「 紀異 」

private multimuse roleplay blog for LUTO CITY. written by jade.

[rafflcsia]

sensumsonder​:

“Mmm, we’ve all been there,” Kit agrees, bending by the waist to wrestle with the mini-fridge door and produce a bottle of Fiji water, a brand she’s always found horrendously pretentious, but her manager insists on stocking their fridges with time and time again. 

“Y’know, I think whenever I try to quit caffeine, I always end up drinkin’ more, y’know? Like I wake up sayin’ ‘today I’ll only have one cup of coffee’ and end up pounding back two Red Bulls at three in the afternoon.” It’s easy to talk to Tasmin as it always has been. Something about their connection transcends the judgement she always expects to see in people’s eyes. But never in Tasmin’s, that deep brown all quiet, summer nights and gatherings by the fire. Kit feels warm at the very sight of them.

“Oh, Tas,” Kit says with a shaky kind of laugh, one that’s appreciative and trepid all at once. “Thank you, that’s so sweet.” She takes a moment to peer at the tickets, scanning over the title, theater name, and seat assignments. “I’ll see if Ramón’s down to check it out with me.” She gives a pause, eyes bobbing back up to Tasmin. “Unless part of the gift was these tickets comin’ with a girlfriend, ‘cause, I mean… I wouldn’t be mad.”

⁑⁑

“That can’t be healthy!" she warns, though there is laughter in her eyes, as her hand reaches out to accept the bottle of water. "But yeah, I agree. It's surprisingly difficult. I have rehearsals stretching into late hours some days, so I get coffee — except I'm even more tired in the morning after that." Tamsin grimaces ruefully, both at her statement and at how she's going on about her mild addiction to caffeine without asking Kit how her life has been. "Anyway! Enough about me and my... unhealthy relationship with coffee. What's new with you? When did you start working here?"

Ramón. Kit has mentioned the name a couple of times in their text exchanges. "That's your friend, right?" They used to share everything — and the fact that Tamsin doesn't know who he is reminds her that they've got years worth of catching up to do. It fills her up with a feeling that is both sad and sweet. "Unfortunately not included," she lets out a giggle. "I'd go with you if I wasn't in the play."

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

The hoodie’s a little baggy, leaving room between his bare torso and the soft, fuzzy fabric for Tyler’s lingering body heat, which smears across Nico and gives his skin a different reason for the goosebumps shuddering to life along his arms and legs. He smirks, lets the tip of his tongue drift along the arc of his bottom lip, imagining, for a single breath, what it would feel like to have Tyler’s lips on his. “Thanks.”

He supposes he can get close enough to that image with the joint, but that means he’ll have to entice Tyler into smoking up with him. The vape’s a hopeful sign, at least. “Budge,” Nico demands, albeit gently, as he pads along the roof to where Tyler’s sitting. He sinks down beside him, shuffling his ass until their hips are pressing together, all under the guise of attempted comfort, Nico’s back trying to fully rest against the metal behind them.

He holds up the joint, “you wanna? It’ll warm us up.” Not true, but at least the high will distract them from the growing cold. It’s the fuckin’ wind, which can totally fuck off. “Plus, we might get, like, some genius fuckin’ idea from the high. Pink Floyd wrote The Wall while entirely stoned, y’know. So.”

⁑⁑

He watches as Nico walks over to plop down next to him, huddling against his side with a blatant lack of care for personal space, hip pressing against his own, sitting so close that his own hoodie brushes against his now-exposed arm every time it moves.

Boundaries are important. (Boundaries, not regulations, per se — which has caused a fair share of problems for his superiors since he first began the job.) Boundaries and lines, he likes them. Compartmentalizing things into neat spaces. So physical proximity itself isn't an issue; the fact that Nico's wearing his hoodie is. He never lets strangers just borrow his own pieces of clothing. Random acts of kindness? A heartwarming concept, but he's never been an avid partaker.

Whatever. He's not even himself, anyway. And the guy was freezing. Extraordinary circumstances and all that.

"Nah, I'm good.” Tyler gives a casual shake of his head, hair ruffled by a rush of wind. He’d rather stay alert lest something happens — although it seems like Nico on the other hand has happily given up on finding an escape route. He fishes out the forgotten vape out of his pocket, as if he's just remembered, switching it back on. "Is that what you do when you're not fighting inanimate objects?" he asks, mumbling through the tip in his mouth. "Get high and write rock operas?"

[pocpopculture]

AUBREY JOSEPH as Tyrone Johnson/Cloak in Marvel’s Cloak and Dagger

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

Archie flashes her his phone screen, an open Grindr chat on full display. “Meeting someone,” he explains, though the smile on his face is less lascivious and more dopey, lovestruck. Excitement shuffles his feet forward and back, sneakers squeaking on the somewhat sticky train floor. “First time, so it’s in a public place. That bar in Brownbridge? Uh… I think it’s called Dolphin or Flamingo, or something tropical. Yeah.”

