#badmoonstatic

[cain-douglas]

Cain ✉️Pussy Jackson

Cain: hey so

Cain: [sent an image]

Cain: Thanks for the grub. bone apple tea 😩💦👅

[fightthegods]

dated — january 1st, 11:02AM located — streeterville with — @badmoonstatic status — closed

When the fire dies and the smoke fades, Eoin finds himself leaning against an embering police cruiser, panting and nearly unable to keep himself standing. He's given his all. Everything in his body is aching — if he's bleeding, then he honestly hasn't noticed yet — the coat Shae got him is all but disintegrated from the fight, and the dead are strewn across the street. Even as his gaze slides along the carnage he and Kerberos sowed, he doesn't find it in him to care. There's no guilt at lives lost. There's no churning of the stomach at the smell of death, singed hair, and burnt tissue. A flutter pride, though. They came in full force, and they lost.

Even the cold January air biting into his skin doesn't faze him. Instead, Eoin digs two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, tearing his gas mask from his head at the same time; it finds itself on top of what's left of the car as he brings a joint to his lips. Once more his hands drop, patting himself down for the zippo he's had for the better part of a decade now. A sharp and annoyed sigh escapes him; he left it on the counter. Usually it's in his pocket, but he'd taken all his belongings out of his pockets to put them in the ruined coat. He'd forgotten it.

His head drops back onto the cooling metal of the car, eyes still closed. Just his fucking luck. Is it socially acceptable to ask a bystander for a light after you've effectively massacred a whole block? Eoin knows the answer should probably be obvious, but he honestly doesn't know if it were yes or no. What is socially acceptable anyway? He feels like an alien on a different planet at the best of times, just trying to imitate what he sees around him and failing.

Still leaning there, he doesn't notice the approaching figure until a hand wraps around his arm and he's dragged away from the car. Exhaustion makes itself known in stumbling steps, and the twist and push against the arm is less energetic and vicious as it might normally be. "Who th—” He starts the question but doesn't finish it.

Hyperion… looks a state. In Eoin's opinion, he always looks very put together, and this is just… not. The man looks like someone tried to drown him, and, glancing towards the water, Eoin wonders if someone did, or if it was voluntary. He can't imagine putting someone like Hyperion into something as conductive as water is the smart, healthy decision for anyone forcing him into it. Like trying to drown a toaster oven in a bathtub.

"Did you go for a fuckin' swim, bud?" Eoin asks, eyeing him. "The fuck you want?"