Maybe I’m a different breed…

“Vision without execution is hallucination.” - Thomas Edison

[beckdean]

Beck keeps walking ahead. For a few moments, silence lingers behind her - then comes the hurried sound of movement as Dorian finally decides to follow. Satisfied, she presses onward without looking back, maintaining her brisk pace along the docks. If he truly wanted answers, he'd figure out how to keep up. His attitude hadn't earned him any extra patience from her, and the sound of him struggling behind her brings a flicker of satisfaction than she'd ever admit to out loud.

Still, she can't help the wince that pulls at her face when his voice suddenly cuts through the quiet. "Keep your voice down." She hisses, finally glancing back over her shoulder. Even hushed, the irritation in her tone is clear.

"I'm not security, but I do work here. Which means I have every right to be here - unlike you." Her words are an obvious contradiction to them sneaking around in the dark, but she doesn't care to elaborate on her late night escapades. "Just concentrate on keeping up."

Finally, they reach their target.

Beck drops to a crouch beneath the window, eyes fixed on the security guard inside as she studies his movements carefully, the rise and fall of his chest. Ronald still looked asleep, thankfully, slumped in his chair beneath the dull glow of the office light.

She notices a second too late that Dorian has straightened to full height beside her with no regard for his visibility, already making his way toward the door. Beck's stomach lurches.

She's about to grab him. They were both trespassing, and if Ronald woke to the sound of them barging in, they were both screwed - but it quickly becomes apparent that intervention isn't necessary after all.

To her credit, Beck does try to suppress the amusement that flashes across her face as Dorian's hand slips uselessly through the doorknob. But the tension in his expression, combined with the increasingly frustrated way he fumbles for the handle again, eventually forces a smug smirk onto her lips.

For a moment, she lets the silence stretch deliberately between them, satisfaction written plainly across her face. Then she pushes herself upright and steps closer.

Even now, even in this situation, he's barking orders at her like she’s a dog. A thought that gets her back up. Beck's jaw tightens, a sharp breath escapes through her nose as she nears him, voice low and firm.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but here, you listen to me." Her eyes lock onto his. "If that guy wakes up, we are both fucked - I'm out of a job, you're out of your answers, we're both arrested. Got it?"

She gestures sharply toward the office door. "So I'll open it. And in return, you keep your mouth shut and stay quiet while we're in there." A beat passes, her gaze narrowing. "And if you can't manage that, then I'll go in there alone, slam the door in your face, and we'll see how long it takes you to figure out the handle by yourself."

[dorianwells]

The smug look on her face makes Dorian's jaw tighten. He tries the handle a third time anyway, as if persistence alone might bully reality into cooperating. When it doesn't, he huffs out a breath and shifts his weight, already annoyed that she seems to be enjoying this. Then she starts issuing orders and his expression darkens further. "Here, I listen to you?" he repeats, incredulous. "Don't get carried away."

The irony of the lecture is not lost on him either. She keeps talking about getting caught while sneaking around her own workplace in the middle of the night. Whatever explanation she has for that, he doubts it would impress her employer. She seems very pleased with herself at the moment but for all her posturing, the consequences here land much harder on her than they do on him. "Besides," he continues, eyes narrowing, "if anyone should be worried about jail, it's you." The corner of his mouth pulls into something halfway between a scoff and a smirk as his gaze drifts over her. "Jail is no place for delicate little girls."

He looks back at the door. There is a reasonable chance he could simply walk through it. Maybe. He has passed through solid objects before—walls, fences, the containers in this very shipyard and more than one unfortunate pedestrian since ending up like this. He has also gotten stuck in things before, and there is no chance in hell he is giving her the satisfaction of watching that happen. So he settles for pointing a finger directly in her face instead.

"If you leave me behind, I will make enough noise to wake him, and then you can explain that to your boss." The threat is not entirely empty. Dorian has never been above making a nuisance of himself when it serves his interests. He holds her gaze a moment longer before finally stepping back and raising both hands in a gesture that is anything but surrender. Then he motions sharply toward the door and mouths, Open it.

[nakatomi-ayumu]

"Oh? Dorian Wells?" Now that name did ring some bells. "What would the great Dorian Wells be doing loitering in an alley like some common vagrant?" Ayumu asked pointedly as the man rounded in on them, their eyes moving down to the spirit's feet to find none there, it all but confirming what they were dealing with.

