retrograde

ɢᴇɴᴇᴠɪᴇᴠᴇ ＶＩ L A N G F O R D 30. soapbox graveyard shifter. 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡

[bloodyglcry]

JADE WAS INTIMATELY FAMILIAR WITH THE LAW ENFORCEMENT IN LAS VEGAS. They had experienced the inner workings of their process when they were arrested for a crime they didn't commit and sent to prison to pay for their ex-girlfriend's antics. Even after their release, they felt like her time in prison was branded onto their skin. They couldn't get a job for the longest time because of their criminal background. They had people dodge them in the streets because of rumors swirling around them (some of them true--- others exaggerated). It was an identity forced on them, and all they could do was make the most of it.

Which is why their underground fighting ring felt like home, despite the knowledge that one wrong move could see it all crumbling down and send them back to prison. They were careful with who they extended invites to, chose the location because of the obscurity it provided, and made sure only those who were invited were able to figure out how to get in. Well, that is, until someone new slipped in.

They thought they were imagining things at first, but after a minute or two, they confirmed the brunette was not a mirage. They tried to slip away quietly so as not to draw attention and ended up in front of the intruder, their arm attempting to block her path forward as they spoke, "Who the hell are you?" They glanced behind her, as if that would hold any of the answers, before they added, "And how the fuck did you find this place?"

[bird0fprcy]

“I walked here.” Vi’s statement was plain and honest, spoken before she had a chance to consider a better story to divulge. It was equally difficult to play dumb and completely ignore the movement behind the other’s shoulder, quietly making her aware that whatever activities being guarded were clearly not for public consumption. Some sort of meeting, but devoid of the typical motorhead posse or potluck spread. A gathering designed to bruise and leave only grit behind, suited to those with the physicality to survive it. Vi swallowed thickly, struggling to tear her attention away from the shadowy actions for more reasons than one. For a moment, she debated outright lying and claiming to be associated with someone already present. To fumble her way through random names and titles in the hopes that she picked the magic answer to make her immune to further scrutiny. Whether gang related or simply another grassroots organisation flying under the radar to facilitate a sense of independence and freedom from the way societal norms clenched like a fist around the daylight hours, Vi had no qualms with the what nor how which defined the space's parameters. The thing stoking her curiosity had far more to do with who stood in front of her, rough around the edges with a natural magnetism and sharpened confidence that should have been threatening. Foolish and gullible as it may have been, Vi was closer to charmed than daunted by each fact laid before her. “Sorry, I'm not tryna pry— I can go if you really need me to scram.” The initial offer was genuine, understanding an unwelcome sign even if it went against the way every muscle screamed for her to stay rooted in place. She’d already blown her position, there was no reversing her breach of an entry. She could only press against the boundary drawn between them and test how lucky the evening deemed her to be. “But hypothetically…” she let the word hang in the air a moment, eyes searching the other’s face, testing the waters, “could I stay? I’ll be like a fly on the wall, not a peep, I promise. Pretty sure I couldn't remember how to easily find you ever again, anyways.”

[wastlngaway]

The screeching of the laundry trolley across the linoleum floor of the laundromat pulled Naomie’s attention from Madonna’s erotic on-screen display. The video had been banned when it had first come out, but the song itself was a big hit at the Gulch, simply in the eroticism of the lyrics and the implication of associated visuals. Naomie stared at Vi, sucker in her mouth, amusement evident in the grin she floated easily in her direction. She refrained, with a high degree of difficulty, from teasing Vi about the nervousness displayed at such a simple question. 

Naomie had to remind herself that it wasn’t more than three years ago she felt a similar apprehension at the idea of sleeping with a woman, and had been such a coward about it that she had done so on an amount of drug that would have killed a small child, and had left her numb to most of the pleasurable sensation that one woman could draw out from another. Being intimate with another woman was, fortunately and unfortunately, something that got a whole lot easier with practice. She took the sucker out of her mouth with an audible pop and brought both hands down on the edge of the dryer, a nonchalant position for someone who was up to something mischievous. 

“Okay well, do you want to kiss a girl and have it count?” It was asked with the same tone as do you want ice with your drink or would you like supersize that? As though a yes would be met expectedly and free of judgement. Kissing women was extremely fun. For one, their lips were always soft, lacking the coarseness of unshaved stubble, the tightness of skin that hadn’t seen moisturizer since childhood. Most of the time, women smelled like walking perfume ads, addictive in very much the same sentiment those ads tried to convey. It was always easy to feel wanted when a woman’s lips were on yours – women had the game of seduction weaved into the pores of their DNA, their saliva a warm wetness that always felt placed with perfect precision. And the thing was, and being a woman of practice she could say this with full conviction, women knew how good it was to kiss them. 

Naomie raised the hand with the sucker and curled her index finger in Vi’s direction, the universal come here motion. “I’m kind of an expert, we can practice until you stop bumping into things at the mere thought of it. How does that sound?”

[bird0fprcy]

Vi knew before turning her head that Lexie would be smiling at her, beaming with an amount of amusement that made her innards calcify. Her stomach clenched, threatening to reject the creamy concoction with a splash of coffee she’d hoovered in an alcove behind the nearest gas station. She reluctantly cast a glance in her direction, misleadingly innocent and cheery, confirming her suspicions before returning to stacking and re-stacking the dwindling piles of brochure and community bulletin postings at the far end of the main desk. Some would need to be taped up in the window later. She thinks, harmlessly, of tape varieties and their components: plastics, adhesives, cardboard centres, metallic teeth. There were at least five dollar stores within a comfortable walking distance from the laundromat that stocked the stuff; something thin would be fine, like the sort used for wrapping gifts. Without the heat of summer to bleach and peel away signage, the postings could be kept in place until June at least. Pop. Tape dissolves, Lexie brought back to the forefront with primadonna precision. The sound seems particularly punctual, as much as part of Lexie’s speech pattern as a lisp or the way her voice had more timbre at GG’s than it did here. A tip of one of Vi’s fiddling fingers briefly snags at the corner of a pamphlet advertising the opening of a new video store a couple blocks away. “Obviously,” she grumbled, “but…” Any further explanation died in her throat, unable to articulate the immense list of why doing so was so impossible. Wanting was easy. The world spun on the basis of wants, but only spindled from the right people. The rest pricked their finger on the needle of curiosity and fell into a numb slumber, making it easier to exist with pieces missing. Lexie’s line of questioning had to have been purposefully torturous. Vi had been increasingly honest throughout their brunch crawls, albeit in bite-sized doses, about herself. Why she would never marry, never date, never take someone home for the holidays. Milestones were not for people like her, but she would rather be alone in the knowledge than put herself or another at risk of harsh ridicule. Lexie’s lips openly teased as kissable in contrast to these rules was a startling thought. It threatened to ignite a second wave of heat; a rod of anger extinguished by embarrassment, smoking tendrils hazing the edges of her vision. As if! Steeling her resolve to endure her coquettish mood unphased, with a deep tremulous breath, Vi decided to half-commit to entertaining the cruel game, uprighting her posture and walking back towards her. On her own volition. Not because some finger told her to. It was mostly a coincidence.

“You’re being mean,” she chided her, register light and affable; a warning so gentle it was more an embrace than any valid slap on the wrist. “Stop it. Are you so bored, is that it?” Madonna’s dulcet tones seemed to mock the tableau of them, polar opposites, like two cards pulled from different decks. Imbuing an impossible sensuality between the fluttering heart of Tenderheart Care Bear and candied Barbie. “I’ve got a bucket and mop with your name on it.”

[hxache]

Vi's talking and Lilura's eyes are narrowing. Suspicion's hard to shake, particularly when it's imbued in the air between the city's coroner and (perhaps) the city's most inquisitive citizen. It's woven through her veins, the art of cynical disbelief hammered into her very state of being. Trained to know the familiar detonation of a gaze lingering on her person even so much as a millisecond longer than innocence would imply; to be able to surgically discern the moment a glance became a gaze, and a gaze became a character study. Just as Lilura's had become of Genevieve—a green so piercing, so clear in their course to burn through a target with the molten heat of laser precision that little else existed around them.

Vi's starting to crumble under the weight of Lilura's undivided attention, and she picks her apart in her mind like a vulture scavenging a carcass a few hours past it's expiration. Applies ample pressure in the way a heel connects with timber, a punctuative clip of a stiletto, then another, closing the distance between them like a knot pulling taught. Tighter and tighter until they're close enough for her attention to shift.

Vi's still talking, recovering it sounds like, while Lilura's index finger reaches forward for the collected stack held in her arm. She discards the folios with the walk of her index and middle fingers through the pages—not her taste—and catches a title, then another—ugh, Stephen King—and the final, before they fall back in line into a neat little pile with the withdraw of her hand. Gives no remark, no hum of approval as Vi explains, apologises, and questions.

Silence is a powerful dagger and she uses it well. Twists the blade in the other's discomfort as seconds turn to minutes, and eyes rake down her figure, taking stock of the self-confessed shadow.

Her shirt has a collar. Her clothing bears a glimpse into the semblance of her personality; imaginative, curious, harmless, she decides. Impressionable, even, given her doe-eyed gaze and the faint hesitation woven through testimony. Her eyes travel the course back towards her face, paying attention to sharp features, full lips, high cheekbones, a youthful glean to her eye that's more than just a fleeting moment of innocence. It's raw, lingering, giving away that she is young and impressionable. Seems like the defaultively optimistic type—an if all else fails, tomorrow's a new day type. Places her in her early twenties, given the general lack of subtlety to her amateur-hour approach to reconnaissance. She doesn't like that type very much. Redeems herself by the simple fact that she isn't cowering under heightened pressure and speaks with an honest conscience. Filters her thoughts mid-sentence, sure, but carries herself well enough.

How curious, she thinks.

It's enough to keep her interest.

I'm a total nobody, she'd said, and Lilura took the liberty to pry the bear trap open with a little jab. "You're kidding. You're not a regular Nancy Drew?" It's unintentionally pricklier, eyes pulsing wide to compliment the stresses in phrasing, when she was aiming for something gentler than her delivery. "If you're planning on following people without their knowledge, there's a career path for that. Make a living off your... curiosity," as she'd put it.

There are a few beats of silence before she decides she wants to unpack a passing comment. Discern what a total nobody might think of her before she'd played her hand as someone who doesn't make a habit of friendly conversation. It's been a long while since someone had ventured their first impression of her.

"Looking like what, love?" She finally asks. Formal? Professional? In a tax bracket worlds above the cramped, dark chaos of a bookstore on the fringe of bankruptcy?

