Dust in their hair, fire in their cheeks, draped over our common room's worn, moth-eaten furniture like they were kicked into place, at too-fucking-early o'clock, every single kid of my crew is a sight for sore eyes. And - unfortunately - I wouldn't be doing my job right if I weren't constantly sore.
Nova, our driver, is settled on the splintering table, her tiny form balanced on her toes, legs tucked in her usual precarious perch. She's having popcorn for breakfast again, chucking the burnt pieces into the mousy fluff of Theo's hair. Neck lolled over the side of the fraying love seat, legs kicked over its puckering back, our marksman grumbles obscenities as he hunts for the wayward kernels.
On the couch, Arsen lies either dead or asleep, limp and facedown in Juniper's lap. June's face is turned, cheek to the back cushion, a faraway look in her brown eyes as she twists the demolitionist's curls around scarred, hazel fingertips. Behind them, Xander hovers near the single window that allows entrance to only a sorry amount of light, face pressed far too close to the filthy glass, breath spreading clouds that match the ones outside.