"My name is Ayumu. Nakatomi Ayumu," the much older spirit replied with a knowing smile as they looked up at the other. Dorian seemed to be trying to use his height to intimidate, but Ayumu was not easily intimidated.

"Do you know that you're dead, Dorian Wells?" Ripping the bandaid off seemed like the best option and it gave Ayumu the gleeful opportunity to see how the other man might react.

[dorianwells]

The edge in Dorian's expression eased by a fraction—at least this Nagamui knew who he was—then promptly returned at the suggestion that he was no longer alive. "Dead? Right." He barked out a disbelieving laugh, tongue running along the inside of his teeth. The mere thought was absurd. He was standing right there. "Does this look dead to you?" He gestured at himself, the question rhetorical. "I'm pretty sure I'd know if I were dead."

He waved them off as though dismissing an employee who had wandered into his office with a particularly stupid problem. "You know what? I don't have time for this." He did not wait for a response. Whatever game this man thought he was playing, he had neither the patience nor the inclination to indulge it. "Enjoy your alley." With that, he moved past them.

[matthew-alexander]

Matthew arched a brow at the man's annoyed retort as he took in a face that looked fairly familiar. As much as the man seemed put off by the fallen deity's question, he still decided to pull out a lighter.

Matthew leaned in to light his cigarette, blue eyes still trained on the other man's face as he pulled away. "Your actions don't quite match up with your words, Mister Wells," he said as he blew the smoke from his lungs.

"It's Dorian Wells of Easton-Wells, isn't it? What brings you to the streets of Klin this evening?" Matthew recognised that face. This man was someone who moved in the upper echelons of human society the way Matthew did, but they had not met yet. Until now, that is.

[dorianwells]

“Lucky for you, then,” Dorian replied, the irritation still there beneath the remark as he snapped the lighter shut again, though he didn’t pocket it immediately. Recognition was hardly unusual. People had known his face long before they knew anything worth saying about him. But recognition here—on the streets of Klin, in the middle of this fucking nightmare—carried a different sort of weight. His gaze lingered a moment longer on the man in front of him. Wealth recognized wealth easily enough, even stripped of context. The coat, the cigarette box, the way the other man carried himself—he was clearly someone of influence, and Dorian had never been in the habit of ignoring opportunity. “And who might you be?”

At the question, his expression tightened almost imperceptibly. Several hours wasted moving through overcrowded streets and festival traffic had done little for his patience and even less for his mood. “I’m looking for someone,” he said plainly. “Someone currently in possession of something that belongs to me.” His hands lifted slightly then, gesturing vaguely toward himself—to the expensive clothes hanging off a body that wasn’t entirely there, to the noticeable transparency below his knees, to the entire impossible situation clinging to him like a bad joke. “And I intend to get it back.”

[matthew-alexander]

killjoy | open starter

for: anyone and everyone~ @vievecorcitystarters location: the sidewalk outside liber (klin)

While there were no official Vibe Fest parties in Klin, it did not stop various bars and clubs from throwing many of their own to take advantage of the revelry. Matthew hated Vibe Fest just as he hated most forms of merriment, but the hate was especially strong that evening.

He had stupidly chosen this weekend to come by Liber again after being a recluse at home for so long and he was starting to think that it was a terrible idea. It did not help that he was still depowered and opening himself a portal to go home was not an option.

Liber was very lively, which was always a good thing, but Matthew still felt the need to step out for a moment. He exited his wine bar and walked a bit of the ways down before pulling out his sleek silver cigarette case to fish one out to place between his lips. He would normally have lit it magically with a flick of his fingers, but alas... The fallen deity growled in annoyance and flagged down a passing person to ask (rather menacingly)...

"Do you have a light?"

[dorianwells]

Dorian barely spared the man a glance at first. The streets around Liber were drowning in noise—music bleeding out from open doors, drunken laughter carrying far too loudly down the sidewalks, bodies weaving past in glitter and neon like the entire city had collectively decided dignity was optional for the evening. He had spent the last several hours combing through the festival crowds with growing irritation and absolutely nothing to show for it.

No trace. No lead. No sign of the bastard walking around with his face.

At this point, being stopped by strangers every few minutes had become less an inconvenience and more a certainty. Most either wanted directions, drugs, or to tell him his lack of visible feet was a 'really sick effect, man'. Dorian had stopped correcting them after the fourth time.

