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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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wallacepolsom
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Today's Document
#extradirty
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@outlcws
A MUMU BLOG for the rest of the muses tortured by tya.
salem judine. intro. threads. visage. musings. ♡ annaki. vyvyan bing. intro. threads. visage. musings. drake hawkins. intro. threads. visage. musings. ♡ kaia. boris rogalnikov. intro. threads. visage. musings.
Nasser tensed slightly, but once again, without showing it on his face. He simply tapped a hand on the steering wheel and took another sip from his coffee as he mulled over his words. He didn't like recognition. He didn't like talking about the family, how he'd cut ties - though to say he had completely would be a lie. He had fallen so far that nobody could get him back up. As the coffee sunk down into his stomach, he let out a deep breath. His mother had taught him breathing exercises. Back when he was young, poor, and bullied. Even if he'd been able to stand his ground, he'd still chased riches. And now he was back to living out of a dirty appartment and running shift after shift after shift to make ends meet - and to run away from life.
"It hasn't," Nass said, but he didn't comment on anything else. Thinking about how long it had been meant thinking about Petra, and he couldn't think about Petra without wanting to break down. The years hadn't made it easier.
"It pays," he said. "Not much, but it pays. It keeps me off the streets." And off of the crippling guilt.
The posture of the former bodyguard changed in the rearview mirror when he looked back. It was subtle, but subtlety was practically part of their job description. Interpreting body language for a hidden code. Signs of danger. "I could never figure out why you left," and that much was true — it wasn't like Drake was making enough money to be free and clear of floundering in the dirt, but there was a steadiness to the work. A reliability, as once you were in, one seldom found an exit sign that wasn't the exit of a bullet round through someone's skull and making its path right out of it. Nasser should count himself lucky that he wasn't part of the unmarked graves in the desert. Edward Weiss wasn't as terribly clement man, in the many years that the elder Hawkins child had worked underneath his wing.
"And I could never figure out how you left without reaping the consequences. You didn't even change your name." Perhaps it was a puzzle he wasn't willing to solve silently. Really, he didn't care, they were all idle musings that he was divulging aloud, killing the time on the way back to Shady Dell. Anyone who worked for the Weisses long enough figured out how to pry in a way that resembled taunting. Dark eyes studied the other cars and buildings passing them by, leaning his head against the back window.
"Did you hear that she's back now? Maeve." The middle Weiss daughter's infamous disappearance from fixtures within the Manor, and any trace of her existence, notwithstanding, another mystery that Drake hadn't resolved. After all, he was the bodyguard who was there that night. Cleaning up the mess that Romi Weiss made. That was evidently his job more than the guarding part was. "How come you haven't tried to take up work with her? I'm sure she'd have you back with open arms."
dean is slightly surprised by the sudden presence of a friend at his side. thus far, he had been quietly watching others as they moved around the event. maybe some part of him was still in detective mode, wondering who could be at the root of all the strange happenings that had been occurring lately. it would be wise to shut that part of his brain off, to live in the moment, yet he cannot bring himself too.
still, he looks down at vyvyan with a little smirk, nodding his head. “a couple people, yeah,” he says with a slight chuckle. no use in bringing her down with his own morbid thoughts. and maybe, just maybe, hanging with her will help him chase them away.
but then she brings up what's been happening – and it all comes rushing back. shit.
“you know, i wouldn't be surprised but… i could use the distraction, if i'm bein' honest.”
it's true, too. he really could.
and when she says she wants to give the bull a try, he cannot help but let out a hearty laugh. “really? you sure?” he says, not in a condescending way or anything, he's just shocked. “i mean, yeah, why not. c'mon,” with a wave of his hand, he's then moving through the crowd.
The melancholy that leached into her had to be purged somehow. Nor could she escape the foreign sensation of eyes following her every corner she turned, not since the motel — no pair of her own was necessary to understand the searing lick of white-hot flames that conflated the whites of someone's eyes when they honed in on a target. Was that woman who had come to find her at Magic Beach always a step behind?
It wasn't like her to throw caution to the wind and wrangle with an obstacle she couldn't see, but she figured she didn't need to see to attain eight seconds on something that jolted and moved around, and more to the point, couldn't gouge her with a real set of horns.
A hand wrapped around his forearm. "Well, nevermind that," and the pessimism that came with her query, "If I get on that thing, will you go next? I can't see how it goes, but I'll cheer you on. We could get a round together for liquid courage at the Dollhouse if you feel like you need it." A coy smile took hold of her lips, squeezing. "Do I look the part for it?"
Dean made a path, and Vyvyan was loyally behind the detective, listening around her to the loud murmur of rodeo-goers. Their itinerant destination hollowed out when they set foot inside the Glitter Gulch, which reeked of sweat no matter how thoroughly the building was polished down, she figured. "Ladies first. Will you help me up on it?"
This week had been a shit show. Well, this year really. It didn't really bother Dom. He didn't care much for things that didn't pertain to him personally, and besides the strained work load, none of it did. He wouldn't even call it a heavy workload, honestly. It was more scattered. Everyone above him was busy scrambling. His own usefulness in this particular situation was mediocre at best. Wandering about, looking for stragglers who owed money, was the most he could do.
He found himself lurking around the regular commute path of a particular indebted individual, hands in his pocket as he pretended to care about the paper. He had about another twenty minutes before his target would approach. Until then, he tried to look inconspicuous.
