Inéz Trejo

the goddess // feed your faith and your fears will starve.

[eizagonzalezsource]

[inez-trejo-blog]

eizagonzalezsource:

“I can have an accent and not have an accent, so it’s really cool. I can play with it. I can be very Sofia Vergara, too, so it’s really cool.”

[better-classofcriminal]

Deductions of Sentiment - Inez and Matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

He’s not self-conscious, but that dark, deep gaze is curious, remaining standing where he is and a light shiver coursing through him at the change of temperature. If anything, he looks down at himself, at those meticulously crafted scars, obvious in intentionality and obviously not by himself, with a kind of numb indifference. They hold memories that wake him gasping from nightmares, but here, awake, not in his own territory, he’s calm. Porcelain jaw clenches a little, perhaps, and then relaxes.

There’s only a jolt of quiet surprise when he looks up to find her there, gaze sweeping across her face to try to fully read her expression – but he can only come up with the shallowest of meanings, a whole subtle world of understanding still barred from him. Her brows are drawn down, which usually meant someone was angry or sad, and as her body still remained loose, fluid, he guessed that she was sad. He was sorry that she was sad, that he had made her sad, and that hint of apology shone in his eyes as he regarded her – an apology for whatever he had done to make her sad, he had not meant it. There’s a shiver of flesh beneath her hand as she touches him, not shying away, but a visible reaction. Matteo is unused to being touched in this manner, has closed himself off as much as possible to prevent future hurts, and he feels more than a little vulnerable under that slight hand. Still, he trusts her, and he allows it, keeping his breathing even and slow, his free hand going to rest lightly on her shoulder. There’s another shiver as her hand moves to another of those intricate scars, and while he doesn’t quite have the capacity to feel shame – not as you or I call it – he does wish that he was whole. Those dark eyes return back to her face, and he tilts his head a little, not sure if the tremor he had felt from her, passed from her to him, was imagined. That black gaze softens.

The moment is broken quickly, abruptly, and this time it was his turn for his brows to turn down – although in confusion, not sadness or anger. “Sunflower,” he repeats quietly, with a hint of amusement in his tone, faint. He does play along, reluctantly abandoning that moment (albeit quietly worried that he had done something wrong) it was a rather silly name for a snake. While she works on getting the snake – Sunflower, from the terrarium, he slides the new shirt over his head. It’s a bit…big, too broad for his narrow chest and shoulders, and a bit shorter in the arms, designed for a man much heavier and stockier, but it will suit. He compensates by tucking it in a bit, and by the time he’s finished, he’s face to face with Sunflower. There is a slight nod following at the question, nonverbal but it doesn’t have to be, and he bends down a little so she can put her around his neck, trusting her that the snake was not dangerous. If anything, she seems rather placid, not moving much and a heavy weight, shifting her head a little. He strokes her gently, and feels the unusual texture of her smooth skin, admires the patterning he knows is there. He thinks he likes Sunflower.

After a moment of him quietly appreciating the novelty of wearing a snake as a stole, he moves back to the terrarium and gently places her back inside on the log, watching her loop herself into a more comfortable position, and closing the lid tight – in case. Inez is back at the piano, and he tilts his head, remaining back for a little moment, almost shy, before making his way to her side. There’s a little uncertainty in his gaze as he sits beside her, but he’s quickly distracted by the sound of the music.

And it’s…wonderful.

It is like water pouring over a rock, or starsong, if stars were not simply burning plasma spheres held together by their own gravity.

There are precious few beautiful things in his world, and they get taken from him much too soon. It is, perhaps, a little why he is broken. It is easier to stay with the constants, with the dark and the cold, as he knows he won’t lose them, but he does love music. Soothes the savage beast – perhaps. Or he simply finds it beautiful, has it to add to that tiny list of beautiful things. 

1. A warm place to read or sleep. 2. Not being hungry. 3.  A very good video game.  4. When someone smiles at him. 5. An embrace from someone he likes. 

6. Music.

It is a simple kind of magic, he thinks, and when she asks her question, he doesn’t have anything to say, just lets pale fingertips lightly trail over the keys, not pressing them down.  

“I do not know their names,” he admits simply. He does not, only that they are beautiful. “It is enough to hear them, I think. “ He hesitates, trying to think of the best way to word things, and defaults back to his native tongue, in which difficult things are easier. “C'era solo freddo e buio, e ora c'è la musica .”

“Isn’t that enough?”

[inez-trejo-blog]

Her fingers halt then, the waterfall of music dying away atonce. His voice sounds to her much the way that her music sounded to him. Shecan only smile at him, at his explanation. “It is.” She affirms. “Che è più chesufficiente.” She says again, this time in his native language. She has grownless abashed about the way that her Spanish accent creeps into the Italian pronunciation.It is unique, but it does not make her diction incorrect, and that is all thatmatters, after all.

She believes, in part, that it is this lack of fundamentalunderstanding that allows Matteo to enjoy the music thoroughly as he does. Inher learning, all of the magic was sucked away. Everything became mathematical –timing and precision and this keystroke before that one, this note over thisone. It is not music to her anymore, but a string of musical notes that sheknows how to read and understand, but maybe not appreciate. She sees the blackstrokes, stem to head, sometimes with a beam or a flag, instead of hearing themusic that they produce when played on instrument.

So, in a way, she feels guilty for her desire to teach him. Sheworries, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it might remove the magic forhim to. But she thinks, she can do better than that. She thinks she can be thedifference, between how she was taught and how she could show Matteo. Perhaps,even, she could heighten his love for it, instead. Give him the power to wieldthe noise he loves so dearly – the very thing that ushered him away from thedarkness, as he had said.

“Qui,” she says in a hushed tone, leaning towards him. Herhand curls around his, gently, their fingers half interwoven, her palm acrossthe back of his hand. She guides him towards a set of keys, nudging his fingersin the right position. “I like this one too.” She applies gentle pressure onhis index and ring finger in tandem, pressing the white E key and the adjacentblack E key to begin the intro of the song. From there, she leads him in theright direction with the B, C, D keys. Patient with him as she tries to showhim the correct pattern. “It’s called Fur Elise, it’s by Beethoven.”

She plays the part reserved for the left hand with her freehand, while steadily teaching him the right handed part, smiling at his bumbleshere and there, but encouraging him when he got things right. Her head isnearly resting against his shoulder – the two of them in the very closequarters required for such teaching.

Her hand leaves his after a few moments, and she moves downto another set of keys, to show him how it all sounds when it’s put together,both hands working together. Fur Elise is one of the first piano pieces she learned,before someone actually taught her how to play in the ‘correct’ way. She hadgone about memorizing each part of the song, slowly stringing it all together,with stubby, baby-fingers. She worked tirelessly, until she knew it well enoughto play it at a reasonable speed. She remembered being mesmerized by thewhimsical quality of it, the love song it sang without ever saying a word. Shehad only been a child then, but she was still aware of the love within thesong. She had expected the appreciation to grow with age, but the world hadhardened her to such things.

But now, she could only hope to portray what she had oncefelt for the song to Matteo – show him some insight towards the adoration shetoo had once had for music, even if it had since died out and withered awaysomewhere deep inside of her.

[musicovercoffee-blog]

Visit Original Link

No One’s Here To Sleep (ft Bastille) - Naughty Boy

Featured on TV show ‘How To Get Away With Murder’

[ripperdxc]

The Art of Knowledge | Inéz & Vincent

[ripperdxc]

Surprise lit his eyes for a brief moment, the woman that sauntered through and into his office didn’t seem to quite belong. In truth she looked as if she’d walked out of Hollywood, polished and sharp yet soft at the same time. Made him feel overwhelmingly underdressed even here in his own home, and it was for all accounts still his home, personal quarters tucked away upstairs. He couldn’t help but admire her, as one might a masterpiece painting, a brief glance that looked beyond the long legs and soft feminine curves, found her eyes and focused on the beauty there. Small timid smile that might’ve suggested a slight shyness, but he was beyond his years to result back to boyish reserve.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Ever polite and honest, words spoken in a steady warmth, a little rough around the edges perhaps. He shook her hand gently, the greeting familiar, “no it’s not a problem. Happy to be of assistance.” Quick nod of his head and he sinks back down onto the stool he’d been occupying before she arrived, leg stretched out to avoid the muscle cramps that still plagued him. “No need to worry it’s unusually quiet here so I’ve got plenty of time.” The smile that lifted his lips this time gently touched those tired cobalt eyes, it was as all his smiles were, honest.

