Eden has lived most of his life in the lion's den, a life expectancy he hadn't expected to ever meet. He's been alive longer as a prodigy to a dying breed— as gullible dog amongst creatures that had bigger teeth to bare— than an amateur still trying to fill his father's shoes. At the very least, he's found a way to survive belly up. There's some power reserved in giving in. His spine is made of glass and he knows how easily he'll break in a fight.
But the man before him isn't like the lions he'd grown accustomed to, nor the snakes besotted with lingering the grass for the perfect strike. Eden has acquainted himself with them enough to be weary of further affiliation. Yet this patron, enticing enough, comes with a warning. He can't see it, and words are smooth enough like the coating on a pill to give in without a fight, but it burrows itself into his bones with an ache.
"With the way this city sleeps," Eden begins, trying to wash away what has to be no more than paranoia with the remnants of his first drink. "It's a miracle you wake up at all the next day. If I get found at the bottom of a ditch, I might as well look my best."
Despite a day that brings no weariness until now, Eden muses the inevitability of demise with little reservation. He's caught between weariness of how easily all inhabitants of the city flicker like it's skyline, or a questionable interest pertaining to those he hasn't let rest six feet below. If it's fascination, it curls briefly around the man beside him that he can't determine as an innocent, a threat, an angel, a devil.
"You don't look like you worry about that, though," He adds. "That true?"
a little cub with the eye of a drowned dog. laurent amuses himself with the thought of reaching out into that mouth and running his thumb across those pretty teeth; each incisor and molar, an outcrop of bone that can so easily tear into muscle if he let it. eden yorke dances at the fuzzier edges of importance: a slithering thing, wanting a piece of his petit ange, la plus grande œuvre d'art. he must be important to someone in the way idealists believe that everyone is important to somebody, but the thought rings pitiful. a glittering worm cannot be seen as anything other than a parasite. but it's the kind of thought that corrodes this city. self-importance — a uniquely american joke.
"of course not. i would never be caught looking like a wretch," he laughs, pleased, at least, that this boy's eyes do work. he'd never admit that he spends quite a fortune on his own appearance, but who doesn't? why should he let time have its way with his angelic face? "this week has been more of a — ah, homecoming for me, which —," he laughs, some, "is strange to say."
it's by habit that he runs his finger, instead, on the rim of his glass, rather than the slope of his tongue. he imagines it to be just as cold by the time he's done. he imagines it would feel much softer; have a little more give. there is space enough along its centre. the symmetrical dip of that flapping tongue would be quite a treat to cut into with a nail. it's far more use to niko in that mouth, for now; not on a platter. laurent entertains the boy with an easy smile — always giving, the same way a flytrap has its mouth uninhibited and open before the first bite. "i don't believe we've properly ever had a conversation. an oversight, on my part." he presses a palm against his chest. his own fault, an injury. "call me laurent. it's mister yorke i'm speaking to, yes? it's a pleasure. your work with stoneage is ... admirably resilient."
these eyes whir again to be observant beyond caution: a finger, perhaps, or a small twitch of a muscle out of place. this eden yorke does not have to speak to his niko a moment too soon or too late, if laurent now has come home to hold an errant tongue. so he slips an insult in lieu of a blade; a careful fumble of good manners dressed in silk and a drink, and an accent that betrays judgement beyond foreignness. "ah, but you must be tired of it, to come here and indulge. i cannot imagine the idea of being a company's hand puppet. surely the puppet must have his own thoughts."
Are they willing to evolve alongside the greatness in this city? If not, they don’t truly deserve to be on this side of the Terrors, do they? Niko had, more often than not, chewed on philosophical bargaining for those newcomers. Make them large enough that they can swim in the depths with the leviathan. Leech - like and growing with each day. Laurent had brought a sharper sense of survival to the organization ⸻ those eyes rarely miss anything in the abyss of the world. Even his speeches carry weight, his mouth opens and a mountain is formed. She could listen to him for hours. Bury her head in the grave - mud and remain hidden until the very ends of civilization, he’d still remain charismatic and full of wit. Subtle wit. Wit that aches like the dull blade against an eyelid. The opera house’s large lobby seems stoic and sterile, it listens intently to her greeting. “You’ve been busy lately [ … ] what ambition drives you this month, querido?” She says it half - lazily, voice stretching to meet each corner of the lobby. She is not afraid to be heard, even less afraid to sound as though she had only recently crawled from the sea. Heels come to a stop a few feet from him, the screen that flashes the latest performances is foreboding in size on the wall to the left of them. The lights of gold and red drowning their faces. “The rain has been good for business?”
down is the only place that they can head towards — into the depths of moral humanitarianism, at its core; we are better because we are human is a fallacy at best and a lie best told to sleeping babes. niko is a pure thing, bereft of these concerns in lieu of greater ones. he shares the fate as all those that came before, at risk of dying in sweet slumber and merciful quietude. he'd rather the long, wailing cry. he'd rather wrench a tongue from his own open, silent-screaming mouth. each throbbing muscle leads him to stand before her; each death knell-step; each second a smile grows wider and hands reach out to form around that beautiful face when they cross the gap in two-step. "oh —," he clicks his tongue, kisses her forehead; a rhythm, too, on its own — "nothing. none too busy for you, ma cherie." these hands do not dare sully the siren for long, and one gestures to the rest of the hall, silent bare for the echoes of that lovely dramatic soprano understudy; the other rests silent in his pocket — innocent. pious. he leads her to the near-empty, far-overpriced dining hall with the rest of him, instead. "just a hamlet production, then a daring adaptation of gilgamesh, which i look forward to judging." is that tremor his or hers? — ah, sweet excitement! — those lovely strands of hair! he could reach out and pluck them from the light, were he so daring. "i should have come to see you immediately but — mes rossignols — they need a little love from their caretaker as well, no?"