He’s gotten carried away again, but Tamsin’s smile says she doesn’t seem to mind. Attention, Archie knows, is a form of love; you can spare some to a stranger. So he does the same. “Where d’you work? No, wait! Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

He leans forwards, elbows finding his knees. His fingers link and he narrows his eyes. Then, he concludes, “you’re a model?”

Tamsin leans forward an inch to look at his phone screen, which says ― Grindr. (So this is what it looks like!) “Aw. Sounds like a cute date." She smiles, sympathetic. "Hopefully they'll still be waiting when you get there." And by that, she's hoping this incident will sort itself out soon, so that Archie can meet up with his date and she can return to the comfort of her own bed. But the humidity of underground summer air sticks to her skin, lingering like a bad omen, a precursor for things to come — a long, sleepless, dragged-out night of confusion. She swallows thickly.

Meeting his concentrated stare, Tamsin smooths her own expression into that of faux neutrality, though she is quick to burst out giggling when he opens his mouth. "I'll take that as a compliment, but no. Well, actually, that was a pretty close guess," she considers. "I'm an actor. You know that theater downtown? I'm working on a production there."

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

By fucked up, he assumes she means not working, a question Quentin would have found the littlest bit banal and lacking in reason, had he not been focusing a little more on steadying his anxious heart. “Well… yeah,” he finally responds, dropping his hand from his chest, “the power’s out.” What Quentin doesn’t know nor understand is that Kenzie means something entirely different– that being the specific ways in which the lighting is fucked up. He, however, hasn’t noticed anything odd. Then again, he’d been busy, and the ghostly sheet snuggly encasing his short frame confesses as much.

Kenzie is clearly shaken, more so than he is. Her phone’s bright beam illuminates the sweat drenching her skin, and her eyes look a little red, irritated by tears Quentin thinks are best left unmentioned. “Did something happen?” he asks, tucking the sheet tighter around his scrunched up shoulders, “apart from the lights. Because I swear I saw something in the projector room. That wasn’t you, was it?”

⁑⁑

“Yeah, no shit, Quentin,” she snarls, lips curled in a sneer, unnecessarily snappy as if to pin the blame on him for this entire ordeal. Mackenzie carefully stands up to her feet, wiping at her sweaty neck, her breath coming out in a long, shaky exhale. At least she's not the only person in the theater. Quentin could point her in the direction of the exit — after all, he's supposed to be working here, isn't he? (Is that a bed sheet wrapped around his frame?)

A projector room? Like the room at the back of the theater where they shoot the film reel onto the screen? Fuck if she knows. "I don't even know where that is," she mutters, the sound muffled by the hand running down her face. "Even if I did, I was a little preoccupied by the, oh, I don't know, how about the fucking emergency lights being freaky and shit! Making me run around in circles! What the fuck is up with that? Doesn’t your boss check that kinda stuff?" (Naturally, Kenzie assumes it's the movie theater's fault not following proper safety requirements of installing the lights. Little does she know there may be something else at play here.)

" — What do you mean you saw something?"

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

“Let’s.”

She holds her hand out, palm facing upward, and waits for Ayumi to take it. Heads turn the moment their skin slides together, fingers curling around each other like snakes coiling together. It’s no surprise: they’re both beautiful women; those who have enough chump change to frequent the club’s upper floor do enjoy such sights.

Aspen’s thigh glitters when she swings it over the bull, legs bracketing Ayumi’s. Her arms smooth slowly toward the reigns, circling her latest catch’s waist. “Ready, sugar?” the blonde murmurs into Ayumi’s hair, her gaze fixed on the bull’s technician, who waits for her signal with an eager glint in his eyes and a smirk to match. “You might wanna hold on tight.”

⁑⁑

Laughter bubbles out of her throat, carefree and infectious, as Ayumi climbs up to sit on the bull. She welcomes the heat behind her back, body pressed against body in a kind of languid urgency as they await for the game to start. 

Yumi mirrors the woman, hands placed above hers as both of them clutch the reigns. “As I’ll ever be,” she replies. Her torso leans backward, curving up against the blonde-haired dancer’s; she presses against it, head turned to the side, her profile and the sly smile at her lips illuminated by flashes of neon lights. The inside of her mouth runs hot. She’d kill for a martini on the rocks right now.

She shrieks, delighted, when the giant machine beneath them begins to move. They’ve already got themselves an audience, who stand around the ring and watch ― some in admiration, some in jealousy, and some in leering attention. While she would normally be disgusted, none of that matters. It’s dizzying just how good this feels.

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

No blinking, alright. That’s something to tell Matty later, when he gets home. Not that his brother will be particularly interested, but Nico will demand he humour him nevertheless, as he’s wont to do. 

