HALF LIGHT.

By the time Amara found her--admittedly not long into the evening--August was double-fisting drinks, which currently consisted of a pair of champagne flutes she'd swiped from a passing server's tray. Her attendance was an attempt at playing nice, to show the mob and Nico in particular that she wasn't about to cause further issues and that the Contingency would remain neutral despite her actions prior to her joining and eventually leading the organization. That didn't mean she liked it, and that coupled with the prospect of experiencing fireworks after years spent avoiding them put her in the worst of moods. This showed plainly in a flash look of indignation at the readability of her mood and she quickly tried to quiet her expression following that jab.

"She's one of one." Everyone knew that. Or at least she preferred to think they did because what followed was an extremely long monologue about why her better half outshone everyone else on the Eastern seaboard. "But I also respond to bribes and she knows that." Not that copious amounts of offerings and platitudes and whatever else could be offered were wholly necessary at this point. Avoiding a solo stay at home with the resident poltergeist was convincing enough. "Maybe we should get you something stronger. Walk with me."

"My edible isn't hitting hard enough yet for this shit." Not that Minnie didn't enjoy flirting with a bunch of rich women. Some of her friends would say her type was married but she was trying to be better behaved these days. Trying being the operative word. "How long do you think is respectable to stay at this thing? I don't want anyone to think I'm rude." Minerva made her voice soft before she laughed, both of them knowing that she didn't give a shit about what any of these people thought of her. "You want to check out the restaurant with me? Maybe I was wrong, the edible is kicking in. I suddenly have crazy munchies and these little finger foods aren't doing it for me." @amararoyce

"And she didn't even share." An edible might have been the only thing besides idle gossip and the occasional roast that could truthfully get her through an event like this. Opulent, and dazzling, and so far beyond the realm of what she wanted to be doing on a Saturday. Let alone the Fourth. But attending for Breslin's sake was a nonstarter and she'd show up in this curtain of a gown if it meant boosting her other half's career image. "Definitely two hours. After that, social obligations are paid." Or at least that was the argument she planned on making when the second hour struck. "Thought you'd never ask. Think they've got Italian even though everybody's in a napkin?"

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐮𝐩, though not necessarily in a dramatic, humiliating, everyone-look-at-the-poor-girl way. naturally, a date would be the only thing that would lead a girl like her to a bar like this; pink nails, glitter on eyelids, the doe-eyed look of someone who ended up in a place like this by accident. or by being stood up. still, she remained, an hour after the scheduled meet time. she was still perched at the bar, drinking rum and cokes and, seemingly, reviewing security footage with the bar owner like they were on law and order: special bikers unit. “wait, wait. oh my god, no. that’s totally him.” selin pointed at the screen, borderline drunk and far too invested. “look at the little guilty waddle. like a penguin.” she glanced toward the clock when amara did, then back toward the door, suddenly delighted by the possibility of live drama. “what happens if he does show his face?”

"It is," she nodded in agreement as they replaced the footage again before cursing, "motherfucker." Unbelievable that someone could not only be that careless twice in a row, but walk off without a note or trying to find the owner. Granted, people who stopped in loved their bikes more than strangers so he almost assuredly would've gotten his ass kicked, but it was the principle of the matter. "That's an insult to penguins." Amara smirked at the comparison before her gaze shifted back from the clock to her patron. "You know how to swing a bat?" Now her smile blew wide, megawatt and jovial. "Kidding. I can do it myself." For the other woman's sake, and in avoidance of any legal ramifications, that was a joke. "It would be a waste of these pretty nails anyway." A nod to the other woman's manicure. "By the way, whoever you were supposed to meet? He sucks. I can use the bat on him next if you'd like."

Oh, she heard them. Shit, she heard them on the first goddamned night in this God-forsaken house. Their move from their much-loved little place in another borough to Gracie Mansion was for both political and safety reasons, Amara insisting it was probably much easier to secure than anywhere else. For the most part, Breslin agreed, particularly now with a rogue terrorist organization trying to run their lives. Nights like this, however, had her doubting their decision.

"A bat and a hammer!" She called after her wife's retreating form as Breslin walked with the sort of determination only questionable specters could elicit. Because like hell was Amara planning to sit pretty and weaponless while her better half cleared the house like Jason fucking Bourne. "I put one in the weird chest thing next to the kitchen door and the other under our bed." The latter being near impossible to reach when said entities were no doubt guarding the stairs. At the mental image, a far worse possibility arose. "Ghosts can't pick up bats right? 'Cause that would really fuck our odds."

character: Amara Royce @amararoyce

"Oh, too late. She's got eyes and ears everywhere." At the very least, it would be one of the first things that Amara reported to her wife with a cackling laugh in the car ride home. Sorry, Nan. "Weed's not a crime anymore though. Gonna have to find somethin' else damning for your case." Of course, she was open to spitballing theories. What did her current state of being mildly tipsy exist for if not to be a sounding board and instigator? "Yeah Breslin told me that he took some personal time. You think he's still goin' through it?" Grief had no timeline, but it sounded as if the impact and its ricochet were still as fresh for Francis as the day it happened. "Loss is hard. And personal. There's so much to work out in your head before comin' up for air."