perhaps shame should return to the city. laurent had it aplenty; some for the wayward souls he'd sent on their merry way to the never-coming-back-land and most for the poor souls that wandered in here like they owned the place. of his membership, he could not defend; though for those here, he could only guess: an escape from the noise and smog, or from the constant piss-stained air that seemed to never truly dissipate from underneath the cracks of an ill-maintained pavement. no matter how many donations any of them made to the city, none were presumptuous enough to excuse it as charity; at least, not with a straight face. this is why so many of them smile, and why he must, also, making nice and paying for a drink for a stranger who could very well afford it.
"this one is on me." the foreign lilt in his voice is heavy; the ease with which he moves, even more alien. this body is his, eyes and all, whirring and clicking, indiscernible underneath the thrumming music. it's light enough that he's learnt to ignore it. he summarises the visual input as such: "you look radiant tonight." c'est bon. enough to entertain the palette until his phone rings again. "special occasion?"
ʟᴀᴜʀᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇɴʀɪ ᴅᴇꜱꜰᴏʀɢᴇꜱ - ʟᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱɪ .
ᴛʜᴇ ᴋʀᴀᴋᴇɴ . ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴍᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ .
found at the metropolitan opera house .
stats
full name: laurent henri desforges - luchessi
nicknames: laurie ( mon cher, you're toeing the line ... ), frenchie ( to the resounding chorus of: i'm just as american as you! )
label: the kraken
date of birth: 16th january
place of birth: sombernon, cote d'azur, france
age: thirty-nine
gender & pronouns: cis man & he / him
occupation: theatre manager for the metropolitan opera house
affiliation: consigliere for the terrors
language(s): english, french, italian
proficiencies: a keen ear ; master forger ; precise cutting of limbs for efficient dismemberment ; prefers suffocation, the garrotte, and is particularly skilled at restraining ; trained in aikido ; a learned shibari enthusiast ; has built up immunity to common poisons.
cybernetics: eyes - replaced them with cyberware to be able to zoom in/out at will (like built-in opera glasses... but subtle!) ; wrists and palms have monowire for more efficient garroting ( hidden from the masses, naturally, by a tasteful set of gloves )
current residence: french-inspired brownstone in west manhattan.
crimes of late: forgery ; human trafficking ; tax evasion ; homicide ; patricide (accomplice) ; none !
faceclaim: sam reid
personality
positive traits: intelligent, astute, direct, assertive, charming, easy to look at
negative traits: perfectionist, liar, narcissist, hard to impress, petty
love demands its sacrifices — but not from laurent, no; from a mother who has the world at her lap and a passing braggadocio with a penchant for changing face. at best, this is the worst outcome involved for all; at worst, a life rejected time and again, a mistake clinging onto paper, tearing himself out of the womb with the slow, blinking gaze of a critic. he was born for the life of a tyrant king over a quiet kingdom, so he keeps his silence. cote d'azur is a small town, and his mother's shame slithers through the morning gossip; not for having birthed a nobody-child, but for having one that cries only once a full moon. even when he is stolen from his cot with a note and a sorry, i'll take responsibility, laurent could never have known. laurent will never know if his mother has ever stopped screaming.
nevertheless — his father refuses to talk about how he fed a babe in the outlands. an infant wouldn't know a pacifier from a dead man's finger. luxury meat is hard to come by for a monster, and there are only so much stragglers looking for shelter against a sand storm. don't worry — earth eventually filters out the impurities of the flesh. but his infant ears do not comprehend the advice he heeds nonetheless: the key is to hold them down first.
a trade is a trade — once it was a paperclip for a house; here it is a life for a life. a nomad on a bike, first, thereupon a discovery: this, too, is a killer. his father gives the child a name, hastily tacked on, before they pack their belongings and bury the rest in an unmarked grave. by the time they move to the city, laurent is old enough to go to school, and conspicuous enough to warrant his mother's keen eye from across the sea. she's never stopped screaming into homes that cannot hear.
an eye, an ear, a life — she takes him. for years upon years he sits pretty on a pedestal. conforms his tongue out of his father's throat and into the slit of trauma and yearning for an infant far grown beyond his quiet. she dresses him like a boy and contorts his throat until he cannot forget the way his tongue will roll in his mouth and the choking noise of a dying empire. his grandfather acknowledges him no more than he acknowledges a worm. there is not enough in cote d'azur. his father paints for him the grandiose noise and scuffle of a body piling onto another for a scrap of bread. his grandmother teaches him how to place a thumb into each ear and squeeze. laurent has always been a good listener.