She's on her lunch break. Her trousers are double-pleated down the front, a white blouse tucked into the waistband, a blazer over top, aware she's out of place but not out of her depth. She doesn't make habits of taking trips to establishments outside of her usual haunts in broad daylight and she's got all of fifteen minutes before she calls it a day and drives back to the office, anyway. There's a bag under her arm, small, the embossed monogram hidden under the tuck of her tricep, despite the golden hardware and it's square, boxy shape iconic in its silhouette alone. Arms are folding over her chest, keys to her car still clutched tight in her right palm.

"Read me, Nancy," she dares the girl, a test of her mettle born out of Lilura's own morbid curiosity more than anything.

[bird0fprcy]

Lilura’s eyes are portals Vi drowns in before she learns to swim. The facets which define her accumulate slowly, carving refractions out of a body and mind set in solid stone: her unyielding proximity speaking volumes, vibrating down every silky string that webs over the silence the black widow has cornered Vi in. The woman is attentive beyond the surveying spotlight of her eyes, it feels that even her pores are eating Vi alive. Processing at such a rate that she is nothing more an experimental substance shrunk beneath a microscope; to be pulverised by volatile compounds too subtle to detect by anyone not directly subjected. Radiation invisible to the naked eye, but gleaning Vi of information down to the composition of her bones. The unsettling consequence of getting too close and caught, stripped of all possible ruses and casings until only vulnerable soft spots remained. Without a single word volunteered to announce Vi’s shortcomings and strengths, she knew she could be read as easily as the spines of the browsed books she fingered through.

Nancy Drew brought her lips into a stressed purse, racking her memory for what the character represented beyond girlish drama. She believed herself far removed from the likes of a detective or sleuth, she merely fed the ravenous beast of her curiosity generous helpings throughout the day or week. Just because. Benefiting from the missteps of others, moving in silence. Usually. The idea of structuring every wayward urge around the framework of a business model was both intriguing and intimidating. Was the suggestion a taunt, facetious, or genuine? Caught off guard by the comment, Vi focused on settling her attention on Lilura without flinching. If the alternative was to fumble through some mediocre excuse and bring about a level of soul puncturing scorn that would surely land two matching lethal blows to Vi's dignity and ego, doomed to never be recovered from so long as she could think, it felt suddenly pertinent to obey to the best of her ability. If Vi was to own up to her honesty’s transparent slip of tongue, invited to make the same error twice, then she would make the judgement worth it. Rising to the challenge, her dark brown eyes weigh each perceptible aspect of the aesthetic tells in front of her, attempting to dissect the charge behind each attribute. To handle and unscrew each part rather than be devoured by the sum of the woman's cunning mechanics. How every sharp ending was the result of a foundational interweave of habits and informative experiences: meticulously creating a disposition that was rich in power, not coincidence. In this narrative, things did not happen to Lilura— she made them happen. Although Vi could not easily pinpoint what profession wound her with such discipline, there were hypothetical vocations she suited by demeanour indicators alone. Both skin and fabric, flawless sheaths fit for a femme fatale. Sleek covers for someone too deliberately positioned to have been born into the Vegas grime. Too stable and steady on her feet to be without a weapon and contingency plan to diffuse the oppressive American values upheld toward the limited roles women were eligible for. A noticeability multiplied tenfold in a state so dull, where fame-chasing pyrite attracted so much hoopla that gold took longer to register before it slipped out of reach and left behind a deeper thirst. Vi inhales motivation, tastes the stale air tinged by old parchment, ironing starch, and risk. “Like a million bucks in the middle of a desert,” she lets go in elaboration, a measured cadence despite the pressure to deliver, relaying her collection of observations and deductions as if each statement were pulled from one of the many inscribed dedications. Read me. “Obviously you can’t help how you naturally look, but it’s like you’ve unlocked your DNA to work for you. Your eyes don’t wander with insecurity, your complexion glows with health, your movements are sharp, and you listen with your whole body. No direction goes wasted… you don’t even say filler words. You can’t afford to waste time because your time is an expensive commodity to be earned. Your company is valuable, priceless, unique.” Pausing only to replenish the fuel of air needed to colour each sentiment, Vi does not stop until she finishes purposefully recounting every retraced mark of her individual pages aloud, afraid that once dammed the flood will clog and slow to a pathetic trickle. “You’re polished, you like taking care of yourself. You care about how others perceive you, or you care about power. Or both, because perception is power. Even if you’re not at the top of your game, no-one’s gonna know. They’ll see tailored clothes and cleansed skin and think to themselves, 'that’s not a woman out of control'. It’s commanding and you know it. Your confidence is intentional, separating you from being forgotten. You’re more observant than normal, too, like you’re used to being followed or having mistakes used against you. You can’t afford any misstep. You’re secretive, protecting something– someone. You. You are your own most precious jewel.”

[nxnbinarydracvla]

Genevieve looked out of her element — then again, maybe any change of scenery that he invited her to since they had escalated their acquaintanceship to a manner of casual friendship was like throwing the fish out of water and watching its gills gasp for oxygen — he didn't toy any sadistic pleasure out of it that his otherworldly nature would suggest. Contrarily, he was a smidge fascinated how out of the ordinary that his... tentative new friend was. Outside of the humdrum of machines whirring and coins rushing to the bottom of their slide in the laundromat, she appeared consumed by the barrage of sights and sounds. He had to wonder how someone like that tolerated living in Las Vegas, of all places; for him, raised under the mentality of don't stop until you drop, the city running on an consistent engine as much as he was ( when he hadn't been rendered immobilized and impossibly heavy under the dregs of sweet heroin ) aided and abetted drowning out how overwhelming his own thoughts could be. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you've never been invited to a college house party, 'cause this is about the watered-down version of that." ( And if she asked what he had gone to college for next, he could lie through his teeth like he was as average as his peers, and that said house parties didn't lapse with his descent into empty pockets and sleeping beneath underpasses and catching free showers at the gym, instead of attending and walking across the stage when he was already thirty. ) "Are you good?"

They stared each other down for a pregnant pause ( every pun intended, ) slow-blinking like cats exchanging signage of friendship, and then the corner of his mouth quirked downward, lines appearing between his brow and minutely lifting the onesie in silent question. "...These?" ( Cyrek couldn't blame her. He didn't know anyone else his age, or younger, having a baby — with the exception of Reina, and she was his sister — and in fact, most of them were dead or... a complex subcategory of that. Or banging everyone with no strings attached. ) "I don't believe in Jesus Christ, but if I did, I think I'd make a mean spin on it myself," he quipped then, entertaining the idea as his inner vocalist thrived on a good challenge as much as the next person, and he found himself grinning, "Stella's worried the baby will come out with no butthole but I don't think that's the same thing. I'd be worried if it didn't 'cause I think those ten missin' cupcakes belong to her stomach now." What if there's twins in there, or more than twins? Mismatched eyes meandered toward his wife, and this time, he was the picturesque of high school photos, teeth clenched together inauthentically and teetering shy of cracking one of the chipped incisors. "...Please tell me you're havin' a laugh. I've been worried she looks real big for one, but she was kinda a stick bug before."

He froze in place, eyes jumping back to the table in search of the ponies and rainbows and... "Did you say Teletubbies?" Anything remotely resembling Barney and Friends was enough of a bad time when he was stoned. Rubbing his eyes when he located it in the pile, a disarray of rainbow puke on a onesie, he rubbed his eyes with a closed fist, doubling back on the sight. "Maybe I was tryin' not to see the bloody Teletubbies 'cause the last time I saw that sun after smokin' a bowl, I had a dream I was bein' chased by it."

[bird0fprcy]

Vi’s gaze roamed the room again, equipped with his comparison, trying to imagine the setting with a collegiate cast. A scene decorated with more alcohol, less lighting; more grinding, less cordial conversations; more trashy debris and crumbs, less sobriety and courteous gifts given. That infamous red Solo Cup moniker toted in every hand or left abandoned and semi-crushed, branding condensation rings upon every surface. Mystery cocktails, keg stands, discordant chants of chug chug chug. The music, grungier and manned by an amateur DJ playing for free pizza with a side of attention from girls. The cupcakes and games fit both universes, although decidedly pure of heart and intent in this world rather than spiked with any party substances. If there was a set of sliding doors leading out to a pool deck, surely someone and the household dog – or rabbit – would end up falling into it before the night closed out. Her information stemmed primarily from movies and television, but the contrast between the party styles executed by adults in their 20s versus 30s was amusing to superimpose.

“Yup, never did the college thing. This feels like a lot of buggin' out for a guest who isn’t even here, that's all I'm sayin'.” Not quite a birthday party, not quite an anniversary. The celebration of an anticipated life was one of those social constructs she doubted she would ever fully comprehend, as someone never expecting to follow in Stella’s waddling footsteps. Motherhood was a concept: something to observe and support others through, rather than participate in herself. “I guess I just don’t fully get why it’s called a baby shower, when it’s really for mom and dad. Is it because this is the last time you’ll be clean before the rugrat’s pissing and shitting all over you?” A smirk crossed her lips, knowing it was far too late to warn against parenthood when other children already occupied the space. But something about babies felt like a whole other beast. She found it nearly impossible to imagine Cyrek as a baby, someone helpless and soft around the edges. Imagining him caring for something so fragile painted an incongruously gentle picture. If she hadn't known them beyond surface level impressions, she never would have pinned the pair for being so family-oriented. “Okay, nevermind, now that sounds like you have a bigger problem than both combined. Like, maybe it’ll come out as a baked good. There’s enough flour and sugar in there to bake a layer cake, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a literal bun in there.” Lingering smirk growing into a grin, her eyes easily found Stella across the room. The woman disproportionally embodied pregnancy like most slender women did: every time she stood facing the opposite direction, it was inconceivable to think she was with child until she turned sideways and betrayed the extended curve of her stomach. Vi returned to the pile of onesies, rolling her eyes at his distress. “Sorry you hate the joys of colour and puppetry,” she chided, unwilling to redo or improve upon the questionable masterpiece in question. “Consider this exposure therapy. If you can love Cyrella Junior in this, you’ll love ‘em unconditionally forever."

[outlcws]

Attention and time seemed to evade him in the Tattooine building — art was an elusive mistress that demanded to entrance the people who did its bidding, and he was no match against it. The time that elapsed between clientele was lost to his sketchbooks, a revolving door of designs and ideas to put out when he wasn't explicitly commissioned to create something unique. Throughout the time that Genevieve had spent idling like an animatronic that had lost its purpose in the cursed realm of a Chuck E. Cheese, he had done exactly that, until she had trounced into the cubicle that belonged to him, and the blinking light in the doorway muffled the startle of her presence. Grey hues immediately fixated on the harrowing damages, his stomach doing a flip — Atticus wasn't squeamish to blood, it was the memories that were paired with it, and he cleared his throat audibly. He had seen worse in his time tattooing, and as a human being. When he was twenty-two, his brother's foster sibling shot himself in the head and the mortician didn't do a good job at piecing him back together again. The lunch in his stomach didn't agree with that reminder. "I don't think you've ruined the piece, but the ink might run and it would require a little more care in touching up," he told her, after peeling back the square and replacing it with another bandage.

