LANCER.

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[gingkoapron]

carboncuestickgenius has been added to the mailing list liked for a starter!

The Crimson Lane of Golden Ward was a keen point of interest to Redd. Not that any of his business was ever illegal (and if it was you can’t prove it!) it was good to know the avenues of… unofficial commerce. He could pass on the gentleman’s clubs, not his sort of clientele. The gambling halls, though? Now you’re talking. People willing to drop cash on a chance were the kind he needed and those in the Crimson Lane might be able to answer some questions for him that the gamblers of The Golden Dawn couldn’t.

It was night-time ‘cause of course it was. None of the good stuff happens when the sun’s out. The nosy fox has made his way to one of the halls he heard about. Didn’t really pay attention to what kind of games this one had, wasn’t here to play. Well, at least not like that. He was here to throw some chips in. Get a stake in the game. You know.  His nose caught a whiff of smoke and the burning end of a cigarette steered his attention to a figure off to the side. His low-light vision hadn’t kicked in yet but from what he could make out it was nice-looking suit. Tall, though. Why was everyone so tall here? He thought he got used to it but no, his new mark looked like door frames would be a tight fit. Whatever.

Redd strolled up casual, stopping a respectful three feet away. He carefully aligned himself to the smoker, keeping to the side and facing the same direction. The fox stuck to glances, never staring too long. When he spoke his voice is devoid of his characteristic cheery veneer. “Any luck for you tonight?”

[carboncuestickgenius]

Figures. A long day at work compounded with a shitty streak at the Lane’s premier hole-in-the-wall gambling hall made Droog a grumpy, grumpy carapace. The weather wasn’t looking too kindly, clouds gathering ominously overhead, their masses burgeoning with rain. And he had a hell of time getting his lighter to start up to light a cigarette as he stands around outside, looking to cool off.

And this is before a little furry fox sidles up beside him.

But whatever. Droog is a gentleman, at least up to a point. The little guy doesn’t deserve to be snapped at for something he didn’t do, and Droog could use a wall to complain at for a little while. And with a question like that, he should be prepared for the worst. “Not at all,” he answers, “But it’s just one of those days.”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling into the cool night air. He’d only stolen a glance at the fox when he had first been approached, but now Droog more fully turns his head down at him. “Haven’t seen you around here before,” he observes flatly.

[carboncuestickgenius]

palevurm​:

carboncuestickgenius​:

Droog blinks at the stranger as he speaks, looking up from where he’s put the last of his purchases in a paper bag. Slowly, he slides the bag his way. Pretty or not, Droog knows better than to just spill insider secrets to someone who just walked in. “Your job is to ring up what people wanna buy, put ‘em nice and neat into a bag, and not answer too many questions,” he says with a little huff. 

Normally, he would have just shooed him away with his application and his clothes. And yet, Droog finds himself following his dismissive answer with, “That all you want, Bishop? Think you can handle that?”

That hadn’t worked at all. He took the bags from Droog with a slight, disdainful sniff, pilfering through the neatly folded items for the receipt.  It seemed Pale King’s abilities were somewhat limited when it came to other insectoids even if there remained some degree of persuasion.  ❝Yes, absolutely. Just because customers ask does not mean we have to answer.❞ His glow had dimmed somewhat along with his enthusiasm but, he needed a job. That much could not be argued. ❝So long as the hours are reasonable, we will be content.❞

[carboncuestickgenius]

𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒: 1  /  2  / 3 + 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄:  high  /  average / deep. 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓:  yes  /  no. 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐑:  confident  /  shy  /  approachable  /  hostile  /  other. 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄:  slumped /  straight  /  stiff  /  relaxed. 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒:  head tilting /  swaying  /  fidgeting  /  stuttering  / gesturing /  arm crossing  /  strokes chin  /  er, um, or other interjections  /  plays with hair or clothing /  hands at hips  / inconsistent eye contact  /  maintains eye contact  /  frequent pausing  / stands close  /  stands at distance.

𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙋𝙇𝙀𝙓𝙄𝙏𝙔

𝐕𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘: ◼ ◼ ◼ ◻ ◻   𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: ◼ ◼ ◻ ◻ ◻   𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄:  ◼ ◼ ◼ ◻ ◻

𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝘼𝙉𝙄𝙏𝙔

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘: ◼ ◼ ◼ ◼ ◻   𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘:  ◼ ◼ ◼ ◼ ◻

𝘽𝙊𝙇𝘿 𝘼𝙇𝙇 𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝘼𝙋𝙋𝙇𝙔

arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shite. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

𝙂𝙄𝙑𝙀𝙉 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙋𝙀𝙍 𝙍𝙀𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙄𝙊𝙐𝙎 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙓𝙏    

christ on a bike. christ on a cracker. damn. goddamn. godsdamn. hell. holy shit. jesus. jesus christ. jesus h christ. jesus h. roosevelt christ. lord have mercy. jesus, mary and joseph. sweet jesus.

𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝙊𝙍 𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏

contractions or enunciation?  straightforward or cryptic?   jargon or toned?   complexity or simplicity?   finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind?  masculinity, neutrality, or femininity?   formalities or abrasiveness?   praise or equivocation?   frankness or lies?   excessive or minimal hand gestures?   name-calling or magnanimity?   friendly or blunt nicknames?

𝙄𝙈𝙋𝙊𝙍𝙏𝘼𝙉𝙏 𝙌𝙐𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR MUSE?   almost always  /  frequently  /  sometimes  /  rarely  /  never.

DOES YOUR MUSE’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK?   almost always  /  frequently  / sometimes  /  rarely  /  never.  

WOULD YOUR MUSE INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? almost always  /  frequently  /  sometimes  /  rarely  /  never.

WOULD YOUR MUSE BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS?   almost always / frequently /  sometimes  /  rarely  /  never.

WOULD YOUR MUSE USE “WHOM” IN A SENTENCE? yes /  no /  only ironically.

YOUR MUSE WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE?   but  /  though  /  although  /  however  /  perhaps  / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR MUSE END CONVERSATIONS?   walk away  /  ask if that’s everything  / say that that’s everything /  give a proper goodbye  / tell their company they’re done here  /  remain quiet  /  they don’t.

HOW DOES YOUR MUSE ADDRESS OTHERS?   titles / first names /  surnames  /  full names  /  nicknames.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR MUSE BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK?   upper /  middle  / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR MUSE SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS?   accent  /  vocabulary  / tone  /  level  /  politeness /  brusqueness  /  it doesn’t.

[carboncuestickgenius]

heartgriefed​:

“Good! You seem like a smart guy. It’d be a shame to have to get rid of you.” Came a wink.

Some part of him liked to believe they were helping people, like his father had intended. But the much larger, jaded part knew better.

His cigarette was fizzled out on the ashtray, and he let out a long, booze-laden sigh.

“We’ve always taken very good care of our workers and patrons. Work yourself up to a place where I can trust you with the important stuff, and it’ll benefit you and your buddy. It’s a family business, after all.”

In the sort of business Droog dealt in, he knew a threat when he heard it. But such things were as common as any other phrase--he filed it away to keep in mind, but knew it was hardly anything to worry about. The carapacian had no intention of betrayal. He respected the grift Lars was running here, after all.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, finishing off his drink, “Guess I’ll get to work, then.”

[carboncuestickgenius]

palevurm​:

His lights ground strangely against the other’s mind, receptive yet foreign. As if he had come upon a familiar door in a strange place. Still, it appeared to work and Pale King’s eyes turn upward in pleasure at the affirmative. ❝Thank you.❞ It was a thanks without actual thanks, folding up the application and slotting it into his satchel along with his phone.

Pale King leaned on the counter with his elbows, eyes still squinted as he peered up at Droog. ❝Of course, this will be our first job that requires customer service. And while we have the basics down, could you tell us a bit about…what transpires around here?❞ He drummed the counter with his claws, tilted his head. ❝What the customers are like, the daily routine… That manner of detail.❞

Droog blinks at the stranger as he speaks, looking up from where he’s put the last of his purchases in a paper bag. Slowly, he slides the bag his way. Pretty or not, Droog knows better than to just spill insider secrets to someone who just walked in. “Your job is to ring up what people wanna buy, put ‘em nice and neat into a bag, and not answer too many questions,” he says with a little huff. 

Normally, he would have just shooed him away with his application and his clothes. And yet, Droog finds himself following his dismissive answer with, “That all you want, Bishop? Think you can handle that?”