but not enough to fill an estate of ghosts — they fall, one after the other. his grandfather, first; then his mother. his grandmother has had enough of it, she says, and poisons him every week until he knows the taste of the thing that will kill her.
so he follows the patriarch again to the sharp ring of the hunger-bell — laurent did not expect fanfare. the patriarch is more conscientious than that. he's got another thing to protect, on top of all the others, and laurent is 18 without direction. he says : she finally allowed me to come to you. his bank account betrays nothing of his ownership. he whispers in the patriarch : i can take care of myself, and takes the butcher knife and cuts into the meat of the city, separating tendon from bone, joint from red-blooded muscle. it's easier than he expects to be a disposal: a trash chute for the undesirables, his father declares, lured into the light by the soft halo and a french lilt. the most satisfying part is the death-knell of a closing throat; the slow-drifting veil of shadow in the iris.
and feeds a sacrifice into the machine — when another body comes, it's an opportunity. his father takes to her like a child enthralled with the prospect of an alternative ; a spare ( he's always been an insanely careful man, but insane, nonetheless ). he noticed her years ago when he first gets his set of new eyes ( oh , his father talked him into it, true, but there is benefit amongst the harsh mentorship and the cold nights ). she gives him nothing and the patriarch even less, and in this creature is a lack of soul that is dying for something grand. in the meantime, laurent fills his coffers with other ventures: hey, i know your cousin ; of course, i went there too ; oh, yes, i've heard of him before — he fills this space with gilded halls and velvet, the tenor and alto and soprano and colourful notes to complete the symphony of his demands, and the sharp ring of a cane against polished hardwood floors. and behind those doors his hands are dirtied; his face shifts, the way his father's did; the mouths open to caw and peck and gnaw at the bodies he offers to the gods across the sea. this is what happens to failure, so he helps these poor creatures along as per the puppeteer's incentive : do it again. again. again!
to abate the roar, to feed the thunder — why does the body ache for the taste of a beckoning grave?
you can cough up a storm with all the love you're choking on — he's never met a thing with more hunger than his own so he feeds it, to see how quickly it grows and swallows all the things he finds undesirable, in no particular order: his father's estate ; his loyalty ; and a patch of skin to be branded against bone to tangle against the monster she claims. the kraken pulls its lover-ships into the deep upon which they tread, and he names this his own, to lay siege to a drowning fate, to lay waste to a meal before he says his prayers and sinks his teeth into the tongue curled at the maw of this city-beast.
connections
a dash of glucose — laurent makes his way around new york plenty, but you are a fellow patron of the arts; a kindred spirit, and a deep pocket at that. why, it seems that you're fated to be the best of friends!
a friend of a friend of a friend... — you heard from someone who knows someone who heard from someone else that laurent has a way of making people disappear. but he has a business to protect, and you're... well. you're nobody. why would he listen to your demands?
have you seen the milk carton ? — laurent's singers tend to run away after they've found a miserly old man who they can milk for cash. he's got a talent matching people to their temperaments, after all, especially if they don't perform. but you have doubts, and laurent's your last lead. surely he must've seen something of that young, aspiring opera star...
it's always sunny behind the curtain — isn't it fun to claw at flesh? isn't it thrilling to be a secret?
ban, unbanned; kill, don't kill... — you are in the unfortunate position to have laurent hold your opinion in such high esteem. unfortunate, really, because he's always halfway between blacklisting you from the opera and giving you an open invitation to dinner. watch your words!
a star, and not the dying kind — all you wanted was a job - and you got his attention. he's not in the business of letting go of his best and brightest. Ever. (on the plus side, the benefits are RIDICULOUS...)
an old man's tacked-on name — can bring all kinds of trouble, and laurent isn't afraid of allowing it to trail behind on the last syllable of everything else. you, however, don't take too kindly to his father's last name, even if the old man really is finally dead.
THEY SAY THAT THE WARDEN MAKES HOUSE CALLS . if only god made they same house calls right ? but . . . a naive priest with too much of a heart . . . perhaps that close enough . now what the FUCK could she possibly need him to come over for ? prayer ? anointing ? nah , this bitch needs a full on exorcism . like a siren luring lost sailors to shipwreck , arabella's tone is that of a damsel in distress as she coos for father thomas on the other end of the line . " thomas , please . . . i could really use your guidance . . . " a cut of the line & some minutes later a knock on her door . stepping up , why even bother to look in the peep hole . opening the door , tears dried on her cheeks as she gasped in relief . a blink as she sized him up . not every day you see your priest in street clothes . " thank you . . . forgive me , for some reason i think you wear your church clothes in your everyday li-— " she stopped mid sentence upon seeing his knuckles . brows furrowing with curiosity . " are you . . . you okay ? " bella stepped to the side allowing him to step in ; the hue of the neon city seeping into her dim apartment . / / @descorts
how could he have hoped to refuse the faithful? such was not god's will. matthew 7:7 — in context and without it, still applies — and because god will not answer without a mouthpiece thomas does, even as he's only just finished dinner when she called. the trip here was thankfully without scrutiny. no one would spare a second glance at him outside of his garb, and even less without his shirt and collar; perhaps only that his hands still felt the fresh cut of new stitches under gauze, and that towered over them all. and even now, when the door opens, he towers over her too, stepping into the threshold and not deigning to put his backpack on any surface for fear it may be considered rude. there's only a bible in there, a four pack of corner-store gin-and-tonics, and a wallet. nothing to write home about. the good book of the lord is easy enough to obtain. "i should be asking you that, arabella." without much thought to impropriety, he reaches out to place a hand on her head, as in blessing, and then on her shoulder. "are you alright? should we sit down, have something to drink?"
