#dlm based au

[redzuigiberx]

[redzuigiberx]

A.D. Miller; In The Pool; At Seven (6:03 PM)

She wasn't overly fond of watching the college kids run around while drinking cheap beer. It was better than that long car ride had been. Stuck sitting shot gun to the ginger wonder that was Austin Dillinger. He wasn't too bad in hindsight, it could have been worse. That punk freak could have been her partner for the day. She'd take Austin over him any day. They blended in a bit better with this crowd at least, drunken children. They were going no where in life, if she were to be frank. Worthless little specks. Maybe that was cruel. Maybe she was still annoyed she was dead. Anything was possible really. Glancing down to her own cup of unidentified alcohol the ginger took a sip of it. It tasted like her college years, long ago as they were. She missed the weed of that era but knew that it was long gone. No one grew their own these days, it was a shame. Maybe she should get to growing her own. That was always an idea.

"Don't get lost in finding an underage hottie," She spoke with a gentle smirk to her partner for the day, watching the odd gathering before them continue. It looked like a strange mixture between a concert and a pool party. A local band she assume. They sounded like a bunch of whiny brats. They were in all reality, and she was unafraid to admit that, however she wasn't interested in chasing Austin around while he chased skirts around instead of paying attention to the job they had before them. "I will put a leash on you if you test me," The petite reaper added for just an extra bite of playful snark. At least he usually rolled with the punches of her humor.

[redzuigiberx]

L. C. DeLuca; In His Apartment; At Nine (9:15 PM)

Humming quietly to himself the reaper stepped easily around his apartment, it looked sleazy on the outside, but no sleazier than any of the safe houses they used to use. Even made men had to use the most questionable of places to conduct their criminal activity from time to time. But it was the fifties, the time of the mafia, who was really going to make a fuss about a group of young men suited up strolling into a warehouse, as if they owned the world. But when you're twenty-two and a made man, it felt like you owned the world. Lyle no longer felt like he owned the world, he felt like an old man that wanted to be laid to rest, he wanted to close his eyes and forget about all of the things that he had seen. However that was proving to be impossible. Perhaps this was punishment for what he had done in his life, for the pain that he had caused to the people around him. He had killed, watched blood spiral down city streets and into drains and he and the boys simply got in their cars and drove off back home, never thinking about what they had just done. Would he never get peace because of that? Would he spend the rest of his time here, watching others die? Commanding people to take the souls of those who were soon to die. From time to time he wondered who had taken his soul and if they had been late doing it...The lack of a soul made the death painless, but Lyle's death had been far from painless. He had felt every drop of blood slip from his body. Maybe he had deserved that as well. Sighing to himself the blonde stirred the pasta before him. When he was alive he was a shit cook, but after death he was gifted with decades it seemed to get his mother's recipes down. The sauce was ready, sitting contentedly in a bowl on the counter, all that was left was for the pasta to finish. He wondered distantly what his mother would think of him now, cooking, respectable, not a crime in sight. She wouldn't recognize him. He'd spoken to her once or twice after he died and Maris had started at him as she would any strange young man who spoke to her. 

He had rolled the sleeves to his dress shirt up as he cooked, he looked like a businessman after a long day, socked feet padding across across the kitchen tiles. The apartment in itself was well maintained and taken care of. It was a beautiful home, one that didn't look like it belonged with the rest of the apartment complex. It was at night when they came, dropping off the names times and locations, telling him what souls to take. He'd always wanted to see who was leaving him the lists of names, to at least ask how much longer for him, how much longer until he could simply quit and stop having to think and accept the horrible things that he had done. But it was fair, it was just, he supposed. A knock to his door jarred the reaper, was that the list? They didn't usually knock...Wandering from the kitchen to the front door he was more then a little shocked to see Alaizabel there. It had been a few weeks since she'd died, and she hadn't been settling in well, Lyle had hoped she would do alright in this new life but she just wasn't. She was hung up on the continual process of dying, of the life that she had lost. But he did not know the details of what went on in her mind. How could he? "Please, Alaizabel, come in," He mumbled stepping away from the door allowing room for her to step through. He was careful to keep his eyes on hers, and not on her tiny little waist. He wanted to press his hands to it, pull her close and feel the slightness of her body tucked into his. But that wasn't appropriate, he was her boss and she hadn't been doing well. Thinking of her in such a way was crude. "I was just cooking, there is extra is you like shrimp," He spoke as he closed the door after her.