[carboncuestickgenius]

palevurm​:

Again with the sobriquet… Not necessarily a terrible moniker and he allowed it to continue for his name was not a requisite just yet. His hand slid over the counter to brush the paper, raising slightly up on his tail to get a better look at the form. Name, desired position… Pale King’s tracing finger paused over the last question, thin line of his mouth tight under his eyes.

Are you okay working for me, knowing we willingly kill awful people?

❝No, most inhabitants here are. Fleshy.❞ Uncertain of how to delicately put such a disconcerting subject, Pale King pressed on full force. ❝We are from Hallownest, a world without the mammalian creatures like humans or cats or dogs that seem so numerous here. You are from a similar world,❞ he finished confidently. 

Dragging the paper closer to him, Pale King fished around in his satchel for both his phone and a pen. ❝Could you not fast track the application for us?❞ He pulsed his light, mental tendrils of enthrallment creeping closer to Droog’s mind to ensnare it within. Suggestion, while normally enough, was accompanied by soft, cloying words that he did not need to move his mouth to make. ❝We have already shown initiative by seeking out employment here. Is that not enough to show our resolve.❞ He blinked his great black eyes, silvery membrane that swept across them giving a starry, wind-swept look.

Despite his attention being directed to the clothes, Droog finds his gaze drawn back to the strange figure as he speaks. His hands pause, his grip becoming loose upon what he’s folding as he mulls the words over in his mind. They feel different, somehow. And as Droog looks at him, his eyes squinting in the light, he’s suddenly struck by how nice he looks. The way the light hits his glossy eyes and seems to radiate off of him would bother him normally, but Droog doesn’t seem to mind. It... suits the stranger, he thinks. 

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” he says before he has a chance to think on it. With that outburst handing in the air, he adds, “Not sure how much good it’ll do, I just got here myself.” 

[carboncuestickgenius]

humongousbastard​:

     “IT’S SOME KINDA ISLAND. FUCKIN’. SPIRALE. GOT FOUR WARDS. WE’RE IN GOLDEN, THERE’S ALSO COTES, FIBONACCI, AND ARCHIMEDES. I AIN’T MET ANYONE WHO DOESN’T LIVE IN GOLDEN AND ALL THE GOOD SHOPS ARE HERE SO FUCK THE OTHER SPOTS.” Jesus, Droog’s strung real tight. 

     “THEY GOT SOME KINDA EVIL ROBOT LADY FLYIN AROUND AND SHE FUCKS UP THE WEATHER. OFISHYBO OR SOMETHING. GROUP CALLED THE STARS RUN THINGS BEHIND THE SCENES, DON’T MAKE THEMSELVES REAL PUBLIC. THAT ENOUGH FOR YOU MOTHERFUCKER EAT ANOTHER COOKIE.” 

Droog huffs. At the very least, it’s something. He can work with this, he thinks, even if he’s certain the name of whatever the hell he’s talking about is not “Ofishybo”. Some shadowy figures in the background running things is... suspect, but not any less than the business he tended to get himself into. In any case, he goes along with it and eats another cookie.

It gives him a moment to think and refocus before he speaks again. “...Have you thought of starting up a front here?”

[carboncuestickgenius]

heartgriefed​:

“Sometimes, muscle gets the job done. I’ve got people like that.”

He orders a smaller drink, this time, which the bartender filled fairly quickly. Part of him wondered if the Belt would stay if he wasn’t there to run it. The number of people who stayed consistently loyal to him, he could count on four fingers. The rest were paid well enough not to give them incentive to leave.

“What a lucky person~ Well, no bad blood if he comes back. Alliances aren’t a bad thing in the crime world, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” Droog answers, taking a long, thoughtful drag from his cigarette. “If we do start something here, I’ll be sure to let you know. It won’t do either of us any good to fight over scraps. ‘Sides, we never had much interest in what you deal in.”

He chitters softly, his mind briefly wandering towards what kind of front he might set up with Boxcars, but also that he enjoyed the work that the Belt put his way. He could manage both, couldn’t he? Though, knowing Boxcars, Droog likely would need to divert all his attention to the business to get it off the ground.