Her musings about what was apparently a sad excuse for an apartment tickled his humor, somewhere deep, although his expression maintained its stolid freeze. Genevieve's focus palpably diverted elsewhere, into the recesses of her mind where he could not follow — Atticus could argue that he understood that too well, too intimately. Except his own thoughts were a disconnected puzzle that were hardly sensible, on the worst of his days, and bordered on driving him insane. He was lucky that, throughout the afternoon, he didn't have to kick underneath the desk to reassure himself there wasn't a crow there that was fiending after snapping off his toes. Visual hallucinations had sort of stagnated since the doctors found the right medications to placate him, tactile ones dissipated entirely unless he was off-kilter, but the whimsical and phantasmic voices were a chorus line he couldn't always shake. "...You have nothing on your walls whatsoever? Sacrebleu." The thought was practically blasphemous.

Inhaling, after he applied a little extra salve to the bandage and slapped it back on, gently, he leaned back in the chair, wheels locked underneath him to prevent him from backsliding and taking more of the smattered ink out with it. At times, he worried one tug of loose skin would unravel Genevieve Langford altogether. "A mural? It depends on the medium. For a tattoo, it would take several sessions... For your walls... I'd prefer to paint directly onto them, without a canvas, but my physical work is usually watercolor." Pottery was his preference if he was using his hands to craft something that was not hewn to the skin of another human being. "You could create a mural on your back. You have enough space to pull the piece off, I believe."

[bird0fprcy]

Vi kept her attention carefully angled upwards, the bridge of her nose wrinkling. Being clumsy was unpleasant enough without having to own up to the fallout, the results of a critical imbalance witnessed. She much preferred to entertain the safe surface layer of their conversation, amusement distracting her from any guilt or discomfort. Rewarded by his reaction, Vi shook her head. “Nope. Just pure unfiltered ugly. Are you a popcorn ceiling hater too? 'Cause that's about all the height of style and creativity any room's got going on." There was truly no benefit to the status of her empty walls, either too bright in the summer sun’s reflection or depressingly stark in the haze of winter. Having a random assortment of decorative shapes and subjects applied to the surface would potentially cause other problems in the middle of the night, moving on their own accord under the surveillance of sleepless eyes. Still, the pros far outweighed the cons.

“Hmm,” she hummed aloud, envisioning possible imagery upon two different canvases. Skin and stone, interchanging. The portability of alternative options held more appeal than something being forever fixed, although in the grand scheme of things it mattered little. If she ever moved or got kicked out, she’d start from scratch and let her property manager deal with her forbidden embellishments to the space. Time and money were equally expendable assets Vi harboured no qualms towards. Her patience, on the other hand, already ached in protest at the idea of physically taking on such a project. “So maybe we start with one, then move on to the other. Whatever’s the largest canvas that's easiest to work on without becoming a mural… let's do that. Then maybe one day I can match with it...” She flexed her fingers and folded her arms carefully across her chest, resting hands mindful to keep clear of the injury site. “I'm so down, but it's also major. Like, what if one day I wake up and have a completely new idea for it halfway through? I'm gonna become your least favourite client, dude.”

[casquettes]

The gregarious smile didn't drop from his features — practiced and perfected from the time he could walk in Madame Irene's circus. In many ways, he was the ultimate performer and customer service assistant — he could become a social chameleon to tailor him to any situation that required selling himself by appearance and with his words, but he lacked the manipulation to serve him as a successful and cunning car salesperson. Throughout his life, he had the honor of meetings hundreds of people, and remembering every single one with the blessing and curse of a sharp memory thanks to his hyperthymesia. The only blanks he had were within the days preceding his accident, and about a month after when his brain was as good at the consistency of gelatin molds served in plastic cups to his hospital bed. Thus, when the woman inched closer and separated herself from the throng of the crowd, there was a gravitational pull of his memories sifting through one another — even the cadence of her voice came as the comforting lull of a diving bell. So long ago was the reach of his memory, however, he didn't want to scare her away by lurching from the giveaway to an unwitting reunion of do you remember me?

Dustin settled for easing into it, testing the waters of whether she would recall it on her own, and the host still had a job to maintain. Muddy brown eyes sparkled, suggesting, "I don't think ticket giveaways come with a win-win, but I'll give 'em to you for the best three out of five you've got. Sound good to you?" Jingling the index cards conveniently looped onto a keyring to pack around until his job was done for the evening, he added, "Couple of questions first. Name and what you do for a livin' under the big bright lights here in Vegas? Or are you from outta town?" Professional courtesy like they'd ask of any listener phoning in for a giveaway, with the microphone hugging the collar of his shirt, and he flipped the cards that he was holding in his hand. A gust of wind blew northbound and sent him huddling further into the recesses of his thick sweater, a spider crawling around a thick web of vermillion strings. The fulgurous lights overhead screaming out the LIVE TONIGHT ONLY, ALICE IN CHAINS bathed the pair in a golden shimmer.

"Alright, alright, first question," the keyring spun around Dustin's index finger, a lazy rhythm that needed no encouragement by the crooked digits, "What's the name of the famous singer who broke into acting, nicknamed Old Blue Eyes?" A little silver lining of irony and sarcasm playing to their favor this evening in the form of a musician dropped out of the sky, known among many for getting into bed with crime in the likes of the big city they were standing in — old Frank was rumored to have a penthouse haunt somewhere in the Riviera Casino and cash in on fame with partying and women, and it would probably come as a surprise to literally no one if it turned out he had ties with the Vitellis. Mobs were one of the worst-kept secrets on the streets of Vegas, after all. "And if you lose this one, I don't think the big city's a real good place for you, I gotta admit."

[bird0fprcy]

Mathematics may never have been Vi’s strongest suit, but three out of five odds felt favourable enough to warrant the risk of making a fool of herself. At the very least, his proposal promised better outcomes than the bottomless greed of casino slot machines and tables. Fortunately there remained a missing link between Vi and a full-blown gambling addiction, a lack of complete understanding and rules retention stripping the hobby of the temptation required to become a problem. Money was not an object she chased as readily as most, but had her life dealt different cards she might have been the perfect case to fall into debt for her willingness to blindly trust. Easily able to be appealed to, gathering a galore of side-quests. The fact that she was far from a concert goer, barely able to think or hear above boosted bass surroundings, yet rewarded his task with unquestionable consideration, prepared to wholeheartedly make an attempt as if worthy to qualify as a diehard fanatic. “Alright, alright,” she agreed, a verbal signature on the dotted line of his engagement. Despite the lack of obligation, every aspect of him felt less seedy than the usual streetside proposition, more human, and a sense of duty grounded her limbs. “I’m Vi, I work at a laundromat. Technically from outta town, but I moved here… I wanna say, like, a decade ago? Maybe more. Before Siegfried & Roy, but after Tina Turner.” An intrigued smile played on her lips at the thought, pop culture milestones evidently more valuable than calendar dates at quantifying her present orientation. In the evaporation left behind by specific numbers, the striking tour poster imagery stuck with her: iconic late 80s-early 90s hair that defied gravity with pipes to match. Tigers, for some reason. Or maybe it had been a lion? Both had created such a social hubbub, the laundromat had had to turn away many a sequinned leotard according to dry clean only recommendations. Her brow furrowed with thought, letting his prompt wander her mind. Old Blue Eyes ran a similar course to her attachment to any iconography, impressionable wardrobe styles informing the floating head the title best belonged to. Unfortunately, two distinctive men with piercing ice for eyes sprung to mind, both beloved by Vegas and a fixture of tourist trinkets. Their likeness haunted the Vegas strip like ghosts, cultural legacies setting the bar for fame. Vi could see it now, the oversized commemorative t-shirts, dazzling white teeth, sky-blue features– one with a deep ‘V’ down his chest, fabric bedazzled, the other in a suit dapper enough to deem him academy ready. There was infamy about womanisers like that, reputations which preceded them and kept them circulating in conversation: one marketed towards screaming teenage girls, the other classy and sophisticated, living a sinful lifestyle with covetable company.  Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away! The repetitious hook was as common as cigarette smoke. Impersonators would pitchily harass passerbys with it, including Vi on her way to work, crooning their own versions of that earworm of a tune that echoed on TV, airlines advertised as romantic and adventurous rather than acrophobic deathtraps. “Sinatra?”

[theh4mmer]

The best tool that an agent could have out on the field, one that was sharpened with experience and exposure, was the ability to detect bullshit. People loved to lie to the police. It was one of America’s favourite pastimes, up there with watching 90210 every Wednesday at 8pm to see if Naomi finally got together with Austin, or driving tractors drunk on the interstate so you could go cow tipping.  Quinn watched, straight face, as the laundromat attendant answered her question with more information than had been asked. Despite the inaccuracies in her statement, Quinn didn’t get the sense that she was bullshitting, something very earnest in her presentation of facts. 

Except that Quinn knew a phone call had been made from this laundromat. She had a recording of it on a cassette in her pocket, but the person had been whispering and it was hard to tell if it had been the woman in front of her. Vi, the pizza pocket sauce stained nametag read. Quinn leaned an arm against the counter, dug into her pant pocket and pulled out the wallet which contained her badge and her ID. “Absolutely you can.” She held it up and opened it so that Vi could see, and gave her a polite smile. 

“Now, can I see those tapes?” The camera’s angle looked promising. Quinn shoved her badge back into her pocket. “I’m sure it’s as simple as someone using it while you were in the backroom. You get any regulars around that time? If I played you the recording, do you think you might be able to identify the voice on the other end?”

