a palé
the underground is a dump. a mutant cesspool of desperation and fear. gijoon witnesses it with fresh eyes each and every time. stir-crazy bunch. some restless. some accepting of their fate. those, who cannot think for themselves, turn to a small chapel on one of the floors. fucking sheep. your god won’t help you.
it’s depressing to even be here. yet here he stands: donned in black, sweet cigarette on his breath, fingers, hair, frown twisted on his mouth; egregiously out of place. all this cannot be any more obvious. then, why is he here? it’s not that he wants to be here, or that he’ll ever slip up and make the mistake of needing the underground. but it wasn’t like he could ignore it, either. after turning down hunter for the nth time, gijoon had worked out a deal (to say the least) to shut his damn mouth.
he won’t join (screw that) but he’ll donate to the cause. it isn’t like he doesn’t have money. though even more laughable is hunter’s so-called morals—just how quick he loses them when funds run low and it no longer matters whether or not his money is made off the backs of funding the addictions of mutants. typical. they’re not so different from humans after all.
but at the least—hunter’s made one thing clear when accepting the olive branch and forwarding hq’s location. no dealing within the underground. well, it wasn’t like they had money for him anyway. and as of late, gijoon has grown increasingly tired of charity cases.
speaking of: his eyes cut over to the general direction a familiar dark tuft of hair had zipped out of earlier when he entered. absently wondering to himself if he had been imagining things. last he checked, he didn’t have a single thing to do with the underground as well. but what’s the harm in checking? it wasn’t like hunter was coming back any time soon. work call. some family of mutants needing to be picked up or something. whatever. (he didn’t listen because he didn’t care)
and on the off chance that it was him, then—today’s his lucky fucking day.
it takes very little effort to find him. gijoon can admit to himself (and only himself) he’s paid too much attention their last interaction, took the time to familiarize with the lilt in his voice, broad frame, long legs. picking him out of a relatively small crowd now is too easy. so he reaches out with enough certainty, firm in the way he grabs a fistful of fabric and yanks backward to face him.
“so,” gijoon’s lip curls, eyes lifting to meet his. “this is where you’ve been hiding.”
@odhong