[carboncuestickgenius]

humongousbastard​:

     “YEAH TOO BUSY TO TAKE CARE OF YERSELF HUH. SUBSISTING ON A DIET OF CIGARETTES AND COFFEE.” Fuck, shoulda put out some, like. Orange juice. Coffee was a shit choice - god damn it, orange juice and cookies don’t go together. Fuckin’ Droog.

     “GOT HERE VALENTINE’S DAY. BEEN A FUCKIN’ WHILE IT SUCKS HERE.” Boxcars puts an entire cookie in his mouth and eats it whole. “WAS A FUCKIN CATASTROPHE GOIN ON JUST A BIT AGO. THEY FLOODED MY GOD DAMN APARTMENT. CAN’T HAVE SHIT HERE.”

“That long ago?” Droog asks. Granted, he has no clue what day it is, but he has a feeling that Valentine’s Day was quite some time ago for Boxcars to bother mentioning it. How far ahead did that fucker send him? Or is some weird dimensional shit going on now, too?

And now talk of some kind of apocalypse. God damn it. He waves his hand, trying to get Boxcars to slow down before he just starts talking again. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Get me up to speed, here. Start with where the fuck we are and why.”

[carboncuestickgenius]

wovensentinel​:

She catches herself smiling a bit under her mask. Good to know she’s not about to learn any circus tricks from this clown. Trustworthy or not, this encounter might at least serve to be a little fun… and definitely interesting.

“I don’t, actually,” she says, starting to walk. “I’m guessing you’re going to teach me when we get to this store, then?

“That’s the plan,” he says, glancing around for a moment before he follows after her. He likes this girl. She’s got spunk, and having an adventurous little thing around might be nice. Nice for what, he’s not sure, but he’s the type to keep all options open if he can help it.

“You got a name, or am I just gonna call you Red?” he asks after a few moments of silent walking. 

[carboncuestickgenius]

heartgriefed​:

“…Huh. No kidding?”

It seemed like such a sincere answer. Did things like that really happen? As far as he knew, the guy could’ve seen it in a movie once and went along with it. But the young crime lord saw what Droogs brought in–those hits were professional, in that classic kind of way.

“There’s something kind of cute about that, almost. Did your buddies come with you?”

The part of him that liked those sorts of crime dramas hoped so. For entertainment and recruitment, obviously. Lars van Allen doesn’t care about what people think. Totally.

“Oh, me? Crime runs in the family. I’ve been in the business so long it feels like I’ve always done it.”

That was the easy answer. That’s why he downed the last of that drink a little too quickly.

“Everyone wants to be me back home. Money, fame, power, looks, ohhhh I had all of it. Aaaand now, all my assets are gone, and I like living a cushy life. So I started it up again. Like you said, stick to what you’re good at. And I’m very good at what I do.”

Droog smiles, perhaps even lets out the beginning of a laugh. “Far as I know, only one other old friend is here. He’s good at what he does, but mostly because he’s the biggest, toughest lug around. Subtlety isn’t his strong suit.”

He also drinks, mostly to help digest what he’s hearing. He doesn’t know much about this family thing Lars mentions, but he doesn’t feel like asking about it at the moment. “Sometimes, a clean start is just what you need. A chance to start again without the bumps in the road that held you back before. I’ve been thinking about it, myself...” Another drink. “But I don’t know. Our boss isn’t around, so I would just be keeping the lights on until then.”

[carboncuestickgenius]

palevurm​:

Refined is the first impression Pale King has of the emerging cashier followed closely by the similarity to the Pure Vessel’s ‘friend’, Boxcars. A more stringent glance confirmed his suspicion that they were the same species. Insectoid with articulated fingers and white eyes that refused to be classified as compound or ocular.

Whether or not they were related or even knew each other, he could not say and did not feel a great need to ask. For now he simply gave up his burden and rested his palms on the counter. As he was not a self conscious Wyrm, Pale King did not touch or indicate his horns which in no way resembled the sloping curve

❝We wish to work as a…customer service representative,❞ said with as much grace as a slab of granite. He had done his research, knew that shops required sellers who served buyers. As it had worked in Hallownest so too it worked here albeit with different vocabulary. ❝A merchant or clerk if you will.❞ His last attempt to get a managerial position had gone poorly when he had, perhaps, allowed his ego to get ahead of him. How was he to know a resume and references were so key and that failure to have them would result in his immediate ejection from the premise? 

