let me bleed for you.

It is an instinctive familiarity that guides her forward as the tempo changes. The hand at her waist is heatedly familiar too, but in light of everything it doesn't feel like anything she knows. It's heavy, a weight dragging her down so that this time she is the clumsy one. She trips over his feet, ankle threatening to roll before she corrects herself. It is concentration that gets her through the rest of the dance, determined not to make another mistake so that he won't know the effect he is having on her. "We used to do a lot of things." It is a cold an empty response, like one might give a stranger when they ask for the time. The song ends, and she is pushing herself away from him. "You even used to have two arms." Even without the other he is still handsome in that slutty way he has. All lean muscle and sex appeal. The fact that he has tried to look nice for her is the only thing keeping her from walking away and not looking back.

He doesn't mind the slight about his arm... in fact, he welcomes it. Acknowledgement of change is always better than pretending your way around it, and even though Seth misses the weight and wholeness of his flesh arm, he has to admit that the alloy prosthetic is the perfect conversation starter. At least it looks nice as they dance, its contours gleaming under the ambient lights as if its purpose is merely decorative. "You only count one?" Seth playfully challenges with a bite to his lip, and as the next song begins, he illustrates his point by switching his hands: the flesh one clasping into hers and the prosthetic sneaking onto her waist. Heavy, gripping, warmed only by friction. "Maybe it was an improvement."

protocol. who the fuck voted for that? oh, yeah... probably he did. well... it's for the best, he assumes. and honestly, it could be worse. he could've gotten that big brute seth got. at least this one, dodge, knows his place.

he steps to the side, holding a hand out for seth to take. he looks at his hand, almost surprised that it's not trembling. on the contrary, it's completely still. his breathing, perfectly normal. heart's not racing either. even if he did just kill a beast, ready to lunge at his friend and shred him into tiny pieces. it's almost like he's in his element here. being paranoid of a disaster like this happening to the city for decades does help, apparently.

"I thought I could run down to the corner store without incident, but... guess I was wrong, huh?" Seth takes Javi's outstretched hand, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt. He's a little shaky on his feet from all of the meet-your-maker adrenaline coursing throughout his body, but it's nothing he hasn't dealt with before: this is the fine line he likes walking, and the day it doesn't suit him is the day he welcomes death like a long-lost friend. He grins at Javi, patting the breast pocket of his jacket. "Only place in town that sells my cancer sticks. C'mon, you can be my big, strong escort back to the council building... I'm top-notch arm candy."

The encounter escalates quicker than Seth anticipates: he watches the ball of ink slowly swell between them, but before he can even react, the thing is a goddamn knife at his throat. His back hits the wall, his breath hitching with it, and he can barely swallow against all this acidic hatred without testing the blade's edge with his adam's apple. "Ooh, jealousy is a good look on you," Seth sneers into the mere inches of space between them, his teeth flashing in a humorless wolf's grin. He hates how adrenaline sparks through him like gunpowder, a series of molecular explosions that turn his pounding blood to froth and rush down to throb between his legs... at this proximity, Nate can probably notice, too. "Maybe paint the wall with the whole fuckin' Council then, huh? Take over, run it all into the ground, Maybe then Ezra'll notice you, right?"

it's always been easy to read deacon's expressions. he does such a bad job at trying to control them. and the knight, in his inebriated state, does even worse. what sunny doesn't expect is being rejected by him. brows furrow, almost offended at that. what does he mean 'no'...?

Of course, humor glances across Sunny's expression like light across a blade, but then... something else. Interest? Invitation? Ser Deacon is entranced and forgets about standing entirely, held there in Sunny's dark, appraising gaze like a deer frozen in headlights. His mouth falls open and he considers saying something but then his jaw only hangs ajar, dumbly, before closing again. There's nothing to say... only things to do.

marton's grip tightens on the butter knife in his hand when seth reaches over to steal from him, then mimics stabbing him in the hand with the jelly-covered blade. of course he doesn't, but the way his tail whips from left to right is a clear indicator of his annoyance. that's his snack! as if there isn't enough for everyone. "ugh. probably just a dumb joke." he turns around once he's done, taking a bite from his sandwich while watching seth. really appreciating the sight this time. "remember when I put up holos of you all over the place, too? what was it about again...? you were so angry." he smiles to himself. he probably bit him too, didn't he? he can't remember the details. he grabs the beer, and teleports onto the couch just after seth takes a seat on there as well. "do I get promoted to creative director now?"

Alvie lingers by the desk. The rapid-fire pulse of their victim's frightened heart drowns out their sputtering. It pounds in his head until it's all he thinks about, until the instant gratification of ripping out Mr. Briggs' throat seemed worth the punishment. But, the hand gently threading through his black curls return him to the present.

Briggs chokes a wet, stomach-deep sob as he puts weight on his splintered leg, but, miraculously, makes his exit exceptionally swift. He has no idea how he'll scrape together enough credits to clear such a debt, but as that monster's teeth glint and gnash their way into the deepest recesses of his mind, certain to haunt him there, he doesn't lack any motivation.

"How noble of you," he said, dryly. "To come all this way with a hand delivery. A lesser man might have eaten it." He was just beginning to think about lunch, too. "You can't be that...that scrapped for cash," he said. "You'd really shake down your own flesh and blood?" Not that he couldn't afford it -- give him an overnight in a lab with a block of lead, and he'd have a stack of gold bars come first light.

Jiro was back again to make Seth wriggle like a worm. At least, that was the idea he'd gotten from the one who hired him to do this the first time. Maybe he'd gotten a bit excessive because Seth didn’t actually need to sign any contract, but it was more fun that way if he could talk him into it. That didn't work. This time, however, he was not asking, simply doing and seeing how far he could get. He started placing signs on the building: DANGER: DEMOLITION IN PROGRESS, putting tape around the area and turning incoming patrons the other way.

It started out a considerably good day - a nice night of sleep, waking up to a pretty face, sharing a cup of coffee and a bang before work - but as he finally gets clear of the mutant horde and strolls up to the Lady's polished doors, he's greeted by what looks like the markers to an active construction zone. Holos decorate the premises, posters hang crooked along the windows, and plastic tape whips in the breeze, all of them decrying bold, black messages of DANGER. Seth turns on his heel to find the culprit and, noticing him further down the side of the building, makes a beeline for him, ripping off a snake-like tangle of tape along the way.

yes, javi feels hurried. no, it's not because of dodge. it's not because of anything extrenal at all. it's all in his head. it's always in his head. they're here. they're here. they're he-- dodge's voice cuts across all those thoughts, blessedly, and javi glances up with an expression of unrest, one he quickly blinks away into something else. distracted. "no. I'm uh, okay. let's go." he doesn't even remember whether he's supposed to be in the front, or the other. it's ridiculous. "I don't need an escort to go home from the university. I've taken this route hundreds of times before."

Something in Javi's voice suggests that he could use help in some capacity, but Dodge has never claimed to be a psychologist, and he certainly doesn't expect humans to trust him with their emotional burdens. He can only provide a shoulder if they need it or, if they don't, help wherever else he can. "I don't doubt that for a moment," Dodge reassures him, gently proceeding in what will probably be the first of several difficult conversations, "but the current threat conditions are unprecedented, sir. Certain security measures are protocol."