He returned a half-hearted shrug, wholly unapologetic about possibly offending the guy in front of him. Luca shook his head as he grabbed a glass from the bar to clean. “I mean, crocodiles aren’t usually where my brain goes when I decide to fuck off into the land of thoughts, but hey man, go off.” He glanced around the bar, wondering if there was anyone else he could go and bother, but when the only other lonely patron looked like he was about to pass out on the table, Luca chose to stay. “Please, tell me more about them crocodiles. I’m about to go insane if I don’t have something to do.”
“maybe it should be,” he said, and even though it sounded vaguely threatening, poet wasn’t sure what he meant by that. what was he gonna do, hide a gator under this dude’s bar? nah. the thought made him smile and his playful grin returned. “where do your thoughts go then, huh? penny for the truth?” he tapped his fingers on the glass he was nursing and then looked around the bar. the person he was meeting here was either very late, or a no show. so be it. he’d rather talk about crocs anyway. “i’m just saying, they been here for a long time, man. been here before us, they’ll probably be here after us. nature doesn’t change what it doesn’t need to.”
Others might have found Poet’s compulsion to lie irritating, but she always knew what to expect with him. He was a little chaotic. It was kind of delightful.
She winced a little. “She’s going to kill herself,” she clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Our numbers are thin enough as it is without some of us trying to off ourselves.” She seemed to think to herself for a moment, a frown pulling the corners of her lips down. “I think it’s time we pick a building and bring it down, to be honest. Time to make a statement.”
“girl is a real killjoy. she’s a threat to everyone, even herself.” ha! he liked that one. his own joke made him snort and then he crossed his arms over his chest, a flash of something bright in his eyes. “you know me. i love a statement. formal or otherwise...” most people knew his proclivity toward making a big boom. “you give me the building and i’ll bring that bitch to his knees.” he rocked back on his heels. “or is it dealer’s choice? because i got beef with this dude who sold me some cut up bullshit and i’m feelin’ like he could use a bad yelp review, as the saying goes.”
“at least call me ten like i goddamn deserve. this? this is a ten.” nine waved along the general length of her body, behold me, but that only reminded her that she’d jacked her arm up. “maybe not in this specific moment. but other moments. i’m a ten, baby.” said, of course, with all the deadpan candor of someone who knew well and good she was not a ten, which she knew poet would confirm, but as her brother-in-arms it was his legal, ethical, and moral responsibility to keep her humble or whatever. it was fucked up, honestly. she could ride in circles around most of the hooligans in this town, hold her own in a street race without question—but as soon as she got around to practicing, she got, what, cocky? and scrapped her shit up. it wasn’t even worth it, trying to clip that tight of a turn. so much for improving her time. “nah, i’m cool, i’m good, i’m fine.” she clapped her hand onto the crook of poet’s elbow and pulled herself up with a wince—alright, maybe she had fucked herself a little. the arm she’d skidded across looked more or less like someone had taken a goddamn meat hammer to it, but it would heal well and enough. as for the rest… she lifted her shirt, surveyed the damage to her side, and then with a certain nonchalance, she shrugged. “yeah, i’m good. don’t tell iffy, holy shit, she’ll never let me live it down.”
and then the real victim: she glanced at her bike and cringed. “fuckin’ a. i just waxed her and everything, too.”
“a ten?” poet snorted. “you know you’re like, a 6.7 at most, right? i’m being real generous with eight.” that was a joke, because if he were to give a serious answer for once, he’d say nine was a ten in both looks and general recklessness. because nine was his girl, that’s why. a dumbass, but a dumbass he cared about. that was why he didn’t let his tease simmer that long. “nah, fuck it. you’re not a ten you’re straight off the charts. out there in the stratosphere. you’re clocking in at 295,490,291,043.”
he watched nine check herself over and wondered if she had sold her soul to the devil a while ago. he saw that skid. it should have been worse. but she was good with her rides, that one. she even managed to crash cool. still, he caught the wince. “oh yeah, yeah, you seem real cool—i’m tellin’ iffy. i’m tellin’ everyone. i’m gonna make a bulletin board and this is gonna be the first notice on it. in fact, the whole damn board is just gonna be your crash record.” his hands went to his hips as they both stared at her bike, which also could have been worse...but it was, much like nine herself, scraped to shit. “well...” he shrugged and then clapped her on the back, despite her injuries. “at least you get to do it all over again.”