His lips form the familiar shape of a self satisfied smirk while Nigel takes to rambling, the nervous gait tripping his words up until they’re practically stumbling out of his mouth hooking around a snort. His chest jumps with the sound, and he adjusts his stance, relaxing his weight onto one hip.

“You’re all good, man,” he assures the other, “I just got someone off your back, no sweat.”

“Ain’t it dangerous for a blind dude to be, like, out during a blackout?”

So that was indeed the sound of someone hitting a hard surface. He’s supposed to be reassured, now that the person following him home has been taken care of by this kind stranger. “Oh, thanks. That’s very kind of you.” A kind stranger who... doesn’t think it’s a big deal to physically attack people in the middle of the street. Okay. Nigel doesn’t know what to make of that, so he just keeps on smiling politely.

“Well, I can’t see either way, so. Same difference,” he jokes, shoulders moving in a shrug. The plastic bag rustles as he fixes his grip. “But anyway― I was just dropping by at the bodega. I didn’t think anything would happen.” He winces. 

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

“I’ve been getting some for myself, you know,” Nico repeats, intonation that of a petulant child’s, aided by the way he sticks his tongue out in disgust and exasperation. He does sit, though, when Tyler hauls over the chair. It had been with the hopes of grounding himself enough to stay still, but his heart’s still kicking away at his ribs, and his foot’s still bouncing. A tiny stone digs into the ball of his right foot. He presses it a little harder against the pointy edge, half of his nose scrunching up in a grimace. 

“‘M fuckin’ fine,” Nico insists. He couldn’t have made it any more clear that he is, in fact, not fine at all. The higher the moon drifts into the sky, the colder she turns the night, as though the collected sighs of those gazing up at her, longing, oblivious to the chaos in the streets below, are singlehandedly draining thermometers scattered around Luto. Nico’s arms ripple, breaking out into goosebumps when the perspiration coating his skin dries and cools. Shudders wrap around him. He only quirks a derisive brow at the suggestion of clambering down the fire escape. These old buildings are rickety with rust, and no doubt the fire escape is, too. He isn’t going to risk that final fuckin’ ladder to the ground. Not when he doesn’t even have his shit to call Matty for help.

With one final, restless huff, Nico pushes himself to his feet. He brings his hands up to yank his fingers back and forth among his sea of curls, which bend and bounce back with every frustrated swipe. Alright, so they’re basically stuck up here. That’s a reality he’s going to have to face. And while when control is stolen from him makes Nico want to punch something– or someone –repeatedly, until everything’s bleeding and his breath’s burning in his lungs and he can’t see for the tears blurring his vision, there are worse people to be stuck with.

“What were you doin’ up here?” he asks, somehow managing to make the question sound like an accusation. He fumbles in his pockets for a joint (”Here’s one I made earlier, kids!”) and lighter– a hot pink piece speckled with faded doodles, courtesy of Matty.

He merely responds with a look that is part horror and part amusement (at the fact that yes, really, that was indeed an adult who just stuck their tongue out at him), not choosing to dignify that with a verbal reply. The chair he dragged over is put to use, though, and that alone is enough to read this behavior as irrationally defensive. But he really ought to stop with the random psych evals.

“You cold?” A rhetorical question. The moon above may be the only functioning source of light, but it’s not that difficult to see how his naked torso continues to shudder from the cold. Summer nights can be surprisingly chilly, especially up here where the wind is stronger, and it will only get colder as hours pass by into the dark ― hence the hoodie he’s wearing. Tyler pulls it over his head, handing the piece of clothing over to Nico, gently dropping it in his lap in case he decides to refuse it like an idiot. 

Oh, God, what if he has to fall asleep here, outside on a rooftop, all because of a piece-of-shit doorlock? Grimacing at the idea, he leans against the elevator bulkhead, facing the chair; an eyebrow rises when Nico stands up again, but he doesn’t say anything. “I was just―” Right, he almost forgot. His e-cig. He takes it out of his pocket, wiggling it slightly in lieu of finishing his sentence. “I don’t vape inside. Force of habit.” Tyler grins ruefully. “Which I’m regretting.” 

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

She’s nervous, that much is clear. The tentative echo of her own worried thoughts serves only to emphasise the fact, and Archie’s heart warms in an instant. “Archie,” he introduces himself with a splayed palm on his chest. There’s reassurance in knowledge, and he seeks to do that, first and foremost. Now, he can try to tackle the train itself. It’s so still it could be slumbering, lost in its quiet dreams. What would a metal beast dream of, Archie wonders. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to try and get out, actually,” he continues, fingers ruffling up his languid curls. They tumble down and wobble as seaweed does when it’s pulled by the ties. 

“The tracks are, like, super dangerous. Plus, these tunnels kind of all look the same, right? Imagine walking around here and ending up, like… I don’t know,” he shrugs, “bumping into some creepy subterranean cult.”