・ ✦ ・𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐂𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐒 / * ( open starter for lawlessevent003 )
@ 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋
The discordant siren's wail pierced the walls, saturating the air with malevolent foreboding. Its haunting resonance echoed in Anchali's ears, a dissonant symphony of anarchy and carnage. Fear surged, constricting her chest with icy tendrils, while panic coursed through her cold veins as she frantically scanned the hotel room. Her plots to fortify herself against the imminent danger were wearing thin. The woman's commanding aura, emblematic of her role as the sharp heiress of the news station, dwindled in the face of her fears. She was alone, reliant on her own will to live, without her father's vigilant eye upon her. She felt exposed, weak, and useless. The relentless chaos outside left her drained, clutching her phone tightly amidst its eerie ring.
With authority, and once the head of security answered, she spoke into the phone, issuing imperatives. "I need you to secure this room - Borderline Hotel, Floor 5, Room 13. No one in, no one out." There was pushback, of course, but she persisted. "I won't be a part of the city devouring itself. My father's influence should ensure this sanctuary remains intact, and I expect you to ensure that."
Silence followed, then an abrupt click. The lifeline went silent, revealing that even her gods couldn't hear her prayers tonight.
Once a sanctuary, the Borderline Hotel now felt like a trap. The distant echoes of the Purge served as a haunting reminder of the city's lawlessness.
A sudden, jarring noise outside her door sent shivers down her spine. Anchali hesitated, her sharp gaze narrowing as she surveyed the room. Sinister shadows seemed to writhe in the dim light, and an unnatural chill settled. Curiosity compelled her to approach the door.
A soft, elusive whisper, akin to the sinister murmurings of the damned, reached her ears. Anchali strained to discern, heightened senses on edge as she pressed her ear to the door. "Who's there?"
fitting, then, that his spirits, usually undeterred in chaos, would now find itself in shambles at the thought of losing his cat within the confines of this hotel. he had neither the pull nor the weight in the underworld to explore its halls freely, and in truth being here was a risk in and of itself: to exist so carelessly in a place reeling with its demons surely gave him away as one of their own. but a gun or two tucked into a harness underneath his coat is not enough to give it away, surely? just a concerned citizen, and no more than that, distraught by the state of the city for the remainder of the 24 hours rather than for the safety of his cat, for whom he would give the world in all her fluffy glory. she could go where he could not; traverse places that his too-big-body cannot squeeze into, no matter how many joints he could dislocate. such was the nimble grace of a diet coke! and with such grace, too, does she reduce him to his knees, reduce him to a clambering mess, turning every pot over and looking under hallway tables just to make sure she isn't lurking underneath.
but a door so shut? and with light underneath it? surely they must have accidentally let her in!
the voice behind it, too, was a turn of fortuity. "uhm — d...aniel." last name, quick — "daniel sinclair." american, still. he must have heard the name somewhere before, but the musing isn't entertained when he does her the favour of tapping his knuckles against the door, and has the wit to take a step back, just in case the peephole is occupied on the other end. "can i ask you something, miss...? mean no harm, just looking around for — something important. might've snuck in your room, i think. do you mind if i take a look?"
thread: @proeliums' alex + arin
location: the borderline hotel. three hours into the purge.
a prison is a prison, no matter how dressed up it is. arin had come here on the false belief that he could grab his wife and leave the city with his cat as soon as he'd found her, but the doors closed too quickly and communications thus also cut before he could make the appropriate report to revan. another failure; he can't afford another. at least he'd hoped to find his wife when he entered. had it not been for diet coke's ingenuous propensity to escape her cage once his back's turned, he thinks he might have found alex sooner. but some missions — especially unplanned ones that require more effort to get out of than to get into — always come with the most inconvenient complications, and diet coke took priority over an agent who could handle herself.
as if by some lightbulb-moment, arin's desperate search for a mini-predator in a city of monsters led him to the kitchen. what better way to catch a cat than with fish? or chicken? or any type of treat, really — arin truly expected to see diet coke rifling through the barren kitchen rather than slinking through the walls. and her fur! she'd be a mess! —
so this is how he's found by the person who intrudes: on his hands and knees on the grimy kitchen floor, clicking his tongue, and shooting upright at the sound of an opening door. and there, then, illuminated by the siren-glow of the dark beyond flourescent lights, is his wife: the first quandary, completed and solved. "al-ex!" he says it as a revelation, with all the embarrassment befitting of a fool. he wipes his hands on his pants — a terrible move; he's only made the mess worse. "alex. hi. i was looking for you. i'm glad you're — i hope you didn't mind that i looked into your work schedule. i hoped you didn't leave early..."
LOCATION: revan's office, the julliard school.
FOR: arin gore.
will i at least remember you?