  He shifted a little closer to the small desk, offering the cup of tea out to her, “here if you aren’t a tea drinker I have coffee somewhere too.” Vince had long ago discovered that often the key to keeping people coming through his doors were the small things, Ms. Smith liked tea with two sugars and no milk, Evans a black coffee and her, well he was yet to find out. “Please, you can just call me Vincent, or Vince.” Doctor, it didn’t seem wholly appropriate for him nowadays, that title belonged to Lucas and had died with him. Just a surgeon, a ripperdoc now. The title wasn’t one that he could claw back.

  “I believe you wanted to talk about new augments?” The information he’d been given was scant, as was any information about her herself—he didn’t even know if the advice was to be tailored towards her or another. “If it is the first the risks are relatively low of any complications, I don’t mean to prise but is this about yourself? Augments usually only become a problem when there’re more than you can count.” That had always been the rule in medschool, if a patient comes to you with more augments than could be counted for by general rule of thumb they needed to be referred to a body bank and therapy. So far Vince hadn’t encountered any such patients in the city, although he did worry about Cain.

  Vincent picked up his own cup of tea, it smelled faintly sweet, the light floral scent brought another slight smile to his lips before he took a small sip. There was something inexplicably calming about drinking tea, even just brewing it. It was thus easy to tell whenever something was making the surgeon tick, when he was overloaded and burnt out, because he was usually surrounded by every single one of his teapots and cups. Tea leaves scattered in amidst papers like a trail of breadcrumbs.

  Evidence of his dedication to work, even when he was burnt out and wanted nothing more than to recluse and disappear from the world he furrowed on. Not imperious to stress but simply ignorant, sometimes that backfire on him, and he often ended up worst than he started off because of it. But it was always worth it in the end, to see someone else safe and happy. To watch a patient walk out of his clinic and not return, although he would miss them he preferred it when they didn’t come back. It meant he had done his job.

  “And if it isn’t too much trouble to ask, what may I call you?”

[inez-trejo-blog]

Inéz only noticed Vincent sizing her up in actuality after she had already done the same to him. She had already fallen into her ideas of his judgment of her, only to realize that the way he looked at her was not with an air of superiority as she had expected, but of a kind of dignified appreciation. If there was anything that she knew, it was what men were thinking when they looked at you – or at least, she knew how to assess what they were most likely thinking based on the way they looked at you. It assured her a little, knowing that he was, in some way, in awe of her. Gave her a little of her power back. He did not think of her as tawdry.

She dipped her head in small recognition towards his courtesies, sparing him the cliché ‘no, the pleasure is all mine.’ She might be uncomfortable, but she still was not one to play at being something that she wasn’t. Even so, she was genuinely pleased with his own politeness, even if it was part of what made her so uncomfortable to begin with. It was so uncommon. Of course, there were still good people in the world, in Night City. She thought of Matteo, courteous and gentle in his own way, towards the people that deserved it. But even Matteo had done or seen horrible, unspeakable things. All of the people Inéz associated with had done things that were not to be spoken of except for in hushed whispers, among the shadows – a cloak of safety.

And here she sat in front of someone that radiated a kind of purity so keenly that it washed over her. She was surprised she did not burst into flames right where she sat – the blasphemous, unabashed creature that she was. She was not apologetic for this fact. She did not dislike who she was. Nor did she look down upon herself (at least, not consciously). But to sit before someone like this, on an even playing field. It just felt wrong, made Inéz want to tug at her skin a little – maybe even shed it the way a reptile might.

“No, no. Tea is fine – perfect, even.” She gingerly takes the tea cup he has offered her, cradling it in her hands. It feels out of place, to her, but in truth, the delicate cup looks right at home against her slender fingers, the warmth of it reassuring against the small palm of her hand. In her mind, tea is a high-society, respectable thing. She lifts it toward her mouth, just to inhale the comforting scent it put off. Her whole body kind of orients towards it – emulating a miniature, easy-to-miss gesture that somewhat resembled someone cozying down with a blanket and a book. She remembers being very young, her grandmother coming over, drinking tea. But her grandmother had died when Inéz was only just old enough to begin remembering things. And there was nothing reputable left in her life from that moment on. It was the way it was meant to be. No one could straddle the line between those two worlds, after all.

“Vincent.” She says in confirmation, smile touching the corners of her lips. It’s hard not to warm towards him, all of his kind gestures, even if she isn’t used to it.

She sees soon enough that he is much like her in at least this way, quicker to get to business, less likely to lollygag about. She likes that. “I did.” She replies, nodding a little at his initial explanation of augments. “It’s the first, but, there’s more than…one, at a time.” She kind of tries to explain, a little slowly – unsure of where to start with the situation. She inhales through her nose, tilts her head as she gathers her words, arranging them eloquently, for more reason than one. “You’re fine, of course. But no, it’s not about myself.” Almost reflexively, she gently clicks her scratchers against the tea cup, her gaze flicking up to him. She wonders if he’s already seen her infrared cyberoptics. They’re more difficult to see in well-lit environments like this one, but she’s sometimes caught a red-glint out of them even then, when she looks hard enough. “Someone in my care was recently in an incident that resulted in a necessary, emergency augment surgery. Arm and eye replacement.” She has to choose her words carefully, not wanting to give too much away, but at the same time, she has no desire to lie to Vincent. After all, it would only hinder his ability to help her, something she has specifically requested of him. “As well, he doesn’t feel pain. That is, his nervous system actually…doesn’t function.” She laughs a little – at herself, at the situation, at how ridiculous this all is – the sound is chiming, naturally pretty. She lifts a hand and ruffles it through her hair. “It’s a little complex. The event itself was pretty traumatic, as well. So there’s an emotional side to it….essentially, I’m just not sure what I need to know about his adjustment to it all.”

”Ah.” She halts, realizing she may have gotten head of herself in the midst of explaining. “It’s Inéz Trejo. But, Inéz is fine.”

[better-classofcriminal]

Deductions of Sentiment - Inez and Matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

He regards her from his comfortable place in shadow beneath the awning, dark gaze difficult to read but the smallest twitch of amusement, perhaps, touching his lips. His shirt is soaked, weighing him down, raindrops bright against his close-shaven head, running slow down his face in equal mockery of tears, and it is then that he stands up a little straighter – unfurls to full height, which is not insignificant. He spends much of his time in t-shirts and sneakers, much of his time slouching those narrow shoulders – a lifetime habit that gives him a touch of vulnerability that isn’t present here. He doesn’t look lost, or uncertain. He is very calm, and he is at ease in her presence – all of that potential for danger not extinguished but relaxed. He is lithe muscle and claws fully sheathed, eyes carrying that quiet interest that to many might seem aloof, but with her is merely curious.

There’s another flicker of a smile at the compliment, acknowledgement, but he doesn’t think she is right. He is not meant to be in the vanguard fully, at least not on his own. He requires help – like all those skilled at strategy he is utterly aware of his own weaknesses, and needs others to complement his strengths. As such, he is perfectly capable and pleased to work from the shadows, with no compliments paid or even his contributions known. Anonymity suits him like a glove; he is at his best when he is not known and when ego is not at play. Indeed, he’d be perfectly willing to stay in Marcello’s shadow forever, quietly exerting power in the background, unnoticed, if the other man wasn’t unstable. Nickname of ‘boy king’ aside (not of his own making) he sees himself as a steward rather than as a ruler. When the right man comes to power, he will take his place as the specialist at his side, and he will be content. As of now, however, no such man had arisen, and Night City, quite frankly, needed a bit of a firm hand…

There’s gratitude in his eyes at her suggestion, and at the touch to his arm, she’s rewarded with another smile, following in her wake like a wraith. When Matteo enters the club proper – even with the proper acclimation, it’s overwhelming – lights and heat and sound – but he doesn’t flinch, squares his shoulder a little and forges his path with grace, light muscular tension and unsettlement – this isn’t his territory – but he cuts through the crowd like a knife through flesh, patiently led to a place he hadn’t been before. Usually, he would balk. Usually he would have been much more willing to let hand slide to holster, or would have planned to have many others of his men in the club with him in case he needed assistance. He doesn’t go strange places he didn’t know – at least, not anymore, those days behind him – but he trusts her, as much as he can trust anyone, and he trusts in himself.

