The sounds of battle clashed in the streets below as a lone figure sat upon the roof of a nearby dilapidated building. The being was covered from the neck-down in a dark gray cloak. Its mouth was draped with a veil, and a cowl covered her head. It seemed as if the gray-clad figure was dressed to take on a sandstorm in a desert. A cane is leaning against its shoulder, solid piano black in color with a gold trimming near the handle. The handle itself seemed to have one end that was bent to a right angle, seemingly used to get a better grip upon the cane. The human's eyes were hidden, however. Not because they were covered, but shut.<br/>"They seem to be enjoying themselves today. How lovely," the figure's voice rang in a feminine tone. Judging by the shape molded by the cloak as it swayed, and the sound of the voice, the owner was female.<br/>A very obnoxious, rasping voice began to speak within her mind.<span style="font-style: italic">That man's hair is very purple! What does purple taste like!?</span><br/>"It tastes as foul as your speech," retorted the woman in annoyance.<br/>Conversing with yourself seemed very normal in these times, considering most who venture the surface must bring their inner demon to work, or face a quick and painful death. The battle below was growing louder as more participated in the fight. The sound of every breath and footstep was audible to the woman, an ability that developed over the course of the apocalypse brought upon them.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">Red, black!</span>the voice exclaimed in her head once again. Clearly the voice was more enthused by the swarm of colors appearing within view than the actual fight.<span style="font-style: italic">I bet red tastes like human flesh!</span><br/>The woman's eyebrows furrowed in anger as the demon continued to speak. Though she dared not comment again, ignoring the coarse voice was the best course of action. Replying only caused more painful, head-ache inducing words to spew out of its mouth. It was hard to focus on sounds when there is someone scraping their fingernails on the blackboard of your mind. She wasn't much there for the battle, though she appeared to be waiting on something or someone, judging by the fact that just sitting there was a battle in itself.