Maybe he isn’t at his most comforting right now. Usually he’s rather good at it, but there’s a strange tingling zapping up and down his arms that keeps distracting him from an obligation to keep calm, collected. Archie would rarely get excited over his fate scuttling out of his own hands, but right now it’s like he’s riding a rollercoaster, ascending toward the first mighty drop.

In the end, he concludes, “I think if we wait, we should be cool.”

Tamsin is sure the dark-haired stranger didn’t put much thought into the casual gesture, but the hand placed across his chest accompanying the introduction reminds her of the stage, her home, her theater ― that’s how each cast member would bow and bid farewell to the audience after a show, sweaty faces glowing with pride as they line up side by side, basking in applause. It reminds her of the rehearsal just earlier, a concrete memory that grounds her; it brings a smile to her lips, a sweet, genuine one, one that is not born out of nervous politeness or an attempt at self-reassurance. “Hello, Archie.” She knows she may look odd, grinning as if there is a joke that only she can hear, but the smile stays.

“Oh! I see.” Her expression sobers up, flashing a perplexed frown at the mention of subterranean cults. Like, religious cults? In the subway tunnels? Perhaps he’s just joking. Nevertheless, she agrees with him. It could be dangerous. The only source of light would be their phones, and those could run out of battery soon. Tamsin deflates. There isn’t anything she can do. Her heartbeats still go thump, thump, thump against her ribcage; she breathes in deep, then releases it slowly, trying to calm herself down further.

“Where were you headed?” she asks warmly, hoping the conversation could serve as a distraction for them both. “I was just going home after work.”

[rafflcsia]

sensumsonder​:

Thalia tries not to let the cringe tightening her chest appear on her face. If it does, it will likely seep into her voice, and Nigel doesn’t deserve the shame that could result. Even if his jokes absolutely do. But he needs a break from all the scrutiny, and Thalia’s happy to provide it.

She also tries not to notice as Nigel’s husband doesn’t pick up the phone. Ian, she knows, both from the few conversations in which Nigel’s mentioned him in passing and getting a whiff of his cologne one day at work. It started subtle, definitely, but the more she honed in on the scent of spice and musk the more she could feel the resentment attached to it. Nigel’s resentment. Not to the scent, she had realized with a bit of concentration, but the person attached to it, who it was reminding Nigel of. But despite her many premonitions, her ability to take in otherworldly knowledge with a little tickle working at her senses, Thalia is not a snoop. She tries to shut it off when she can, especially when it comes to information regarding those who she works closely with.

So she doesn’t comment or mention the way the tightness in Nigel’s chest is just barely pinching at Thalia’s, giving her a vague idea of his frustrations.

“Here,” she says at once, stepping closer and offering her elbow for him to slip his arm through. “It’s not far. I’ll even pay for the first round.”

⁑⁑

Nigel is clueless, obviously, to Thalia’s abilities, let alone the things she can sense in his words and his gestures; all he knows is that she is an excellent journalist with a wickedly sharp intuition, blissfully oblivious to the extent of its power. Frankly, anything beyond the normal is dismissed by him. He is no stranger to the scary stories the interns like to tell, of course ― the basement floor that should not exist and whatnot. If that’s what they require to amuse themselves throughout the trudge of the workday, he lets it slide without judgment.

"Oh, wow. What’s the occasion?" he marvels with a slight laugh, in that joking way that doesn’t particularly call for a real answer. Sensing the casual brush of her arm against his, he takes the offered elbow.

The two of them make their way down the icy street. Nigel tries to keep track of the path, a task that proves to be more difficult than he believed as she takes unexpected turns, leading him through an unfamiliar neighborhood. He should say something. Weather talk? He’s had enough of that today, though. It’s what everyone at work was chatting about: the bizarreness of it, speculations about a meteorological explanation, bemoaning the commute back home. He doesn’t know Thalia well enough to feel comfortable inquiring about her private life. 

“Do you go to Belladonna’s often?” A safe topic, given their destination. He pushes the sunglasses up his nose. “I’ve been a couple of times, but it’s, ah, well. It kinda gets too loud sometimes.”

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

With this fresh feeling of strength comes a strange twinge of memory. Something aches in her bones. Fingers prod an old bruise she’d long forgotten, reviving a pain her body’s no longer familiar with. She wonders if this guy can sense that, if that’s why he’d scurried away so quickly. That, Polly supposes, and perhaps the fact that she’d tackled him, too.

Her wild smile isn’t dissuaded from its place when the pair straighten themselves up, Polly’s body language far more open than the other’s. She feels greedy, something inside her spreading far and wide to suck in all of the static roaming free. The city’s erupting with overcharge, and she’s eager to lap it all up.