[bird0fprcy]

Vi’s eyeline wandered from the badge to the ID card embedded in the leather above, helping herself to bonus content. Quinn Correa. The item looked just like the props from NYPD Blue or Law & Order. In the pocket of time VI was permitted to look upon the golden object, one hand darted out to flick her nail against it; differentiating plastic from metal the only form of validation she could think of to test its legitimacy. A transactional open sesame card had been played, debugging any hidden boulders or poison dart traps. “Coolies, sure thing. Come see what's behind Door #3...” Further progress easily granted, Vi spun on the balls of her feet and headed for the tiny supply closet tucked in the short expanse of corridor bridging the back of the laundromat with the front, pushing the accordion door open to collect at one side. It stiffly sprung back into place at least twice before she wedged her foot at the base to keep it folded in place. “Sorry about the dust, 'Tec. No-one really goes in here, like, ever. We don’t really care who comes or goes and normally fuzzies looks the other way, too.” Vi side-eyes her targeted subject, skimming Quinn from head-to-toe without the obstruction of the desk severing her in half. A quiet sigh possesses her lungs, caving at the back of her mouth, wistful and with remorse. Against her usual impulse to waffle through an exchange with anyone official, she'd been infected by a diametrically opposed instinct: a desperate wanting to be of use and not inconvenience her. With each direct question that could only be opaquely rewarded, Vi could feel the finite sands of their interaction slipping too quickly past. “I can’t remember off the top of my head, but it wouldn’t really matter. We get a lot of business, lotta turnover… so I can give it a listen if you wanna have something to complement the footage, but I’m not gonna know. Part of working here is not profiling people.” Tucked inside the closet, the three shelving levels had been repurposed to house a small surveillance center, nested amongst a borderline hazardous amount of fishtailing wires. A 13” bedazzled TV unit, VHS player, several stacks of small VHS-C tapes, a mechanical cassette adapter, and spiral notebook. Vi scanned down the side of the pile of compact tapes with a single finger before she found the correct date and time insert. She pried open its case and popped it into the adapter, feeding the chunky brick into the mouth of the player until the screen filled with bright blue, then bands of salt and pepper static. “Here,” she tossed the TV remote towards Quinn as she spoke, too impatient to sift through the 3-hour recording herself. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

[hxache]

"Cracka-lack'n?" He can't help the smile; it's coy at first, like he's trying to spare both of their feelings by pretending he's heard someone usher those words in a similar greeting before. Maybe on a late-night re-run, when he's staring at the television set red-eyed and out-of-bodied while a jack-russell-terrier lives vicariously through famous fiction. "Yeah, awright," he responds, the rest of her phrase a faint murmur in the vignette of sight and sound. Replaced with a highlights reel of his favourite episodes. The smile pulls wider, a full-blown grin to mirror her own, as the dog in question pulls his concentration away—where for art thou, Rosie?—until she commands it right back again.

Hear me out, she says.

"Listenin'," he responds, a reflex more than a truth most days.

His eyes focus back in on her, arms folding over his chest, head ducking just in the slightest to match the tentative twist of his neck, the faint redirect of his chin to his right shoulder and his left ear towards her lips. Something about her tone makes him think she's got a proposal of mischievous proportions, and he's practicing active listening at it's absolute finest; knitted brows, narrowed eyes, a gentle series of nods. A silent go on, then.

For the first time in a long time, Wyatt's met someone else who talks in riddles. She matches his nonsense, and that's really all it takes.

There's an odd kind of warmth she brings him; a playfulness that matches his own, and there's that beaming, stupid grin again. The kind that softens the corners of his eyes, makes him breathe out a laugh or two that jostles his shoulders when she's trying to gauge his interest. He's a little obtuse, that's no secret, but makes up for it in the way he takes her words and pieces them together like a puzzle for a fucking toddler. Pairs them with her demeanour, her body language, her mannerisms, and comes out with a single-sentenced, poorly thought-through, consequences-be-damned agreement.

"Soundin' like that's got my name all ov'r it." It's final and firm and too fucking cheeky as he follows through; his head jerks towards the lobby's entrance—some shitty, heavy wooden door held open by a shittier, splitting door-stopper. "Go on, then."

He's standing in front of the van's sliding door, shoving a key into the lock and jostling it with a force that says he hates his fucking job until it slides open with a hefty, hearty shove-and-push motion. There's a driver's seat and steering wheel a complimentary charcoal gray, thanks to the sun's magnificent rays and Wyatt's general lack of care to put up a shade on the windscreen in the blistering desert summers. There's rows of shelving aluminium lining the sides of the van, bins and pockets both overhead and at foot height for envelopes and the occasional package that makes it to it's destination on time but doesn't have a person on site to accept and sign. It's painfully clear that a little forethought, maybe even a millisecond of critical thinking, would've served the pair of them well.

The van's not equipped for passengers.

He casts his eyes down at her, his head tilting to follow through, with an earnestness to his tone. "How's your balance, twenny-six?"

[bird0fprcy]

What were the odds of Wyatt accepting her proposal? Going into it, Vi had estimated her success rate sat at a modest 99.5-100% likelihood of falling in her favour. The back up plan would have simply entailed asking again, just sweetening the deal with some form of bribery or bargaining. Something men typically liked – beer, food, sports, Old Spice, Calvin Klein…? Regardless, she was most relieved her initial suspicion was proven correct and a fumbled shot at the target did not require her to be sent into a tail spin and rely on further improvisation. With a faint gasp and a thrilled clap of her hands together, it was the most pleased she'd been since mixing a batch of uniform whites with showgirl reds and sent a security officer home with re-invented pink wardrobe. Having it affirmed was all she needed, the apples of both her cheeks full with the broad grin she answered with, "Schweet!" To be freed of the lobby’s stale air was an overdue mercy; so accustomed to the cramped space after hours stewing in place, the change in air quality and light was momentarily stunning.

Where Wyatt's motions where tarnished by the act's repetition, solely heave-ho with zero fanfare, Vi took to the mundane scene with the reverence of a grand opening event. She stood at rapt attention, patiently withheld, interlocking her fingers together in front of her body as he unlocked the mythical vehicle. Never had she ever explored the insides of one, beyond the occasional glimpse stolen walking by. She had propped the postal van on a pedestal of her own design, purely because it was kept out of bound so often. Mail, like international contraband, always hidden behind closed doors, uniforms, signatures, and confidentiality. It all seemed so organised and chaotic at the same time, evoking the same impossible gravity and stack-ability of a Dr. Suess illustration. If not for the expectations of the delivery business to fall between sunrise and dusk, she might have switched careers. “You ever go postal?” Vi asked, letting the thwack of the door punctuate the question, tone and expression equally warmed by genuine mirth at the phrase being both literal and figurative. Few could understand her like Wyatt did. “Like, lose your mental to the stress of it all? Or is it cool beans and a bag of chips all the time?” Stepping cautiously forwards to experience her first uninterrupted inspection of the van, Vi assesses the interior as if he had decoded a bank vault of gold and precious gems and finally let the thick bulletproof door swing wide. Her scan isn’t comprehensive or all that discerning, because, much like safety deposit box gold or heirlooms, she understands the gist of what’s in there is invaluable without much study: other people’s shit and instructions on where other people’s shit went. A map of possibilities, divided into hundreds of pieces. “Balance, easy peasy. Just don’t ask me to mosey on any tightropes or fire moat bridges,” she declares, temporarily pragmatic, comic effect more incidental than deliberate, “I feel like the loaded peeps up by the Country Club would legit have that.” The chance was slim, but never zero.

Careless and thoughtless of any other aspect of failure being a possibility, operating on an increasingly outdated fuck around and find out system, Vi doesn’t hesitate a moment more before hoisting herself up into the cramped space. Her feet quickly find solid floor to anchor in, dodging the clutter of dull package corners, fingertips collecting as much tactile data as she can skim them across. Cardboard, paper, tape, dust, stamps, ink. When she pulled her hand back, a thin layer of grime coats them, not unlike the powdery residue newspapers left behind. “What’s the hardest part of this job? Any place or person give you the heebie-jeebies?” Dark eyes agleam with unfiltered fascination, a follow-up demand rests behind her teeth like an after-dinner mint: a request to go visit there immediately.

[wastlngaway]

There was a certain unplaceable charm in the immediate agreement of committing a theft (or was it an abduction? lobster abduction?) or whatever, some sort of rescue, that Naomie fell under. A charm that faded into borderline concern at the laundry list of waffle toppings rattled off with and, on top of that, also that sounded like the waffles were actually a side dish to whatever concoction Vi was putting together with every ingredient in the kitchen. The sigh of relief was not missed from the waiter when he turned to Naomie to ask her what she wanted and she answered with the simplest regurgitation of the meal title pulled directly from the menu –no additions, no take-aways. It was refreshing, in a way, that Vi seemed to know exactly what she wanted and had no problem asking for it. So why was she so nervous around women? It was something she filed away for later, one of the many layers that made the woman in front of her into someone complex, someone Naomie wanted to get to know with genuine sincerity.

Naomie sipped on the juice in front of her, listened to Vi’s explain something that echoed in the inherent need to understand why humans behaved the way they did, who they were at their core, a similar train of thought Naomie often had on the laps of men whose smell, clothing, scars, looks, and touches, explained so much about who they were underneath the desperate need for physical attention. She raised an eyebrow at Vi, placed her drink back down. “You mean… your GED?” Naomie quickly followed up with, “Not that I’m judging you at all, would be funny coming from me. I never…” Despite the drink she’d just taken, her mouth felt a bit dry all of a sudden. A sigh of honesty crossed her lips, resolved to allow herself this moment of letting someone know her exactly as she was, especially if she expected the same from Vi. “I never finished high school, or got my GED. I keep thinking maybe I will, and then… you know,” She waved her hand around in the air like that would explain anything, “Life, or whatever."

Her fingers found the base of the glass of juice, eyes cast down towards the maroon liquid in the cup. She felt the willpower to express the difficulties of that question with a smile and the click of her tongue. “Because,” she said, almost teasing, “I didn’t get my GED.” A shrug and she leaned back into her chair. “There are very few things that will sell quite as well as sex appeal, in my experience. It’s been just my dad and I, for a long time, and he’s on… well it’s complicated, but he’s on vetcomp and can’t work and I… possess very few skills that make me employable.” Naomie looked at Vi then, that charm of wanting to be known as she was tugging the words from the depth of her chest. “At first though I… I guess not really at first, but once I got into it, I guess I thought that then I could control how I was wanted. Like it was okay I guess, because I was the one giving it? You know? Maybe I,” She exhaled, “maybe I sound crazy but I think when I look at sex work, I think it’s the only thing in my life that goes exactly the way I think it will every single time. And sure, sometimes I feel like a lobster in a diner. But I never give anything that hasn’t already been taken, I mean fuck, the world is going to take it from me anyway. Does that… does that sound crazy?” A pause, then she added, "also I think I just love performing, always have."