The interruption from his thoughts sparked a mild irritation, causing his mouth to slack, a small frown forming there. Her words tumbled through his thoughts lazily. Great, a con artist.
"Listen lady, I'm not interested in a palm reading."
"Not a palm reading," Salem was quick to say, "I see that you're struggling with your current path. Perhaps I could offer you enlightenment with this impasse." If the other should send her away again, then she could respect that. The medium wasn't going to impose her views on anyone, nor the information that she might have. "It would seem that you've seen many deaths recently, and you'll see another soon. Is that right?"
He was familiar — maybe someone who had once circled in similar loops to her, in her past life that had been shed for favoring a new one forged in Vegas. "I don't need to know what you do, or who you are. Are you wondering whether you should keep up with your work for them?" She smiled, tilting her head, and holding up a palm. "I don't need money, rest assured. I'm not interested in worldly gains and my pockets are full enough without your pocket change."
It was safe to say that after more than a few months of laying low, Dahlia was once again feeling like her overly-confident self, full of gusto and audacity. She hadn't seen the young woman since their encounter in that motel during the storm where her fear had been so palpable, she vampire could've practically tasted it. And she'd wanted to taste her--and not in a romantic way but in a carnal, primal way, given that she full moon had been shining bright that night, sending her and all others like her into a frenzy. Yet, the night hadn't ended in blood and in a satisfying meal but instead, it'd left her feeling even more confused.
Because she looked just like Sabel. Exactly like her. Only Sabel hadn't been blind--but who's to say she couldn't have lost her eyesight over the last hundred years? Still, though, the woman certainly didn't act like Sabel--either that or that bitch was a damn good actress. But as time passed, as Dahlia followed in her pursuit, discovered where she worked even, she was more and more curious about her origins. Sure, they say 'everyone has a twin' and all that bullshit. But a woman who looked exactly like Sabel running around Las Vegas? It couldn't be a coincidence. And she was intrigued, not to mention motivated by her lust for revenge. If this girl wasn't Sabel, she had to have some sort of connection...right?
So the dark-haired woman had found herself at the girl's latest show--apparently, her name was Vyvyan. Right. And she'd been lying in wait, knowing she had the element of surprise on her hands. So when the performer came off the stage, she gave a wolfish grin and said "Beautiful set tonight. I didn't realize you were so talented." Her grin only grew wider as she saw the recognition on the woman's face and could practically feel the tingles that were most likely running down her spine. It was delicious.
Why did you come to see my show? Feigning innocent surprise, she said "Because I heard you were good. And it turns out, the reviews weren't wrong." I'm not going to sit with you. Go away. She was trying to be brave. It was precious, really. "You're not going to take the time to chat with an adoring fan? That's not very gracious of you. I figured you'd have better etiquette than that--don't prove me wrong. Why don't you sit with me, just for a bit? I promise I won't bite."
Vyvyan failed to understand what the fanfare was about herself. Perhaps her sense of self-value was skewed. What was so special about a transient, orphaned girl, now a grown woman, that these things seemed to follow her? These dastardly creatures. First, her adoptive parent had revealed themselves to be the serpent, and she the willing sucker who walked right into the front lines into the hands of people who wanted to smite those creatures from the earth altogether. And now one was following her, breathing down her neck, because... of a case of a mistaken identity? The singer wanted to curl her fists and scream, melt down until security came. But that was not like her, and despite the fear that pulsed through every nerve ending, she was still, save for the breaths laboring in her chest.
A hand finding the table that Dahlia sat at, she slid into the velvety seat, thighs forced together in her dress and tucked underneath the table, not crossing them. Looking for an escape. A moment to run. Could they hear the palpating beat of her heart from here, too? The blood that rushed through her so quickly that it was the sole confirmation she was alive, and hardly one of them. The starlet's hand stole away underneath the table, a mirthless sound leaving her lips, akin to strangulation before it was laughter. "Tell me why you're really here, or I won't answer anything. Fair is fair. If you want a chat, this must be a two way street. Or I go away."
The confidence that roiled in her voice hardly matched the waver in it, no longer exuding the stable belts that she had sustained moments before. If anything, she could hardly feel her fingertips, her cheeks, where she suspected that the color had drained, and she folded her hands in her lap, pecking at a hangnail that had come from the broken glass in the motel room that she swept up herself, after she alerted the presence of a worker turning tricks in the next room. Night terrors had come with the encounter. A foe that she could not see was haunting her dreams, and now, she couldn't escape her in the real world, either. What was the point to it all? "You have a minute to tell me why you're really following me. I am not the Mina to your Dracula."
Hearing that his wife has decided to retire, when it had been her bloody idea to come in the first place - image control, patching over the remaining fallout from their wedding, a fruitless attempt at appearing community-minded and personable - sums her whims up perfectly. Edward despises the way her departure makes him look, as though they've argued or, worse, that he’d been enjoying himself so much he'd insisted on staying. As if the mechanical bull ride was simply too alluring to abandon. It pisses him off - not that it takes much - and while none of that is Drake’s fault, he still casts him a withering look, the same one he’s been directing at him since the wedding.
“Fanatical enough to insist on attending, but not fanatical enough to stay? Sounds about right.” He briefly considers going home too, then decides he can’t face rattling around in a house that feels more like a mausoleum with each passing day. Too many empty rooms.