There is another hint of gratitude in the relative quietness to bask in, and it’s a lovely room, and he gravitates instinctively towards the piano, long fingers gently – barely – touching over the wood. He can’t play a note of any musical instrument, but he thinks he likes music – certainly likes the classical music hat Vincent sometimes plays – learned the names of each as he hears it like a child learning new words. They are something of decadent excess, but he thinks he wouldn’t mind a little excess here or there if it’s something that beautiful. With a slow circuit around the piano completed, he walks over to the couch and he smiles again, in that curious way he has, at the sight of the book. There is something – almost – like a soft chuckle that escapes his lips, a shake of his head. This pleases him that she would want to learn Italian. It is a beautiful language – but he is familiar with it, and only remains a moment before he’s over to the snake terrarium, unafraid and fascinated.

He crouches a little to see the large yellow snake better. He’s rather fond of animals, except for very large dogs, and is quietly happy to see the snake there. For a minute, he just observes it peacefully, not wanting to crowd it as he also dislikes being crowded, until his attention is pulled back to Inez. He tilts his head, not wanting to get water on her furniture, and with a shrug of his narrow shoulders he simply begins to take off his own shirt to help alleviate the problem, baring a slender, marble torso laced with innumerable scars. He had always – personally – found modesty amusing, so much trouble for a covering of bone. He folds the wet garment with careful hands.

 “All right.”

[inez-trejo-blog]

As she digs through the wardrobe, she half watches him make his rounds through the room. Her hands scuffle across a myriad of clothing, mostly feminine in nature, and primarily costumes reserved for her time in the club, specifically on the stage. Finally, she stumbles upon a few plain button up shirts that stay down here for the men who work security at the front desk. She looks back at Matteo again, this time to kind of size him up. It’s only then that she realizes how tall he is, tilting her head at the realization as Matteo crosses towards Sunflower’s cage. Before she grabs a shirt for him, she slides her soaked trench coat off, hangs it up on the exterior of the wardrobe to dry. She’s left in a tight bandage dress, the black color of it flattering against her skin, hugging at her curves in all of the right places. She slips the shirt she has chosen for him off the hanger, starting over towards him. His gaze has shifted from Sunflower to her by now. And she holds the shirt out to him as she approaches. 

He stands before her shirtless, but she is not bothered by it – feeling much the same about modesty as him. You practically had to when you worked in the field that she did. Even so, she is drawn to him once again. Forever the mindless moth towards the light. She reaches out to him – knowing full well that she shouldn’t, but that she is going anyway. The soft palm of her hand falls against the length of his torso, alongside one of his scars. Her hand is smaller than it, the length of her deft fingers unable to match the span of the scar. Her brows pinch together – but it’s impossible to tell if it’s dismay or compassion. When she withdraws, her fingertips skirt along the distance of the raised skin. She thinks of all of her scars – thinks of how they paint constellations against their skin, a metaphorical night sky of memories better left forgotten, but now eternalized forever, stories written in their very skin. The tension of the moment makes her shudder, perhaps visibly, but she is not certain. 

“Her name is Sunflower.” She tells him then, diverting in a less-than-subtle way, and while he changes into the shirt she has given him, she opens the top of the impeccably clean cage, reaches in with both hands. Even with heels on, she’s a little short for the task, but it’s been made easy for her by practice at doing it. It’s more than obvious how much she cares for the creature. She lifts Sunflower out of the enclosure, and places her around her neck. The snake flicks her tongue, curls up around Inéz’s shoulders and throat with careful intent. She smiles down at Sunflower, and then her amber gaze flicks back towards Matteo. “Do you want to hold her?” She offers, and then lifts Sunflower once more, holding her out to Matteo. She has to step on her tiptoes, and he has to crouch slightly, for the exchange to be possible. And then she can settle Sunflower about his neck the same way that she had for herself. Sunflower does not protest, and actually seems quite content. She sticks her head up, peering around, enjoying the height of the view perhaps, Inéz muses. 

Inéz gently takes the wet shirt from Matteo, and makes to hang it alongside her own damp clothing at the wardrobe. She’s facing the piano then, and recalls Matteo’s pause there. She looks over her shoulder at him as she heads towards it. “Do you know how to play?” She asks, taking a seat at the bench, far enough to the side that he has room to sit beside her. She pats the space beside her, inviting him. 

Her fingers roam across the delicate white keys, pressing idly on them here and there, getting a sense for the tune. And then, without warning, she spills out into The Well-Tempered Clavier by Bach. It’s a pretty common piece, and easy enough for most people to play as well, and its flitting melody has always sounded charming to Inéz. She glances towards Matteo to see if he recognizes it. And then she quickly transitions into Minuet in G, another simple, feel-good melody. Her fingers don’t pause as she glances towards Matteo again, tilting her head. In a way, she’s a bit oblivious to the beauty of the pieces. She’s never been one much for music, although she can understand the science behind them, and play quite well. “Do you have a favorite piece?” She asks curiously.

[ripperdxc]

The Art of Knowledge | Inéz & Vincent

  He had been rushed off of his feet as of late and yet somehow the surgeon couldn’t help but feel as though this was the calm before the storm. It was busy, but the city was serene, almost. Remarkably so after the riots and protests that’d been building up since he’d first arrived, and he’d arrived just before the city had been grounded by a night long curfew. But now, it simply existed. Everyone went about their daily business as if nothing much had happened. Vincent, he couldn’t ignore the past and despite no lingering politic feelings, he couldn’t quite move on either. Accept and welcome this peace. Because he knew inevitably it never lasted long. He wasn’t quite as optimistic, as a romantic, as people believed him to be. He knew that the world was bleak but that didn’t mean the individual had to be. There was still hope even in the sea of grey concrete.

  Which made today’s meeting all the more intriguing, not a great deal of information had been passed along, just an appointment at his usual meeting place, right here in his clinic. It had been quiet enough that morning that he’d been able to clean up, even went so far to make a small pot of tea that was stewing away on the top of his makeshift desk. Didn’t have the space for a proper office like a genuine doctor might, but instead a simple table pushed into the corner of his used to be living room was enough. Now it was crammed to the teeth with more tech than Vincent could dream of, two beds squeezed in and double doors disappearing off into the make-shift theatre. None of this was temporary but thus far Vincent hadn’t made enough money to move somewhere bigger, was too frivolous in giving his money away to those that needed it more. Oft had to be reminded that he needed to keep some for himself. He just felt woefully inadequate, as if he didn’t deserve anything, even these days it was hard to put small change aside for new books. Although they were never strictly new. Bought them all battered and second hand for bargains online.

  Vincent settled into his stool, the more comfortable chair freed for his visitor, never one to be wanton with comforts. Not even to strangers. He’d never been quite like this, but then people change. Perhaps this was Vincent atoning for the sins of his past life. For Lucas. For Lawrence. Soft click of the door and the shuffling of feet, he rose slowly onto his feet, still having to use the desk to support himself. The wound had knit back together on the surface, but it was deep and he was still having trouble with it but today was a good day and he walked without much of a limp. “Good afternoon, I’m in here,” he called out into the corridor, hoping that they’d find him as opposed to the other way around, his leg may not be so sore but the prospect of chasing after someone wasn’t enticing. It was best to reserve his energy for when it was needed and he wasn’t sure of that yet.

  Quietly as he waited, he poured two cups of tea, weary cobalt eyes downcast as he pressed callused fingers against the lid to stop it falling. The book he’d been reading whilst he had a few moments of downtime now abandoned beside the cups. Yet another Sparks novel, which would disgust John no doubt, although he hadn’t heard from him since the arrest broke the news. Which brewed a deep rooted worry into his chest, that sombre note returning to mind repeatedly, there must be something you can do. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, there wasn’t always something that could be done. He wasn’t a lawyer and the law was well beyond his control.  

[inez-trejo-blog]

She felt almost naughty. Like a child going behind a friend’s back to tattle to their parents. But instead, she was the parent, the ring-leader. And she had no reason to feel guilty. At least, that was what she told herself. Logistically, what she was doing made sense. Second opinions were never a bad idea, after all. But part of her wondered, too, why she even cared so much. As far as her medic had told her, Cael was doing fine. But that was her medic. Of course, he was trained, but to what extent was questionable as with any gang member. Pasts were not a hot topic amongst the group she ran with.

Even so, he had never done her wrong, and had taken very good care of anything and anyone she needed him to. Yet, she knew that he was practically conditioned to tell her what she needed to hear, to fix problems below the surface so that she was none the wiser. But Cael was not a problem to be solved beneath the surface. Already she was finding herself becoming increasingly protective of him, for obvious reasons, even if she did not want to admit it, or succumb to it.

