Addicted (Like a Battery) // Closed RP
@angelus-cxstiel
“Enjoy Geneco's day and nighttime formulas of Zydrate. / Ask a Gentern if Zydrate is right for you. / Buying Zydrate from an unliscenced source is illegal.”
Dean glanced up from where he was curled in one of the alcoves of the mausoleum, eyeing the loudspeaker overhead with mild amusement. They'd just keep right on broadcasting that bullshit, and ignore the streets lined with junkies and peddlers trading Zydrate like air, because actually cleaning up the city would be too much of a hassle.
He shouldn't complain. Geneco's apathy about stopping illegal Zydrate distribution kept him in business, after all. It just got old hearing the damn warnings playing, when they didn't really care about the kids he dealt with everyday.
Speaking of which. "Hiya, Jo," he said to the shadow skulking toward him along the edge of the graveyard. She'd been beautiful, once; long blonde hair and fire in her eyes, able to hold her own in a fight. Now she was filthy from head to foot, gaze dull and glassy as she rounded the corner, one shaking hand offering him a few crumpled bills without making eye contact.
Dean sighed. Wasn't his place to tell the poor kid to buy food instead of dugs. Besides, he knew the kind of pain she was in, from the fresh scars lining her face and arms as she stared at him blankly. "Here," he muttered, accepting the cash and handing her the glowing blue vial. Jo almost smiled, the expression flat, and then she turned and vanished back into the shadows.
He sat back against the brick wall, feeling the cold starting to seep through his battered leather jacket and into his skin. Dean was good at what he did, and in a twisted way it let him look out for the lost souls he was selling the goods to, but sometimes he hated it. All of it.
There was a flash of blue in the cemetery, one patch of black taking the shape of a small figure with inky hair and dirty clothes, those pretty eyes the same color as the drug he came to purchase. Dean smiled, leaning forward into the grimy light of the street lamp. "Well, if it isn't my favorite customer."