[bird0fprcy]

Vi reached for her remaining army of ceramic and glassware, lifting the untouched coffee at the frontlines to her lips. She denied her distaste for the tar-coloured liquid in favour of supplying her mouth with a task other than speaking without thought. “To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” she muttered into the lukewarm vessel, mildly chagrined by her misspeak but determined to let it be glossed over and keep the spotlight aimed elsewhere. Academia had been a means to an end, no long term career motivating her post-graduation. Moving to Nevada had been her tertiary education, Vegas full of teachers that would not stand a chance at employment around trends on the cusp of full-fledged unsupervised adulthood. “Fuck ‘em,” she mumbled, lips moving before consulting anything higher up yet again. Her expression openly recalibrated itself, a goldfish on a tricycle. Mouth open, mouth closed. It wasn’t a jab, not intentionally, but every word and microexpression she felt herself offer took conscious effort not to unpack until only crust remained. That anything fuckable be misconstrued as a sex joke was the furthest thought from her mind. “Not… not literally, obviously, not that that’s… that would be… like, just– what the hell is with the cookiecutter path shit, y’know? No-one’s greater or less than anyone just ‘cause of some spiffy papers.” Another gulp of coffee. What was some more strain on pre-existing antsy nerves?

Mercifully, there was genuine cause to purely listen. A slight intermittent nod moved Vi’s encouragingly head in between pauses to breathe, Lexie’s explanation bestowing her with a more honest account than she must have expected. Though she tried not to personalise the bias, it was difficult not to fall into the hegemonic prejudices held towards sex workers rather than the larger imbalanced system it reflected. The 70s had been forgiving for drug use, the 80s had been sexually liberating, and the 90s fought to define the difference between propriety and wickedness – what was empowering versus unethical. Young girls received the brunt of double standards, that much Vi understood even without the misfortune of enduring her youth during the modern era. It was a line of work Lexie had fell in stride with out of necessity, then made her own. The picture was larger than fathers, high schools, and sexuality put together. No one person or event was to blame when the roots of it were laid decades in advance, giving women as a generation predetermined reputations and status symbols no matter their station. Lexie could have been a Queen or court entertainer and still forced to bend to the wills what others defined as possible. There was power there, limited as it was, as much as there was loss. Lexie walked a tightrope of control and surrender, the mentality she chose going into it weighing more than Vi expected it to. The extended lobster metaphor stung on second swing, not with humour but with a yearning to finally expel it. “It’s not crazy,” she replied softly, “I wish it wasn’t so… whack,” the briefest of cringes, unable to utilise a stronger vocabulary, “but I get it. The taking of it all, that’s literally all that is constant. It’s bad enough not getting paid for it… but it’s not fair that you don’t get to get more out of being what everyone bends over backwards for. You should be headlining in one of the arenas, one of Michael Jackson’s backup dancers or something. You’re a great performer…” The compliment is genuine, warm towards Lexie's embodied flair on any night out and just as susceptible to her pull, but cool in its directness; an empty space for circumstances beyond their control. “But here? You must have to carry so much. That's major. You’re very brave.”

[inesxl]

the thought of being a regular at a laundromat was laughable, to say the least. really, the only reason why inés had bothered to stop by and have her shirt cleaned up was that her hunger had not been as satiated as she had hoped it would be. dinner had been messy — oh, and now inés was reminded of the current state of her pants.

dark, concealing the blood it had suffered under inés' impatience, and still, utterly, damp.

she could take it off in front of genevieve, make the blood in her veins pump faster for an easy meal, but for once, inés chose mercy over greed — mostly out of necessity. she took a step forward, closing the gap between their bodies even more until she was guiding her to the wall behind her. she lifted a lone finger to her left chest, just above her heart, and pressed lightly. there she felt the strong drumming of her heart against her ribcage, and inés couldn't keep a satisfied smile from tugging on her lips. if genevieve's heart beat faster than it already was, it would simply be counterproductive, and inés had always preferred her meals conscious and delicious.

"viv." she trailed that same finger up a prominent clavicle, briefly lingering as it dipped into the hollow at the base of her neck, before continuing up the slender curve of her neck, tracing a line where the jugular vein would be.

genevieve was warm, ripe for the picking, and so, so clueless.

"no one has ever described me using those words before," she said with a short, quiet laugh, digging a blunt fingernail — freshly clipped — into her pulse point. she relished the feeling of it against her flesh and, in that same space, felt her fangs begin to retreat from her gums. "you may call me inés" — a slight push to better expose genevieve's neck, making the jugular vein press harder against her thin skin. "and if you taste better than i expect, i might just become a regular, sweetheart. can i get a little taste?"

[bird0fprcy]

The wall is firm and cool against her back, cutting through the fabric of her shirt as if it provided no boundary at all. She leans back into it, seeking support and begging her knees not to buckle and steal away the moment. The faint intermingling scents of iron, petrichor, and detergent floods the room, drowning her senses. Vi’s hitched breath chokes within her throat, on her exhale or inhale, it was too difficult to tell – only that breathing became a task she had to devote focus to commanding. Eyes guided by the movement of her company’s finger, she could hear her heartbeat swelling in her eardrums as if in reply. Steady, heavy, beats. Out of her control entirely, she attempts to force her lungs to cooperate and reduce the heat she can feel rushing to the surface left behind trailing fingertips, nails like live wires, conducting a current Vi wholeheartedly submits to. “Inés…” she repeats the new name aloud, tasting it on her tongue, memorising how the tone feels vibrating in her throat. Staring up at her, ‘might’ floats like a sweet melody into Vi's ears, even the slightest potential of her abysmal future having Inés in it enough to satisfy the way an incorrigible curiosity yearns between her ribs like a second heartbeat. Any potential courtesy filler phrases (pleasure to meet you) are electrified between misfiring synapses before she has a chance to waste her voice on such, her attention fully absorbed by their proximity and the question Inés follows with. Her lips part, taken aback by the forward approach and yet no less inclined to accept. It's as if the decision had been made for her, ancient and inevitable. Hell, she’d tear herself apart just to make it easier for Inés to paw through her favourite pieces. “Yes,” she whispers, “o-of course." Nerves eclipse the fraying fringes of her determination, realising then she had no say over how she tasted and was at risk of being failed by her own anatomy. If she did not love up to Inés' expectations, or better them, it would all disappear. The thought is enough for her to close her eyes tightly, her hands reaching up to ground herself in a hesitant grasp over Inés' hips.

[collectingdebts]

“Oh, nosy neighbor,” Dan muttered, dragging a hand down his face and very nearly slicing his own cheek open in the process. The blade flashed too close to skin; he swore under his breath and forced his grip to steady. Relief at the sight of someone familiar had come first, but it curdled almost instantly into dread. Because the woman standing in front of him possessed a level of curiosity that bordered on recreational sport.

If she found out about the hunters—

No. Worse.

If she found out about the vampires.

His stomach dropped at the thought. The entire precarious structure of his life would collapse in seconds. Dan snapped the knives into the holsters with more force than necessary and shoved them back into their sheaths beneath his jacket. He tried to straighten, but his body protested violently. Every rib felt individually bruised; something along his left side burned when he inhaled too deeply. There was blood on his chin, he could feel it cooling in the night air, sticky and unfamiliar. He had no idea where it was coming from. His lip? His nose? Something internal? The mystery felt less important than the fact that it was very visible.

“Something like that—fuck, sorry,” he said when she spoke. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

He attempted a smile, but it fractured halfway through. Pain detonated behind his eyes, white and blinding, fireworks bursting against the inside of his skull. He hissed and pressed his fingers briefly to his temple, steadying himself against the brick wall of the alley.

“Are we close to home?” he asked, focusing on logistics felt safer than whatever dance they were performing.

Home. The word felt newly fragile.

He had moved into Solstice Apartments only a few months ago, close enough to the station to justify long hours, far enough from his parents’ orbit to breathe. The building was all red brick and wrought iron balconies, perpetually humming with traffic and distant sirens. It reminded him of New York in a way that was almost comforting: the anonymity, the noise, the sense that everyone was too busy surviving their own lives to pry into his.

He had made an effort when he moved in. Shook hands. Brought a bottle of wine to the couple across the hall. Held doors open. Smiled in elevators. He knew how to perform politeness; he had been raised on it.

Vi had not been impressed. She had accepted his courtesy with a look that suggested she saw through it entirely. Not rudely. Not unkindly. Just knowingly. He did not dislike her. They barely knew each other. Dislike required familiarity, and what unsettled him was precisely the lack of it. It was the sense that she knew him in ways he had not consented to.

She reminded him of those high-definition nature documentaries he watched when he couldn’t sleep. The ones where the camera lingered too long on the stillness before violence. The leopard moving through tall grass, shoulders rolling with effortless grace, golden eyes unblinking.

When she watched him, Dan felt pinned in place, like prey that understood that movement would only sharpen the hunter’s focus. He could almost hear David Attenborough narrating his demise.

Observe the preppy vampire hunter in his natural habitat. Note how he attempts to appear uninjured even looking like shit.

If he stayed very still, maybe he would survive this interaction. Maybe she would grow bored. Maybe she would let him slip away into the night without demanding explanations he could not give.

“You can leave,” he pushed himself off the wall, immediately regretting it when his vision swam. “I’m okay. Just—” he pressed his tongue carefully against the inside of his cheek and winced, letting the pain contort his features. A distraction. “Police work.”

The lie sat between them, thin and poorly constructed. Dan had never been good at lying. He over-explained when he didn’t need to. Avoided eye contact at the wrong moments.

“Paperwork gone wrong,” he added weakly, because silence felt like a trap. “You know how it is.”

He didn’t know why he kept talking. Maybe because if he filled the air with enough words, she wouldn’t hear the ones he was swallowing down. Dan shifted his weight, fighting the urge to sway. He needed to get to his apartment. Needed to wash the blood away, inventory the damage, make sure nothing had followed him. The alley suddenly felt too exposed, too open.

“I appreciate the concern,” he said, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere near strained. “But I’ve got it handled.”

[bird0fprcy]

It proved difficult not to wear concern on her sleeve, but typically someone bearing the same pallor and abrasions he did in this scenario would be unconscious and she could study all she liked for hours without imposition. Dan’s keen awareness of his surroundings, her included, was an unexpected additional weight to carry. It brought on the similar distant itch of responsibility as witnessing an animal in captivity, poached and strung up for public consumption. That she was no better than his assailant to stand and stare, unable to provide any help that would be of much liberation or benefit. Vi had never passed a first aid course, would not know what to do if he suddenly kissed the ground once more. The extent of medical adjacent supplies she’d been in contact with in the past year was meagre and elementary, usage consisting of frozen peas, bandaids, superglue, and 100-proof alcohol.

Any move he made appeared more of a strain than the next. The mere act of bearing witness made her own muscles and joints ache, a mixture of guilt and sympathy. A sense of unshakable helplessness umbrellas it all, not equipped with a mobile phone to call for emergency services nor the brawn to heroically help him into a less isolated area without worsening his condition in the process. All she could do was watch, comment, and hope. As soon as Dan's question was posed, her longing to embody any proactive role was struck down by a pang of chagrin at only having guesses to offer. “Three… maybe five…” Under her breath, Vi attempted to inwardly map out her previous meandering path. Even with only approximate maths in mind, she was determined not to provide him with a wild goose chase. For the neutral scales of possibility to tip and settle among a well intentioned ballpark figure than a totally vague impression, “Eight blocks, give or take.”

