DATE: November 15; 10:30PM
LOCATION: Garfield Conservatory, Horticulture Hall
STATUS: Closed (@kerbcros)
It’s like some sick joke. What do you get when a hundred-some mutants walk into a greenhouse? One sad bastard dead on the floor, execution-style gunshot to the head. Blood splatter on champagne flutes. And Derek had known better. He’d known. You don’t party in enemy territory, whatever piece of paper their bosses may have signed. As if a signature could erase all those years of animosity and violence. All night he’d waited for the catch, and it’d come with a bang.
There’s a moment when he gets to decide how this is going to go for him. A split second where everyone freezes, transfixed by the noise and the blood and the theater of it all, the full weight of the situation not hitting them yet. A moment to decide what he’s going to do, trapped in a big glass box with dozens of his least favorite people.
Naturally, he turns to Luca first.
“What do you think?” He keeps his voice low, casual. A murmur is starting to move through the crowd, and he knows they don’t have much time. No point drawing unnecessary attention to themselves-- that’ll come soon enough. “The usual?”
Derek doesn’t waste words; him and Luca have always had a special kind of understanding. Together they’re really only good for one thing, but they’re really good at it. Chaos and destruction, the hunger of his fire amplified through their dual vessels like two mirrors placed face to face, frenetic fiery energy growing and rebounding between them. Pandemonium. Derek raises his eyebrows and slowly steps back from the source of the action, tracing a line along the bushes skirting the gathering as he does so. His fingertips just barely graze the leaves, almost gentle. In their wake, flames spark.