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌, both waking and asleep. once his protector, now the keeper of his memories. gone were the days of boyhood -- even if always being forced to watch each other's six was anything other than normal. especially so young. he was eight when he first crossed the threshold of the red eye -- neither having the memory or will to look back. he vaguely remembers meeting arin, he does, back when he was nothing more than bone. over the years he had climbed, protected the younger as if he were his own flesh and blood. he had been proud when arin had made it out back then. perhaps he had been worn down by his own jealousy, that he was strong enough to resist the call when revan knew one thing: he had no other choice. and then, arin didn't either. but there was a part of him that would rather it be him to be the last face arin saw before the blackness.
before he opened his eyes, his memories erased. at revan's hand.
the red eye wasn't one to be crossed, one to be betrayed. once you denounced their help, their protection, you were nothing more than a feather blown about by the breeze, broken down by the sands of time. brothers or not, the organization loomed.
will i at least remember you?
frankly, arin, it would be easier, if you didn't. for the both of us.
the answer he's always wanted to say, every single fucking time, has sat on the edge of his tongue -- like a battered vehicle threatening to fall over the edge of a cliff. and you're waiting, watching for it to fall with the warm, tender flesh of your palms over your eyes but you can't help but peak through the cracks of your fingers: waiting for the other shoe to drop.
no matter how much it weighs on him, the reality of his betrayal -- somehow, revan and arin always find themselves in the same place. across from each other, somehow engrossed in conversation. then the tea, there's always tea. he's always found comfort in his friend's presence, in his smile. and yet, he is constantly reminded of the sanctity of brotherhood he threw away the very first time he wiped the slate of arin's mind clean. took away the life he could have had, they could have had.
will i at least remember you?
please. no. forget me. forget me-
" so... " he looks up, taking the cup and saucer from the other, swallowing his own thoughts. they never go away. " what new blend have you brought for me today, hmm? you never told me what it is i'm about to consume. "
at least, he thinks he has. any other excuse wouldn't have held up. he didn't hold any instrument, though the case he carried with him could have passed for one. perhaps, too, it was the lack of sleep; travelling to and from a tiny island in maine — one that he was surprised existed in the first place — required more than just a helicopter ride; it required finesse, firstly, and two days of leave and very little sleep, but that was to be expected of any external job. it wasn't too far, this time, and for that he was thankful, but for the other complications, not so. he could've just rented a boat and sailed off the coast himself; could have waited for the poor potter to peek out his window as the long barrel of a familiar weapon rested in between railings; but they were, of course, right: the sea bobbed and frothed too much to allow anything but a tempestuous shot, and in the worst case, an ill-placed one. (arin had hit worse targets on worse days; he did not question the method.)
instead, he came at the irresistible beck and high call of an overseer, and for this he brought a gift.
"stole it from the target's house after i did a little clean-up." thorough, as always. he cannot count on cleaners here. there are not enough people in the isolated island to count as allies, much less those with a stomach. all he had seen was a harbour town. one that barely survived on its scarce faith and amenities, and subsisted on artists that brought in business every season, if at all. he had seen the same face five times passing through the dock; seen the same woman serve him coffee twice; but his target only ever once, and sanctimoniously buried in their own backyard with little fanfare. her disappearance will be chalked up to a letter detailing the death of the spirit in an island like this: no doubt a sentiment that will move shoulders only up-and-down, as it were, before turning to mundane business.
he could die in a place like that. it would be quiet and soul-crushing: a deserving end of the shroud who made nary a sound, even as he placed the case down. he had learned to be rid of these habits: walk rather than skim; exist, rather than pass through. a giant without trace. in front of revan, no such pretense was necessary. even the box of tea, inlaid in gold in its tinged-purple case, tapped only the slightest when it hit wood.
"why would i tell you? that'd ruin the surprise." he didn't sit until told, didn't budge other than the awkward tugging at the frayed edges on the sleeve of his sweater, before catching the habit and placing his hands in his pockets. "...bit far, though." fidget: this time, finger against the side of his thumb, which he clenches closed within a fist. not the time. "if i have to spend this much time away from my wife, i'm not sure how well we can sell it. thought we'd have to act terribly in love..." worry, clarified: "not that i'm questioning you, revan! curious, s'all."
she expected little out of tonight, already a smoking chimney. those who deigned to be her regular clients found themselves underneath the persuasion of a siren's call more delicate than even hers: free drinks. dahlia, rolling her eyes, though she kept this particular emotion to herself, parted through the crowd in order to give herself a sense of peace. ( something like it. hovering close to her, a shadow of her former self. whispering against her ear: do you think this is better than the rest. ) but dahlia shed the garments of former selves and their counterparts long ago. or so she would like to believe. like to dream. darkly. hauntingly.
and in this discourse — darkly, hauntingly — they see him. the tall form of that particular gentleman, who professed he would want two hands on her, but chose to lay neither there, not even against her hands. something sweetened in that love that went foul quicker than the rest, that drove her to be chased away from that place in search of better things. ( it hadn't been terrible. then again, it hadn't been anything. ) so her heartbeat had no licence to skip. her pulse, no need to quicken. and yet there would be no avoiding a confrontation. of some kind. ( that whisper again: do you think the rest is better than this. ) she spoke his name aloud, though it was lost in the rush of music. instead of trying again, she reaches for him. this is the first time they have ever touched. years. centuries. identities.