“Dude,” Polly laughs, “you’d be Jell-O if I hadn’t. Did you see how fast that asshole was going?” She scoffs. Her short bob whips against her cheeks when she shakes her head. “Karma’ll get him. Bet, for real… Isn’t this crazy?” A few blocks down, the sound of car tyres screeching pierces the air, crunching the shrill sound when a crash follows. Polly’s eyes widen. “Shit, dude. You should find someplace safe. You live close?”

He doesn't understand the pure giddiness that radiates off of his rescuer, strands of dark hair bouncing to frame her face as she laughs without a speck of care in the world. What is there to be so happy about? Isn't she worried? Like, about her own safety?

"You could say that," replies Damien, a hint of sarcasm lacing the words, clearly tired and distressed by the general state of things around him — then he wonders if he's being rude to the very person who effectively saved his ass. He cannot help the uneasiness, though, facing the grinning stranger who seems too unperturbed (by his standards, anyway) amidst the commotion. Her reaction doesn't match his own, and that makes him question if he is the one who is... unnecessarily on edge. (But how can you not be on edge when cars are fucking crashing into each other nearby?!)

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, yeah," he says distractedly, sparing a panicked glance toward the source of the noise, still holding onto his skateboard for dear life. "It's just—just a couple'a blocks down from here." Never has the phrase a couple of blocks sounded so daunting. "But I— What about— Shouldn't you be doing the same?"

[inlatibule]

date/time: 01/06 – 11:02 pm location: pantheon movie theatre status: open

A double showing of The Shining and Doctor Sleep comes to an abrupt close when every single one of the Pantheon’s projectors whir to a halt. Emergency exit lights flicker with one last feeble reach toward the cinema goers before ultimately turning off, sealing confused, panicky people inside. It takes Quentin and his colleagues around twenty minutes to safely evacuate everybody, stuffing vouchers into angry fists to make up for the money lost.

Given that his grandmother’s apartment is next door to the Pantheon, he does his routine insistence of sending his co-workers home– Scott The Manager included –promising that he can easily do the last check-up around his uncle’s movie theatre solo. Really, he just wants some privacy to throw on one of the projectors’ protective sheets and wander the aisles feigning to be a phantom.

It’s on his seventh ‘Oooohhh’ in screen eleven that he hears clattering from the projector booth. He whips up his flashlight just in time to catch sight of something bulky and backlit peering down from the little window. It dodges the beam and disappears into the murky black, thick as smoke. Quentin’s heart lurches up into his throat.

Plenty of people have snuck in there before, eager to spend a night in Luto’s ‘Most Haunted Movie Theatre’. Scott The Manager is the best at dealing with them, hence his title of Scott The Manager (Quentin still doesn’t know why it pisses him off that he calls him that, but here they are). But Scott The Manager isn’t here; it’s up to Quentin to throw the ghost hunters out. Unless it’s Bernice, Bernice can stay. Just not anybody else.

He slides the sheet off with a quick whoosh, folding it over his arm. He brandishes his flashlight like a sword, spearing the darkness with its potent beam as he climbs the stairs toward the screening room entrance. He doesn’t make it to the booth. One of the heavy, broad doors swings open before he can reach it, sending Quentin stumbling backwards and narrowly missing a fall down the long, steep staircase. Even then, he only lets out a surprised little squeak.

“Dude,” he gasps, finally finding his footing. His voice comes out among heavy, shaken pants, “you can’t be here.”

[rafflcsia]

This is not what she had in mind when she popped into the theater earlier in the evening. Instead of making a beeline for her gaming desktop like usual, Mackenzie had ditched her office-appropriate outfit for some shorts and a t-shirt after work, raven hair pulled up in a ponytail under a baseball cap, eager to wind down with good horror flicks. Some might disagree, but there is something inherently cathartic about watching scary films by yourself, but sitting inside the theater surrounded by fellow moviegoers so that you're not technically alone. A room full of total strangers sharing thrill and suspense, gasping and screaming at the same moments — then going back to being strangers again when the lights come on, the weird connection vanishing.

But her night is cut short. The staff members herd up the crowd, guiding them to follow the emergency exit signs, which seem to be the only source of light in the building right now. She checks her phone, mouth slightly falling apart in horror upon discovering that the Internet connection is also down. She stays huddled in her seat, a frown of concentration creasing her brow, fiddling with the device to access developer options to check if the lack of connection is just her phone having issues. It isn't. The entire network must be messed up. (This would've fucked with the security systems, too. Work is going to be hell tomorrow.)

Kenzie finally looks up from the screen, only to realize that the theater is empty. Okay. Just follow the signs, she tells herself, body tense as she slides past the door; the corridor is pitch black, and she has to reluctantly turn on the flashlight function on her phone. She can worry about recharging it later.