[redzuigiberx]

F. H. Weston; At The Ice Rink; At Eight (7:33 PM)

Snuffling irritably the reaper all but pouted, her wine colored lips expressing her deep hatred of the cold. It was in the dead of summer there was no reason for her to be bundled up quite like this. Even if her dress was couture what with it's draping cowl neck and form fitting leather lower portion. She looked like a model come to watch townies ice skate. When in reality she was just a dead girl with sticky fingers in terms of her client's closets. It would be a shame for the shiny Steve Madden pumps that donned her feet to go to waste, so she continued to love, wear, and look after them long after their owner had died. She was a fashionable woman, just because she was dead didn't mean that she couldn't continue what went on in the Factory in terms of her dress. Andy would be proud, she'd visited him until his death in the eighties, he was a little too out of his mind to realize that his Kitty Cat hadn't aged since the sixties, but what more could she have expected from a man like Andy. He lived on a different planet and she missed that dearly. She was recognized every now and again, but she had to thank her lucky stars that her paintings and movies weren't so garishly over produced as Marilyn and Edie's had been. 

She wasn't working alone at least in this arctic hell hole. No there were multiple deaths and Jean would be showing up any time now. She adored the man, not that she had said anything of the sort, well not soberly. The few times that she indulged in the ways that she behaved in her human life the free spirited and daring reaper had clung to the man proclaiming him to be a god among men. It was odd but it  had made sense in her drug addled brain at the time. There was a reason that she only dabbled once or twice a decade these days. Shoving her hands into the pockets of the trench coat that hung open, sure she would be warmer if she closed it, but she wouldn't look nearly as chic. And being chic mattered more then comfort. Sitting demurely on one of the benches lining the stands, grimacing at the icy feeling of the wood even through the material of her clothing. People were scattered throughout the ice rink skating, eating, laughing. And of course scoping for gravellings, but maybe that was just her. 

[redzuigiberx]

A. M. Michellson; in the courtyard; at one. (12:56 PM)

Pale eyes read across the headlines, nothing interesting, then again this wasn't his time period anymore. There were no mafia crimes every night, no protection money, and all of the construction companies were actually trained, and clean. Kid it's not the fifties anymore, take off the hat and say good bye to the pantyhose. He missed his time period, he missed his family, he missed the family. Not that they ever miss him. No, the Sicilian Mafia had their fill of Lyle DeLuca, they tend not to enjoy young men who steal their stolen money. But what can you do, right? He had been dead too long to still be bothered by the fact that he was shot several times in the stomach and left to die in a back alleyway. Lyle could still recall all of the excuses that filled his mouth spilling out to the men. He claimed that he'd gotten a girl pregnant, that he needed the money for a family with her. It was all a lie though, he hadn't gotten anyone pregnant. He'd just gotten greedy. Glancing over the newspaper he observed the college aged reaper. Died in the seventies, bad batch of acid, the story still made Lyle chuckle softly. Shaking out his paper slightly attempting to look like any other business man in a finely pressed, grey, pinstripe suit sitting on a bench reading the paper.