Wonderland was often fine to be a silent owner — because it suited her needs better to be out of the spotlight — but sometimes she liked to be in the thick of things and getting the respect she deserves. She’s never been one to act as if she weren’t fully up her own ass on her star and how it’s rising, but there’s something to be said for ‘decorum’ in its own right.
She’d been dancing a few hours previous, but now she was relaxed in a plush chair near some dancers — male, female, and otherwise — giving it their all as they danced in a few suspended cages. Though her eyes were lazily focused on the cage-dancers, she did notice the muffled approach of someone to her left; she’d chosen a chair so no one could technically join right next to her, but there were scattered seats around, and so she offered, “If you’re here to kill me, try again, but if you’re here to have fun.. what can I do for you?”
“oh, i’m not here to kill you. i’m here to kill someone else.” was he? who knew. not even poet knew, really. his nights usually just...unfolded as he went along. he had no desire to plan his murders or other nefarious dealings—that wasn’t very spontaneous, and he was nothing if not spontaneous. he also wasn’t really into murder. he preferred blowing things up. stabbing a dude on the dance floor wasn’t explosive enough. boring. “i’m not an idiot, if i was gonna kill you i wouldn’t do it here. wouldn’t make it out the door, right? and i like life.”
“I’m sorry, but the clinic is closed for the day.”
That’s what he says, and that’s what the sign that hangs in the front window says, but when has either actually stopped someone from coming in as they please anyway? Especially the type who typically find him at this hour, when the sky outside starts to turn and everything starts to look a beautiful monstrosity under fading lights.
So when the footsteps change from crunching on asphalt to echoing on tiled floor instead, a clear indication that this is an audience that refuses to go unseen, he’s not surprised. Exasperated? Yes. Tired? Definitely. But it’s all to be expected by now, and really he only has himself to blame for never putting his foot down.
“Is this an emergency?”
“i’m sorry man, i had no idea you were closed.” he did know. he knew, because you don’t break in through the back door if you think your establishment is otherwise open. but words like open and closed had very little meaning to poet, who always said that doors were meant to be opened, locked or not. at least he’d done amber a solid and picked the lock this time. normally he just smashed the doorknob, or found a way to pop the door off its hinges.
“hey, amber—wow, that’s a question.” poet nodded slowly as he leaned against the front desk, casual as ever, as if he were here for a coffee date or a mail delivery. “what is an emergency? i guess that’s all in the eye of the beholder.” was this an emergency? well, he didn’t love the knife in his arm, but it hadn’t pierced anything vital, and he still had good mobility. so...well, no. it probably could have waited until morning. but he was already here, so might as well get it taken care of. poet tilted to the side, exposing the blade that jut out from the side of his arm, smack center. “i’ve been slightly stabbed. emergency? what’s your call?” he frowned and scanned over the reception area. “...do you not have any candy up here? what the fuck.”
“Poet?” Iphigenia said his name like a song with a smile on her lips. She was dressed head to toe in a gown that looked plucked from the pages of a history book. As she walked, her heels made a distinctive sound against the floor. She liked everyone in her crew, she found herself even genuinely enjoying the company of quite a few of them. But there were a select few folks who held a special place in her heart. She wouldn’t call it love. She didn’t know how to do that. But she was doting, and that must have been close, right? “D’you think it’s been… too quiet around here?”
@poetsup
“no, i think it’s been too loud, and i have tinnitus.” nothing about that statement was true. When iffy stepped up to him he turned his head to meet her gaze and the crooked, smarmy grin on his face softened at the edges as he nodded slowly, as if he were in deep agreement. “it has been quiet. i got so bored earlier i was watchin’ some punk ass from the violent delights steal baggies from drunk clubbers. oh, but nine did fall off her motorcycle for the 80th time this week, so that was funny—” he hummed and pulled a piece of jerky from his back pocket. there was never a bad time for dried meats, if you asked him. “why, you got something in mind? i’m down.”
no matter how many times nine ate complete shit on her bike—this time: clipped a turn too tight until the whole thing went belly-up, and her arm skimmed along the dirt beneath her for what would surely turn into some wicked road burn later while she went fully parallel to the ground; in an instant, the motorcycle beneath her sputtered and spun out, machine skidding across the ground in one direction and nine’s body thrust in the opposite direction, ragdoll-rolling across the dirt and the dust a few feet, and thank god it was a pretty empty segment of this piece of shit city, not too many buildings around for her to make a wreckage of—no matter how many times, she never stopped getting that heartskippage, the split second where her stomach bottomed out and her entire body screamed, ‘this is it. this is when i fucking die. this is the time.’