“Do I look like a convenience store to you?” he replied automatically, the words dry as ash before his attention settled properly on the man speaking to him.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then, with visible reluctance, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a lighter anyway—silver, worn smooth at the edges with age. It was the only thing that had remained in his possession since all of this began. Why, he still did not know. He flicked it open with practiced ease, holding the flame out between them.

[nakatomi-ayumu]

"Loitering around in back alleys is hobo behaviour, my good man," Ayumu responded in amusement, noting the way the stranger's voice warped, followed by the way the shape of the man flickered in a very familiar way, especially to a spirit as old as Ayumu. They were starting to understand what they were witnessing before them.

The animal spirit's eyes flashed in the darkness, giving Ayumu's silhouette an other-worldly look against the shadows of the alleyway and the corners of their lips spread mischievously even if the other could not see it in the dark.

"I don't happen to know who I'm speaking to, so I think I'll just call you the Lord of Bums," they said in return because being perceived as a hobo was clearly something that bothered this man -- this spirit. "Why don't you come out into the light, oh Lord of Bums. Come out before I go in there to chase you out myself."

[dorianwells]

Despite his own predicament, Dorian dismissed the way the stranger's eyes seemed to glow for a moment as nothing more than a trick of the light. It had yet to occur to him that his fate was not that of a single man. He was not the type to concern himself with the sensibilities of others, and now was hardly the time to start.

“My name is Dorian Wells.” The words ground out of him like gravel as he advanced swiftly—no feet to slow him down. If there was any merit to this clown's bluster, that name should mean something to them.

He stopped just shy of seizing the front of their shirt, fists clenched in the air between them. He was not usually quite this quick to rage, to violence, but the day's events—the lack of control over his own body—had worn away his already diminished tolerance for other people's stupidity. He glared down at them, confidence bolstered by a few precious inches. "Who the hell are you?"

[beckdean]

Despite the edge to his voice, Beck's smirk remains firmly afixed. It was hard to take his threat too seriously when he couldn't even touch his own face. She shrugs lightly instead, gaze drifting out toward the dark water. "Maybe you just need to lighten up."

Her attention snaps back as he launches into another tirade, a disbelieving laugh slipping out before she can stop it. "I don't know who you think you are, or where exactly you've come from, but I think a bit of respect should be higher on your priority list to learn than manners." The words come out through gritted teeth, irritation no longer disguised.

Yet, she takes a brief moment of pause to consider him. As aggravating as he was, he didn't seem drunk, as he'd stated before. She knew as well as anyone that stranger things can happen in this city than someone with a matching face making a disappearing act. Her jaw shifts slightly as she studies him, something more thoughtful creeping in beneath the annoyance.

Beck watches with interest as his hand threads through his torso as if passing through air, her gaze tracking the movement before lifting to meet his. This guy was an asshole of the highest order. But he was also completely out of his depth. A quiet breath escapes her, before she briskly turns.

"Follow me." Beck doesn't wait to see if he listens, turning and heading down the dimmer stretch of boardwalk, boots thudding softly against worn wood. The path is instinctive to her - turns and narrow walkways taken without thinking. Every few seconds she glances back, ensuring no one else was spotting them as they made their way through the shipyard.

"Despite all his coffee, Ronald is actually useless by this hour. Perhaps we can see who's right about this whole being alone on the dock thing." The words come out as barely above a whisper, only glancing briefly back to Dorian before she turns the last corner that gets them to the rickety building marked security.

Beck ducks, half crawling along the edge of the building's wall, until she's directly beneath the lip of the window sill. Only then does she rise, just enough to peer through the dirty glass. Ronald is exactly where he always is - slumped in a chair, head dipping forward and jerking back as he fights against sleep, and loses. There's a faint crackle of a radio that hums at his hip, but no other sign of anyone else inside.

Beck smiles faintly at the familiar sight, then tilts her head to indicate the door just beyond Ronald's outline. "The CCTV is just through there." The words are a whisper, glancing over to Dorian again. "Let's see if this mystery man of yours exists, shall we?"

[dorianwells]

It doesn't seem to phase her. She doesn't even flinch when his hand passes clean through his body. She doesn't even do a double-take. Like it's the most ordinary thing in the world. Like she's seen it at least a couple hundred times. She barely hesitates before turning away and expecting him to follow after her like some obedient lap dog. For a moment Dorian simply watches her go, irritation tightening sharply against something less comfortable, before he pushes after her with a muttered curse under his breath.