Unable to imagine him making it that far, she knew a reiterated dismissal when she saw one. Either he was laying it on thick for good measure, or he’d concussed himself too. Unfortunately, she liked Dan and that meant listening to him was a selective sport. He did not regard her with the same common brush offs as others did, belittling her fascinations and good humour as weaknesses rather than assets. The distance he cultivated was self-deprecating and protective. Despite it all, she was still a civilian and felt properly pigeonholed as one. He was always bound to shield her from gory details, but she still couldn’t fully say if it stemmed from his obligation toward personal decency or professional duty. Although confidentiality was a boring roadblock, Vi knew there was no leapfrogging it. The law was one of the few immovable objects stronger than the unstoppable force of one's stubbornness – but the law was legal jargon: ink, paper, theories, processes, documentation, evidence. People were malleable, their personalities fluid, and could slip off the record with no-one being the wiser. “Since when did paperwork know how to pack a wicked punch?” She ventured, testingly taking a slow step closer, shoes and shoulder dragging against the alleyway’s confines. “You put the sissies who tap out after one paper cut to shame.” Vi would know, as such a figure herself.

If returning home at the end of the day with dirty feet was the sign of a day well-lived and enjoyed, city slicking evaded for a countryside vacation, then what was the anecdote for being absolutely covered in dirt and blood? Whether it counted as intuition or more of an ethical conflict of interest, something felt substantial in the idea that police officers who got their hands dirty were likely to perform better work than those who stayed behind their desk, white collared and pristine. Vi’s opinion certainly swayed towards the fact ringing true, although how one acquired such damage without any trace of the perpetrator was still the thickest question mark Vi twirled around her finger.  “If I leave and you pass out and actually die, I’m not liable now, am I?” She raises a hand for emphasis, presses it against the wall, lightly dragging it bag and forth. “My DNA’s here too. If you handling this means I’m going to get a knock on my door next week, I’ll raise you from the dead myself.” Another quirk of lip, her half-smile wry that was not entirely unserious. His untimely death would not have suited anyone. Digging for information as unassumingly as she dared scatter hooks for, to be confirmed or denied anything, she considered his occupation. Intensity was bound to come with the public-facing profession, Vegas was never mild and highly sensitive to enforcement. So where was his backup? His defence line? Any sign of supportive otherness, knowledgeable about his current state and location? Whatever the task assigned, it had been a cruelty for him to have been expected to fulfil it alone. “This all sure looks a lot like a crime scene, but what do I know…” Her gaze flit downwards, tracing the outline of his re-holstered knives. Somehow the weaponry felt simultaneously overkill and medieval for the 90s. Maybe it was part of a new training regime, and suffering was a symptom of the learning curve. A trial. "I didn't pin you for the recreational bloodbath type."

[wastlngaway]

private starter for @bird0fprcy at the laundromat, mid-march

Before Tuesday night, the last time Naomie had taken a night off was last April on a Thursday where the CSN Planetarium and Observatory was doing a free public event to observe the lunar eclipse. Night offs were a dangerous thing otherwise, and Naomie realised she had never been comfortable with the idea of having a night off to spend crammed into her trailer with her father or alone in an alley with her thoughts. Work was a distraction. But work was turning into its own kind of prison. So it was almost a gentleness that she had forced herself to take a few nights off while the slight swelling and bruising on her face dissipated. 

Finding a place to crash was actually much easier of a task than Naomie had anticipated, simply because the list of suitable candidates was extraordinarily short. Cyrek and Stella were expecting, plus the trailer park was much too close to the source of her unbridled anxiety. She’d debated breaking the current cease-fire/no-contact situation she had going on with Lux, debated showing up at their trailer a hot fucking mess of tears, cheek red and throbbing, the kind of display that surpassed anything that had previously sent the mechanic into a violent rage but Naomie didn’t need any more violence in her life right now. And for all of her hatred of her father, there was still the little girl inside that had learned through him how to tie her shoes, to ride a bike, to map out the stars, that loved him and never wanted to see him hurt. 

No, the choice became quite clear quite quickly. There was one person in this city who could even be remotely relied upon to not ask any questions, to be the warmth that Naomie needed, whose kindness was worn openly, and whose smile Naomie really wanted to fucking see. A friendship had formed between trying out brunch spots, or new deep fried foods (scorpions were no better battered and fried), or the rare afternoons spent doing uberly mundane tasks like laundry or buying lightbulbs at the local home hardware store, the latter undertaken when Naomie had come over and asked why Vi was using the oven light as her only source of lighting in the kitchen. The light doesn’t work. Genevieve had held her hand while Naomie balanced precariously on a wobbly kitchen chair to check under the light cover to find that there was no lightbulb. She’d given Vi a rather pointed look which had sent the two of them into a laughing fit.

Vi hadn’t asked any questions, it had been three days now and she’d been so ‘going about as normal’ in a way that Naomie was grateful for. On the first night, Naomie had shown up at the laundromat and Vi had closed it early in favor of making (burning) popcorn in the break room and watching MTV videos while Naomie held up a melting ice cream sandwich to her face that Vi had gotten from the adjacent corner store, the attendant shoveling popcorn and her own sandwich into her mouth with a muffled you have to try this combination. They’d gone home earlier than either of them had had in months. 

Vi’s apartment was cold in a different way, the radiator lacking the strength to overpower the way the windows didn’t quite fully close, but the two of them in Vi’s double bed had lulled Naomie into a sort of warm catatonic sleep that required no drugs. If Vi heard her crying herself to sleep, she hadn’t said anything. 

Naomie had spent the last two nights accompanying Vi to work, hanging out while she went about the laundromat with practiced chaotic discipline: refilling jars, talking to customers, pulling garbage out of lint traps. She was sitting now on a dryer that rumbled warm underneath her, wearing one of Vi’s hoodies and a pair of sweatpants pulled from the lost and found box while she sucked a lollipop from the 25 cent dispenser at the front of the laundromat and watched Madonna’s Justify My Love music video on the TV hanging from the ceiling. She paused and looked at Vi before looking back up at the TV. 

“Wait, so… have you never kissed a girl?”

[bird0fprcy]

Vi had never had a roommate before, had heard the horror stories of trusting strangers with common spaces and sternly opted out, but found herself adjusting to the appeal of it rapidly with Lexie’s arrival. The regularity of their encounters had removed randomness from the equation weeks ago now, normalcy no longer an act in a ploy to perform but a genuine ambience cultivated between them. It may have been a double edged sword, flipping incessantly in the air like a coin with no telling which side was any better of a result, but Vi felt grateful to have her around for whatever duration she required. In only a matter of days, it had forced Vi to proof her apartment of the many lapses in judgments she had ignored for over a decade. Leaky faucets suddenly tightened, empty cabinets filled with more than just noodles, the forsaken fridge plugged in and plied with cheese, salamis, boxed wine, and beers. Lexie haunted her apartment like a friendly ghost, barely leaving a trace of herself anywhere aside from the second indent on the mattress and a meager bag of personal items. Winter’s ability to slice through the single-paned glass no longer bit at her ankles, her inability to sleep no longer sentenced to staring at the map of cracks on the ceiling – now exchanged for counting the fall of Lexie’s hair strands or eyelashes. Their time together had hitherto been defined by days in the sun and neutral secondary locations. The vulnerability of extending their hours together into more confined spaces was not lost on Vi, unable to sleep for a whole new plethora of reasons. Her apartment was essentially a bachelor pad without the traffic of a successful casanova: limited cutlery, cups, bedding, furniture, toiletries, and objects of intellectual pursuit. Fit for Vi’s lifestyle of solitude and borderline nocturnal swings, devotedly catered to one and only. Lexie did not make requests for care, tenderness, or understanding, but all were thoughtlessly provided by Vi in passive actions: single servings now consisting of two helpings; the single good mug offered to her first, Vi taking the chipped one until coffee droplets leaked onto linoleum; cause to open the bundle of fancy hotel soaps she had swiped from MGM Grand; the less threadbare of the towels hers to use; her having first dibs on the less ratty PJs; getting first pick of the channel they watched if the antenna permitted them connection without Vi having to standby contorting herself like a saguaro cactus; card games Vi would silently squander on purpose (this one was less a given and more a fundamental lack of understanding any basic rules). Overthinking was traded for a rolodex of daily possibilities, considering the many distractions she could pose to keep her company at ease for a little longer. To control what could be, nurturing what was within reach and letting the rest fall away to be dealt with later or never at all. The unspoken natural familiarity in their new routine fit her like a glove, determined to be a good host despite her lack of practice in receiving guests overnight. It was oddly pleasant to have a shadow.

The laundromat was quiet aside from the drone of MTV, a lull between customers wherein Vi typically camped out back and flitted through magazine pictures or tilted the vending machine until it relinquished freebies. Instead, she pretended to be a dutiful worker under Lexie’s casual supervision, sat cosily upon one of the warmest unofficial seats of the establishment. Vi had been ignoring the TV, pointedly, while Lexie seemed engaged in precisely the opposite way. Madonna’s crooning tone filled the small space, lyrics oozing like moans that made her stomach clench. Of burning and wanting, effectively searing a hole into Vi’s faux busy-ness purely by sharing airspace with the highly flammable words. Even without paying direct attention to the accompanying montage of black-and-white hotel trysts, there was something overtly sexual to the story being told through audio alone.

Then Lexie’s casual question shot a bullet through the surviving matter of Vi’s brain, her mid-step stride faltering in a manner which saw one of her thighs catching on the edge of a laundry trolley on her way towards the front of the store to attend to the most recently used washer, debris collected in front of it like undigested chunks. The victimised trolley ricocheted off her leg and soared across the room, a clatter of trembling metal and un-oiled SCREECH of a solitary locked wheel causing it to spin in its forced surge forwards; the fastest it had been made to move since it had been soldered together.

Heat floods upstream, in full bloom across the back of Vi’s neck and pulse points, until finally pooling in the softness of her cheeks. Not a blotchy flushed effect like being under the influence of alcohol, but an even elevation of degrees radiating across her entire epidermis like a wall of fire. The only thing she hated more than the intimate line of questioning was the location Lexie had chosen to spring it upon her. A breathy cough tested her throat and voice box for use, dry and thick, allergic to sincerity but too readable to dare give any alternative. “Not that it matters, either way–” she began, breadcrumbs of a trail she shyly left in her wake, busying herself bending over to pick up discarded cardboard and plastic hang tags left behind from a shopaholic or shoplifter, every last shard collected with nearly every ounce of her attention, using the preoccupation of an obsession with cleanliness as a temporary shield, “– but no.” The truth thuds like a door closed, latches falling into place with a finality of an entryway barred after final call.

