@fletchergrxy location: dockside date: 23rd may, 2021
Once upon a time, Iniya would have been thrilled at the prospect of attending a party on a boat. But this was not a yacht in the Caribbean, or a cruise in the Mediterranean. It was a war ship on the fucking Thames, and the water smelt bad, and they were surrounded by people in faux-leather skull masks who were remarkably smug considering they hadn’t really achieved anything. It’s actually a relief when Famine and War appear to break things up, the threat of being hit by a stray bullet preferable to the threat of having to make conversation with a member of Death. She makes it off the boat with minimal fuss, ducking into a series of empty rooms to avoid the heavily armed opposing gang members, only pulling the mask off their face when they’re safely on dry land.
As their other members tended to a wounded Fazal, she agrees to keep watch outside lest any members of other gangs head towards them, leaning against the truck with a cigarette wedged between their lips. Their hand ghosts over the grip of the handgun in their pocket, offering up a silent prayer that she won’t have to use it, which is answered when no one comes. Only a tall figure that Iniya quickly identifies as Fletcher approaches, his cocky strut difficult to miss. But he isn’t alone, and the brief and unpleasant flare of relief that he’s alive is quickly squashed by her usual annoyance at the sight of him. "Please don’t tell me I have to sit in the truck with that dog.” Their nose wrinkles in distaste, a cat person through and through. Smoke curls in the air between them as she speaks. “How is it that Fazal came out of this with a gunshot wound and you manage to gain a pet?”