The suggestion of the Dollhouse makes him pause, softening a little at the thought of getting to see Vyvyan, but he plays it off with the usual disdain. “It's all insufferable, to be honest. But the Dollhouse is perhaps marginally less insufferable. I think we should go there." He won't tell Drake it's a good idea, won't thaw even slightly. The same glacial look returns at the mention of dancing. "Drake, I must stress that if I ever ask you to dance with me, it means I'm very unwell and you have permission to shoot me."
"...Trouble in paradise?" The query was latent and sarcastic — the bodyguard wasn't expecting a response that was sincere, by any means. Besides, what Edward got up to in his private relationships wasn't really of the bodyguard's concern. Neither was Romi's, which was decidedly why he hadn't aired out any of the dirty laundry that didn't pertain to her relapse that was only part of the reason she had flushed her inheritance down the toilet in one fell swoop. Drake's loyalty to the family was unrivalled, but he wouldn't be caught dead as a rat. Given his own journey from a sense of unbelonging to where he stood now, he wasn't keen on sending anyone else barreling out from the shadows prematurely. Dark eyes drifted away from Edward's visage, studying the festivities in search of something that the godfather wouldn't find too distasteful to hang about in the meantime. "I can always call another cab."
Looking back to him, his straight face didn't break. A normal person would have been inept to restrain their laughter at how preposterous that Edward found it, that he would consider an assisted suicide. "...I'm not going to shoot you. Sir." Then, without missing a beat, he went on in that same monotone, "Fine, to the Dollhouse we'll go." Enduring through horrors he didn't particularly care for was part of the job description, and that included country music. With hope, it wouldn't be any of the crooning, droning on old-timey kind like every guest ever featured on the television spot Hee Haw. "Kettle corn?" he offered as an afterthought, dangling out the bag that Edward's wife had seldom touched after procuring.
THEY COULD FEEL IT the minute he had pulled away, that that horrid hour was upon them when the two of them would be pulled apart to start their days, and they tried to swallow down the sigh that was on the cusp of their lips just at the thought of Drake crawling out of bed. "Mm, are you sure you didn't read the clock wrong and you maybe have five or ten more minutes?" She asked in vain, a valiant effort to what she knew would possibly be a failing cause. How he stuck to his word was a trait they would always find appreciative, especially how many prison penpals were dropped when the recipient found freedom, but he had never made them feel that way. Every single promise he ever made to them was kept, no matter how goofy; it was one of the aspects she adored about him most. The heel of their hand rubbed against their eyes, finally turning their gaze on him. "I know you're going to say no, but maybe just this time you can fool me and say yes when I ask you to stay in bed longer?" It was a possible hopeless question and yet their arms wrapped around him a bit tighter to encourage his thought on it. "I hate hearing that, that you'll never be back soon. If you're going to be gone that long, at least let me make you some food to take with you first." It was how they knew to show love best, to send it off with a meal. Pushing up on an elbow, their fingers wrapped around his arm before he could fully escape their bed. "I wanna get up and make you something. It'll make going to sleep easier for me if I know you have something." they promised, knowing the truth in it but also trying to play to his emotions to fall in their favor, as they stretched their legs from where they were comfortable in bed. "What sounds good to you? If you're going to be forced out of bed in the middle of the night, I can at least send you off with something. You know I'm not gonna rest if you leave here with no food."
"You know I wish I could stay," there was an amenability in his voice that was reserved for them alone, and it had been ages since they had time to revel in an evening alone when his duties had become more demanding out of the blue, prompting him to squeeze Kaia's thigh and run his thumb across it, "We'll have to think about the weekend out of town we were talking about having once the wedding is over, see what things look like on the books." They were barely getting by, but somewhere within the state for a night separated from the rickety old camper was doable sometimes. Especially when his partner was able to find something on sale at the grocery stores that they could cook up into a nice meal, usually meats that were going out of their expiration date in the next few days. Letting out a breathless laugh when Kaia's arms snaked around his middle, he let himself be dragged back instead of digging his heels in, leaning over them and pressing a kiss to their lips. "I'm gonna have to say no... but I'll stay long enough for you to make me something to take with me." God knew how many hours he would be driving around, searching every spot for a trace of Romi. Sometimes, nighttime had already been whittled away before he found her. Giving her a light tap on the arm before he readied himself to stand and search for clothes to change into, he gave it thought, although his head was fogged up with a billion what ifs and the lingering grogginess. A ghost of a smile had lingered as he stripped out of his pyjamas to change into dark pants and a shirt to match. "I don't know, um... how about a grilled cheese with that sourdough you baked the other day? With tomato and jalapeno. Just something simple." Much of the week, they ate leftover dumplings from the food truck. Lunar New Year had been a pleasant feast, for that reason. "Throw in some of those potato chips with it." Leaning over in the cramped space, a caress of his lips danced across their shoulder, before landing a light smack to the butt. "Hats off to the chef."
location: shady dell rv park
date: late april
@outlcws
It had taken a few weeks before Romi had even realized that she was now living in the same RV park as Drake, her old bodyguard. Once she'd figured that out, she was nervous every time she stepped out of the house that she'd run into him and she'd die of embarrassment. He'd been working for her since she'd been a teenager and even though she was pretty sure he hadn't considered her a friend, they'd gotten to know one another and got along semi-decently before she'd fallen off the wagon. She knew that she'd been a lot to deal with on any given day, let alone when she'd been using and trying to leave him in the dust so she could run off and get high. She knew that the wedding had been the last straw and she hadn't been happy when he'd quit on her--though looking back now, she couldn't really blame him. She was ashamed of how she'd acted, though making amends had never been something that she was great at. Plus, technically, she wasn't at the step yet. But still, she eventually decided that seeing him was going to be awkward either way so she might as well bite the bullet and get it over with. At least this way, it wouldn't come as a surprise when he saw her from now on.