It was a complicated question to field, not so much implicating and embarrassing to consider for the sole act but for the meaninglessness Vi had taught herself to associate it with. Sober, it was easier to be convinced by the lengthy cons which stood against the merit of falling for temptation, the fantasy of forbidden contact, but invalidating the urge when drunk had been a steeper cliff to navigate without a reliable loophole. The ultimate expression of unconvertible insanity was always within reach; how easy to would have been to let herself commit social suicide, surrendering any chance at a normal life once and for all. To let an entire evening of eye contact act like foreplay, leading to mutual enthusiasm behind the privacy of a locked door, all pretences shed, lips and grips slippery and ready and— not there. Yes, she had kissed women, but only on the fringes of her memory where they could be safely stranded without appeal. Never without a mask or performance at the forefront, some fun excuse to keep up with the latest gyrating trend that could render her alibi airtight. After too much alcohol and the taste of bile rose in her throat whenever she stood up, on the cusp of blackout, ensuring she did not mistake desire for pleasure and any actions could be written off as unaccountable. The forgotten could not be condemned, after all. Two bits of flesh, colliding like fishes out of water. Gloss against lipstick, smearing like hot oil splattering onto a palm then wiped off on a dishtowel to resolve the potential burn left behind. Cold water, dousing any inkling of an erotic mood. Until the woman on the other side felt more akin to an assembly of muscle and bones Vi needed to grip onto to keep from slumping onto the floor. There was no romance, no nervousness, no arousal – it was chaste, clinical, and purposeful. For them: the ones who watched and choked on their drinks, loosening the snug of their belts with wandering calloused hands, jeering boyfriends and husbands betraying easily whetted appetites. It did not matter how disengaged she was from the act, with the withheld enamourment of sisterly affection or unresponsiveness entirely. Even with lips pursed, posture tense and statuesque, her laughter was quick to catapult ahead before anything could be misconstrued as not a joke, the imagery consistently rewarded with the celebratory cheers of voyeuristic bystanders. Salacious and seductive in the action’s ability to tighten jean crotches and earn free drinks. A transaction between two feminine bodies, the parts involved an invitation to gawk and grind and giggle. Two women together was comedic and pornographic; it was a childish whim, playing mommy and daddy, and a popular genre of adult entertainment. It was welcome, but only under the cover of clubs and house parties; something to do when the host got bored and was too crossfaded to get hard.

Cupping her bounty of tags between palms, with an emphatic (disapproving) huff towards Lexie, Vi carried them over towards the bin and rubbed her hands together until no pieces of hard resistance remained, begrudgingly electing to add the vaguest of further elaboration: “Not in any way that counts.”

[nevofdreams]

location: her apartment written for: @bird0fprcy

“  I’m the worst, I know. But guess what?  ” Ender entered her apartment, with a bag of food in each hand. One holding two take out trays from Flying Saucer Restaurant and the other with a six pack of beer and whatever munchies he had found at the liquor store’s front. Unsure of what to get, he opted for the most normal meal that he could think of; steaks and mashed potatoes, with a salad to accompany it. “  Dinner’s from that fancy place that looks like it’s about to tumble down at the first strong breeze, so you have to give me props for going up there.  ” Placing the bags on her kitchen counter, he immediately reached for one of the beers and brought it to his teeth to pop off the cap.  Despite literally living next to one another, Ender had to cancel their last few night-ins. Between shuffling the emergency room, his mother, and the late night calls that never ceased, finding a moment of normalcy kept getting harder to manage. He refused to give up though, and while he more often than not canceled, he did his best to make it up when he found the time to spare. “  And I got us some beers. How about it? Your favorite, too.  ” He flashed her a grin, bottle cap still on his teeth, while he handed out the bottle for her to take. 

[bird0fprcy]

Given that turning down free food and drink was essentially a sacreligious act, against all Vi stood for – and there was little that made it onto that list of randomly sacred beliefs, invented by her own mind – Ender would always be welcome. It was impossible to feign any sense of disapproval or disinterest in his much overdue arrival, Vi’s ability to hold a grudge as unlikely as them having leftovers to show for tomorrow. “Are you seriously trying to bribe your way back into Las Vi-gas?” The title she had bestowed upon her modest apartment always failed to roll off the tongue with ease, but she would never stop advocating for it to catch on.

Flashing him a pleased smile, Vi accepted his offered beer without hesitation, “You can stay,” she decreed, scrambling together a faux-serious tone that directly conflicted with the mirth dancing in her eyes, “but only if I get an extra bite of your sides.” Taking a swig of the beer, Vi wandered towards her living room to stand in the adjacent doorway that united it with the kitchen and dining area. “Couch or table?” She asked, unsure how civilised they should pretend to be. Horizontal in bed with snacks piled on her chest was her favourite position by far, but in his company she always felt slightly more self-conscious of openly displaying such bad habits. “I was about to fake a hemorrhage to get your attention, bee-tee-dubs. So thanks for saving me the ER trip, homie.”

[forebcdings]

the first couple’s failed call is a quiet disaster, the chips retreating from them with a sharp click that maude records without expression. she treats the sound as a benchmark for their laughable desperation. as the game stretches into the second round, the rhythm thickens: cards slipping across the green, players pretending to look anywhere but at their partners. the dirty socialite keeps her posture loose but her mind sharp, her hand hovering near the felt. she lets her nail tap once against the table, a meaningless gesture intended to test the air, and the other duo bites. "cut!" they shout, their voices thin with overeager anxiety. the staff dealer confirms the error with a bored flick of his wrist. no kemps. the penalty chips slide away, a small tax on their impatience. maude remains a statue of pensive indifference, though she's absolutely giddy inside. maybe we do have a winning chance, after all.

ms. zhuan looks at her hand and sees three twos: swords, wands, and coins; staring back like a lucky break she doesn't quite trust yet. she’s on the edge of a win, but the jester is an unwelcome guest she needs to evict before the rent is due. she waits through the pass rotation, counting the seconds between the shuffling of hands like she’s waiting for a light to turn green. when the moment hits, she passes the jester to the sucker on her left without a second thought. trash taken out. good. she keeps her face a blank slate, but her eyes are locked on the horizon of the table. if vi finishes her set, maude is ready to bark the call; if the deck plays fair and gives her the fourth two, she’ll take the glory. the pace is picking up, the room’s energy tightening into a coil, and maude finds herself actually having a good time. it’s a terrifying development, really. she’s not supposed to like gambling this much. that's a promise she made to herself after moving to sin city. a promise made before she actually had money to spend here.

then the next pass comes from her right, and she takes it with such bored indifference: a not-so-feigned caricature of someone who’s seen it all before; because, let's face it, she has. the newcomer tucks it into her hand, and the moment she feels the card, she knows the house just lost. the two of hearts. a full house, a perfect set, a clean sweep. it’s an electric feeling, like a wire finally sparking to life after a long blackout. she looks up, finds vi across the table, and gives the signal she’s been holding in reserve. she licks her lips slowly, an intentional, theatrical little move that’s just loud enough to be heard in the silence between them. then returns to her statuesque composure, her body coiled and waiting for the exact microsecond when the word will drop and the table will belong to them. come on, vi. come on. it's ours! say it.

[bird0fprcy]

After a certain point, one activity blurs into the next and Vi can no longer think outside of the tunnel vision narrowing ahead of her. In focus: the cards in hand, on the table, and Maude in the background. The rest fades into gaussian blur, unwilling to be distracted by inconsequential details as easily as the others had. If she had let her attention wander more freely, she may have noticed the increasingly hectic energy the other couple radiated as the game progressed. Desperate to win, but too acutely tuned into the entire table that their reactivity time was overcooked. Vi watched chips move, admired Maude’s innovative flair, the lure that caught the other team red-handed. Vi wants to gloat and smirk towards her, to openly share in their camaraderie's advantage, only her nagging fear of being misinterpreted kept the urge at bay. It was much too early to celebrate, even the scope of her limited sensibilities understood so, but an intuitive and pleasant twinge of excitement told her the odds felt stacked in their favour. Perhaps even unfairly so, if Maude kept them wrapped around her finger. For once, Vi felt in on what was usually held at arm’s reach: an inside joke, a golden medal, a silver lining – she felt like a winner.

Different cards slip through her fingertips like a constant stream of water, always one shy of the exact full set needed. Panic flares beneath her skin in rushes of warmth, too focused to fully embrace the feeling yet aware all the same that she might be costing them the win that felt so guaranteed a moment earlier. A misstep in trading out one card had felt fatal, but the game continued without reservation. The speed and momentum of the cards is unforgiving, forcing Vi out of her head and to shed any inkling of guilt. Again, she stares ahead at Maude; poised and graceful with each loss and gain. She strives to mirror her attitude, ignoring how much of an imposter she feels at the table in comparison. In the eye of the hurricane, the chaos of their progress feels more palatable. Competitive urgency keeps her actively listening and awaiting, one less card away from her desired destination. The distance, shrinking, closer and closer until she looks up from her scanning and finds her attention newly magnetised to her partner's lips. And not in the usual way.

A deliberate motion, predetermined and subtle. Inner gears spin and splutter with recognition as Vi’s mouth struggles to keep up with the bowling force of her enthusiastic reaction, “Kemps…?” Quiet, barely a croak, and blurted too quickly to be fully intelligible. Her heart skips a beat. Doubt, creeping in: what if she's wrong? Countered almost immediately by: better yet, what if she's right? Vi clears her throat, opting to risk wholeheartedly latching on the opportunity, free hand flying into the air as if called upon, “KEMPS!” The joyous cry shatters the concentration of their opponents, also seeming to startle the half-attuned dealer. Vi's pokerface inevitably breaks into a triumphant grin, wavering at the corners with a lingering light nervousness. Her knees restlessly bounce up and down beneath the table's edge as the dealer confirms the winning play, and she casts her gaze appreciatively back onto Maude, the compass of logic and beacon of serenity amongst the gambling storm flung around them. "My god, woman. You should've told me you're, like, a total pro at this," she murmured, releasing a deep breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, repurposing into shaky laughter. "I'm gonna need a drink to get over this high."

[wastlngaway]

Was there anything that felt as good as being on the receiving end of a genuine smile? There was a warmth in her chest as she watched the tension dissipate from Vi’s shoulders, and Naomie felt her own undisplayed reservation about the entire situation slip away the way a cold breeze did in the winter time whenever someone came in and quickly shut the door behind them, like you doubted it had even happened because the heat took over so easily. Naomie looked at Vi and knew that she would have loved a job where her entire purpose was to draw out the uncontained joy and beauty demonstrated in the rising of cheekbones, the caverns of dimples, the catching of teeth on lips as they parted to radiate gaiety. Naomie would have loved it if her entire job was to do that for Vi.

