#tsopen

[adamantarcher]

Go Bump in the Night [Open]

He couldn't sleep.

He didn't usually have trouble sleeping. He had his bad nights, of course, but none so epic as this. It was around four in the morning, he'd wager, and he was standing out on the street, having done little more than slid on a pair of shoes before going outside. The cool night air was refreshing against his skin, which had grown clammy beneath his covers; even still, he could find no peace.

There was usually an underlying reason whenever he couldn't fall asleep. He suspected that this time it had something to do with stress, all the feelings that had built up in the last few weeks finally coming to a head. He was exhausted, yet his eyes stayed open and his brain whirred on.

He walked down the street a ways, hands in his pockets, and stopped underneath the pooled light of a streetlamp. Sighing, he dug out his little silver case and removed a cigarette. Upon trying to light it, however, he found that his hands were shaking too badly; he couldn't get the damn lighter to ignite.

"Dammit," he muttered, shaking his hand out. Right. Deep breaths, try again. Right--

And that was when he heard them.

Footsteps. Footsteps in his direction, it seemed, and at that his heart leapt into his throat: it was four in the morning and he was alone and someone was coming toward him. Frantically he ran through a list of things that could result from this situation, namely his death.

Don't be ridiculous, he told himself firmly, you're in the mob. You're packing. Except he wasn't packing because he was in his pajamas and he had left his gun in his apartment and maybe the person coming toward him was with the Macini and fucking hell, he was going to die, wasn't he?

"G-Got a light?" he blurted out to the shadowy figure, wishing he sounded more confident. Hadn't he heard that establishing a connection with a possible attacker could make them less likely to hurt you? Wasn't that a thing?

It seemed he was about to find out.

[colin-flanagan-blog]

Bedridden || OPEN

Colin was confined to bed and he absolutely hated it. He wanted to be at home with a nice bottle of whiskey to heal his wounds, rather than stuck at the hospital as doctors and nurses fussed over him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate being saved by them because he was mostly glad to be alive; it was simply that he needed some time to be alone. 

There was a lot that he had to process, none of which he really wanted to face.

There was the fact that Ruby had shot him, which he knew had to have more to it than he what he knew. He didn't know much about what happened, to tell the truth. All he remembered was being grateful that Ruby was alive and then feeling hot lead sink into his stomach. Everything that came after that was a blur of searching for Daniel before it went black.

Then came the fact that, since waking up, he'd learned basically nothing about anyone else. He didn't know who survived, who didn't, who was injured...Nothing. Well, there was always the possibility that he did know, but that was a whole other issue.

He couldn't remember a thing since being shot. 

He was told that he'd woken up every day for several days now, every time as confused and unknowing as the time before. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how long he lay in the hospital bed and attempted to bring back memories, there was nothing. Not even the briefest glimpse of a new memory. 

The doctor had suggested that perhaps he write down the things that happened to him, so he could read it when he woke up and remind himself. As upset as he was that he had to do such a thing, he had a piece of paper and a pen beside his bed to record anything that could be important later. 

He was staring into space, attempting for the hundredth time that day to remember something, when he heard someone enter the room. He continued to stare at the wall in front of him, assuming it to be a nurse or doctor. 

[roryalfonso]

Southside - OPEN

As Rory stepped into the Siren that night, he was well aware of the stares and whispers that followed behind him like shadows. He'd practically disappeared for the past few weeks; it only made sense for people to be surprised at this sudden, unannounced return to civilization. It wasn't as though he was just some nobody, either. He was influential - some would say infamous - and easily recognizable to most of the Siren's regular customers.

But he wasn't worried. Tonight was about being recognized, being seen. He needed word to spread that Rory Alfonso was alive and well, that he was just the same as ever. He needed people to know who he was and what he had to offer. And as for the scars and faded bruises that marred his once-perfect skin? Well, he had methods for explaining those away.

The bartender was familiar to him, and only a couple of words needed to be exchanged before he was given his regular drink - a Southside - and left to his own devices. Glancing up and down the bar, he scanned the room for faces: interesting ones, ones that he knew, ones that he figured he ought to get to know. Now, more than ever, he needed people on his side. That was the only way he'd ever get back at Sandy for what he'd done.