and every time she opened her eyes and saw the shit sun and the shit sky and this shit city all over again, and her senses processed the pain that indicated she was, indeed, still alive, she thanked her lucky fuckin’ stars. “jesus fucking christ. don’t even—don’t even look at me.” nine could tell by the shadows that someone lurked nearby while she took inventory of her body. okay. well, nothing felt broken. “listen, i meant to do that. i meant to do that. i stuck that landing. what, you couldn’t tell?” at least she’d killed the engine on the bike when she felt its center of gravity start to pull away from hers.
it wasn’t funny. she could have died—and in the least interesting way possible. a motorcycle accident? that involved no one but herself? hell, not even a rat or something to blame for her skidding out? boring. lame. if she had died, he would have invented some better story so she could go out like the badass fuck-up she was. on the other hand, watching her flop across the ground like a salmon that overshot the upward jump was fucking hilarious. besides, she was fine. nine had a weird cockroach ability. he was pretty sure it would take the cold miserable vacuum of space to off her. “nah, i’m gonna look. that was funny—you suck, eight. you didn’t mean to do shit. but don’t worry, i’ll tell everyone someone took a shot at you.”
he stood there and watched her, being wonderfully unhelpful for an added minute before he stepped out into the street and extended his hand to her. “you fuck yourself? because i know a dude.” well, nine probably knew the same dude, but whatever, it sounded more mysterious this way and poet was nothing if not a wondrous maze of a human being.
Luca waited till the patron had taken a sip of the drink first before settling himself on the other side of the bar. The unnaturally quiet night afforded him a little leeway when it came to the speed of service, and honestly, at this point in his shift, he was about ready to tear his own head off. A break would be nice, and this unfortunate customer was about to get a conversation partner. “So you look downright miserable,” he said, propping his chin on his hands. “Care to share?”
“miserable? this is my happy face. i’m overjoyed. it’s real fucked up that you’d say that to me. this is just my face, i can’t do anything about it.” he wasn’t happy. he wasn’t miserable either. poet just had the added benefit of a real spectacular resting face, and he’d been caught in a stray thought for most of the evening. “but since you asked—isn’t it crazy that crocodiles have remained unchanged for millions of years despite all other creatures going through some for of evolutionary adaptation?”
The darkened club was in full swing for the evening. Bodies spilling in and out the only door, twirling, running, dancing, moving. Jude easily followed along the chaotic flow. She had a drink in one hand, a half used joint tucked behind her ear but still she felt like she was missing something. With practiced fingers she dipped her hands lightly, in and out, of people’s pockets. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. Perhaps something to fill the tick in her head. Finally. A victorious smile as she pulled a small baggie, filled with a mixture of white powders.
Jude turns, makes eye contact with someone a few bodies away. It was clear they’d seen everything. She purses her lips a bit, eyes narrowing. “Hey.” She points at them, pocketing the baggie. “Snitches get stitches and all that.”
well what do you know. he appreciated her bold moves: it’s not like he hadn’t seen a nice sleight of hands before, but he found it particularly interesting when a pick-pocket went down a row of people like they were sampling the salad bar at a buffet. brazen. he was into it. “oh, word? is that what happens to snitches? shit, i had no idea...” he tilted his head and shrugged one shoulder, leg crossed over his knee. he had been seated at his usual table for a while now, people watching, because boy where people on a roll tonight. he’d already seen someone upchuck into a purse. that was fun. “you know, i heard that snitches get halfsies on the pot. if you share, you turn a snitch into a friend. and don’t we all need more friends?”
It was one of those nights - Kaiden was out on the town, per se, keeping an ear to the ground, doing his job in the most menial way. The most fun he’d be having that night came from a drink in his hand and a cigarette between his fingers. There was something comforting about the thought of a cigarette; there had been numerous advancements in technology over the past century, but the cigarettes remained the same.