It was a dangerous thing, for Naomie to think she could be anything else than what she was. They would part at the end of this brunch, and Naomie would go home to shower before meeting her other clients, and she would pull smiles that were genuine but lewd and vile. There would be happiness but it would be at her expense. For now she could pretend that this was her life, fully give herself over to the fantasy that was somehow being crafted for both of them.

“Hmmm, Harrah’s,” she thought, finger tapping against the menu. The name was familiar enough but pulling it to the forefront of her mind felt difficult. “Is that the one with the lobster tank that has one lobster that’s been there for like ages because no one orders lobster at a diner?” Naomie tried to remember why she had been there, if it had been in passing or in the early hours of the morning on the rare night she partied too hard with Nicki and needed a milkshake to curb the drug-induced nausea. “I have, but I can’t say I’ve ever had their buffet.”

Naomie closed the menu, making up her mind that she would have the club sandwich and a strawberry milkshake. There was something mischievous in her gaze as she propped her elbows on the table, joined her hands together, and rested her chin on top of them. “We should go sometime, maybe rescue the lobster while we’re at it. I imagine it’s very lonely, living your life in a cage like that, everyone watching you, deciding if they’re going to eat you or not.” The words reflected back into her heart and Naomie swallowed, smile faltering for the briefest of seconds. “So, Vi, tell me more about yourself, why a laundromat?”

[bird0fprcy]

Vi was slowly growing (almost) comfortable with the act of physically orienting herself around Lexie’s neighbouring orbit, a cool and concentrated astronaut in the exosphere, trained in not letting her gaze be possessed by panic, withering the instant her eye contact was met. Personal space was an atmosphere of levels invisible to the naked eye. The red zone was the troposphere – physical contact. As natural as breathing for most, Vi would go rigid at even the thought of zero boundaries existing. Instead, she turned her inward eye towards the safer subject presented: lobsters. The tank Lexie painted the picture of, in particular. Vi's lips pursed in displeasure, recalling having watched kids press their faces against the glass until their noses looked like pig snouts; parents leering at discoloured scales and radical vegans advocating for their rights to staff on duty. How the creature ended up stranded there had never dawned on Vi as an important chapter in it’s story. It was trapped, and always would be, because it could not climb glass walls without aid. Beginning and ending within the same four walls. “I guess it would be,” she let out in agreement, reluctant to acknowledge the fate of the long body of muscle. As if giving it an identity beyond meat suddenly made it wrong to be held in captivity, not a thing but a someone – with a mind and wants and needs and feelings. “I didn’t realise… I mean, I just thought they replaced him with a new guy every week. Fuck, dude, that is dark.” Morbidity aside, her smile found cause to slowly re-emerge beneath the topic’s overcast impression a moment later at Lexie’s suggestion, implicit and explicit meanings dancing on her tongue like the orange juice and tea did across her palette. Not unpleasant, but unusual to welcome all at once.  “Yeah,” she warmed towards the idea, two inductions: the notion of a secondary meeting and a crustacean rescue mission, “we absolutely can.” What did lobsters need to survive? Fresh water, salt water… oxygen? In an instant, Vi could automatically picture the confines of her kitchen sink as a makeshift aquarium for it, Sebastian Junior’s dark tail (flippers?) and claws thrashing against metal. The bathtub, then. The basin disappeared with the cartoonish pop of a bubble, the beige coloured rectangular tub in its steed. There, it could pace and swim and make minced meat from her bare toes if she dared step over the lip. Off limits, then. So maybe she could pull the detachable shower head over the sink to give it full reign and privacy over half the room, let the ‘bathroom’ become synonymous with ‘the enclosure’ and bribe her way into Ender or Wyatt’s apartments if desperate enough during the day. But would it be lonely? A second lobster would be easy enough to find and catch, decor with a heartbeat was frequently the centrepiece of Vegas eateries. But would they breed? Could they? Would there be eggs and babies, making like Floridian alligators and clogging the pipes and– 

Vi put Sebastian Junior’s prospects on pause as swiftly as the elaborate blueprints of the plan had first illustrated itself, the waiter expectantly at their tableside and clearing his throat, politely prompting her input for a second time. Vi opted for a plain double stack of waffles, affirmatively checking off all the accoutrement boxes: maple syrup, berry coulis, butter, Hershey’s chocolate drizzle, dolce de leche, jams, fresh fruit, honey, nutella, powdered sugar, and whipped cream. Deciding on one seemed too risky, too uncertain what she specifically craved with the distraction of Lexie’s presence so near and clouding every ounce of sense. To make a singular choice opened the door to regret which she also couldn’t afford to feel burdened with on top of fearing she would stilt the conversation with the wrong question or answer. Lingering concern failed to fully submit beneath their fantasy of normalcy, unwilling to die without anxiously chorusing her veins a few last rounds first. Besides, with no telling where her next meal would come from (99.9% likelihood it would be from a greasy foil package with a 2007 expiry date), consuming something with actual ingredients involved in the meal’s construction, rather than relying on various forms of non-nutritive corn and salt, was in the interest of her survival as much as a convenience of indecision.

Lexie’s stated curiosity was difficult not to outwardly scoff and roll her eyes at, dismissing the interest as greatly misplaced. Vi did not possess facts or stories of her own that sparkled with appeal. Instead, she collected experiences and wove together aspects of her personality like a Christmas paper chain, stored away and subject to gradual deterioration with the passage of time. New life, taped onto the ends before too much faded beyond recognition. “I like the people a part of it. Washing clothes is a necessity, but it’s also one of the most personal things we have to do. Laundry tells a story – the true story. It’s like a secret hidden in plain sight. What people wear underneath or in their personal lives is so different to their everyday, but that’s usually closer to who they really are. Or what they really get up to, after hours. The night shift was a huge pull... I don’t think I’d be there if I had to deal with morning people or the after school rush. That’s boring. It’s the drifters and shadows totally wigging out who make it fun.” Sometimes it was as simple as a cookie cutter executive, all severe edges, starched linen and iron pleats, dumping off a load of neon-coloured flossy lingerie. Other times, it was blood and dirt caked onto furniture covers from pale figures who resembled gravediggers. None of her business, figuratively, but most definitely her business literally. “Plus, it’s easy to manage. I didn’t go to college, barely qualified for my GERD or whatever.”

A pause, restraint weighing her tongue down to the bottom of her mouth. The tip of her tongue traces the back of her bottom teeth, a trapped oversized shrimp breached against baleen bristles, looking for escape. The city was no place for aquatic life to thrive, a population of tanked lobsters unable to float unencumbered, relying on third party hands and instruments to come fishing. Choice was liberation and luxury, free will an illusion that flirted with confines. It was not to pry, but to reciprocate a responsibility of care. “Why, uh… why a strip club?”

[bird0fprcy]

[inesxl]

her little bird was constantly on the move. something about the stranger made her want to keep her in a cage, tell her to calm down and take a moment to breathe and rest. on the other hand, though, where was the fun in that?

a little misstep, she thought to herself. she should have waited and figured out just how eager to please the woman was.

as the attendant continued to move about in the shop, inés merely followed her with her gaze, arms crossed beneath her chest. when she finished locking up, inés' eyes lingered on the man standing just outside. she could read the disapproval on his face, certainly a reminder that she was, apparently, not on friendly territory. if only inés cared one bit. she dismissed him with a smile, cheeky as always, before turning to follow the attendant to the break room.

being the last one to step into the room, inés closed and made sure to lock the door behind her. the break room was... small, extremely so, but that wasn't going to deter inés from finishing what she started. reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two twenty-dollar bills, showing them to the other woman as she stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

"these are yours," she said, slipping a slim fingertip through a small gap in her pouch's zipper and undoing it with a firm, slow tug. she then slid the bills inside, giggling quietly as the coins rattled with contact. "you can put any amount you want in the tip jar for your... friends, but these are yours, okay?" she zipped the pouch closed, patting it twice as if to make sure that the money was still there.

"now—" her gaze dropped to the side of the attendant's neck, gums tingling with the urge to bite. her dinner had been a bleeder, and the mess it caused had made her lose her appetite. needless to say, inés was still starving. but before that— "what's your name, darling? i'll need one to know how to address you properly, you know?"

[bird0fprcy]

Effectively tunnel visioned, Vi was in the throes of a wonderful experience. The usual boredom that settled in just past midnight no longer threatened to taint her mood, completely re-invented by the stranger’s presence – a gift that kept on giving. Vi’s arms swing leisurely at her side as she strode into the room, hardly impressive to begin with and appearing even more humdrum compared to the elevated standard set by her company. How considerate she is, locking the door so no-one rudely interrupts our conversation, she gaily mused. As if to add further sugar to rethicken the viscous trudge of her thoughts, the direct deposit of funds was an action stared down at with wide eyes. If it were possible for hearts to skip a beat, the organ in Vi’s chest positively soared in a relay race. Needless generosity aside, Vi could not recall being so close to so much openly displayed skin outside the boundary of a club or streetwalker corner. A familiar defective flare of desire peaked and tugged at the proximity, insatiable hunger harbouring below her stomach. She swallowed thickly, slightly aware something was happening but already too many steps behind to process how or why. “Seriously?” Unable to resist the cash bonus even if she had been a humble person (was her service actually that good?) Vi wet the dry shock from her lips, gaze bashfully diverting elsewhere. “You’re very kind, thank you… shit, I wish you were a regular,” a breathy laugh escapes her lips, deep seated nerves snaking up to the surface, penetrating air pockets in the oil slick her mind had disappeared beneath, “– would you like to be?” Barely falling short of begging her to stay, Vi felt her empty hands tremour. A brazen craving, manifesting physically – to reach out and invite; pull and fold her in, forever. Whether she was new in town or just passing through, Vi was obliged to dig in her heels to prolong essential contact. More welcomed than any other customer had ever been. What’s your name, darling? Vi's answer pans to the surface like lost change, collected from the outskirts of her consciousness and pressed through the screen shrouding her ability to keep old obstacles in a steadfast position. Like the lightest whisper could send a tower of cards toppling, the visitor swept truth from Vi’s lips with the intimacy of an old friend. The lone attendant's tongue and lips coordinate to move in an unfamiliar pattern, pronouncing the three syllables she rarely associated with herself, but knew deep within herself to be true. “Genevieve,” she replied, resolute. “And what do I call you asides from tall, handsome, and mysterious?”