The signs flicker at her, eerily calm as they light the path to the main entrance — however, she finds herself at the very end of the hallway with nothing in sight, except for yet another entrance to a different screening room. Or is it the same one she was in just now? Has she been going around in circles? But she HAS followed the lights! Were they wrong? How can emergency lights be wrong? Isn't that illegal or something? And how did others manage to get out if that is the case? Exhaling shakily, Kenzie pushes open the heavy door, desperately hoping the room will somehow be connected to a back exit.

No such luck. Just another vacant screening room. She turns around to leave, but the doors won't open. Sheer panic takes over. Mackenzie screams for help, banging against them with her clenched fists to no avail (they're screening room doors and soundproof). Tears threaten to fall from her eyes, her shirt sticking to her sweaty back like a horrible nightmare.

Just then, one of the doors abruptly swing open like it's supposed to —- it opens so easily, like the entire thing has been a sickening prank, or a figment of her imagination. Dashing outside, Mackenzie yells at the figure, her phone—flashlight still on—falling on the carpeted floor. Immediately dropping down to scoop it up, she waves the light in the intruder's face and sees Quentin of all people, his wide-eyed stare greeting her like an ill-timed jumpscare. Wait, yes, he does work in the theater. She recalls the impromptu game night at Bernie's place when the two of them were introduced to each other.

"Oh my God, oh, fuck," she breathes, chest heaving, knees giving out as she crouches on the floor, sniffling. “I know! I can't find the exit! Why are the fucking lights all fucked up?!”

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

“If you ever stop by, first class is free.”

The idea of her gaming buddy lurking in the bank’s basement amidst an assortment of wires and complicated technology pulls a snort out of Bernie. It escalates into a laugh when she considers Kenzie shirking her responsibilities to use Kincaid’s wifi to play Minecraft. “Gotcha,” she chuckles. She sucks another mouthful of noodles down, the spice settling comfortably on the back of her tongue. “Let me know when you start pulling some Mr. Robot moves, man. Power to ya.”

Mackenzie Han. It’s a nice name, Bernie thinks, and suits its owner. “Oh, yeah. On it…” she trails off, eyes on her screen as she opens up a new message and punches in a stream of nonsensical emojis: pink bow, cloud with lightning, duck, beer. She signs it off with – Bernice Donaby.

“There. You got it?”

“Now you're talking. I love free stuff,” declares Mackenzie like the proud child of an Asian family that she is. "I'm totally gonna take you up on that."

She grins from ear to ear at that analogy, gulping down a spoonful of warm broth. "Hell yeah, that's me. The Elliot Alderson of Luto." She's joking, of course, because as much as she would love to wreck havoc in the capitalist regime while wearing a badass mask, she also gets her paycheck from said regime. Ha.

Her phone—which has been on vibrate since the dawn of time—buzzes on the table with one new text message popping up on screen. "Yup," she replies, popping the p. Chomps' real name. The newfound knowledge brings a smile to her lips; it's got a cute ring to it.

"Alright, I gotta get back to my basement now," Kenzie sighs dramatically, placing her now-empty bowl on the tray to be taken back to the counter. "Just kidding. It's a cubicle. Peak luxury." She stands up, as abruptly as she had plopped down on the seat (and what a decision that was!), and offers Chomps-slash-Bernice a last grin before they part ways. "Well, this was awesome. Still can't believe I just ran into you like this." She giggles. A strange, delightful afternoon of worlds colliding. "Catch you at the yoga studio."

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

So maybe he’d desecrated a few cop cars with graffiti (and a bag of flaming excrement he’d managed to toss into the window of one of them). And, sure, maybe he’d snuck into one of the many ransacked chain stores lining Luto’s hectic streets to nab a few leftover items (overlooked jewellery, brand clothing and a video game console, all of which he can pawn off). But he’ll never outwardly admit it. Nico’s good at playing dumb. Really, he doesn’t think it takes much effort.

He’s got an armful of groceries– stolen, too, duh. Folks always go for the obvious shit, never the essentials –when he rounds the corner and spots the scene unfolding.

Nico’s eyes narrow at the sight of the bulky parker shuffling to a clumsy halt behind the cane-holding man. He approaches slowly, from across the street, and peers at the victim in question, curiosity making his gaze roam until he realises that the dude’s blind. Fuck, this guy’s really going to mug a blind guy? It’s not like Nico’s above fighting dirty, but that’s just plain wrong.

It’s when he spots the glint of a pocket knife that impulse takes over, propelling him across the road to smash his shoulder into the perpetrator’s side. The man thwacks the wall with a grunt, head smacking against the bricks so that, when he straightens up, he’s dazed and shimmering with blood.

“Fuck outta here, ‘fore I make the other side match,” Nico threatens, arms still wrapped tightly around his food.

“Hey, bro. You good?” Heroic as that may have been… he can’t resist waving his open palm inches from Nigel’s face. He’s always wanted to know if that makes blind folks blink, after all.