Keeping pace proves harder than expected. She moves through the shipyard with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of it, cutting between narrow walkways and sharp turns without slowing once. Dorian catches more than one rusted corner straight through the torso in his effort not to lose sight of her, his body phasing through metal instead of colliding with it. The sensation is wrong every single time, cold and hollow in a way he cannot describe, but it at least spares him from falling behind.

“And what exactly are you doing here?” he asks after the third turn, his voice carrying far louder than her cautious near-whisper. “You’re clearly not security.”

By the time they reach the small building, Dorian’s patience for skulking around has nearly worn out. He only ducks slightly beside her near the window, more to see inside than out of any concern for being spotted. His attention settles on the guard slumped in the chair, then shifts immediately toward the door she indicates.

“Finally,” he says, straightening without hesitation and heading for the entrance outright, seeing no reason whatsoever not to walk directly inside. There's rarely been a time in his life when throwing his weight around did not get him what he wanted.

His hand closes around the door handle—and passes straight through it. Dorian stops, irritation flashing sharply across his features before immediately trying again to yank it open. His fingers slip uselessly through cold metal a second time.

A tense silence follows.

Then he turns toward her with visible displeasure already settling back into place. “Open the door.”

[beckdean]

Beck's eyes narrow at his blatant sarcasm. Who the hell was this guy - showing up out of nowhere, demanding answers like she owed him something?

"Maybe you left your common sense somewhere with the forklift, too." She shoots back with an edged voice. "Along with your manners." She knows he's not entirely wrong with his assessment. That only makes it worse. There's no chance she'd give him the satisfaction of admitting to it, though - her response only a sharp eye roll instead.

When his attention drifts from her, something in her expression tightens. "I told you. There's no one else here but you and me." Her frown deepens, though a flicker of something almost amused tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Unless you count Ronald over at the security booth there. Seventy, smells like he's been marinating in instant coffee for a decade." A fake, dramatic gasp. "The two of you could be twins."

The smirk fades as quickly as it came. She exhales through her nose, reining herself in, forcing her words to be softer. Clearly this guy was going through a crisis, even if he was irritating. "There was no one else here."

As Dorian turns to leave, Beck watches him go, tension slacking from her shoulders. Not her problem anymore. She's already half turned back to the container when his voice breaks the quiet once more. Beck stills for a beat, before pivoting to meet him - slack jaw disbelief on her face.

"Excuse me?" She snaps, taking a few quick steps toward him, arms folded tight over her chest. "I'm not threatening you. I'm trying to help you - if you'd actually listen to me over the noise of your own ego. At least I'm old enough to know when to shut up."

An incredulous smile forms on her face, brows arching. "Funny. Perhaps if you were smart enough to listen, you may actually get somewhere with this search of yours." Her gaze hardens. "Or maybe these insults of yours are exactly what got you into a mess like this in the first place."

[dorianwells]

Dorian’s attention snapped toward the booth at the mention of it, something almost hopeful cutting through the irritation for a fraction of a second—only to die just as quickly when it became obvious she was being flippant. His jaw tightened, gaze dragging back to her. “Careful,” he said, the warning low but unmistakable. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Her next words earned her no more than a short, disbelieving scoff. “Help?” he echoed, flat and dismissive. “You’ve done nothing but waste my time.” His gaze swept over her again, slower now that she’d closed the distance, reassessing. She looked older than he’d first thought. Not unattractive—but not his type. Too rough around the edges, not enough refinement. He preferred people who were already someone. “And if anyone here is lacking manners,” he added, irritation sharpening, “it’s not me. You might want to reconsider how you’re speaking to me before I forget myself.”

He exhaled through his nose, tension coiling tighter rather than easing, gaze flicking past her again toward the containers like he could force the answer out of them if he looked long enough. “There was someone else here,” he said, more firmly now, frustration threading through every word. “He didn’t just vanish.” His hands flexed at his sides, the motion abrupt, controlled only by habit. “So unless you suddenly remember something useful, the only way you’re helping me is by staying out of my way."