Teddy swallowed saliva that wasn't there. His mouth was dry and he was nervous. He always got so nervous when working. He didn't want to kill these people, although he knew that it was just their time nothing that he could do about it. He was helping not hurting. Clearing his throat he tapped a young woman's shoulder, his sweatshirt too big for him it covered most of his hands. Awkward as ever Teddy bounced from foot to foot, he towered over the girl and cleared his throat a second time he began. "Is your name Alaizabel? You dropped this I think," He supplied handing her a wallet. It was a lie he'd pick pocketed her only to return the wallet for his job. Once that was done he was on the bench beside Lyle, he looked like a twitchy little mouse next to the relaxed blonde.

"That's it, huh?" Lyle questioned, not bothering to glance away from the paper. "That's it. Once she goes I go too, I guess," Teddy supplied nervously, wondering what awaited him, probably nothing good. "It's been a pleasure Theodore," Lyle spoke with a slight grin as he folded his paper up and shook the younger man's hand. It really had been, although Lyle was growing sick and tired of everyone reaching their quota before him. When would he get to pass? Teddy faded the second that an explosion filled the air as well as horrified shrieks. Just another day on the job, sans the protection money. 

[redzuigiberx]

B. M. Mills; at the mailbox; at two. (1:48 PM)

Sighing softly she looked up at the sky, it was beginning to get gray and that worried her. Where the hell was the B. M. Mills anyways? No one had stopped at the mailbox all day and here she was stuck waiting by herself. Fiddling with her belt a bit the blonde sighed the wind tousling her hair. Styled differently, down and vaguely untouched for once. A thick leather headband pushing it all back, the mixture of that and a fair amount of teasing gave her hair an excessive amount of Brigette Bardot volume. It was in no way common for there to be a lacking of some oddly done twist in her hair, but oddly enough it all fell to the very center of her back today in one long golden mass. Part of her wanted to see if she could call or text one of the other reapers see if they could entertain her. But she refused to sink to that level, she was an adult and could cope with being alone. Okay no, no she could not. She'd rather be dead then alone...a little late for that. Her brick red lips pursed a bit as a young woman stopped by the mailbox in question only to step away without a graveling in sight. This was downright obnoxious. Had Lyle sent her on some silly wild goose chase?

She could smell the approaching rain in the air, the weather had said nothing about rain and she wanted to whine and grouse about it. But she had no one to speak to. Lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag darker then usual lips leaving a stain on the white end of the cancer stick. She looked like an add, dressed in her pin up clothing smoking an oddly vintage looking Marlboro as she leaned against a fence in the gentle Southern breezes. Pretty on the outside and horrifyingly and terrifyingly lonely. 

[redzuigiberx]

N. B. Willis; in the park; at noon. (11:28 AM)

Hands on her hips, figures accentuated by her form fitting vintage dress. Cherry lips pursed as she looked across the park, it was too damn sunny if you asked her, and too damn loud. Children were meant to be seen not heard. And yet all that she could hear was their tiny shrieks as they flung themselves around the playground. Okay, so it was sort of cute...that didn't mean that she enjoyed the racket in any way shape or form. Blonde hair done up perfectly as if it were still the 40's, the years that she traveled the earth as a human being. She missed those times, the clothes, hair, makeup. Manners. Plopping down onto a bench she tapped her neat reverse manicured nails against the wood long tanned legs crossed. She looked like a pin-up star who'd gotten lost, when in reality she was looking for that dizzy coworker of her. Sometimes she swore that he still did drugs. Not like they'd kill him anyways...speaking of which. Pulling a pack of Marlboro Red's from her vintage purse, lighting it up with her golden zippo. Where was the Brit? She never liked to admit it aloud but she liked his company, odd as he was. 

A young man paused by the bench grinning cockily at her only to get a cloud of smoke blown into his face and a cherry red pout for his efforts. It was only then that Maris remembered that she was on the clock, "Hey sug? Sorry bout that darlin' have a seat won'cha please?" She purred sweetly in her honey laden southern accent. The man sat down introducing himself as Scott. What a waste. Pointedly turning in her seat, away from Scott she took another drag of her cigarette. 

[redzuigiberx]