Swallowing thickly, Nigel comes to a hesitant stop, his ears picking up some kind of commotion behind him. There is the ugly sound of a body hitting a hard surface, like the wall or the pavement, but he can't discern anything more than that. Violence makes him nervous, regardless of whether it's directed at him or not, and the grip on his cane tightens unconsciously.

"I, uh— yes?" It tumbles out of his mouth like a question. He's still on edge, wondering if this is someone different, or the creepy follower's attempt at getting him to lower his guard. In a typical fashion, however, he chooses to put his best foot forward and trust.

"I heard... something." Uh huh. Very coherent. "Was that— Did you—" Nigel trails off, searching for a polite way to ask if the person behind him has just been thrown against the wall. Turns out there is none. "Sorry, I'm asking 'cause I thought somebody was following me. Then I heard something else."

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

Were he certain of a solution to this little fuckin’ problem, Nico would have pounced on that delightfully explicit mutter, offering his signature smirk and a ready “alright, but I’m a bottom” with the hopes of getting very, very thoroughly fu– Now’s not the fuckin’ time. While horny at least twenty-two out of a day’s twenty-four hours (though even that’s an understatement), Nico’s a little distracted.

Tyler said the lock’s broken. So he shouldn’t have heard it click into place, perfectly healthy and capable. He should, in fact, be able to swing this fuckin’ piece of shit-ass door open. But he can’t, even after another, somewhat more desperate attempt. Something settles in his veins, something that’s always lurking in the shadowy corners of his mind. He tends to keep it barred, but it’s slithered through, and into his veins. Fear.

With that fear comes the restlessness. Nico’s fingers twitch by his sides. He rubs his palms up and down his jeans, the coarse material doing nothing to ground his flighty fuckin’ mind. Next, his foot starts tapping. The jiggle wriggles up his entire leg until all four limbs have a tremble to them. Finally, his jaw clenches. He’s rolling his tongue against the roof of his mouth when Tyler suggests picking the lock. Nico doesn’t exactly know why, but he’s instantly on the defensive.

“What,” he scoffs, shooting the man a glare, “you think ‘cause I stole a fuckin’ packet of shitty dried fruit, I’m all about breakin’ and enterin’? Man, fuck you.” 

He is all about breaking and entering, but that’s beside the point. Tyler’s boxing him up into his own impression of him, and Nico is far from fuckin’ appreciative. Then again, maybe it’s because he had once tried to learn about lock-picking, but grown frustrated when the first two tries were fruitless. He’s never really had the knack nor patience for that sort of stuff, and tends to simply brick it. Literally: Nico’s answer to most things is to throw a brick at it.

Every time his fingers curl into tight fists, he digs his short nails into his palms. He can feel the crescents forming in his skin, and a dull ache’s settling in his knuckles from the sheer force of his restless fidgeting. Nico snorts at the mention of his shirt– or lack thereof. “That creep y’got livin’ on the fourth floor’s probably sniffin’ it as we speak.”

The defensive demeanor does not go unnoticed; it's not that subtle to begin with. (He will eventually learn that nothing about Nico is made to be subtle, from the shameless jokes to the heart that bleeds all over the fucking place, and he will be swept away by the sheer unapologetic force of it all — though that is a story for much, much later on.) "They weren't shitty," he retorts, meeting the defiant glare with raised eyebrows, tongue-in-cheek words spilling out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. "They were actually really delicious. I've been getting some for myself, you know."

Pressure forces him to focus; stress makes him zone in on a solution, the fight or flight response pumping blood through his veins and kicking his mind into gear. As his past instructors and evaluators have assessed, he does perform better under pressure — regardless of how detrimental that might be in the long run. Not that the Bureau would care. Overall, perfect for the kind of job that he has. On the other hand, the younger brunet is a bundle of wrung-out nerves next to him, and has been progressively getting worse since they found out the lock is unsalvageable. The tremors are much more visible now. Richard isn't a heartless asshole, okay, and he can't just stand here and not do anything about it —- especially when this could possibly be the beginning of a panic attack.

"Hey. Hey, you gotta breathe. You're, like, shaking all over." Eyebrows knitted together in concern, he inches closer to peer at Nico's face, searching for the usual symptoms like shallow breathing. It doesn't look too intense. Tyler steps away, grabbing the shitty camping chair and placing it between the two of them as a silent offer, lest he feel dizzy. "There's a fire escape," he explains ruefully, a frustrated hand running through jet-black locks. "You can climb down, but that's it. Can't enter the building 'cause I don't have the key for that."

What other options are there? (He doesn't deserve this. He’s from the BAU for God’s sake, not the fucking Rescue Team.) "Fourth— oh." Tyler has walked past the man around the main gate a few times. A little too friendly, giving off the wrong vibe. He grimaces at that mental image. "I won't ask."

