His cane hits at least half a dozen people as he tries to make way to one of the exits, most of them too drunk or high or lost in their dances to care, getting away with just a few mumbled apologies thrown over his shoulder. He considers the restroom for a moment, but he is pretty certain it will be just as crowded and somehow even less hygienic, and suddenly his lungs ache for a breath of fresh air.
He finds himself in an alleyway, on some side of the nightclub different than the one he entered through, and leans against the brick wall, enjoying the silence- or as close as he can get to it, with the sound of car engines in the distance and drunken laughs from passers-by every now and then.
The door that offered him refuge opens again a few minutes later, ending that nice window of solitude. "I'm afraid this hiding spot is already taken."
God, he wants to smoke. Santiago waits outside the nightclub, a little further down the road as he waits for Soraya, waves of music spilling out every time the door opens. At times like this, he blames himself and his tendency to be early for everything. He also blamed his past self that made the stupid rule to not carry cigarettes around.
"I can't believe you're making me do this," is his greeting, but a little smile is fighting to appear on his lips when his cousin approaches, and anyway, she is more than used to his bite. "Bringing the old man who doesn't dance or drink to the club. That will certainly go great."
closed to : santiago rivera ( @heavcnsfall ) / southern strand saloon ; late afternoon
he drags himself out of the office a little earlier than usual, to even out all these late nights from this past week for once. an hour and a couple texts later, he and santiago are sat in a booth at the saloon. gene's just finished another round of complaining about the last judge he's been having to deal with lately, when he remembers.
" are you going to the moretti thing tonight ? " gene asks as he sets his drink down on the table. if he were asked the same question, he's still not entirely sure what the answer would be. no, if this decision was his and only his to make. but he knows damn well it's not. " it's a bit too— " trashy, he wants to say but tries to search for another word, nothing he likes comes to him, though " —well, not my kind of thing. but nadia might have some business in it so i'm not sure how my night's going to look like. "
The bartender doesn't question it when Santiago orders a club soda with lime, used to the variety of non-alcoholic alternatives the man rotates through every few months. He sips on it as if it's some expensive cocktail, and hears Gene rant on and on about the things they usually complain about, laughing into his glass so as not to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he is entertaining.
"Crowds, drinks and dancing? How could I ever miss it," Santiago replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He glances over at his cane that is left leaning against their table and can already feel it tangling in around the legs of a hundred strangers under flashing lights. "Sounds like a nightmare, but my cousin Soraya is adamant that we should go. Something about me needing to have a little fun, or whatever."
⸻ … around redford, names don’t stay clean for long. SANTIAGO RIVERA is no exception. they are FORTY-SEVEN, born and raised or just passing through the town. when the sun rises, they work as CHIEF DEPUTY DISTRICT ATTORNEY, but around here, that rarely tells the whole story. their name has been heard in connection to RIVERA ( sibling 1 ) and like most in this town, they carry their weight in quiet ways. some say they can be STRICT and INTELLIGENT, depending on who’s asking and what’s at stake. they’ve laid claim to FOUNDERS ROW, though ownership in redford is never as simple as it looks. land shifts, loyalties change, and nothing stays untouched for long. lately, their name has been circling for being PRO PRESERVATION. in a town where legacy matters and progress threatens, the only question that ever really lingers is this: will they hold their ground or lose everything trying?
cw: injury, addiction, depression
THE BASICS.
full name: santiago rivera
dob & age: january 31st, 47 years old
birthplace: redford, tx
gender & pronouns: cismale & he/him
sexual orientation: gay, but not many people know
occupation: chief deputy district attorney
residence: founders row
THE BODY.
faceclaim: oscar isaac
height: 5'9/175cm
hair: once dark, now greying hair and beard
eyes: dark brown
tattoos: icarus falling on his back
scars: surgery scar across his right hip and thigh
distinguishable features: walks with a cane which looks (and is) very expensive, heavily limps without it due to a gunshot wound to the femur twelve years ago
THE MIND.
positive traits: intelligent, observant, quick-witted
negative traits: strict, pretentious, hypocritical
alignment:
mbti:
languages spoken: bilingual english and spanish, conversational french, pretentious latin and ancient greek
addictions: used to smoke and drink too much, has completely cut alcohol after his injury, will smoke a cigarette or two a day. he takes painkillers almost daily, but is convinced he has it under control.
BIOGRAPHY.
Knowledge is power, as is echoed everywhere in the Rivera household, and you are thrust into that world, hungry for it both. You learn soon enough that they're not just talking about the heavy bound books in the library that you almost memorize or the equations you learn to solve without pen and paper. Knowledge is something deeper, secrets whispered and rumours spread and the truth diluted into your milk, your coffee, your whisky. The line between right and wrong gets a little blurry sometimes, but the finish line is radiant and waiting for you to cross it first- what does it matter if you cheat on a test, buy off a rival, sweet talk your way out of a hard spot? You would have liked to see those who judge you try and fail.
Honour student, top of the class, valedictorian. You breeze through law school and enter moot court rooms with a glint in your eye that some find inspiring and others scary. You return to Redford and you feel respected, because respect and fear stand way too close to each other in your mind.
Some may expect you to find a private firm with golden doors, make partner in record time, but that sounds boring, and you hate boredom. You join the District Attorney's office as a Junior ADA, because it feels like the biggest challenge, and you laugh at said challenge's face- with your connections, your parents' influence, your brother in the police, you can get almost anyone to talk or find what they're hiding even when they refuse to.
With Senior ADA shining on your office door, you handle robberies and assaults and murders and you always crave more. More of what, you're not sure. You rarely sleep and you chainsmoke and the bottles of whisky run dry faster than ever before but every judge decision in the State's favour -your favour- give you a high that lasts long enough, at least until the next one.
But you don't serve the State. You don't serve the truth either. You serve yourself and your family and when they ask you to hide things, skew facts, mould the truth in your advantage, you do it.
That's how you fly to close to the sun. One gunshot is all it takes- it's not that they missed, you don't think so. It wasn't a murder attempt, it was surgery. A wound that will stay with you forever to remind you what happens when you dive a little too deep, forgetting what your wings are made of.
Your family changes the narrative in your favour, but your dreams have been cut short. You spent months in and out of hospital, your femur shattered, your leg immobile. Your shining door sign gathers dust as your perfectly disarranged paperwork and fountain pens turns into pills and unbearable pains.
You're left with a limp, a cane, a scar that will never fully heal and a arthritis that will never let you fully walk again. Your wings caught on fire and took so much along in the inferno. You're sad for a while, that's the only word you can think of, you who once had the eloquence of a philosopher.
And then you turn your sadness into rage. You go back to the office. Bureau Chief and then Chief Deputy DA, you're more careful now, more calculated. You throw away the alcohol and the cigarettes, you run your team like trained soldiers, you know that sometimes you have to lose a little to win a lot.
You don't want to be pitied.
Twelve years have passed and you don't show up a lot in court any more, you're too busy for that. But when you do, your cane clicks on the marble floors and people still have that look in their eyes- fear or respect, you still don't know how to tell them apart.
2087
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