan was to get across Golden Square, whose closed shops were disconcerting to him. It wasn't supposed to be this quiet and empty, even on a Sunday evening.

Nothing had happened, though, and this was simple recon, so, he told himself continuously as he walked, keeping the bags high up off the ground as if they contained flash grenades instead of a couple of small and very fragile items, nothing troublesome should happen.

The brim of Corin's cowboy hat fell across his eyes, and he leaned over to push it up, putting down one of the bags exceedingly carefully.

"-- Look out!" The voice and the rumble of the Vespa's engine hit him at about the same time. Fortunately, the Vespa itself didn't hit him, by a full six inches. That was mainly because the man riding it had successfully hit the brakes hard enough to slew it sideways enough to knock it over, to the extent that it was already on its side -- along with him -- by the time it got that close.

( The driver picked himself up, after a moment, muttering under his breath something that proved to be some incredibly creative cursing, considering that he was exclusively using English. )