After knocking on a few doors and getting the wrong people, she finally landed on what had to be his and Kaia's door (part of her hoped that Kaia wasn't at home right now--she knew that she didn't care for Romi, though the ex-heiress supposed that she really couldn't blame her). She gingerly knocked on the door and was in the middle of running through her pre-rehearsed speech in her head when the door opened abruptly. It wasn't until they were face-to-face that she even remembered she'd recently dyed her hair and looked a little different. "Uh... Hey, Drake," she said, her voice a little hoarse. "Um..." God, this was fucking torture. "Could we talk? I won't keep you long, I promise." She wanted to ask if she could come in but even that felt like crossing the line. She was almost certain he wanted nothing to do with her. And that was fair. But she at least owed him an apology.
Finally, the dust was somewhat settling on the storm that had been kicked up on Romi's behalf — initially, Edward was fucking pissed and looking for a scapegoat, and he'd received the brunt end of his fury, even after the now ex-heiress had been booted from the premises. It took groveling to get back to good graces, and he still hadn't managed to find another charge to be reassigned to, so for now, he was living off the scraps of minute tasks of bodyguarding as the godfather's new bride needed. It was supplemental enough. At the least, sleep wasn't being chewed up to the barest of copper wiring flickering in his brain without her harebrained antics when she got it into her head that the temptation was too much to bear — Drake could comprehend it from an abstract perspective, and he'd watched it eat away at her many moons ago, but his knowledge was limited to the handfeeding of cultlike brainwashing that existed within his adolescence.
The morning was flavored with querulous yips from the French bulldog that the Zhao-Hawkins household had jointly decided to adopt, looking for a scrap of levity amidst the grim atmosphere that they had shared in recently. Were it not enough that he had been rendered jobless by Romi's spectacular stunt, the threat disguised as a formal thank you note hand-delivered to Kaia's palm around the dinner table was the nail in the coffin that had tainted an event that he had hoped would be a night of reprieve from the exhaustive duties of tailing Romi Weiss around, and that they could revel in dancing and drinking and eating food finer than they could afford. Though it was a souring evening, they were part of the Weiss machine, and that meant they were resilient, and he entrusted his faith in Kaia's optimism that they would forge a way through.
A hand lowered to pat the bulldog's head, situated on the makeshift concrete blocks that stepped up to the RV, the cherry of a cigarette dwindling in his other hand. His head leaned against the side of the weathered vehicle, enjoying the rays of sunlight warming his skin before it became unbearably hot later in the afternoon, and signified that he should collect himself and head over to the Weiss Manor. Eyes closed, he hadn't suspected the voice of the aforementioned harbinger of misfortune to wreath through his eardrums, and dark eyes opened, honing in on her without pause. There was no startle, and his expression didn't shift from the resting stoniness that it always exuded, save for tender moments where Kaia was able to prod through his detachment. "...I don't have anything to say to you," he said flatly, "If you're here to tell me again how fucking vindicated you are, I don't want to hear it."
it had been a while since zuzanna had seen drake and if she were to be honest with herself, she didn't understand why she was going to this so-called meeting to begin with seen as she felt strange about it. feelings lingered and that meant that her head wasn't clear - it was why the accountant had cycled to this appointment instead of driving or getting a taxi. zuzanna seemed to keep herself distracted in some form of exercise because if her legs hurt, there was no room for the hurt in side to even be noted. brushing her hair out of her face as she entered, zuzanna sighed. "cycled here, actually. it's pretty quick." there was some sort of rush the ex front woman got from cycling a bit too fast - it scared her and she liked it. there had been so much adrenaline in her in her younger years that she was now trying to get to the feeling but nothing even came close. "didn't you hear? i actually ran a marathon, so that's a real shocker, right?" the woman laughed before quickly moving on as the embarrassment quickly set in - what was she trying to prove to drake? they could have had a life together and she'd purposefully blown it. zuzanna knew that she'd been insufferable, she'd tried to be like that so drake would leave her but it went on and on until it finally happened and it all set in - she'd really blown it. realising she'd been somewhat stand-offish, the woman smiled and nodded towards the plate. "thank you." sitting down, she raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her knees. "so... what's new?"