And yet, she obviously was not fighting it too hard, because here she was. And not by accident, either. She had purposefully made this appointment. And now she had purposefully shown up, not a minute early, not a minute late.

She stepped through the door of the office of Vincent Decker. Doctor Vincent Decker. Almost immediately, she heard his invitation, allowing her to follow his voice towards him. She was dressed to the nines in professional attire – black pencil skirt, chiffon blouse, her hair curled in the art of perfection, falling around her shoulders, heels making her legs look a mile long, a small clutch tucked under her elbow.

It was interesting, that even though she was dressed in such a way, presenting herself in such a way, with Vincent Decker none-the-wiser as to who she was (she doubted he stayed informed on street and gang dealings – although she had been surprised in the past), she still was surprised at the scene that she found before her as she stepped through the doorway of his office. Steam wafted off of the freshly poured tea that set on the table before the doctor. And she observed almost immediately that he had left the plusher of the two chairs between them to her. He was treating her like a lady, and in a way, he caught her off-guard with that.

“Hello, doctor.” She said with a smile, her amber eyes roaming over him curiously. He was decidedly more attractive than she had initially expected – scruffy and…homey, looking. Like someone who’s aura perpetually gave off comfort. Despite her prior expectations, his actual appearance just looked right. Like he was someone whose looks were designed for their profession. She supposed the same could be said of her. All curves and sinuous, a face made for being disastrously beautiful and speaking of mischief. She could never see herself sitting behind a desk, reassuring people on their death bed, or saving their life.

Moving towards him, she extended a hand, offering a handshake in greeting. “Thank you for seeing me, today.” She continued cordially, and then made to take a seat in the chair across from the doctor. “I won’t be long, I just have a few questions that I think you could provide helpful insight towards.” And that she would not be long was true enough, perhaps truer than she had originally anticipated. She was not used to doing dealings in the light – preferring to hide in the shadows, amongst people who never came off as so….innocent? So…good? Sitting in the light, across from someone like Vincent, she felt out of place. Her obvious accent suddenly felt gaudy and heavy in contrast to this man. It had been a long time since she had felt this way. Luckily she’d had plenty of practice in the art of faking it.

[better-classofcriminal]

Deductions of Sentiment - Inez and Matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

He doesn’t flinch at blood dripping easily and carelessly from those effortlessly sculpted nails, although dark eyes do briefly drop to them, a strangely hypnotic quality in it as it mixed with the rainwater. There was nothing upsetting to him about blood – although surely, initially, it had horrified him. Like something that had been passed through the crucible so many times, his nerve-endings are metaphorically seared and he is perhaps a bit more…numb than most. A bit more talented at retreating into his mind when the situation requires it, of dissociating himself. Blood. Pain. Retribution. They are cheap as flesh on the streets of Night City, and are all together unremarkable. He does not wonder why the Woman, as he has begun to think of her – paragon of her sex – decided to mark the man – understands the social implications, how he will bluster and lie about how he gained his scars but inwardly he would know. There was shame in that, the same shame that had shone in the eyes of some of the enemies he has vanquished closer to home, an idea of status.

He’s not unaware of the ideas of ranking, that some things were considered better than others. Aggression as preferable to intelligence and patience, masculinity as preferable to femininity, man to woman. If it would be shameful for a typical man to be vanquished by a woman, then how shameful must it have been for them to be beaten by someone like him. There was perhaps nothing so reviled as a man who stepped outside of those narrow boundaries of what would be considered a man. Matteo had never much cared about gender roles except to exploit them, but he understood also the real arrogance existent in some men who thought that their preferences and their wants outweighed those of others. It is why, even in this place, he gets…irritated…when he witnesses truly poor behavior. Flirting was fine, name-calling or putting hands on someone who hadn’t verbally invited it was not, and he had little patience for it. The idea of superiority was as false as the idea that one had to be one way or another to be considered either a woman or a man. All those tiny little cruelties that humankind has invented to hurt – vicious little thorns digging into each other.

In a way, it pleases him, that some retribution has been found, cheap as it was.

As did this.

“Giovanni is dead,” he informs her in his quiet way, but he is already walking back beneath the awning, tilting his head for her to follow him. He’s already shivering in the light rain, shirt sticking lightly to lithe frame – with little body fat by design, he gets cold very easily. “He was cruel to me, I’m not sorry.” 

There is a tilt up of his chin as he rests his back against the wall, a deep, slow burn of something in his eyes. Although he does not speak of it, he knows the visible bruises had spoken for themselves. He has no desire to outline the past. “Marcello is in command now. He is…volatile. It makes him…weak.”

There is another subtle spin on the name of the former second-in-command, Giovanni’s son. Marcello wasn’t intelligent as Giovanni was, less dangerous, perhaps, in the long-term and unable to endear himself as the older man could to a certain subset of the spineless, but he was viscerally…concerning. Strong-bodied and with a violent temper, the man had not – apart from one incident involving the handgun that was now strapped to Matteo’s own body – given Matteo much notice. He does not like him, Matteo could guess that, but they are so embroiled and entangled with each other’s operations that it is not a simple thing to remove him, and he clearly does not see Matteo as a threat…yet. If he did, inconvenience or not, the young man would be dead.

“I am waiting for him to become weaker.”

There it was. That subtle threat, and danger, and promise, those deep, dark eyes burning, unremarkably, but steadily, his face still and thoughtful, the face of a man who brooded long hours after most of Night City’s denizens were long asleep. It takes a moment for the look to soften, for his gaze to find hers, all the bitterness draining out of him slowly. He inhales, still shivering a little bit, protected now from the rain.

“That gives me time,” he points out quietly. “If you need assistance.”

[inez-trejo-blog]

Inéz is left to shudder in the wake of the weight of the information Matteo has just bestowed upon her as he retreats to the awning, and she stands, stunned, in the midst of the rain, which has begun to pick up. Its continuous drizzle has turned heavier, and suddenly a few fully formed raindrops fall on Inéz, atop her scalp, and across her cheeks, where they draw shiny trails down her face, lingering on her jaw for a moment before dripping to the ground below, mimicking the behavior of the blood just moments before. A kind of metaphorical cleansing, she supposed.

But she can only hover for a moment, before she moves forward finally, stepping after him. Her brows have drawn together, contemplating, a million thoughts running through her mind. She isn’t sure if she’s caught off guard in this way because it’s been a while since she’s gotten such hard-hitting information, or because of who’s delivering it to her, and because of what it means for him. In a way, she does not even have to consider it. She knows she has not grown weaker, knows that she has an impeccable ability to deal with whatever is presented to her, and furthermore, that she has dealt with far greater information than this before. And that leaves her with her answer. She looked Matteo over, quickly, slyly. ‘You do strange things to me,’ she thought, and then sighed audibly, releasing all of the emotion that had momentarily overtaken her.

It was only then that she realized she had not even begun to consider the death of Giovanni in the light of what it meant for her as a fellow gang leader. She thinks of what it means that he has trusted her so implicitly. Even now, she could only linger on the thought for a moment before returning to the present, returning to Matteo in the now.

Still, she only nods at him initially, glad that he was not wallowing in grief as so many did when faced with death, even if the death was justified. She listened intently, head tilting a little. A smile graced her face. She leaned against the wall beside him, a cool confidence about her aura that some people fought their entire life to achieve, while it bubbled off of her perceptively without any effort at all. “You would make a good leader.”

She watched him shiver again, thinking that they should go inside. There is something prudent about standing in an alley, discussing matters dealing with gangs and deaths. It’s like something out of a movie. Except it’s reality for them. The only reality they know. “C’mon, let’s go to my office. I should have something dry for you to change into.” She says, gently touching his arm before heading towards the door leading back into the Lair.

Stepping inside is a bit jarring for someone not used to it. Flashing lights, boisterous music, a sudden flurry of people. She trusts he will follow her as she winds her way through the club towards her office, heading below ground into the much quieter sanctuary that the downstairs of the club offers. She takes a right down the hallway, unlocking and pushing the door of her office open only a few steps later, holding it open for him. Once he enters, she closes it behind them, looking around her office then. It’s spacious, and looks less like an office and more like a lounge. In one corner, there is an office desk, upon which there is a scatter of various papers that are stacked in organized chaos among one another – all detailing various business dealings, monetary logs, and so forth. In the other corner, there is a grand piano, somehow surprisingly fitting in the room. And in the middle, there is a sitting area, complete with couch and high backed chairs, as well as a low table.