“Because whatever you think I should be worried about,” he added, quieter but edged, “it can’t be worse than—” He cut himself off. His hand had come up mid-gesture—and didn’t stop. For a second, it passed straight through his own torso, phasing clean through like there was nothing there at all. Dorian froze. A vein stood out at his temple as he jerked his hand back on instinct, staring at it like it had betrayed him before his gaze snapped back to her, composure strained thin enough to show the cracks. “—this.”

[isabellexlaurent]

Finally a worthy opponent to spend her time with instead of the cretin glued to her side. This was someone who knew the game. She ever so slightly leaned into his touch. "With your tardiness, I feared the worst. Dalton has been kind enough to keep me company, but he cannot compare to you." Belle looked down. lashes fluttering as if a cat caught with the canary. "Only one, my heart. I didn't think that it would hurt." She smiled demurely, finger tracing the rim of her glass.

There was something to be said about whiskey drinkers. They knew what they liked and settled for nothing less. It was the confidence in his every move that intrigued Isabelle more than any of the other patrons in the bar. Taking her drink in one hand, she waggled her fingers at the finance bro, elated to finally be rid of the man who wouldn't take no as an answer. Perhaps she would give his name to Teddy for one of the younger vampires to feast upon. She never indulged in junk food.

She took his hand in hers, allowing Dorian to lead her away. "Do I get to know where you are taking me?" Isabelle's curiosity was piqued more than anything. If there were any true danger, the ancient could easily handle herself. But this was an offer far too tempting to allow common sense to hamper.

[dorianwells]

Dorian didn’t slow at her question, her hand still in his as he guided her away from the bar, out of reach of the man she’d discarded and the noise that came with him. “Somewhere we don’t have to compete with half the room for a conversation,” he said, glancing back at her over his shoulder. He angled them toward a quieter stretch, removed just enough to feel intentional. Selective rather than sparse.

Only then did he stop, turning back to her properly, his attention settling in full. Up close, his earlier assessment held—everything about her was deliberate. Expensive. Not loud or flashy, but built to be noticed anyway. The kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention and got it regardless. It held his interest in a way most things did not.

“Depends how interesting you want the night to be.” His gaze held hers, steady and openly assessing. “We can stay here, have a drink,” he continued smoothly, “or, if you’re expecting something more, I can arrange that too.” He gave a slight tilt of his head, considering her without hesitation. “There’s a helipad not far from here. Clear night, right altitude—you get a better view than anything this place can offer.”

It wasn’t pitched as an attempt to impress her so much as a baseline, something he was used to offering. “But we can start simple,” he added, quieter now, more direct. His thumb brushed once, absently, across the back of her hand before stilling again. “Dorian Wells." He let the name sit, like it should already mean something. "Do I keep calling you sweetheart, or are you going to give me something better?”

[nakatomi-ayumu]

shipyard | dorian & ayumu

for: @dorianwells location: a back alley near ware

Ayumu was on one of their nightly walks, a habit that they made time for more often than not whenever they were in the Shipyard. It was a way of patrolling their territory to Ayumu's subconscious animal mind, but to others they were simply a person out on an evening stroll.

They were making their way back to Ware and walking past an alleyway they always walked past when they spied movement in said back alley. It looked vaguely suspicious and Ayumu decided to investigate.

The ancient animal spirit turned and made their way into the dark alley, the pupils of their eyes turning into slits to see better in the dark. What, or who, they saw was a tall figure milling at the end of the alley.

"Could I trouble you to make yourself scarce?" Ayumu called out, looking relaxed as they regarded the stranger in the shadows. "This alleyway will not make for a good place to sleep. Hobos aren't a good look for my businesses."

[dorianwells]

Dorian’s head snapped toward the voice immediately, the irritation there before he’d even fully taken the stranger in. “Excuse me?” It came out sharp, incredulous, like the suggestion itself didn’t quite land as real. He was someone of importance. Someone noteworthy. He had value. Status. He wasn't some lowlife lurking in back alleys. His gaze dragged over them in a quick, cutting once-over. “Who do you think y—” The sound cut clean off even as his mouth kept moving, jaw tightening when nothing followed, and then his voice lurched back wrong, stretched and jagged. Dorian stopped short, breath catching, irritation spiking into something less controlled.

“I am not a hobo,” he ground out, low and tight, like forcing it might make it hold. It didn’t. The words come out warped, barely recognizable. “Do you have any idea who you're talking?” The sentence fractured halfway through, pitch bending in ways it shouldn’t. The muscles in his neck pulled taut with the effort, his frustration plain now, immediate and ugly.