The corners of his mouth quirked, humor that was barely perceptible and poking through the rubble of the current tumult that he had been attempting to ebb and flow with. "You're running marathons instead of writing songs these days? That's actually impressive." In the back of his mind, he could crack a joke of his own that he had practically been getting an exorbitant amount of steps in with the way his former charge had been running amok in the city. But that was precisely why he had asked for his ex-fiancée to meet up with him. Picking up the syrup and pouring it over the stack of pancakes as she settled into the booth, he let her catch her breath. Naturally, the blonde cut to the chase — he'd never known her to beat around the bush. During the time that they were together, he had appreciated that about her. Growing up in Midwest America under the thumb of a liturgy, he had been practically surrounded with people who talked a lot and said virtually nothing. They talked to hear the sound of their own voice and preach unwavering, blind loyalty in a deity that no one could say with certainty had existed because stories were passed around and around by spoken word and thought until they blurred into barely legible verses. The veridical answer would entail letting go of his own pride, but if it was something he had to do to allocate a solution to the problem he had inadvertently created for his partner, then he would. "A lot. Actually. The past few months have been... hellish. I suppose you heard about the wedding and how much of a shitshow that was from the papers?" he asked, unfolding his napkin across his lap and wielding his fork toward the pancakes.
MEERA HAD AN EXCELLENT MEMORY FOR NAMES AND FACES. It was practically necessary when she was playing hostess at Vitelli events and galas, and when expected to charm anyone she had only met once or twice who would find offense were she to lack remembrance of every short interaction. On the few formal events where both the Weiss and Vitelli families were in attendance, where the former beauty queen was forced to put on a performance that Romi Weiss meant nothing more to her than being a daughter in a similar position from the opposing side, she would see the bodyguard's familiar face, though it was a rarity ever more than five words had been spoken directly to him. Curiosity didn't begin to cover what she was feeling when the request of speaking had been brought up: he didn't seem to be the type who would make such were it not of utmost importance, and that reason alone brought a sinking feeling to her stomach over what he could have to say. There was no question of what it was pertaining to, as it had to be the blonde who held her heart in her hands. Long, glossy curls covered in a silk bandana did little to truly hide her identity, as much as she had been trying ever since her own name had been in headlines in a less than complimentary way, and there was barely a movement of her head to indicate her modest nod as she walked on past him with no more of a glance, following the instructions given. If the hand on her arm was a threat, she gave no indication of fearing it, trusting in it only an attempt of being subtle in the lobby of the living quarters. Once they were alone, eyebrows scrunched together, intently listening to his complaints but at a loss on where exactly to begin with her questioning. "What do you mean, off the wagon?" Meera didn't wish to jump to the worst of conclusions that could be attributed to such a phrase, even if the sinking of her stomach gave way to that thought. "I know of no such plans, but that doesn't mean I want her to be running off on her own regardless. Where is she going off to that she doesn't want you following?" Pulling in a haggard breath, she shook her head. "I'm her girlfriend, not her director. We were evading you for some time just to see each other. What if it's...another reason such as that?" A manicured finger entered her mouth for her to teeth to worry the edge of it, an unbecoming gesture that proved her concern. "For how long has she been acting...different? I thought I had picked up that she seemed a bit distracted at the beginning the of the new year." There was a twinge of guilt at admitting so.
What do you mean, off the wagon? Eyebrows scrunched, the two of them circling around an answer that could never be more apparent, and a part of him chalked it up to Meera towing the line of denial — it would be understandable. The entirety of her repute had been thrown into choppy waters, cast out in the wake of a loss that was greater than both of their lives combined. Augustu Vitelli's worth was unfathomable, to the likes of anyone underneath him. There would be a thousand eyes on the allegedly hidden fortune, ravening for a slice of the pie before it was liquefied in vain efforts to foster a recovery to their empire. As far as the eye could see, the Vitellis could not work fast enough to restore the damages that had been sustained in a short time; it would seem that Augustu truly was the glue for holding it together, and it was all the more sensible when it would appear from the outside looking in that the godfather did not prepare his children for a future of taking the reigns as Edward Weiss had since the Weiss daughters were old enough to carry a full sentence. "Cocaine," he said dryly, no longer beating around the bush now that they found themselves plunged into makeshift solitude, "You must know how she is. If she wants to do something and doesn't want me knowing about it, she'll lose my trail." It wouldn't be the first time, although a good many had included floundering attempts to hide the relationship between her and Meera. It was only considering that he valued his head on his shoulders that he was in dogged pursuit of her when she managed to slip away under the cover of twilight. "It's... dangerous for her to be consorting outside of Weiss matters right now, I'm sure you know that." Obviously, Romi Weiss wasn't going to be going directly to her father's henchmen for her fix — then, Edward would find out in no time. Really, Drake was blessed that the don was distracted by the upcoming wedding, or it would be his head on a silver platter. His arms folded, closing off his body language to the ex-heiress, grumbling under his breath, "Well, I'm not her keeper, but here I am..." If it weren't for him, Romi would certainly be in a ditch somewhere, multiplicities over. Morbid hypothesis like that need not be shared to a grieving daughter, however. Tilting his head and averting his eyes, he scraped through his sleep-deprived memory to answer her. "I don't know... A month, maybe. Maybe a little longer. I'm working on fumes right now, but I noticed she was on a down swing around the holidays. That went away, and then she started giving me the slip. I get calls in the middle of the night of security saying she doesn't return to her apartment..." Once or twice, he thought it meant she had climbed into a cab and taken a one-way ticket out of the city, but logic and reason caught up to him soon after — she wouldn't have anywhere to go once Daddy Dearest cut her credit cards. "I know the last thing you want is to see her in a body bag." Honestly, overdose wasn't half as likely as someone holding her for ransom. "I don't know what to do."