It’s much more personal than any other space in the Lair. It’s one of the only places where little pieces of who Inéz really is are evident. The piano, a book titled “Advanced Italian” laid open on the table in front of the couch, filled book cases along one of the walls to the side – not just with other books, but small figurines, trinkets, a few pictures. There is a cage as well, Sunflower within it, snoozing idly under the reptile heat lamp, her yellow body draped across a log within the enclosure. In a way, it’s like Inéz’s inner sanctum, and for that reason, she rarely brings anyone in here, aside from her girls, and even then a few of them have never stepped foot in here. Without waiting, Inéz steps towards a wardrobe tucked against a wall, opening it and riffling through it slowly. “Make yourself comfortable.” She says over her shoulder at him. “I’ll only be a moment.”

[ellixblue-deactivated20160815]

cruel world | inéz & elli

By now,Elli really should’ve been prepared for anything. Despite incredible temptation,she practiced caution.She knew it couldn’t be worth the risk. Shouldn’t be.Elli had looked into the eyes of other dancers and saw the possibility of her own fate hidden beneath ( a cruel taunt ). She only wanted to save her dignity.She needed to leave.This will be easy.She was constantly repeating to herself.You don’t have to be scared.So,she waited for Esmeralda in the club.There was still something about this task that was…deeply uncomfortable.The place wasn’t the same anymore.Also,she really had very little fondness for drunk people when she was sober. Without any comments, the bartender slipped away after her muttered thanks, and Elli shifted in her seat as she looked at the group of men across the table.

It was clearly obvious.They wanted something more than a dance.But tonight she wasn’t working.She wasn’t even wearing her costume.Yet,their comments were disgusting.Oh, but fear was only natural.The men were still there, still half-singing compliments at her legs and face and body the closer they came.Truth be told, they made her nervous, and were coming too close.Her eyes started to dart left and right in search of someone to hold her on their arm for a moment or two until the group of men tumbled by.She clenched her jaw against the sense of wrongness creeping up her spine,playing with her glass.Just a few more minutes.

When she caught sight of a familiar figure, her lips immediately tugged up into a faux smile.Her boss,the beautiful but poisonous snake.She truly was beautiful, in the way that forest fires and thunderstorms were beautiful; a force of nature.But Elli never trusted her.The girl’s young face was flushed with nerves as her stomach started to tie itself in knots. She internally cursed herself as she approached.“Hello,Esmeralda.I hope I’m not bothering you,but I need to speak to you in private.’’

[inez-trejo-blog]

Inéz had been patrolling the perimeter of the club, as was typical for her. After her absence, it had taken her no time to fall back into routine. She could only wonder what that would mean for Matteo's presence here. But even so, she had no time to dwell. There was business to be done, afterall. Always business to be done.

It was a pack of men around the bar, bustling amongst themselves, that drew her nearer to the watering hole. She always wondered if they thought they were clever, if they thought they even had a chance of getting away with something real. They always looked guilty, their desire to caught mischief seeming to radiate off of them like an aura. Especially when there was more than one of them. Bumbling around like a bunch of hyenas, stalking her herd of delicate gazelle, all legs and wide-eyes.

She approached the men, remaining unbeknownst to them as they grounded around the bar and one another, still buzzing with excited, threatening energy. Only when she brushed up against one of the ones standing amongst the outside of the group was she noticed, all of them turning towards her in near tandem. Beady little eyes riddled with guiltlessness the way that the eyes of a child caught in the midst of coloring on the wall, crayon hidden behind their back, looked at you, spewing pleas of innocence despite having been caught red-handed. “Gentlemen,” She cooed, the word dripping like poison from her tongue. “Are we enjoying ourselves?” She asked keenly as she lifted her arms to cross them confidently over her chest. The exchange was little more than a thinly veiled threat, daring them to misbehave like they so obviously intended to.

It was then that she could observe their hunting ground, her eyes falling upon Blue, sitting across the way. Ah. Inéz only half-heard the men’s blustered replies as she stalked away, edging around the corner of the bar towards Blue, a tepid smile upon her face. But it didn’t matter. They had gotten the point well enough. She opened her mouth to address the baby-faced girl now directly in front of her, but Blue beat her to it. Inéz paused for a moment, assessing, and then nodded shortly. “Of course, love.” She said, with a small gesture for Blue to follow her as she turned, making towards her office in the back of the club.

[better-classofcriminal]

Deductions of Sentiment - Inez and Matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

His attention is only marginally on the man at his feet (although not completely diverted, he isn’t unaware that even the most helpless looking individuals can be unexpectedly vicious with pain on the line) and he only hesitates a moment before stepping backwards, gun returning to slim holster, less subtle against his increasingly soggy shirt. There’s a cursory glance after him as he watches him go, a moment of sharp intensity – tighter jaw, shoulders firm, gaze focused – a final check to make sure that there were no final tricks in play, and then relaxing, indolent and almost a little playful. He’s languorous now, dark eyes softer, easier, and his attention pulls back to her where it had been drawn to begin with, and although he doesn’t offer the same blinding smile – not through lack of want – there is again a little more softness, a little more sense of being at ease, his own smile subtle, genuine if not curious.

He is glad to see her, and perhaps that is why he does not shift away when she reaches out, another twitch at his lips and a flicker in his eyes at the murmur of Italian – still slightly rough, but her accent is better, she’s been trying. The sentiment is a rare one, and he takes a minute to turn it over and over in his head as he likes to do – not out of any slowness of thought due to stupidity, but merely because he was meticulous by nature, wanting to see the ridges and dimensions of a thing from every side. 

“Il tuo italiano è meglio,” he commented, a wry diversion that softened at the touch, remaining very still at the touch but not unsettled as he had seen it coming. It’s rare that he’s touched in tenderness, but he’s gotten used to it more often of late. It is nice, he thinks, and he isn’t against experiencing it again. He doesn’t say he missed her, perhaps thinks she might have understood it herself from his actions, but he does lean a little into her touch, eyes flickering briefly shut. It is as close to trust as he gets, a small tingle of electricity in his spine – dangerous in the rain, he thinks, and suppresses a smile. “Thank you,” he replies quietly, eyes drifting open again, a touch of amusement in his gaze. “I wanted to look older. Perhaps this way they will let me drink at the bar.”

And despite the humor in his words he does look – older – in some ways, pared down and elegant as a good weapon and without flash or excess. His close-shaven head does not diminish him but instead lends him a strangely ethereal, austere beauty, all high cheekbones and deep, watchful eyes. There is a confidence in those narrow shoulders that was not there before – a poise both graceful and fatal, even here, where he is as close to happy as he perhaps understood. 

There’s, however, a flicker of expression at her next words, a subtle crinkle of brow. Someone was observant at the Python, if not her. He doesn’t deny it, but doesn’t like to linger too much on the decision, seeing thanks as excess. “I have,” he admits softly, simply, and leaves it at that. It is up to her for her to tell him if she thinks it appropriate, but her gratitude – unnecessary though it is, doesn’t mean he isn’t warmed. “You’re my friend.” And perhaps that was it, the self-evidence of it. She is someone he likes very much. He likes very much the women that works for her. He does not like to see them mistreated, particularly as he understands what that is like. They should not have to work in fear or discomfort.

He leans forwards a little, letting one hand rest on her shoulder, and presses cool lips to the corner of her mouth, the kiss light as moths’ wings, almost imagined, before pulling back. The rainwater catches on his skin, brightens it like diamonds, and makes him seen. He does not like to be seen, much more at home in the shadows.  “Terrò tutti come sicuro che posso.”

[inez-trejo-blog]

There’s so much said between the lines of every second they spend together. The majority of their conversation seems to be done in silence. And she cannot think of a way that she would prefer more. He does not say that he missed her too, but she knows he has. He does not explain his presence at the Lair, the way most would, but she already knows. And perhaps that’s just it. She already knows. Neither of them rely on the verbal aspect of sociality, but especially not around each other. For others, that would be debilitating, for them, it’s comfortable.

