Inside the polished confines of the arch, Miles was pacing. Room 1045 was about two-thirds up the A arch, city-side. The city was where Miles wanted to be. Unfortunately the weather drones had failed to pick up the storm front that was now doing its best to destroy everything. The music of Mr. Bullinger’s architecture did nothing to sooth Miles’ irritation. In fact, he had turned the music down to just a whisper. You never wanted to turn it ALL the way off, because it was the most reliable indication of a storm. Without the music, the only other sound in room 1045 was Mile’s shoes across his carpet. The storm outside was completely muted by the building.
Angrily, Miles stopped pacing and flopped onto his couch.
“Damn weather drones…” he muttered, and flicked a button on a remote lodged somewhere in the cushions.
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