Mark Fischbach as The Convict Simon
Iron Lung (2026)
Sophia has long tuned out the sounds of the club. Bright red assless chaps changed out for her daisy dukes and heels kicked off in exchange for sneakers; she shed her persona for the rest of the night. The last task was to clean up one of the private rooms where some partygoers enjoyed the festivities a little too much. She didn't mind, at least not really. One of the bouncers was kind enough to get the more unsavory parts cleaned up and disposed of for her, and the rest was just... trash.
After all, she'd spend many years cleaning up after others, what was another hour?
She drops a few empty bottles into the trash, stepping up onto the couch to take down some of the streamers that remained ripped and damp from god knows what. Sweat? Booze? Something else? Sophia would rather not know, she just yanks it down, nose wrinkling only a bit as she drops the now weighed streamer into the trash. Her hands feel sticky from the work, it causes her to pause and wipe them on her shorts, looking up when she hears a familiar voice. A click of the tongue and a wave of the hand, she dismisses the offer.
"I've got it, but thank you." Besides, the manager wouldn't really like her asking a potential customer to work. "Take a seat?" She offers with a smile, gesturing toward the one clean chair in the area, moving the trash can out of his way in case he wants to accept. "I wouldn't say no to some company."
Take a seat? Obstinance heralded him like a dog with rotten teeth, but he did as he was requested, for a change. Either that, or he was too exhausted of clashing with everyone else throughout the festivities to conjure up any act of unpleasantries, or any snide remark. Out of habit, he fished the army Zippo out of his pocket to toy with the lid, without a glass to occupy his hand or a hankering for lighting another cigarette yet, eyes scanning the trashed venue. The Lounge was typically nicer than this, even on the nights that bachelor or bachelorette parties trounced their way through. Evidently, rodeos were where tourists let their inhibitions run loose.
"Enjoying this... thing?" His first instinct was to call it idiocy, and he thought better of it, as there was the itching suspicion that the redhead garnered far more enjoyment out of consorting with strangers and chatting them up than he did; most nights spent outside of the fireworks store and putting new wares together in the back were at home, if he wasn't requested by the Vitellis or otherwise tasked with something. By the time the rodeo weekend was over, he would be preparing for the one day of the year that everyone gluttonously showed off their gaudy, vast pockets with fireworks.
"There is still alcohol behind this bar, yes?" Russet eyes wandered, figuring the alcoholic beverages were stashed so that the guests weren't tempted to try stealing them with the uptick in foot traffic. Boris pushed himself out of the chair, leaning over the bar when he caught the glint of a bottle on one of the shelves, fishing for it and pulling it back. "I pay for this when I'm done. Drink?"
with: @ofdesertroses ; spencer where: outside the glitter gulch when: june 1st, 1997
Drake couldn't think of anything more absurd and confounding than watching the dons of the Weiss and the Vitelli engage in some kind of spitting contest. The bodyguard had delegated to hang back, a cigarette lit in his reprieve and pretending to occupy himself with the farm animals in the pen astray from the lounge, and when he looked back, he almost startled to find another Vitelli brother beside him. Jesus, where the fuck did they come from? With their father dead and down a brother, they still cropped up like cockroaches, multiplicities of them scuttling about as if the world itself had rended itself apart to an apocalyptic state.
However, he didn't insult, or look to jumpstart a fight of his own. Actually, the whole thing felt like a collosal waste of time — nor did it make him feel any better that the passive glances he had of his partner around the shindig, they appeared to be in a sour mood themselves. Their luck had certainly been unchanging, whereas the picking off of the Vitellis was quite fruitful for the Weiss family, themselves. "...Does your brother always do this?" he found himself asking, "Start pushing buttons and seeing which one will set someone off, that is. I saw him gawking at a billboard of himself before they announced he would be the newest head of the family."
She graciously took the cup of coffee and took a sip, though she wasn't sure if it would help or not. Either way, she was grateful for it--and grateful for Salem's generosity as a whole. It wasn't until she asked about the wedding that she even thought about how she'd left her best friend sitting there, alone. Shit. She let out a small sigh and placed her hand on her temple. "Salem, I... I'm sorry I didn't come back for you. My dad and I, we... Things got...bad. And he had security throw me out," she said softly, obviously embarrassed. "But thank you. For...everything, really." She knew she owed her friend big time--but then again, this is just what came with the territory of being best friends. Salem is who Romi would call to help her bury a body--quite fucking literally--and she knew that the feeling was mutual. There were there for one another, for better or worse. She nodded when her friend confirmed that it wouldn't be for free. That was only fair.
If it's alright with you, I don't think we should talk about the wedding. You wouldn't be happy, no matter what the answer was. "Damn, that bad..." she said, nodding in agreement, too tired to be overcome with bitterness right now. It would seem that raging at her father had taken every last ounce of her energy. Her body was still buzzing, sure, but she felt mentally exhausted. Still, she couldn't help but wonder: had her father been visibly angry? Or had he gone on with the wedding, as if nothing ever happened? She couldn't be sure but Salem was probably right--she didn't want to know either way, not really. Whichever the outcome, it would hurt, that much was a given.