He grimaced, shook his head. The whole affair had been so unsightly yet only his pride remained wounded. Such a thing would have never happened in Hallownest, he thought with some bitterness. For in Hallownest he had already proven his worth, his ethics, and his character. Or so he thought.

❝Given the…character of this establishment, we assume no resume or references will be necessary.❞ Glow intensifying, he tipped his head down, eyes scrunched up into a half squint.  ❝We assure you that we are competent in all aspects.❞

Droog squints as the stranger continues to speak, though he just seems occupied with scanning and folding to mask it. “Doing what I’m doing, then,” he replies, getting to work putting all the folded clothes into a bag. There’s something about this not-quite-Prospitian that has Droog put at ease--and that’s strange. Is he being manipulated? Does it have something to do with this glow of his?

“I’m sure you are, Bishop,” Droog says, seamlessly dipping his hand under the counter and producing a form for employment. He slides it towards the customer, his glamorously adorned fingers still resting on the paper as he speaks. “But it’s not up to me. Fill this out and slide it under the door. It’ll get to where it needs to go.”

And just like that, he resumes loading up the bag. He’s still got this fella hostage here until he’s done, so he may as well keep chatting. “Where are you from, Bishop? You don’t look like anyone else I’ve seen here.”

[palevurm]

With the destruction wrought across his apartment, Pale King found his wardrobe quite lacking. What wasn’t discolored was torn and his options for renewal limited with such a tight budget. So he set about searching through the various thrift shops, weeding out the high end boutiques but not quite at the point where he would venture into Goodwill.

Hence how he ended up at The Belt, a nowhere shop that smelled faintly of chemicals as he allowed the door to shut behind him. The lights were on yet no cashier stood behind the counter. He proceeded as planned, examining the racks of clothing with a thorough eye towards the pastel and the free flowing.

Yoga pants… Shalwar pants… A handful of blouses and shirts, some with decorations he did not recognize but found appealing… And another sun hat to replace the one he’d ‘misplaced’ in his scuffle with Grimm.

Arms bundled with the scant clothes of muted color, Pale King walked up to the counter and stood besides the register for a few minutes before calling out, loudly, to the backroom. ❝Hello?❞ Spying a bell atop the counter, he gently tapped it with his free palm. ❝We saw the help wanted sign out front. And we wished to make purchases.❞ He rang again, impatient to get going.

@carboncuestickgenius

[carboncuestickgenius]

This is a bad day for Droog. His joints ache, and he wants nothing more than to sit around at “home” and relax as well as he’s able. But he still has a job to do, even if his body doesn’t like it. If that means holding down the front for today, so be it. 

The Belt being largely inconspicuous meant that Droog could take a load off in the back, anyway. There were hardly any customers, let alone on a weekday. He’s just finished a cigarette out back and was laying down some cards for solitaire when he hears the bell ring. An airy sigh escapes him as he stands, his joints protesting before he steps behind the counter, his back straight and strides deliberate. 

The carapacian is far more casually dressed than he would normally be; despite his penchant for always being dressed to the nines, he’s fully aware of how much this would look like a mafia front if he wandered around in the full getup. Instead, Droog is wearing his slacks and diamond-striped suspenders (usually hidden under his suit jacket), trading out the vest and black collared shirt for a standard white. It brings out his eyes, anyway. He’s ditched the hat, too. What kind of dipshit wears a hat inside? The rings, however, stay.

Still, he isn’t really expecting the sight that greets him as he takes his place behind the counter. He has to look down to meet the stranger eye to eye. His thoughts are drawn back to the ivory chitin of the Prospitians as he beholds the creature before him, but the stranger has a certain... glow about him. Droog is sure he isn’t a Prospitian, not unless the royalty there is cloned radically different. They’re chess pieces--how different can they be? 

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” he says, and he offers no explanation. He simply takes the bundle of clothes from the other’s graspers and gets to work scanning and folding. Somehow, none of those glittering diamond rings get caught on the fabric as he folds. “Certainly are looking for help, Bishop,” he says, his mandibles clicking over the harder consonants as he speaks, “What kind of job are you looking for?”

