The possibility of mind versus matter, present versus past, control versus loss of it, was often there. Luna had a tendency to live her life on the edge. Even now, having joined a gang, found people she would call her own, feeling more at ease with who she was and where she belonged, she needed that extra kick of adrenaline to stay focused and sharp. Some days, she needed the present to be so domineering that the past could not slip trough. The words, grief is like the ocean, resonated with the twenty three year old. The understanding that grief was limitless, that it stretched out for miles and miles, that it was deep, dark, and unchanging. Many would argue that it was not such a permanent state of mind, that everyone was capable of morphing their grief into emotions more manageable with time. Personally she didn’t see it. How grief could lessen, or appear as if processed and dealt with. Her own seemed to be a constant, though wether or not she allowed herself to dive into it, to truly pick up the broken pieces and examine them, was the only choice she was left with.
The planes of her face were usually easy to read. Luna was an expressive person. One that felt strongly, that did not hold back a lot, that spoke with conviction and honesty, then again she had mastered the art of impassiveness. Of cloaking said expressiveness in a fully neutral expression that most would find hard to read. It did demand some serious effort and focus, it was not a face that would be made in natural situations or without the constant need for one. Mainly she used it when speaking with strangers she distrusted or was skeptical of, or when faced with friends and the fear of hurting their emotions with her reactions. Some were more sensitive than others. Though Mitchell seemed to be a master, far more advanced in the art of hiding his thoughts and emotions. This intrigued Luna, had her wondering how genuine he was, and if not, how hard he had to work to appear as such. “No, I wasn’t suggesting a debate. Just being grateful about it is all.” Her words ringing out with plain and true sincerity, no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. Manipulation was saved for those outside the gang, for those worth the effort of deceiving. In which case, their attendance was a good place to break out those kinds of skills, and yet she refrained. She was not talking to a civilian or possible Royals member, she was talking to a fellow member and superior. For what it was worth, the interaction itself seemed to go over pretty well and it gave Luna a sense of ease and relief knowing that she could talk this freely and still be on the right side of the invisible line that went between anyone of higher rank. Being placed in a hierarchy where she was at the bottom was her biggest struggle to date. For four years she had been on top. Leading her own kids, being the one to call the shots, the one they all looked up to and trusted. And suddenly the roles were reversed. She was the young one, the one to look up to Cate and Scarlett, the one to try find her place in a new group. Despite her now more than a year with the Strix Luna still had moments and days where she managed to step in it. Managed to cross the line. Some days it was purely intentional, it was the inner rebel in her who refused to be put down or ordered around. Other days, it was a reflex, her mouth acting before her brain could be connected and filter her words. God filters.. she had none. “Dark mind, dark soul. It makes sense, most of us would be in the world we are in without battle scars or darkness within.” She replied with a small shrug. Not seeing this as something new or surprising, but as expected.
“I’d say about eighty percent are putting on a damn good show. No doubt there are as many enemies as friendlies here tonight. It would be naive to think otherwise. As for them being con artists at heart, I don’t know. Judging is something more easily done when faced with an individual rather than a crowd of people.” She offered her opinion in a casual manner, shrugging her shoulders a bit and taking another good sip of her drink. The taste of bourbon created this longing for a smoke, and so his offer to let her have one was heaven sent. As for the judging, the girl considered herself to be a very good judge of character, but also someone who judged harshly. So maybe it was for the best that she did not move around too much tonight. Her eyes rested a second longer than necessary on the pack of smokes, as the brand was.. not unfamiliar and she wondered briefly why that was. Sliding a cigarette out of the casing, Luna put the stick of tobacco between her lips, aware that she had no lighter, but noticing how he was patting his pockets, she figured he was in the process of retrieving one. “Interesting choice of label. Do you and Scarlett share?” She asked, unable not to, a smile of amusement on her lips.
The far fringes of one’s mind were not always unreachable: with his gaze steadily fixated upon the entirety of the ballroom, if one looks with enough devotion, they would recognize an empty stare, merely lingering onto unrecognizable faces. He would always delve back and forth, a patter well known to the corners of his thoughts, to what he knew and from it. His conscience (that sleepless demon) splattered gasoline, bathed in it even, all while menacingly holding a lit match an inch above. A maddening waltz it was, extinguishing an enormous portion of his nerves to numbness yet he always seemed to know a way out of that beguiling maze, just as he knew how to get back in there. Strange, were they not – comfort zones? They offered deceptions and illusions. But he would always crawl back to them – to the scorching embrace of cocaine and to the torturous ways of his thoughts. He knew best.
The absence that could have been derived from his look vanished into nothingness once he turned to examine the face of the girl in front of him – he watched her facial expressions, as they invited his interest by the sincerity that she displayed. There was something innate to her face, a streak that could not be bent or manipulated with, something of peculiar origin, unascertained, something not seen in many people and that Mitchell could only as laity, prescribe to upbringing. On the other hand, there was him, with the scars and traces of seemingly the same origin: childhood. Distinct marks carved unto the core of his being, seeded carelessly and not tended to acutely, it all resulted in him being who he was in the present moment. Although not entirely blameless himself, Mitchell chuckled to the thoughts that he apprehended and aided into becoming, “I know,” he replied, for a spare second toying with the silvery zippo that he pulled out previously from his pocket, the one that as of recently held a certain sentimental value (Mitchell was a sentimental man, whether he liked to admit to it or not), before he continued his maneuvering of words, “You are not the one to lie, are you?”. Call it a sort of a professional deformation of some sort, Mitchell was unable to escape what he knew best, and that was interrogating, no matter the occurrence, no matter the devices or the technique that he would use. Of course, this form of interrogation came in a much lighter sense, a some sort of a forgotten, twice removed cousin of the real thing, yet it was nowhere close to devoid from information. The small shrug that came afterwards from her, once again proved itself to support his hypothesis made before – that she exuded sincerity and that lying and manipulation were not exactly her modus operandi, at least not in the amicable relations. “Perhaps I should write that down, I like the sound of it,” his interrogating thirst quenched a little by the uttered sentence, wondering to what degree he did identify with the words she spoke, “You have a point, Morales. You have a point.”
To her observation he had a nod of his head to offer in a form of a response, a way to project his affirmation, “I’d say you are entirely right,” His long fingers were wrapped around the lighting device, distractedly, “Tell me… Why didn’t you pursue a different branch within our organization?” He prompted her, displaying genuine interest in her answer once he finally decided to put a cigarette between his lips. He first went on to light the one that she had, leaning with the lighter to shelter the flickering flame with his hand, at first bemused by the attention that she devoted to luring out even the smallest of details. Points earned. “Oh, the cigarettes, you mean?” Share, why would they share? “To be frank, she did point me in the direction of those,” he took the pack in his free hand and shook it gently, “Truth be told, the ones I smoked were… well, shit.” An entertained smirk took over his face, coloring his features in an entirely different shade, “Don’t tell her I said that. I will never heard the end of it.” He noted afterwards, in a form of a light murmur, but enough for Luna’s ears to detect, as he placed the cigarette back into his mouth, lit it and inhaled the first drag.