[madison-victor]

The Sky Fell || OPEN

Victor grunted, forcing his eyes open. He was still lying in the rubble of the store he'd ducked into for cover, must have passed out again at some point. The time he'd been unconscious had done nothing to actually help any of his pain, however-- if anything it was just all the worse. He was relieved he'd managed to wrap up his bullet wound with his tie to stop the bleeding before that happened, but he knew it definitely needed some tending to and preferably in a clean place far from any Macini mobsters. The blood on his head had dried too, leaving dark reddish-brown streaks all the way down to his jaw and speckled across the collar of his shirt. 

Getting up felt like torture, but he'd been in worse skirmishes than this (he didn't really know what that said about him as a person at this point, considering this one was pretty damned bad). He pointed his pistol out the window first, moving cautiously to the door. He only had the bullets in his chamber and a few in his pocket, having never expected something of this scale to go down. He supposed that was a mistake on his behalf.

Still, he needed to get to Fran, see if she was all right. If Giovanni had planned something like this-- or even if he hadn't-- he knew she was in danger. Fran could handle herself just fine, but he didn't just have this position for show. Besides, there were likely other Lombardi members injured in the blast, possibly even killed, and it'd be easier to round up their forces if he started with the leader. At least he knew exactly where she had been at the time.

The smoke wasn't quite as bad when he stepped back out onto the street, but he still coughed as it entered his lungs. He was weary from being thrown by the explosion and from the blood loss, but he just tried to keep his vision focused and listened with his working ear for any sounds of attack or of distress.

Where the hell were the police? He would have thought the place would be crawling with them, unless of course they couldn't get by the debris.

...He really didn't want to think about the police right now.

Still, why blow up both sides of the street? Macini mobsters were just as trapped as Lombardi mobsters now, and he was sure all the explosion had managed to do was piss Fran off royally. It just didn't seem like a move that made any sense, unless...

Perhaps Giovanni didn't set it up, or... if he did, then he didn't set up all of it.

"Fucking hell," he rasped, voice hoarse from the air. He kept his gun trained forward despite the pain radiating through his shoulder, and he pressed on towards where he was certain the Walgreen's was and just hoped whoever he saw coming at him through the smoke was a friend rather than an enemy.

[letha-garland]

Looking to Get Out | Open

The thunderous blow of explosions, the noise of shattering glass, the increasingly hoarse howl of men and women scared for their lives, the rushing of people in hysteria, and the awful, engulfing whirlpool of horror cloaking the city were too much for her to comprehend, and she simply sank to the floor, tears streaming freely as she silently begged for an end to all the madness and freedom from all the terror, not caring if the end she so desperately craved was her own.

It wasn't until the sound of a clothes-rack toppling to the ground that Letha lifted her head up from her knees, having spent the last few moments trying to block out the memories of the past which were now tumbling over into the horrors of the present. She was still shaking, though the tremors she now experienced were much less all-encompassing than her initial reaction.

Gingerly, she stood up, bracing against the wall for support. From what she could gather, the fighting was mostly taking place in the streets, and though there hadn't been another big explosion, the clouds of smoke and sounds of gunfire signified that the fight, or whatever the hell was really going on, was kept to the streets - although not even that proved reassuring for the current situation.

 The menswear shop seemed empty, though Letha had no way of knowing just how long - or if at all - it would stay that way. Unlikely, judging by the state of things outside. Sooner or later, someone would end up traversing in, either out of fear of the outside world or by the more forceful hand of someone else. She took a quick scan of the storefront before heading towards the back, looking for any sign, any promise of escape. 

Nothing.

Of course there was absolutely nothing. No sign of help nor refuge, not here and probably not anywhere else in this part of the damned city. From her place behind the counter, Letha could have sworn she heard the shattering of glass, as though someone had just stepped on a few shards. Even still, she refused to look up and face whoever had just entered, unsure of their intentions.

Then again, in times of bloodshed and mayhem, the line between friend and foe were entirely blurred, what with each and every person - regardless of status or loyalty - only looking out to save his or her own skin.