"hey." dahlia disguised the shock in a curled smirk. a usual counter. "long time, no see. this is quite the different backdrop to before." the pressure upon his elbow is light. barely-there. "what a surprise." the lilt, dropping.
no siren song is worse than a directive by red eye, and as always he obliges. there is a woman here he has come to befriend; an unwanted party; someone with the courage to think they can negotiate with those who lurk in the shadows with no wit nor sense of self-preservation to support it. so it's folly, and when arin pulls out the garotte (not his preferred method of choice, but one worth using for minimal noise) he holds the body down and pretends it doesn't writhe under his knee while he's texting his not-wife: let me know when you get off work. i'm almost done. and a heart, to boot. digital records are fallible, and this sells it, better than the woman underneath had propositioned any other alternative of keeping their names safe.
there isn't much fuss left when he calls a cleaner. not when he's outside, leaning against the wall with a corpse in a body bag, like any other smoke break.
and it's this scent that carries through, always, when he dives back in for a diversion, an alibi. he must be seen, if only briefly, and so he is: touched, too, by a familiar smirk that he cannot place. for a moment he fumbles: there is a feeling attached here. tenderness. pity. "h..ey," he returns, albeit too hesitantly; so he changes course. smiles. "it's been so long." has it? "how are you? you're not busy tonight...? i can't believe i'm seeing you here! we should really catch up — here, let me buy you a drink."
ximena shook her head, "none that ive been told of." she said with a huff. reaching over to take a cigarette, never much of a smoker but in a time like now anything to cut the edge was accepted. she wondered if they were all being kept in the dark. and that darkness was enveloping her in a way that made her feel as if she was suffocating in it. darkness was supposed to be their home. lurking in the shadows as a veil of protection. yet, here she was questioning if being in the dark was best. "they're probably keeping all the higher ups in the know until someone is directly involved." ximena's usual well collected demeanor was beginning to crack with the idea of not knowing. she was unsure how to be when she was so used to having the upper hand.
it's red eye's programming, he thinks, that's made them so resilient to the black tar coating their lungs with every drag, and at the exhale, a sigh at the state of their insides. where he had clung to the shadows he now wished to peel himself away from the very sanitary walls that — how did he remember what the walls of the headquarters looked like, anyway? it's a dangerous memory to hold — so he shakes his head, "all going to be involved eventually. it's bleak." he flicked the cigarette into the unoccupied space beside him. it had seen ash so often he may as well have drawn a crime scene in plain ink. "...i'm going to contact someone outside. see if they can help wipe my name, start it new." another drag. here's a confession: i've grown attached, ximena. "but it makes sense — pulling all agents out immediately would be admitting defeat. 'm surprised they haven't told you to go after anyone yet."
Alex had never pictured herself as somebody's wife. Perhaps it was because she'd never had a stable idea of love or family to model herself after, or perhaps it was simply because the life of an assassin rarely afforded her more than the occasional one-night-stand. The idea of finding somebody that she could tolerate long enough to settle down with seemed laughable at best, near impossible at worst. Though, she supposed being married as cover didn't really count – though they had papers and rings and doctored photographs to prove the union, it was little more than an assignment. No different than any other she had been sent on, and no more real.
"I'm good," She says after a moment – eyes lingering a little too long on the sharp tick of her husband's ( Arin, he introduces himself as – she files this away ) jaw. She steps through the doorway, quickly scanning over the place she is now supposed to call home. It's quaint, and the bedroom is sparsely decorated, but it's certainly far from the worst place she's ever stayed ( that, of course, would have to go to the isolated cabin in Siberia ). "Alex Chien. First time ever in New York. I think." She offers in return, dropping her duffel bag to the ground inside the bedroom and crouching to open it. "You don't have to give up your bed, dude. This is your house, and I'm okay with the floor. Though we might want to invest in a queen size if we're going to pull off this whole 'married couple' thing."
After several moments of fishing around in her bag, she finally finds what she has been searching for – a pair of golden wedding bands. "This one's for you." She reaches out to offer the ring to Arin, slipping the matching one onto her own finger. "I now pronounce us Mr and Mrs Gore."
he studies the way she looks at things: a quirk of the eyebrow here and a sparse glance there. where does her gaze linger? (he almost imagines that it's on him, and the thought turns his stomach some — they're better trained than that.) she calls him dude and says things with freedom he cannot understand. she had been in a different assignment before, perhaps; a longer one? clearly not one where change was an immediate threat, and speaking in such a familiar way to fellow agents was not a sure sign of the lack of professionalism. but who's he to judge, when he's been trying for weeks to organise a get-together? "well... i'll let you take it for now, anyway. it's the right thing to do. when i get home from my shift, we can make that investment." he takes the ring as a promise and slips it into his own. it's no heavier than the chains they have made for themselves.
"come." he cants his head as consolation towards the kitchen, gives her a smile that always reaches his eyes, even when he doesn't intend it to. it aches to be this soft; it's better to temper it with something lukewarm. "i'll make you some tea, and then leave you to get used to things. s'there anything you want to ask?"