“Somehow I don’t think any bartender in Night City would give you a hard time, regardless of age.” She says with a laugh, the sound of it twinkling in the air for a moment, and then falling away just as quickly. Any of the bars she had ever been too were hard pressed to step on the toes of someone with as much recognition as Matteo. It would be seen as a discourteous gesture towards the high ranking family he hailed from. So, she’s positive he’s joking, which catches her slightly off guard in itself. She’s not sure she’s ever heard humor from him in this way. It warms her to him further. She wonders if this is a part of the change she had felt earlier. It makes him seem so much more alive….happier. But perhaps she is mistaken. It’s too early to tell and too easy to make mistaken assumptions about things of that nature. She merely plays along, and happily so.

When Matteo moves towards her, his lips brushing at the corner of hers in a chaste kiss, she leans into him just as he had into her, although her trust in him is a bit more innate, a bit quicker to surface. It’s perhaps naïve of her. Or it would be, with anyone else. But she feels safe in the assertion that Matteo is one to be trusted, through and through. If she was not sure before, the way in which he looked out for the Lair in her absence was certainly enough to settle her mind on the matter. “And I’m glad that I am.” She says, but ‘you’re my friend, too’ is what she means.

She can only smile again at his last assertion. “Una rarità in Night City.” In the dark she can see just as clearly as she can in the daylight, thanks to her infrared cyberoptics. Outlines of heat paint a picture before her that is just as clear as it is in daylight. The chips glow in the darkness, illuminating her eyes, a vague twinge of red that is only visible for the briefest of moments, there and then not again. Reminiscent of a cat’s eyes. 

And so, regardless of how much shadow Matteo stands in, she can see him. She’s always been able to see him. And, at least to her, it seems pertinent that she has been able to see him in more ways than one. As if, for some reason, the core of his being was always been revealed to her, even if it was vaguely shielded by gauzy curtains and tricks which held no weight with her – the lack of direct affection, things to be read between the lines. Despite this silence of their interactions, both of their hesitancy towards obvious affection, it seemed to her as if there was something between the two of them that made them able to read each other in ways that some people would never have the chance to. “Sono stato via troppo tempo.” She says, finally glancing away from Matteo and to her hand. Drops of blood drip from her thumb, pitter-pattering to the ground in time with the rain that has been steadily washing it away. She observes it curiously, but without much emotion. “Did I miss anything pertinent?”

[brightstarsdarksky]

(vía https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vk0xkd8qs9I)

[better-classofcriminal]

Deductions of Sentiment - Inez and Matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

And a moment later, there she is.

It is as if she had never left and if she had been gone a lifetime – and very little has changed from the mental image he has recorded of her, tucked somewhere less distracting and safe as someone might fold a photograph to save it from the rain. He hasn’t completely forgotten his captive, his grip on the gun and the other man’s shoulder firm and his periphery engaged – but he gives himself a rare moment of indulgence to take some time to recognize this reunion. Slow breath from lungs, and he gazes at her with those large dark eyes that held the look of an structural mind – an understanding of the mathematics of balance and grace and form and an due admiration, but also an admiration that perhaps ran deeper. Things with him often did. He has never been taken in fully by these unearned trappings of symmetry and form (although he is not, as some think, blind to beauty). It is simply that he is utterly aware of the commonness of beautiful things, and also of the fact that they required no skill to acquire. There are many who are enamored with his symmetry and form, but he had not earned it or chosen it any more than he had chosen the life circumstances that had shaped his birth. That competence, that sense of assuredness that she displayed resulted from choice, and that was what kept him in that moment of thoughtful contemplation, eyes on hers.

A flicker again of warmth and a tilt of head at the address in his own language, pronunciation unique as it was, and a soft reply of his own, almost absurdly casual for the situation. “Ben tornado.” The man at his feet has continued to address him, and with only a glance down, the young man let the barrel of the gun press against his forehead a bit tighter. He was getting a little bored of the entreaties, but there was a part of him that was quite interested in seeing what it was that she might do. As she approached, stopping before them, the bulk of his attention was focused on hers,, his energy changing very subtly, not profoundly different from hers. There was a density to both of them in that moment and a danger, reflective in anger and balanced – male and female – both graceful, still, deadly. Matteo plays his part – he is not strong physically in comparison to many men, but he is significantly stronger than he looks, and between the grip on the other man’s shoulder and the threat of the gun, he can hold him still for her.

There is a soft intake of breath, brief, at the spilled blood – no matter how often one crosses a line, it doesn’t mean that one does not notice when a line has been crossed – and he remains silent, content to let her lead in this circumstance as relatively amicable as he may be with the women of the Python’s Lair, they are not his family. Family retained privilege, and even as stunted as he might be in some senses, he still understood that. Her eyes are on the man, but his eyes remain on her as long as they remain on anything – perhaps for a few beats more than he would for most. Perhaps because he is intrigued, and when she met his gaze, he nodded, just a slow, efficient motion. There is a hint of humor in his voice, albeit humor that carries a darkness to it, something carefully contained.

“Very pretty.”

“Vuoi mandarlo per la sua strada?” Fluid, soft, still carrying that dark thread of amusement.  Deference, although almost gentlemanly at first glance, it was utterly indifferent to her sex and directed as deference and respect for her.

“Il suo peccato, la vostra casa.”

[inez-trejo-blog]

It was, perhaps, this very way that Matteo’s mind worked that kept her wanting more of him, kept her pulled towards him. His personality effectively had its own gravitational pull on her. It’s rare, nearly nonexistent in the world she comes from, that she is held in admiration based solely on her own choices and skills rather than her beauty. Sure, there are those that recognize both, but with Matteo, she knows she could take on any appearance and nothing would be changed. And there is something about the foreignness of that which resonates deeply with Inéz.

The man before them is shaking, broken pleas mixed with half-sobbing, sniffling noises filling the air. They only irritate her more. She isn’t sure how Matteo didn’t pull the trigger based on aggravation alone. ‘Stupid, stupid man’ she thinks again. His blood streaks down his face in irregular trails, smeared by the rainy drizzle and by his own tears.

She sneers at him and digs the pad of her thumb into the deep wound just to aggravate it further, blood immediately running over the skin of her hand. She nods assent to Matteo though, and steps back far enough that the pathetic man can scamper off – hopefully never to return. When Matteo releases him, he kind of slumps for a minute, as if all of the energy has left his body from the experience he has just undergone. And then he looks between the two of them – Matteo and Inéz – for a moment. She can only imagine how they look. They are both beautiful, by any standard, and they are both about as deadly as it gets. Partially because they are so beautiful, and partially because of the dangerous mind that lay beneath their outward façade. Then he moves to his feet, looking rodent-like as he scurries away, stumbling over his feet at times. Inéz only watches him for a moment, fighting the instinct that twists in her stomach – that feline-persona tempted to play along – to begin a game of cat and mouse.

It’s easy to distract herself though, because her attention almost immediately returns to Matteo. And this time, a true smile graces her face. Her features are overtaken by a warmth that is almost blinding in comparison to the sharp deadliness of her physiognomy previously. “Mi sei mancato, Matteo.” She’d had no plans of admitting it out loud, and yet here she was, doing just that. 

She reaches out, slowly, remembering his tendency to not been keen towards touch, and knowing that after such an adrenaline-inducing encounter, the energy of which still crackled in the air around them, any sudden movement is not necessarily smart (a fact that went for herself as well). She gives him plenty of time to push her away, to move. And when he doesn’t, her palm presses against the side of his cheek first, and then skirts towards his ear eloquently, fingers sprawling against his now closely-cut hair, nails gently dragging across his scalp, where once there were boyish curls. The touch is so polar opposite from the exchange with the man that was now long gone. This is affectionate, when just moments before, she was frightening. “Your hair is gone.” She observes aloud. “It’s very becoming.” She follows, thinking of how much older he looks now.

And then she withdraws, tilts her head at him, still observing. There are other changes, but they are not perceptively physical. And she cannot exactly pin-point them. She simply knows they are there. “I heard that you’ve been looking after my girls.” It’s not exactly true. The girls haven’t quite figured it out. So, she hasn’t really heard anything. Matteo is certainly not egotistical after all. And furthermore, he’s subtle – the most dangerous of people always were. “I could never put into words how much I appreciate that.” ‘I owe you,’ was what she was really saying, behind the social grace of the sentiment.

[eizagonzalezsource]

[inez-trejo-blog]

eizagonzalezsource:

Eiza Gonzalez on the Set of ‘Baby Driver’, Atlanta 3/7/2016.