Uttering a small 'thanks' when the fae gave her the water, she opened it and took a long sip, only now realizing how dehydrated she must be. When she asked if Romi wanted her to call anyone tomorrow to come and see her, she thought about it for a moment. Meera came to her mind almost instantly, though she hesitated. Was that a good idea? And was she actually ready to face her girlfriend and be honest? She didn't know--but it's not like she really had much of a choice either way. Looking up at Salem, she said "Definitely Cass--I have to apologize to her..." She was worried she'd put her big sister in yet another awkward position, leaving her to clean up Romi's mess once again. "And, uh..." Scribbling down Meera's number, she handed the notepad back to Salem. "If you could call them, too, I'd appreciate it..." She supposed she could also offer to make the call herself--but then she remembered that she was almost sure to have a wicked fucking hangover from hell tomorrow.
She nodded as Salem set out her conditions, which the blonde found fair enough. I paid my own way coming from a rich family, and it's your turn to do the same. While she didn't love the idea of having to essentially restart her life, she didn't really have much of a choice and she was thankful that she was on a friend's couch instead of on the fucking street, a situation that she'd narrowly avoided. Nodding, she said "I'll call Cy when I wake up." She didn't want to, of course, but she knew that she needed to. She'd always known she'd have to face the music eventually. Is there anything else I can do for you before I try to get some shut-eye? Giving her the tiniest of smiles, she shook her head and said "No. You've done plenty. Thank you, Salem." Just then, she felt a small lump in her throat and she'd thought about croaking out some sentiment about being sorry for letting her friend down but she couldn't bare it. She couldn't break down in tears, not again. "I love you," she said, her voice small. It was something that she didn't say to her friends often but every time she did, she knew that she should say it more. Because she meant it. Romi didn't have many friends but the ones she did have meant everything to her.
"It's fine. I was able to get a ride with my partner. But it's really a night that I would rather forget about." She didn't entertain Romi's petty remark about how bad it was — Romi didn't need a reason to either ruminate in it or revel in the idea that there had been an impact with her departure. Neither was bound to give her closure on the matter. "Romi," her voice was a firm warning this time, "Drop it, please. The more you dwell on it, the worse it will be for you." The fortune teller knew the type — most people who ran in such circles were bound to hold grudges and build resentment in their heart, and she had no interest in entangling herself in the Weiss family feud. "You know how these things go, and I've seen you on this merry-go-round of feeling sorry for yourself about your family for months now. Look at this as a grateful opportunity that you're able to be cut free from it all. It will be new to you, but it will be a change I think your energy is in need of. You spend all this time focusing on the negatives and they all include your place in the world. You need to find your own."
Nodding, she said, "I don't know her number. You'll have to write it down for me." If they had ever crossed paths, the elder Weiss sister had only come to know Salem in a detached manner of speaking — about as opaquely as any acquaintance in socialite circles. Taking the notepad, the fae studied the number for a pregnant pause, nodding. "i can do that." Setting the notepad on the small table between the sofa and the bed where the landline was housed, they said, "You should really get some rest. I can tell that you're on the comedown and you're going to want to sleep through some of it. There's plenty of food in the fridge for you to eat tomorrow when you feel hungry, I'm certain there's soup and saltines somewhere if you're nauseous. All the ibuprofen and tylenol is in the bathroom, help yourself." Rising from the sofa and taking the empty cup of water, Salem refilled it and left the replenished glass on the table, as well, taking her place back on the bed and crossing her ankles.
Expression softening as she reached for the dangling chain at the end of the lamp, she paused long enough to take stock of her friend. "You know that I care for you always," and always would, so long as the blonde didn't abuse her graces, and she flicked the chain to turn out the light, plunging them into the pitch blackness of the RV. "Get some shuteye. I'll see you in the morning, or after I come home from work tomorrow." Sinking down into the sheets, she rested her head against the pillow, listening to the sound of Romi's breathing until she was certain that her friend had drifted off to sleep before her eyes shut and she willed for sleep to come herself. Once Romi was more settled into her new life, and adjusting to the idea of starting from the rags again, the fortune teller would delicately lay out more ground rules for the shared living situation. If only for the night, she deserved to sleep undisturbed by the enormous new world order.
a genuine smile graced gwen's otherwise fatigued expression. in truth, as welcome as she felt in kitty's, she would always be on edge. it seemed to be her fixed state of being ever since she left california. she would write ceaselessly in her diary about her ineffable desire to greatly alter something so complex as her own sense of self. and yet, nothing ever came of it. she was trapped in the repetition of self-loathing and confidence injected by means of a few hours of a jazz performance—if she were lucky. sometimes, the patrons caught her off guard and slipped a bigger tip for a rock ballad, which she unfortunately was compelled enough to accept. "oh, neither was i. i don't know why they don't allow us to put together the set lists ourselves. i could deal with one or two requests, but ten in an evening? it's egregious," vyvyan was one of the few people in las vegas whom gwen felt like she could be off her guard around and not worry about an attack. it was a once in a lifetime friendship in that town, or so it seemed to the young drummer. she followed after vyvan with the same kind of obedience she'd possessed since childhood, hopping onto the next bar stool beside her. "probably some french or german word. i wouldn't even know where to begin looking for it," she supplied a chuckle under her breath as the bartender approached and she half-mumbled for a rum and coke. she wasn't much of a drinker, but occasionally it did aid in taking the edge off following a particularly rough night full of music she didn't fully grasp the meaning of. seriously, who picks rock over jazz in a jazz club? "there's always something on my mind. wish there wasn't for once," she replied in truth, tapping her fingertips on the countertop. she was hoping she could hold a conversation for longer than it took for her to bleed through her gauze. "but, i mean—do things not feel strange to you around here? stranger, i should say. bad shit always happens, but it really feels like it's picking up now. even here, in the club, where i come to escape it all. the tides may be finally turning after all. thought we'd be stuck in purgatory forever."