Looking up as he heard a voice beside him, he gave the other a smile. “Nice night for a drink,” he commented, nodding a little bit. “The neon’s seemin’ extra bright tonight, isn’t it?” A simple comment, allowing the other to direct their conversation, Kaiden’s specialty. Offering to pay for their first drink, too - he was in it for the long haul for even the most menial of details. For a minor detail from six people could make one crucial detail in Kaiden’s mind.
a nice night for a drink? sure. every night was a nice night for a drink in poet’s opinion. but agreement? boring. and poet was no boring bitch. “no,” he said easily, despite the drink in his hand. almost to accent the contradiction in his words, he lifted his glass purposefully to his lips and took a sip. he kept his eyes trained on the violent delight, managing to look both calm and on edge, which was perhaps his main talent, if anything poet did could be considered a talent. “you come all the way out here to talk about neon, man? seems like that could have been sent in a text.”
howdy partner it’s me, asha, and i might seem bad now but trust me i’m much worse in person! under the cut will be some great grand info on poet and i’ll do my best to make it coherent and succinct but historically that has not been my strong suit.
super excited to plot with you all! give this a like or hop in my IMs and i’ll treat you to some grade B plotting.
This is poet! That’s his name, don’t wear it out. He’ll respond to the full poet, or just poe.
on his name, no one really knows if that’s his real name. it is. he just likes to fuck with people. sometimes they’ll be like ‘is that a nickname?’ and he’ll say yes, even though it’s not. why does he do this, you ask? well i’ll tell you.
he’s a liar! poet is a crazy good liar when he wants to be, he can lie like no other, it’s second nature to him—but he’s also just a dang liar. he lies about things all the time (he calls it messing around). it’s about little things too, like...hey, poet, do you want a cupcake? and he says no, i’m allergic to dairy. and then like a minute later he’ll pick up the cupcake and eat it because he was fucking around he is not allergic to dairy.
this can make him a nightmare for people who don’t know him, or people who are really gullible. the good thing is most of the time it’s harmless fucking around, he just gets a kick out of it. he says it so very casually that it’s hard to tell when he’s playing and when he’s not.
this is mostly because everything about him seems almost hyper-casual. the dude is excessively chill. don’t believe it, it’s a trap. he’s always got this cocky crooked grin on his face, and is a master of the ‘oh word? that’s wild’ phrase. he’s the type to kick back with his feet up and slow nod along to your story, like he’s totally calm and cool and collected. for the most part, he is. he’s laid-back and relaxed in a way i’d imagine most of his fellow killjoys are not.
but where chill ends, wild begins. poet has two speeds—totally fine, dude, no drama & i’m gonna throw you off this cliff and then i’m gonna find your houseplant and throw it off the cliff too for good measure. when he snaps, he snaps pretty hard, and has a strange destructive flair in him. you wanna go to town and Fuck Shit Up? he is very down to fuck shit up.
he’s also very loyal, likely to a fault. he’ll follow killjoys to the end of the earth, and will do more or less whatever is asked of him. he’s the type to voice his opinion but to carry out what is expected of him nonetheless. he’ll let you know if he thinks the plan is stupid, but he’ll do it anyway.
poet also tends to know a lot of people and can be a big gossip hound. he’s got a nose for drama, what can he say. he sniffs it out and then lures people into a false sense of security with his chill so they tell him all his secrets. he starts a lot of conversations with ‘have you heard’ or ‘you won’t believe this’. he’s not great at keeping a secret, mostly because he doesn’t care. unless he likes you, or is loyalty bound to you, he won’t keep your drama to himself. he’ll tell everyone about how you got really drunk and fell down a manhole.
i imagine he works as a bartender, so he gets to talking with a lot of people. he also is likely a point for getting What You Need sparkle sparkle. he knows a lot of people and has some contacts so he can get you anything from a weapon to some fancy digs. he mostly procures these things for his gang, but hey, if you’re willing to shell out some money (or information), he’ll get you what you want.
here are some random facts for your viewing pleasure!
he loves bright colors and is always wearing something neon. orange is his favorite.
it’s also his favorite fruit he loves oranges the man knows what he likes
he makes THE BEST margaritas
likes to follow his namesake and speak in purple prose occasionally. mostly he just thinks it’s funny.
into making snap judgements based on, among other things: names, astrology signs, gang affiliations, and outfits. dude is wearing suspenders? can’t be trusted. her name is stacy? will not interact. they’re an aries? the I N H U M A N I T Y.
is crazy good at tic tac toe. such a simple game. he has mastered it.
into candles. it’s a weird thing to be into. but he likes the aesthetic.
thinks crocodiles are the ultimate predator and beast on earth and will fight you on that
well i’ll be adding more things as i think of them, but as most things i do, this has been a mess! thank you for reading this far, truly, it is massively appreciated what an honor. as always, like or hit me up and i’m always down to plot <3
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