[better-classofcriminal]

Deductions of Sentiment - Inez and Matteo

He’s not too fond of places like this, all the flashing lights and embarrassing mediocrities that occur when people give into their baser instincts – the easy slide into mental abandonment that came over at these flashes of skin and smile. He does not like the way the men leer at the women, does not like that flat, possessive sheen that arises or the way they seemed to linger anywhere but their faces – responding to physical cues rather than any understanding of who they were apart from the curves of their bodies. Perhaps it strikes a little close to home, a little too close to that quiet well of bitterness that he always kept firmly and carefully tamped down, just as he did his temper, but there is some satisfaction in watching the way the women behaved, and enjoying the craft in it, the dancers. 

He is perhaps going about this all wrong, but when his eyes trail up to theirs as they perform – huge and liquid dark in that still face and that elegant silence – he isn’t thinking of bare skin or soft hair or rose lips, he’s thinking of how remarkable it is that even those in a place that is so often considered disreputable can hold so much agency. He looks at these women with the silent admiration of someone who understands how this game is played – a former player himself. He looks at them and thinks of how much power they hold, and how little these grinning, drooling imbeciles truly understand the extent of that power. He thinks of them as works of art, every one, indifferent to the physicality presented, but understanding of their cunning. He likes…them.

At first, he had little desire to mingle there – it is uncomfortable, loud, too many things to irritate delicate senses, but it is the only chance that he might have to see her, and it wasn’t often that someone seemed so…obviously pleased to see him. If he truly had the word for it, he might have said that he misses her, and although he doesn’t verbalize it– to whom would he – his actions and his small sacrifice of pushing past his comfort zone displays his sentiments. He had had no intention of social interactions with patrons or those who received their patronage – he wasn’t quite the type to make friends easily – but it is difficult when the dancers and the other women make a point of reaching out to him. He has no idea what might have driven them initially to do so – he tends to select the tables in the corners and to keep quietly to himself – but over time he has softened to their greetings (they aren’t aware of his real name) and has learned a little about each of them in return. He likes being greeted by them, and although he isn’t used to people smiling at him so often, he thinks that he might grow to like it more. It fills a gap in him that he wasn’t aware of having.

He does what he can for them quietly with no expectation that they know that he is the one instrumenting any benefits. Perhaps, they have noticed that a few men who are obviously troublemakers come to the club less often – with or without the lady of the house present. Perhaps if they knew he was there, they might breathe a little easier for them to know that he was watching and that he had enough connections to make life difficult for anyone who overstepped their bounds. As it was, he is content to stay who he was to them – a kind of specter, subject to gentle teasing to which he would smile his complicated smile, and try to speak with them in return until his words ran dry. Over time, he has stopped to expect to find her, and this has become enough. He likes to think that he can do something for them, and he likes to think that they might like him. He is in his own way always an observer, rarely a participant, a shadow, and he likes that in some ways, but he rather thinks that there is a difference between being in solitude and being – alone, and he is lonely.

Perhaps it is partially their kindness and his loneliness why he is out in an alleyway in the drizzling rain, jacket off and his white dress-shirt soaked and a man at gunpoint at his feet. There is something very close to anger – at least as close to anger as he visibly becomes – burning coldly in those dark eyes, an arctic promise of retribution. From his whole body radiates a quiet, unshowy menace and competence, and he notes – with some relish, he is human after all – that all taunts of ‘kid’ have faded. The man is now sniffling slightly, but that is to be expected, he does have a handgun pressed to his temple and it is rather chilly outside in the rain. 

There are…promises. 

Promises that he won’t bother the girls again, promises of keeping hands to himself as he was taught in kindergarten and Matteo isn’t against…scaring him a bit before bad behavior continued.  

There is…begging. 

It is annoying. He briefly thinks it might be appropriate – maybe to not shoot him fatally in cold blood – but potentially through the knee so he stops talking. However, he rather thinks he’ll start screaming instead, and that’ll be even more irritating.

“Be quiet, please,” Matteo tells him at last, resting the barrel of the gun a little more snugly against the other man’s temple. “I’m trying to decide whether or not to shoot you.”

His brows draw down in irritation at the resurgence of wails and lighten slightly at the creak of the door to the alleyway outside, a turn of his head (careful to keep the gun pressed lightly to the other’s temple, and it is a…reunion of sorts, and he has changed. Gone are the little-boy curls, the young man’s head is now closely shaven, T-shirts and jeans traded at least in this instance for well-cut clothing (albeit waterlogged and clinging to him).  That marble face doesn’t give off much indication of feeling, but if one looked closely there is a hint of warmth entering his eyes that didn’t exist before.

“It appears you caught me in a compromising situation,” he allowed to her, a flicker of humor teasing at his lips, not quite a smile, but not far from one either.

“Perhaps another time?”

[inez-trejo-blog]

Inéz has been gone for far too long, she thinks. But it’s hard to say, because she has fallen right back into place. Aside from rancorous pleas from her girls for an explanation, their desire for some drawn out adventurous fable bubbling over and spilling out onto her, there is no real proof of time having passed. She has settled right back into her skin here, her second home. The Python’s Lair. And once the girls are reasonably satiated with her explanation (a touch brief here, a touch false there – more of a fib than a lie, but even so, she would do anything to see her girls beam with excitement) for her absence, they fill her in on the latest happenings of their own world. And that includes the Lair.

Most of it is much the same, she has not missed out on anything especially extraordinary. Which is good, business as usual. And business is booming. The crowd that has amassed now is proof enough of that. But there is one tidbit, a little beacon of light that has nestled itself into the pit of Inéz’s stomach. A murmur of an unusual customer hanging out in the back, kind, genuine, a little off-kilter. A new friend amongst the girls. She feels electrified by it. A kind of small hope that could fizzle out at any minute. Could it really be him? Of all the people she was away from, she thought of him more than she cares to admit. He was so different, in a good way. He made her feel different about….well….a lot. But at the same time, he was interesting. Not one note. Not some saint to change the world. He was just…him. And that was enough.

And what her girls have not picked up on, that she has, is that someone has to have been keeping unruly customers in check. Sure, she has her muscle, but they almost never catch all of the guys who slink around, working the Lair from the inside with minor indiscretions, slights of hand that can escalate quickly. Or the men who do more than physical harm her girls, degrading them in ways that are far worse – mentally, verbally.  Normally, she is there to combat them because nobody could ever be more on the inside than her. It was her number one worry in her absence, and one of the first questions she asked upon her return, ‘who’s been stirring up trouble?’ Her gaze roaming across the floor, looking for a man with a face that said he’d been getting away with something he shouldn’t have for far longer than she would like. But, most unexpected of all, she is met with nothing. Nobody? She knew before she even had to think about it that someone had slid into her position as an agent of protection.

It’s not hard to tie two and two together. And the culmination of it all has led her to the alleyway just outside the club. She’s wearing very little as she steps outside, her skin exposed to the cool licks of rain that are falling lightly from the dark sky overhead, vaguely illuminated by the lights of the city, most of which are blocked by the tall buildings on either side. Places of darkness like this are only ever found in the nooks and crannies of Night City. They’re rare, and perhaps more dangerous than the city itself. A dark trench coat is draped over her shoulders, shielding her vaguely. The door creeks, her heels click against the asphalt. Her eyes catch sight of the unmistakable silver glint of a gun first. But unlike most, this does not dissuade Inéz. Instead of turning tail, she starts towards it with a startling confidence. She recognizing its wielder almost immediately, though he is not without change.  Perhaps it is not the club, but him to serve as a symbol of time having passed for her.

“Ciao, Matteo.” She coos, accent rolling off her tongue. Only someone paying attention would necessarily know that it’s an accent that does not belong to the Italian language. Only someone like Matteo. Inéz crosses the distance between the door and where Matteo stands over the man pleading for his life. Her dark eyes scan him, but it is not primal, it is curious and almost adoring. The semblance of a smirk curls at the corner of her full lips, her face now dusted with dewy raindrops. Her black hair, longer than ever now, has been plaited back loosely, and the tendrils which remain lose are wet against her skin, dark against her sun-kissed glow. With her hair out of her face, the depth of her features is accentuated. Slender neck, high cheekbones, shapely eyebrows, a thick cluster of eyelashes as dark as tar, and a narrow nose. She is beautiful, but her presence exudes danger. Like a wild cat, sinuous and feral and feline.

