Rahi muffles a grunt as he sits down at the bar, a hand pressing against his stomach. Gala aftermath or no, he did still manage to burst open the stitches from only a week before, and gotten them patched up back again — this time, by someone else. Something about the drugs he’s taking and blood running thinner (whatever), alcohol isn’t the best call for the night, but how else is one supposed to cope? To get over it? Rahi’d seen more than he’d hoped for, but so had everyone else; what happened that night wasn’t anarchy, it was much worse. At least in anarchy, the state answers for their own crimes, on the hands of those reckless enough to expose such atrocities. The gala — well, that was just a massacre, plain and simple. No humanity there.
He orders a beer, to start. It’d soon become something stronger.
The person to his right bears an injury also, Rahi can tell from the corner of his eye. It seems as though almost everyone did.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” he offers, all sat-back and amused, “if you tell me the story behind that.” His finger circles lazily in the air, until it aims at the other’s injury. Rahi waves his own bottle around as he talks, as though it serves for punctuation. “I mean, it’s the least we can get out of it, right? Shit night, freakin’ awesome story.”
it was a successful enough night for her. a night celebrated with a shitload of room service and cocktails, and one irina is celebrating to this day. she never had much of a talent for reading the room but the atmosphere as of late was evident for even her, so she hid her satisfaction as best as she could. digits move from drumming themselves on top of the bar to grabbing at a warm bottle of beer. piss-warm. the kind that made her face wrinkle with each sip as she wondered why she even bought it, so the stranger to her left came at a perfect time.
his fingers gesture to four red dots, the result of having a fork impaled into her upper arm. unfortunately, admitting that it was ( retaliation after opening fire at the charity event, ) may not get her that free drink. so she waves it off, feigning it as a story so tragic she didn’t want to talk about it. she could milk it up with watery eyes if she wanted but it would directly contradict the giddy temperament that soon made itself evident. “ you want to see a cooler one? ” irina has always had a taste for scars, a kid who would peel back a bandaid just to pick at a scab. she lifts her shirt to reveal the gunshot wound that was gifted to her at the music festival on her lower abdomen. “ it hurt like a mother fuck, worse than childbirth i bet. ” although frankly she didn’t have anything to base that theory off of. “ you remember the festival? the one with shitty music? i got shot helping people out. ” man, what a lie. but she really wanted that free drink. “ anyway i’ll take a mojito, yes? and then maybe later a cosmopolitan? i can’t decide. ”