He dragged a hand over his face, pacing a half-step before forcing himself to still, eyes locking back onto the strange figure at the mouth of the alley with something far less measured than before. There was a flicker then, subtle and wrong, his outline thinning at the edges for just a second before snapping back into place. He didn’t acknowledge it, but the way his posture went rigid, shoulders squaring, said he felt it. “I suggest you get lost,” he said, each word pushed out with effort, like they might fail him again, “before I run out of patience.”

[beckdean]

Beck's eyes arch in mild annoyance as Dorian's laughter breaks out through the stillness of the shipyard. It feels too loud for the hour, out of place. At least he didn't seem like a mastermind criminal - or, if he was, he was doing a poor job of selling it.

Slowly, she makes her way out of her hiding place, arms folded and a faint scowl settling into place.

"Most people want to steal what's inside the container, actu-" The words falter. Something isn't right here. Beck's gaze sharpens, fixing on him properly now. There's a strange softness to the edges of him, like he's not quite holding his shape. The light catches on him wrong, slipping through in places it shouldn't. For a second, she can't make sense of it. Then it clicks, her expression stilling.

"The only person I've seen with your face is... uh, you." Her mind catches up to the question, the words coming out bluntly.

Beck watches in slack mouthed disbelief as Dorian reaches up to rub his face, the shifting of the particles of his finger tips as they make contact. Or, don't make contact. Her experience with spirits had been limited at best, but all the ones she'd encountered before had seemed controlled, steady. This wasn't that.

"I was going to suggest you may be high, actually." Beck points out with awkward humor, though she manages to make her voice a little softer than before. "But I'm thinking that may not be your only problem." There's a pause, Beck taking a breath to reign in the instinctive bite of sarcastic follow up at his tone, studying him instead.

"I've only seen you."

Beck shifts her weight, taking a few cautious steps closer, eyes tracing his outline. Whatever has happened here, he doesn't seem like he knows, either. A fact which makes the wolf feel uneasy.

"You should be careful who you go around telling that particular story to, by the way, not everyone will react well to... whatever this is." She glances briefly over her shoulder, ensuring the dock still lay empty behind them.

No one had taught her the Golden Rule until it had almost been too late. It seemed wrong to let him keep going blindly, but she also didn't wish to reveal too much of herself. She breathes out a sigh, words coming out hushed "I've learnt in this city it's best to keep talk of unexplainable things to yourself. Otherwise you may find yourself in more trouble than you appear to already be in."

[dorianwells]

“Of course,” Dorian answers without missing a beat, the words dry enough to scrape. “I parked my forklift right around the corner.” His mouth twitches but it's not a smile, more a reflexive show of disdain for the suggestion that a single human would be capable of carrying off whatever they got locked up in those containers. If there were anything in them worth taking, he doubts it would be left to chance—or to one person.

Her attempt at humor earns her little more than a tight, unimpressed look. There’s a flicker of irritation there because yes, obviously this isn’t his only problem, and he doesn’t appreciate having it pointed out. He exhales through his nose, gaze already sliding past her as if she’s become incidental—because she has—attention drifting back to the rows of containers in search of his doppelgänger. “That’s not possible,” he mutters, more to himself than to her, though the volume carries, jaw tensing with barely concealed frustration. “He was right here.”

It’s her warning that draws him back in. He stills mid-step and abruptly turns back to her with a look that borders on incredulous. “Are you threatening me?” His gaze drags over her properly this time, assessing her in the dim light. “What are you, thirteen? Fifteen?” he adds, tone slipping into something faintly patronizing. “Are your parents around here somewhere? Should you be out this late at night?”

[beckdean]

Location: The Shipyard.

Who: Open @vievecorcitystarters

The air had cooled with the dying light, dusk bleeding slowly over the shipyard. One by one, the noises of the day thinned - boots on wood, distant engines, low conversation - until it all slipped into silence, leaving only the quiet lap of water against the docks in its wake.

Beck, however, lingered.

She offered the occasional nod, a half-hearted goodbye, but didn’t follow the others out. Said she wanted a minute. Said she liked the sea at night. No one questioned it.

But her attention had never left the container. One that had come in earlier - wrong from the moment it hit the dock. The casing was off. Reinforced. Sealed too tightly. And beneath it all, buried under metal and salt, there’d been a scent. Something… wrong.