Her attention falls away from Matteo to the man at his feet. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Tsk, tsk.” When she’s near enough, she catches his jaw in her hand, forces him to turn his face towards her. It jostles his head against the gun at his temple. In the quiet of the alley, she can almost perceive his heart rate, racing, pounding against the cavern of his chest. She studies him for a moment, then drags her carbo-glass thumb nail along his cheek, tearing the skin in a deep incision, to which blood rose immediately. “Stupid, stupid man.” She utters. “If you are to live then you will bear the mark of Cain.” And without hesitation, she crosses her initial cut with another, making a near perfect “X” across the majority of the side of his face. There would be no mistaking the scar that would be left behind for something that occurred naturally. “Che ne pensi?” She asks, her gaze flicking back up to Matteo now.

[princesseiza]

[better-classofcriminal]

House of Worship - Matteo and Inéz

[better-classofcriminal]

“You’re not afraid of me,” he whispered, almost awed, his voice a soft hush in his chest. There faintest smile touched his lips, a tilt of his head following, still permitting her to run her fingers through her hair, and it was more than he might have permitted to anyone save Quin, not as if they ever offered.

As they faced each other, dark eyes met hers and warmed, subtly, as cold marble grows tepid in sunlight, another fragile smile touching his lips as she kissed his brow. He was aware, even there, in that moment that this could be an elaborate play to get close to him, gain an alliance or set up a destruction of an enemy, and he was not particularly skilled at knowing which was which. His caution was what kept him alive, and here he had lowered it. It was not particularly intelligent, and Matteo didn’t, as a rule, do foolish things, but for once, perhaps he wanted to trust. He wanted to feel something.

“Why?”

His question was soft; gaze averted once more, more comfortable like that. “Why would it affect you when you hardly know me…hardly know what I am, let alone who. And here you are. You trusted me, even in the beginning. I could have had you killed, or at the very least attempted it, and there you were, cautious, perhaps, but still there. There are only three choices I can think of to explain it. You are either a very confident or foolish woman, or you have some reason to…to…think that I am somehow different. That I am not a monster in a man’s skin.”

“You would be wrong.  I am not a lost little boy. I may be a monster. But what I am not is a liar.” He lied. In this case it was true, in the former, but not in the latter. All men were liars, but in this particular case, he was being genuine. “Or a fool. I can bear a little pain to get to where I need to be. I know nothing else.” There was no search for pity in him, simply honesty. “I am not a good person, if one such things exist. But what I am…is something that is useful.”

“Not more or less than that.”

[inez-trejo-blog]

“Because, Matteo. If I were afraid of you, I’d have to be afraid of myself as well. I see things in you that I have experienced first hand. Anger and turmoil that my parents created in me. Its just…I had the opportunity to lock it deep within myself. And you didn’t. I can understand how easily it surfaces…and that it’s a reality for you. It’s a reality for me too of course, I just wasn’t pushed past my breaking point. Fortunately, my father died before then. But that wasn’t the case for you.” She explained, perhaps a bit more wordily than she intended. She hoped it made sense, although she suspected that it didn’t. It was hard for her to put into words.

But the fact still remained. He did not scare her. She was not sure there was much he could do to scare her. She pictured a thousand scenarios. Him holding a gun to her temple, a knife to her throat, the least of them. And yet, there was no fear inspired within her.

Something about who Matteo was. How he treated her. She had grown fond of him in a very short period of time. It felt alien. It was not typical of her.

But then, nothing about Matteo was typical, either.

She smiled, even laughed for a moment. “Oh a fool, certainly. And confident too. A confident fool, really.” She joked.

“We’re all monsters in human skin. Most of all me.” She continued, taking a deep breath which manifested as a short sigh, her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. She had pulled away from him a little so that she could watch his expression, meet his gaze when he allowed it. “I’ve done terrible things too. I killed when I was 9 by the guidance of my father’s hand. I killed a child when I myself was still one, maybe 14. I take hit jobs acquired by the Culebras…when I find them interesting enough…I don’t say all this to air out my dirty laundry, but because I need you to understand that you don’t have to prove or disprove to me that you’re a good person or not. I don’t care. Nor do I care about your utility.”

“There’s something about you that’s…drawn me in. Nobody has ever treated me like a human, the way that you did. I’m either here for their sexual pleasure or I’m a gang leader. No in between. It’s different with you.” She shook her head a little, finding herself at a loss for words. “I don’t know, really. You’re different.”

[greyfiels-blog]

A look around. Should he bother to stay that long, or would it be better to take his leave? I’m not sure a person like myself should be in a place like this - not to put one above the other, but only because I don’t think I’ll ever use the services offered. That was about as polite as he could put it while still being blunt: this place was not for him, and it would be a waste of both his time and hers for him to look around. I hope you understand.

[inez-trejo-blog]

Inéz almost rolled her eyes. Almost. His last little tidbit ‘not to put one above the other.’ Did exactly that, in her mind. Despite the mans forced politeness, Inéz still felt the sting, as if a slap to the face. She decided to chalk it up to her being oversensitive. What did it matter anyway? It was not as if she could be rude. She could not slander the Lair’s reputation that way. Instead, she put on a fake smile. “Of course.” 

[better-classofcriminal]

House of Worship - Matteo and Inéz

[better-classofcriminal]

He was still trembling, his body tense and his eyes troubled, his emotions roiling without a sense of rhyme or reason, locking him in and drowning him deep, although that relatively impassive face didn’t show it, the way he couldn’t quite seem to stop shaking did. Slow breaths, shuddering breaths and he forced himself to calm, narrow shoulders lowering, glancing at her with a touch of confusion, as if not uncertain if he had done something wrong.

The language was soothing, despite himself, and even if he jumped a little at the touch like a nervous feline that might scratch or bite, he settled eventually, blood hammering in his ears, comforted despite himself, easy to comfort as a child. He let his forehead rest against her shoulder, breathing still a little fast. “Ti credo,” he whispered, cool skin pressed against warm, fitted against each other like complements. Arms hesitantly went around her, and although there was something childlike in his posture, there was still something dark lurking in his tone, a cold, clear, purity.

“They will pay,” he whispered softly, in English once more. Italian was a place for comfort, and this was not comfort. His voice was quiet, but there was a dangerous charisma surrounding him then, dense as iron. His head raised and his eyes were not afire as they gazed straight into hers, but serene, in a decision already made.

“In their own time. In their own way. But not because of what they have done. Because they thought that I would not fight back.”

“I have killed many men, Inéz, women too, and that was all their essential mistake. Long after they have forgotten, I will remember.  For there are only three constants in this world.” Deep dark eyes met hers, his face close, and the look in them terrible but glorious at the same time, a twisted symphony of retribution and destruction and of something else, a becoming, that hesitated right at the horizon. “Death. Time.“

“And me.”

“I am patient,” he murmured, and he tucked another errant strand of her hair from her eyes, affection. “ I can wait.”

[inez-trejo-blog]

She welcomed his arms around her, encouraged it even. She inched in closer to him, allowing him to rest his weight against her. Despite their age difference, he was still taller than her, bigger than her in the way that men typically were bigger than woman. He looked fragile, due to his delicate bone structure, but he never presented himself that way, regardless. But now, he seemed so small, perfectly fitted for his slender bones, looking crumpled in on himself. She could only wrap her arms around him in response, tilt her chin a little so that she could lean her head against his.

But this fragility only lasted for a moment – maybe even a handful of seconds. Time seemed elusive to Inéz – made it impossible to tell. Suddenly a dark energy swirled around him, seemed to electrify the air that they sat in. A deep, impenetrable kind of aura came over him. Sent goosebumps up and down the back of her neck. Still, she was not scared. 

She recognized, in a way, the same kind of energy within herself. The difference was that she had buried it very very deep, poured cement over it, kept it hidden, put up, lock and key. She was too afraid to unleash the demon that she felt twist and turn within her, born out of her parents actions, and the things she had been through – the things she had done. 

For Matteo, however, it was too late. That very demon had already been set lose, and it seemed far more vicious than her own – ready to strike whomever he saw fit, anybody he felt deserved to pay. She could not blame him. She did not blame him. She could understand. 

She was simply sad that such turmoil had been set free in him. Could only imagine the things that had happened to him to make it this way. Her fingers continued to brush through his hair, gently. She could feel his heart still, they were so close and it was vibrating through his being, pulsating against her in the places that their skin met. 

She tipped her head towards his touch when he brushed her hair away, and then tilted her chin upward slightly as he let his hand drop, her lips against his forehead in a small kiss. “I understand, Matteo. Just don’t get yourself hurt, okay? Non riuscivo a nudo il pensiero.”