[madison-victor]

Paris is Burning || OPEN

The first thing Victor became aware of was the pain. It was radiating from his left side and his head mostly, though he could feel it absolutely everywhere. The second thing he became aware of was the smoke, filling his lungs, making him cough, making that left side hurt even worse. Cracking his eyes open it was all he could see, even when he lifted his hand to try and wave it out of the way.

He tried to sit up, squinting, hearing muffled cries in the distance. He couldn't hear out of his left ear at all which concerned him, though it was hard to care when he realized he was mere feet away from the flaming remains of the pharmacy he had minutes before been standing in front of.

Through the screaming pain in his skull he managed to register what had happened.

A bomb.

"Fuck," he wheezed, coughing as more smoke entered his lungs. Even though a large part of him wanted to lay back down and not move for a while, he forced himself to his feet, wobbling and even falling once before finally escaping the cloud of dust and debris.

Leaning heavily against a store window, he shed of his jacket, finding that it had been damaged beyond repair. He yanked his tie off, loosening his collar so that he could breathe a little easier, caught his reflection in the glass of the window. His hair was askew, and he was absolutely covered in dirt. Blood was seeping from a wound on his forehead as well as several other, smaller cuts.

He was in bad shape, but considering his history, he'd been worse.

He saw someone approaching from behind him in the reflection, and, adrenaline racing, grabbed his gun from his belt, turning as quickly as he could, ready to fight if he had to.

[lucaspark]

fleurette | OPEN

Lucas couldn’t help but smile as he made his way down the street. A month ago, he’d been having trouble finding reasons to be happy; things had been going alright, but it seemed as though he hit a snag at every turn. Now, though, things were beginning to turn around. The sun was shining, the weather was slowly warming up, and even the rain didn’t bother him very much – in fact, he felt as though it was the main reason he’d finally been able to get a good chunk of his next novel written. Of course, there was another possible reason, one that had far less to do with the weather and far more to do with a particularly charming young man... but that wasn’t the point.

After finishing the rough draft of another chapter, Lucas had decided to take a break and enjoy the rare bit of sunshine that was gracing Chicago. He decided to visit the park downtown – it was a bit of a walk, but he figured his legs needed the stretch. Besides, there might be some interesting people out and about, grateful for the sunshine.

There weren’t a whole lot of people there, but it didn’t bother Lucas too much. Upon taking a look around, he spotted a bright flash of green in a nearby patch of soil. Grinning to himself, he stepped over to it and squatted down, peering at it more closely. A tiny sprout had sprung up there, young and delicate, and though Lucas couldn’t figure out what it was exactly it still stirred something inside of him. It felt like a good omen, somehow.

He was so wrapped up in the tiny plant that, when he finally stood up once more, he backed right into the person standing next to him. While it wasn’t a violent motion, it was still pretty abrupt, so with a sheepish frown Lucas turned and mumbled apologetically, “Ah, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

[firestarter-sharpe]

For The Birds || Ryan & [OPEN]

Ryan Sharpe stared at the mostly un-eaten sandwich on his lap and sighed, the sound more a rumble of dissatisfaction from the back of his throat. By all accounts, it was a decent spring day. An overcoat was still a necessity, but the chill wasn't that bad, and even the wind seemed to have taken a day off.

Mostly.

Still, it wasn't terrible. Even the worst of Ryan's usual grumpiness was somehow curtailed, though he couldn't find it within himself to conquer the total apathy that seemed to come with his cooling down. His lips sat in a neutral line, eyes now shifting between bystanders and scenery. He wondered about Isabella, about Smokey, about Sarah and Dr. Grace. What if he paid one of them a visit?

The thought was accompanied by a snort. Ryan paying someone a social call. Now that was a fucking messed up thought if there ever was one.

A pigeon landed on the pavement in front of Ryan, pecking at the crumbs from his sandwich. Ryan's lips twitched, and he tore off a piece of bread and threw it at the bird. The pigeon, startled, flew off for only seconds before returning to pick at the new treat. Ryan couldn't help but smirk slightly, amused as a second bird came to fight for bread as well. He tore another piece and threw it at the ground, unaware that someone else was coming up the sidewalk he was feeding the pigeons on.