Gwen reminded Vyvyan of her younger adoptive sister. Someone who had a spark about her, dulled by the sands of time, and passions that were more abstract than defined. A lost spirit, in other words. Who wasn't, in a city as vast and soulless as this one? The chilling lament of her own sobs would fill the motel room of the Magic Beach in the dead of night, feeding the sycophants of her sorrows. In other ways, the ambitious drummer reminded the fallen starlet of herself. There was something saturnine about them that she didn't draw attention to. Nobody liked to discuss the wounds that marred their pasts. "Yes, ten was gluttonous," she laughed softly, ordering a strawberry daquiri for herself, "Hmm, I don't believe I would be terribly efficient at choosing my own set list, though. I'm afraid my tastes border on antiquated." Which was almost ironic. Most friends and lovers were raging lovers of loud music and electric guitars. Of course, Vyvyan didn't mind that music came in all forms, and she could tolerate a bit of it; however, with everything amplified once she lost her vision, it was arduous to stomach an entire gig of garage rock or riot grrrl tunes live. "Penny for your thoughts, then. I would so enjoy to hear them, whether or not they are dour," her encouragement was genuine, toying with the straw of her drink when it arrived before she truly took a sip from it, and listened patiently when Gwen offered a glimpse into their soul. Speaking from the heart was the next best thing that Vyvyan had to sight now. "Stranger," she echoed the term, as if it were foreign on her tongue and required a moment to settle, "I think that Vegas was built on blood money and it's only a matter of time before karma has to come back around, is it not? Unfortunately, that includes everyone in it. I'm unsure there's an inch of the city that isn't soiled with it." The singer paused. "I'm sorry, was that too macabre for our conversation? I find myself pessimistic these days." Imbibing from her drink again, she returned it to the napkin. "You are young, Gwen. You should go further east, but there will... always be bad. Anywhere you go. I think... our circumstances are what we make of it."
Once things were out in the open about Franco, he decided to go back home to his trailer. He had promised himself that he’ll go back to the Vitelli manor every now and then to at least show his face to his family. He wasn’t sure if they liked seeing him around or noticed he was there or maybe they didn’t even care. But Spencer went back for himself to grab a few items left behind. He had causally taken his belongings to his trailer earlier in the week.
It had been surprisingly quiet in the manor. At least he didn’t really see his family around. Just employees either part of their crime family or housekeepers. It was easier this way since he wouldn’t feel obligated to speak with anyone. He did want to see Franco, but he wasn’t really ready to accept his brother was now a vampire. A creature that gave him the biggest addiction he wishes he could kick. But he can’t.
He jumps a little upon walking into the kitchen. He had planned on taking a few items from the fridge for his own home. He hadn’t excepted anyone to be there. So when a voice breaks through the kitchen, it startles Spencer. He recognizes Boris upon turning around to see him. Spencer doesn’t recall the last time they spoke. Or were even alone together. He doesn’t want to sit or really be seen. Yet he grabs milk and cereal. “Why do want me to sit?” He asks Boris as he takes a seat, placing the items onto the table. “But no. I’m not here to see Franco. I just wanted to be home…here for a change.” He pours his food and crunches on the cereal. “What about you?”
Why do you want me to sit? "Why do Vitelli children ask so many question?" Boris answered rhetorically, irritation apparent in his rough voice. "I am not going to hurt you, fucking hell." The capo didn't bother to look up from his plate, cutting his omelet into smaller pieces using his fork and stabbing it into one. "I do not understand why you keep Vitelli name if you are not interested in family. What is the point?" he asked bluntly, and perhaps a part of him was genuinely intrigued as to why the brother appeared to avoid it like the plague itself. He supposed he had no leg to stand on; Briar had chosen against taking his surname and he had respected her wishes. Besides, she didn't know that she was his own flesh and blood, and not by title of daughter alone, still.
"Yes. There is always something to do. Even now." The answer was somewhat clipped, as Alessandro was sure to make that task exceptionally frustrating until they were on the same page. His worries were carefully kept out of view — compared to Francisco, he wondered if Alessandro would take up the role of godfather half as seriously. There was always a chance he could abandon the sinking ship, as he doubted there was enough manpower in the rankings to hunt him down now. In an odd way, it canceled out the concerns he had for Briar's safety. For now, he was playing it safe. Back in the army, there was an invisible game, like a chess board laid out in front of him. One had to know the right move to make, and with the right people, when it came to the hierarchy of it all.
Leaning himself on one elbow to grant himself a proper view of Spencer, sitting side by side, he prompted, "You jumped. You were expecting not to be seen?" The half-eaten omelet was now going lukewarm, attention drawn away, and he pointed the pronged end of the fork at him. "If there is something worth being antsy..." There was an unspoken threat there — though the other Vitelli didn't seem as if he would know anything valuable, everything was just disorganized enough that there was a permanent sense that the capo was being left in the dark. That there could be something more to know. "You are nervous about Alessandro as don?"