[carboncuestickgenius]

humongousbastard‌:

     Yeah, alright asshole, go ahead and hang up in the middle of a conversation. Right after Boxcars put all this effort into deciphering what kinda fucking puzzle Droog was giving him through the word scrambler box. Fucking shithead. Boxcars starts brewing a pot of coffee and sets out a few chocolate chip cookies on a nice antique dish. 

     When the knock on his door comes, he’s fucking ready. He opens the door and looks Droog up and down. It’s been nearly a year from Boxcars’s point of view - of course, that’s not any sort of meaningful stretch of time, they’ve known each other for thousands of years. You build a home in a sewer with a man, you know that asshole for life.

     “HUNG UP ON ME ASSHOLE. I WAS TRYING TO HAVE A FUCKING CONVERSATION.” He looks Droog up and down. God, he looks tired. “YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT. HAVE YOU SLEPT SINCE YOU GOT HERE.”

Droog sighs, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Good to see you too, asshole,” he mutters, carefully sliding his way past Boxcars to head into his apartment.

“I’ve been busy,” he answers, only partway answering the question. No, he hadn’t slept. He’s been looking high and low for the rest of the Crew, and trying to get himself right-side up again. No plan and no Crew--that always made him fidgety. He only feels marginally better now that he’s with Boxcars. If he doesn’t keep that gigantic freight train of thought on track, they’ll never get anywhere. “How long have you been here?” he asks, having already scooped up a cookie, which he then takes a bite out of once his question has been asked.

[carboncuestickgenius]

wovensentinel‌:

She’s not sure she should trust him. As much as he doesn’t scare her, she knows the tall and foreboding type. Give them your trust and they’ll take the first chance they get to kill you or do some other unspeakable thing. But his offer is… intriguing, to say the least. He doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt her, and while she still is intent on him not looking down on her, the offer seems fair enough. For now, at least.

“Alright, you’ve piqued my interest. What sort of tricks are in question here?”

Droog hums, his mouth turning upwards in a small grin. There’s a lot he figures he can teach her, but he thinks they ought to start small. Not because he thinks she’s weak--far from it. It’s the potential that leaves him intrigued. 

“You know how to pick a lock, Red?” he asks, reaching into his coat and checking the inner pocket. Yep, his picks were still there. They were set, so long as they had a lock to pick.

[carboncuestickgenius]

heartgriefed‌:

A grin, not unlike a fox, spread across his face.

“Well, I think it’s fun. What’s the point of working if you hate your job, right?”

He took a deep puff of his cigarette.

“Oh, I dunno. Not many people go into our kind of business voluntarily, and there are a lot of people out here from worlds and planets I don’t even know. So, why are you here? I assume you ran with a gang back home, right?”

“Yeah, I did,” Droog answers. He figures he isn’t giving away any insider knowledge--he’s far from Midnight City and there’s only half the Crew here anyhow. It can’t hurt to chat a bit. “This is what I’m good at. Back home, there were just four of us, and we’d known each other since... The dawn of time, feels like. I was usually the lookout, sometimes the driver. But when things got more rough, I stood with the rest of ‘em. Sharpest shooter our city ever saw before or since.

“As for why?” Droog takes a drag of his own cigarette and pauses momentarily to thank the barkeep with a little nod as his drink is slid towards him. “...I’m not keen on learning a new trade, is why. Stick to what you’re good at.”

His eyes, milky white, seem to focus on Lars from beneath the brim of Droog’s hat. “What about you?”

[carboncuestickgenius]

heartgriefed‌:

“Of course! I’m a generous man, after all.

The cigarette was gladly taken. It’s not one of his high-end smokes, but it’d help take this almost endless edge off his body.

“So! How do you like the gig, Diamonds? Any fun stories? Anything giving you troooouble? Or if it’s your business, you could always tell me a little about yourself.~”

“What are you expectin’ me to say? That it’s fun?” Droog snorts, “No trouble, at least not yet. Trouble tends to follow these kinds of jobs, and trouble is where ‘fun stories’ come from.”

Maybe it was fun. Maybe it was so much of what Droog was used to it’s just routine. But there is a wry grin on his face. “Suppose that leaves us with me. What do you wanna know?”