✽ ⸻ @timelvst rang for Spamsonne.
Sticks tongue out. For Spamton, unprompted
Finding himself at a quaint &. modest diner located at the bridge between the Dark Web District &. the Deep Web zone, Spamsonne is seated in a scarlet leather booth accompanied by four loyal associates: two Shadowguys, &. two Werewires. Navy blue walls fitted with retro decals encase the customers; on each table sits a centered orange lava lamp, perpetually in motion.
The crime boss himself is enjoying a grilled, marinated tuna steak with a side of asparagus &. rice pilaf, alongside a soy-ginger sauce dip. ( In reality, all of the meals here appear to be 3D modeled. ) Light clinking of his fork &. knife upon the plate as he eats⸻in between chewing &. swallowing, discussing business matters with the rest of them.
❛Tomorrow, I need you four to pay a visit to the Lilac twins over on 8th Circuit Avenue. Tell 'em by next month, I want double. Don't bother sortin' the mail⸻just leave 'em the message for me. I won't tolerate any more late payments, neither.❜
Sorting the mail... what a pretty little euphemism for property damage that is.
As the four nod in understanding, Spamsonne lowers his utensils to then imbibe a slow, savoring sip of his Amaro Montenegro, con ghiaccio; the bittersweet &. herbal flavors it carries are a beautiful complement to the gingery notes of his grilled fish. ... &. as his associates continue to converse amongst themselves, the Don begins to drift away into his thoughts—into his many slow-unraveling schemes.
He doesn't yet seem to notice the woman who had drifted nonchalantly into the diner as if it were a lemonade stand on a hot summer's day. That is, until he idly turns his head to witness the shape of her. Acrylic eyes briefly scan her physique before retreating to his meal, seeming disinterested.
But then his proverbial stomach drops to the floor.
A swift double-take through widened eyes. That's a goddamn Lightner he's never seen before. That's the precise moment where their eyes meet &. the stranger sticks her tongue out at him.
In a purely somatic reaction, he inhales far too quickly into his drink &. the chilled beverage spills into the wrong pipe of his plastic throat. Cue the head mafioso wheezing &. gasping into the open air as ball-jointed hands scramble for his cloth napkin. Stifling his moment of weakness with the eggshell colored fabric, rhonchus audible to the ears—meanwhile, the four associates practically lunge to assist him.
✽ Such a miniscule gesture of playfulness serving as confirmation that he hasn't lost his mind; that's real. That's a real person, a real human, whom he somehow failed to sense was a Lightner, until now. That's simply unheard of for Darkners. It goes against the very nature of the very Dark World, in fact.
Once the coughing &. hacking dies down, Spamsonne waves off the others to assure them he's fine.
❛Alright, alright, thank you—I'm good,❜ he insists eventually, with a final rasp.
The boss' attention returns to the unknown woman while patting his perpetually bared teeth dry until it's free of liquor droplets.
If his senses were right⸻which, they are⸻her presence feels as if it's simply wrong. Not to say she's unwelcomed by Spamsonne, but rather as if she were an anomaly who shouldn't even be here at all. This lingering sensation of ... flickering emptiness in Spamsonne's chest cavity is a telltale sign for this; it's in stark contrast to the instances where he interacted with Kris Dreemurr during his days as ❝Spamton❞ : instances where his chest would palpably swell with LIGHT whenever their SOUL would draw near.
He needs to know what's going on here—needs to understand what this is. What she is.
Proceeding to stand up from his spot in the booth, Spamsonne approaches the human before him with footfalls that click upon the diner's dark vinyl flooring. Accompanying associates simply stay back to observe; they'll step in promptly if something goes awry.
❛Good evenin', miss,❜ Spamsonne greets her, before gingerly taking her hand into his own. Offering a chivalrous kiss to the back of her palm &. taking a step back out of courtesy. Lifeless eyes flick to the notebook in her possession for a passing glance—taking note ( is she a journalist, or maybe an author of some kind? )—then shift back up to her gentle visage.
❛My name's Spamsonne G. Sanguigni. An esteemed businessman in these parts. All due respect, you seem a little lost⸻if I may be frank? These aren't exactly the friendliest parts of the city—even less so as you proceed South, you see. Does a beautiful lady such as yourself need anything?❜
A pause, &. a lighthearted chuckle as he swipes back his salt &. pepper hair with his dominant hand,
❛—Or did you just feel like stickin' your tongue out at me for the fun of it?❜