Some slight in his words that causes an almost overwhelming desire to spit at him. Speaks to her about pets and goodness — thinks that he can hold those names of her Terrors in his mouth like cherry pits. This man and his want to wander into the ocean and expect nothing to drag him under. She with her ribs cracked open in front of him for an ink kiss, but so willing to show him that true darkness of the abyss — a death worthy of a saltwater sacrifice. She supposes even those already so buried in their notoriety often forget that there are things in the dirt that wait for men to get old and weary. Watch as they wrinkle with age, drifting so far from the shore that they believe that dry-land is a myth itself. Look at how he moves around with precision — speaking so fluidly the language of denial. Tradition is dying in this city. The world evolves. He will be long gone. Vanished. Departed without a name. This is what happens to those who refuse to see the wind shift. This is not unbearable pain, she thinks, and there’s very little that she couldn’t endure. Not that Niko would share with him. No information of herself that she would offer up to him in her palms, like a pool of rainwater saved from the first time the people felt the wetness of the sky. None about her Terrors, either. A protective nature that swirls with the viciousness of a lioness with her cubs. A deep laugh, hearty and filled with that rasp of a demon’s voice that comes from her throat to not disturb the work he’s making. Amusement in the oddest of places, but it’s not because of him. Only her own inner workings of fantasies and docile gods returning to the shallow waters because they simply couldn’t swallow enough seawater. “You’re very funny. Talking of pets and all those you can leash. Or train.” The eyes sparkle, there’s a sensitive part above the ribs that the needle hits, but her body is still. Silent. It’s always waiting, coiled and perceptive. She’s watching him, posed like a model, if not for the aura of dread around her. Difficult to shake that off to come indoors. “I trust mine. Do you trust yours?” Said without warning, a question that requires an answer. Not so much out of her personal interest, but business-wise she must see what kind of leader he is. How tight the king-skin stays wrapped around him, even among other leaders. No matter the hunger, no matter the stale conquer. “You didn’t answer my last question, I hope you answer this one.”
it's good that he's waited for her to finish laughing before the inking begins. almost immediately her disrespect entertains prior thoughts of murder, but he deals with it the same way he deals with juveniles: by completely ignoring their jibes and resisting the urge to keep that laughter tinkling and chiming underwater. but akira isn't one for drowning his enemies. it's too clean of a death, having watched it with severe interest when he had been younger, and again, and again. it was boring, and only lasted for as long as their lungs would allow, which isn't much at all.
a knife-wound, on the other hand — or, better, the blunt end of a bat? — or the bone-scraped skin on his knuckles? —
"without question," he answers, finally, after a small laugh. he turns to the inkwell and again to the canvas. by now his wrists know the familiar rumble of the needle, clamp around it just the right way, even when he puts a hand over hers just to keep this chest still at the more difficult areas. the easy ones, he can do without touch; it's easy to ignore the heat of skin when he knows that there's nothing under it. he won't fill it with the information she wants. she'll have to look for his runaways, his disobedient dogs, and reign them in herself, if she wanted their foaming maws. "my people are like family." the same way pet owners, of course, say that their dogs and cats and fish are like family, like children. "we take care of each other." pause. wipe. repeat. "i love each and every single one of them. even the ones i don't get to see often." the stencil holds firm. so does her skin. good. it won't do well if she gives too easily. "are there many of you now, or are you still building numbers?"
his voice rings in her head, something distant from years apart that echoes closer and closer no matter how far she might distance herself. his voice is just as clear to her as the blood that stains his face, old memories resurfacing from when they'd been only children wrapped up in a world that came knocking for a reality check far too soon. tamsin feels like she's outside of her body when he spills blood for her, skin numb where his palm fits against hers and tugs her along. she gets a bare glance behind them before she takes the lead - the route she takes to the old, familiar apartment is twisted by different turns to lose whoever had been following them. her breath is heavy when the door shuts behind them, not a spare second to think about the implications of this - of being here with him, of the memories held within these walls and the old couch they'd sat on together all those years ago while her mother had been in the next room getting high. her anger catches up to her then, chest heaving when she stomps into the kitchen to turn on the rickety faucet. "you should have kept walking," she snaps after a beat, tone sharp as she grabs a cloth in her haste and wets it. "how hard do you think it'll be for them to pin down which church to find you at? you aren't exactly inconspicuous," she scoffs, bitterness and distaste coating her tongue. there's no room for a fight right now, not when the shock hasn't set in yet, but she finds herself arguing anyway. it's easier than any sort of silence; she isn't sure she'd be able to stand that.
every step was common ground, every cracked pavement a memory yet to be made and one already forgotten all the same. if they had been younger he would have barely let her lead. if they were younger her home would have been his first and only other; her hands the only marker that he was doing the right thing. now, sticky with the sickening life-rust common to all of god's children, their palms were a reminder that he had strayed again. but it wasn't straying, surely, if he had done it for good? it wasn't straying if he was to save someone who had been his heart? here, now, when they are safe, the ceiling feels smaller. he's grown bigger; less scrawny; less lean. in that time she's sharpened her thorns, and even then, he has mind enough to follow her to the kitchen with a sigh. "you know i can't do that, tamsin." and she must know, too, that there is a reason the church hasn't been touched. if there's anything to be said of humanity and its ills, it's that they haven't forgotten that attacking the house of god would invite only strife. "even if they do —god will exact his vengeance. if they get a smiting, that's on them." he raises his hands not to push her away again but to hold her arms still, hold this body where it is and thank god for its wholeness, forgetting for the most unholy second that his hands would leave tempestuous stains on her clothes. "stop for a second, please. — " must i be that boy again with the sharp-edge curve, the quick hook? — he doubts she will ask this of him; he hopes she will not ask this of him (and if god were to ask? if she were to tell him to do otherwise? how could he hope to decide then?). "did they hurt you?"