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

If he had to put it into words, Archie would say that he only feels half here. Bits of him are drifting like icebergs splitting apart, carried by cold, lonely currents across a vast and dismal ocean. He doesn’t even notice the stilling train until the lights flicker on and off, forcing a few bewildered blinks out of him. Curtain call and the lights go out altogether, plunging the tunnel into a darkness so thick Archie can’t even make out the shape of his own hand when he holds it up, fingers splayed out, inches away from his face. He spares a moment to wonder if he would have made it out even before the blackout, when his mind felt foggy and his limbs faded. It’s strange, such a moment feels so far away now.

Now, Archie’s buzzing with electricity. As if all the power illuminating the city’s zapped into his spine, yanking him upright and slapping his legs into a nervous bounce. Before, he could barely make out the train’s rattling and grinding as it wound around tracks cutting deep into the city’s underground. Now, the lady’s voice sounds loud and clear, something sharpening in his head to absorb each and every little stimulant that could even so much as whisper into the air.

“Yeah!” Archie says after a long, long pause, tone sounding surprised. It’s not an answer he much expects to deliver genuinely, after all. “Are you?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” she says, offering a smile, tension leaving her shoulders. Despite the situation, she's glad to be in the company of who seems to be a friendly stranger. "I just― Do you know what's going on? I don't think the doors are opening, and―" A nervous bite of her bottom lip follows. "And I-I'm not getting any signal on my phone."

She is usually one to maintain a good grip on her emotions, tuning into her own heart and unapologetically feel what she does in the moment, so that they do not seize control over her. It is a well-practiced skill, one that she is earnestly proud of, one that is the source of her tranquil strength —- however, in the midst of an emergency such as this, Tamsin struggles to sift through the multitude of sensations. There is anxiety. There is fear. There is also slight relief that she is not alone in this, whatever this may be.

"I don't think the doors are opening," she explains, soft-spoken, taking a seat across from him, exhaling slowly as she does. It calms her down somewhat. Her fingers lace together on her lap. "Do you— do you know how to open them? Manually? There is a way, I think, isn't there? Or there should be."

“ ― My name is Tamsin, by the way.”

[rafflcsia]

inlatibule​:

Tyler, okay. The name’s a little fancy, reminding Nico of white polo shirts and boat shoes; summering in the Carolinas on expensive yachts and sipping mimosas over a hefty brunch. The brunette snorts, top lip folding over the bottom as his tongue rolls the soft flesh into his mouth.

He isn’t particularly worried about the blackout. After all, he’s up here, and everyone’s down there; and he hasn’t been caught in anything chaotic, or dangerous. At least, not to his standards. Maybe the lack of cell reception makes his excitable nerves jolt, but that’s as jittery as they get…

Until the door to the roof slams shut in one smooth swing, making Nico’s entire body jump. “Fuckin’–” he starts, gritting his teeth. His legs carry him in determined strides to the barrier, only to freeze to a sharp halt when he hears something impossible. The lock– which Nico’s pretty fuckin’ sure was busted to begin with –clicks. “Nah,” he starts, wrapping his fingers around the handle and yanking. The door doesn’t budge. He plants his foot on the wall beside it, grunting with every hard heave that leaves the door firmly shut. Stubborn little fucker.

“Uh… Tyler?” Nico calls, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He ignores how much he likes the shape of the other’s name in his mouth, for now. “We’re locked out here, man.” 

Alright, he is no engineer, but even with his lack of knowledge he can easily conclude that the whole thing is bizarre. A blackout of this magnitude has to be extremely rare. (Other than that, though, Richard fails to make the connection ー that this is just the beginning, that he's only getting a fleeting taste of what Luto has to offer, a cursed city under a thin veil of normalcy built on secrets and corpses.) Flinching at the loud, heavy bang, he turns on his heel to catch the sight of the door slamming shut. Again, weird. No strong wind or anything.

He's standing farther away from the door, hence he doesn't hear the ominous click of the lock turning; it is only when Nico starts to rattle the door, swearing, that he realizes the universe has decided to add yet another firm slap across his face.

"What?" He's been saying this a lot for the past few minutes. Ha. (It's not funny.) "Oh, fuck me," he mutters angrily, trying the door handle for himself despite knowing it's no use. "How the hell is it locked? It's broken, it's never locked. I've been telling the super for ages." There has to be a way out ー like the fire escape, maybe.

Except getting down is useless if he can't enter the building. The key to the main entrance is inside his apartment; since the intercom wouldn't be working, he can't ask any of his neighbors to buzz him in.

He imagines himself shooting the fucking lock open. It's somewhat therapeutic.

“Any chance you know how to pick a lock?” Tyler asks, resigned. The two of them stand closer now, helplessly staring at the jammed door; in the midst of it all, he cannot help but notice their proximity, gaze flickering down towards the bare torso. There's a faint smell of sweat. " — What happened to your shirt, anyway?"