She’d tried to ignore it. Told herself getting involved in other people’s business was how things spiralled. But what was the point of senses like hers if she turned her back on them? Besides, the key had been easy enough to snag from her boss - and she’d have it returned to its rightful place before the sun rose again tomorrow. No one had to know.

So, once dark had properly set in and the shipyard was eerily quiet, Beck took off toward the container in question. She maneuvered the rickety boardwalks like a second home, the scent growing stronger as she neared the dark metal door… her hand hovered over the lock, thinking about what she was about to do.

And then, she sensed it, the presence of another close by.

Beck half throws herself, with little in the way of precision, behind the nearest container, sinking into its shadow. “If you’re thinking about stealing, you should leave. Now. The police are already on their way.” It’s a bare faced lie, but her voice doesn’t give it away - even if she continues to keep herself hidden.

[dorianwells]

“Steal what? A shipping container?” Dorian’s voice carries easily through the quiet, edged with dry amusement before a bellow of laughter breaks the stillness. He steps out of the shadows just enough to be seen—though seen is generous, given the way the low light seems to pass right through him. “I was following someone, actually. About my height, my face—wearing it, rather. Have you seen him?”

He shifts his weight, irritation surfacing in the set of his shoulders, in the tightness of his mouth. “He walked out of this place called Absynthia in my body, which I’m aware sounds absurd, so do spare me that particular reaction.” His hand drags briefly over his face, more habit than necessity, and there’s a flicker where his fingers lose cohesion before snapping back into place. “And before you ask, no, I’m not drunk, delirious, or whatever else you’re about to suggest.” He is starving, though—has been for hours now—and the fact that he can’t seem to keep hold of anything long enough to eat it is rapidly becoming a problem. His expression tightens, impatience slipping through the polish. “So if you’ve seen him, now would be an excellent time to say so.”

[isabellexlaurent]

Open Location: Liber

He was an utter bore. Isabelle had not the slightest notion as to what about her closed off demeanor said that she wished to speak rather than enjoy the martini, but the man assumed the empty seat to her left was an open invitation to join her. Perhaps he was a former patient of hers, long forgotten in some file that gathered dust in storage. He certainly apparently believed himself welcome to take certain liberties with the vampire elder. It was such a shame that she promised Matthew to be on her best behavior, but if he touched her leg one more time, Isabelle would be finding a way around that promise.

When the seat to her right was taken, she smiled sweetly, cutting the bore off. He had not stopped talking about himself all evening. She had the chance to pawn him off on the other person or they could bolster their own ego by playing the hero. "I do apologize, darling. He was keeping me company while waiting for you. I hope that I didn't miss you at a different part of the bar. I am so pleased that you've found me at last."

[dorianwells]

Dorian had played this game before. Had even enjoyed it, on occasion, when there was something to gain from it. His gaze flicked once toward the man at her other side, briefly assessing him. A nuisance, no doubt. Forgettable. So far out of her league it was almost comical. Then his attention settled fully on her and the shift was immediate. “Sweetheart,” he rumbled smoothly, voice low with quiet amusement, as if in on the same private joke. “It’s impossible to miss you. I’m offended you thought I might.” His hand found hers without hesitation, lifting it just enough to press a light, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. “My apologies,” he added, glancing up through his lashes. “You know I hate to keep you waiting.” Only then did he lean back, signaling for the bartender with the barest tilt of his fingers. “You’ve started without me,” he noted, eyes dropping briefly to her martini before returning to her face, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Whiskey. Neat,” he said to the bartender before his attention drifted back to the man still lingering like an unwelcome afterthought. Dorian’s expression didn’t change, but something in it cooled—possession settling in where charm had been. His arm slid along the back of her chair, not quite touching her, but close enough to imply familiarity. Close enough to stake his claim. “I think,” he said lightly, though his gaze never left the other man, “you’ve monopolized her quite enough.”

He didn’t wait for agreement before his attention shifted back to her, as though the matter had already resolved itself, his hand finding hers again with a light, guiding pressure. “Come on,” he said, softer now, the suggestion carrying more intent than invitation. “You can do better than this corner.” Dorian rose as he spoke, unbothered by the way his legs faded into nothingness beneath the knee, already expecting her to follow.

[do-what-you-want-with-me]

BRETT DALTON as Mark Trent Found 2.17 “Missing While Manipulated”