𝐍𝐀𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 told that she cared too much. by friends, by family ( of course -- but then there were the times where she felt privileged by being simply spoken to ), by those who once took residence in the left side of her bed. and yet, father thomas had done nothing but be present. when the winds changed and she found herself falling to pieces, when her mother's time came, he always kept her steady. however, with her allegiance to the dead hand feeling more and more real as the days went by -- so did the guilt coiling itself around her neck, threatening to squeeze. she had become what her sister believed she was destined to be: a mess, a failure, just like their mother. when at the very end of her life, she had come to learn who their mother truly was. a woman broken in two over the knee of the universe.
silence has become both her best friend and her worst enemy, leaving her alone with her own mind -- but leaving her alone. the devil had stayed far away tonight, at least, in person. he retained control over her in waking and in slumber, where she saw flashes of his knuckles creating rapture after rapture against the peeling wood of her door, coming to collect his prize. the debt that he was owed.
she is pulled out of her thoughts, thankfully, by the sound of a knock at the door. one at first that she is petrified to open, believing that she had suddenly developed psychic abilities. however, she nearly crumbles when she is met by familiar, kind eyes -- ones that have always managed to pull her back to the ground again.
a common sight, now, for this family: the eyes of tired souls, bedraggled by the very demons they invite into their home. for their mother it had been vice; for nahome her choices; and for tamsin, her unerring dedication to self-belief and ambition. none of these are inherently hell-inducing, true, nor must they be demons, but left alone to rot and these things will fester. the look of it takes thomas aback — only enough to seem slightly concerned before crossing the threshold. "sister ines — new initiate, i hear — she brought an amazing casserole to last week's donation drive, and i've been trying to recreate it ever since." he makes his way around like a common spirit, clearing the table, placing the still-warm pot in its large bag on the table, and taking it out, as if to serve her in his home, rather than it be the other way around. "i had to replace broccoli for something cheaper, but they make such convincing artificial ones lately, and with so many nutrients, too."
he's filling the space with noise. with chatter. the sound of his own footsteps and his own lungs expanding in his chest might already be so unbearable, and now the air hangs heavy with the cloying scent of blood. even old sharks know these things. try as he might to shield the church and its faithful there is nothing to protect them from an errant attack from the increasing frequencies of inhumanity and fire. "you look like you could use something warm, too." he doesn't dance around the topic, here. there isn't any need for theatrics, but there is always a healthy measure of tenderness, of open palms as if to ask for her own, "nahome. what's going on? you seem troubled."
The history turns muddy eventually. Some days she can’t stomach the memories — some days she refuses to extend her neck from her shell of comfort. It could be a challenge in itself to be anything other than existing. She wonders what it must feel like to be dubbed a saint, to be bloodless in a way no other thing can be. Or did he shed his skin as well when the expectations overwhelmed him? Maybe that was a cowardly thing she did — avoiding the past like it was a pair of red eyes in the darkness during a night alone. A flush in her cheeks, a shame that spills across her face. A thicker piece of skin is held together and then pierced with the needle, she hums gently, hears that polite manner in his voice. Selena hears the self-awareness as well. “Just wine. I like a glass or two sometimes.” An absentminded answer, she replies with the easiness of a woman balancing on a beam above a pool of swamp-water. She is always posed, always attempting to appear less harmed than she actually is. The war-wound digs deep, after all, and once it finds a meaty part of the conscience it rarely lets go of it. “No. I’m just curious [ … ] do the questions bother you?” A pause, needle held frozen in the air as she glances up at them, eyes searching his face for some truth-born clarity. “We can talk about something else. You must see many weddings. They always bring some happiness.”
god can be a very inconvenient being. even thomas can admit that to himself; praise be the lord for all his might but not for his pettiness and his troublesome tests, for which thomas was all equipped to endure without the patience of any given saint. he had no skin worthy of gargoyles, either. they would cackle at him, he imagined, once he returned wincing. how dare he show weakness at the doors of the church, where only sinners would be punished? and damning still: how dare a man of his stature and capability not offer them both to the cause of protection? but the good doctor does not ask these things. she does not judge him and remains solely to her task as he does his own, even if hers causes much less harm than his own duties have. the question-and-answer cycle keeps his mind off of it, even if he has to grit his teeth through a groan, and close his eyes for a moment, as if that will render him blind to the bolts of pain from her tender hands. "balanced. i appreciate that." he tries to offer a smile; it feels like a grimace. "doesn't bother me at all. i'm sorry — it's been a while since i've been patched up. — but yes, yes of course. so do sermons and confessionals and baptisms... i try to celebrate the life that the lord has given us, if possible. sometimes, though..." another wince, "this might be unavoidable. please — ask away. it'll take my mind off of the... ah... less joyful parts of the night. do you visit the parish at all?"
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