a line—from me to you

❛ ━━━━ ♥ hi hi!  i’m dova, she/her, garbage trash can of a woman.  nice to meet y’all!  sorry for the delayed intro; i’ve been slammed with work the past few days and i wasn’t expecting to pass out on the couch nightly, lmaooo.  anywhoo!!!  here’s my gremlin of a woman, zehra, an ex-member of the burning gods gang, but now turned widower/borderline hotel maid.  she’s basically the epitome of you holding your own shaking fist and telling yourself not to do it.

feel free to hop into my dms or pms!  i’m down to plot, but i think it’d be more fun to just throw a starter at you, closed or otherwise, and see where the words and vibes take us.  if you like this intro, that’s what i’ll probably do, bahah.

【 i’ll get a wc list up in a few days and start responding to the open starters already there!!  figured it’d be better to at least get bio and hcs out first c: 】

❛ ━━━━zehra is a woman on a mission. she has no interest in the decor, the chandelier, the people clad in fabrics worth ten times her rent while she dons an old halloween costume.  she crosses the dance floor without a second glance at the couples that have to irritably step aside to avoid her colliding into them.

there are workers dressed in their finest bowties and masks, carrying silver trays with glass drinks that don’t smudge with your fingertips and hors d’oeurves that she can neither identify nor pronounce.  but she has her eyes on the fucking prize: the longest table she’s ever seen with a quantity of food that could feed the entire city and a quality where she could die happy.  the food is laid out for all guests to feast upon, both with their eyes and hungry mouths.  fancy schmancy parties for the rich always have the best vegetarian foods.  

zehra pops a stuffed mushroom in her mouth; the flavors melt against her taste-buds and she moans under her breath.  “oh my god, that’s good,” she says, and then takes a napkin from the table, wraps up 8 of the mushrooms, and shoves it in her purse. this was a great idea, she thinks. 

.

how he’d gotten there wasn’t exactly important, but he did look a little like he’d gotten the hell beaten out of him. split lip, bruised cheek, and a permanent knot in his stomach had him leaning back against an alleyway wall, hacking and groaning like a dying man. he always had a flair for the dramatic. his head leaned back and eyes focused upwards at the swirling clouds in the sky, rumbling and leaving the air sticky and heavy with rain, and he was about two train rides away from home. great. he collected himself a little better and sat up straighter at the sight of the woman, wanting to be some semblance of a gentleman when she sat down. he found himself thinking of his appearance and what exactly about it was welcoming right now, not that he was complaining. maybe the cuts and bruises made him look kinda dangerous sexy and she was wooing him with being a human ( or well, possibly android, he wasn’t prejudiced ) woman and offering pizza. that was pretty much all it took to impress him.

“oh wow, that is exactly what ass tastes like.” he says with an almost appreciative nod, chewing slowly. he listens to her speak, his head tilting slightly in contemplation, eyes returning skyward as he considered this. “maybe, i don’t know, i think the rain just kinda pisses me off rather than making me nostalgic.” his gaze then flickers to her and he remembers his earlier thought, dangerous and sexy, and off-handedly says, “you look great, don’t worry.” before motioning to his face all unceremoniously, using the slice of pizza for effect, “oh, you know…” he says casually, “got my ass beat.” he shrugs, taking another bite before speaking over a full mouthful, “you should see the other guy though.” he says, mostly just to stroke his own ego. after a quiet moment of chewing he adds, “i don’t know, this shit’s kinda fire even despite the ass taste and lingering piss smell, but more importantly, what brings you out here?”

❛ ━━━━at his agreement that the pizza tastes like ass, she raises her own slice in solidarity and says, “i never lie,” which is, of course, an absolute lie.  she had to lie to steal the pizza itself, for one, and for two, if the moral good of the universe were judging solely on lies, she’d have earned her one-way-ticket to hell by eleven years old, a wee lying lass.

“pisses you off, hmm?” she repeats, eyeing the injuries.  it seems like a recent fight, but there are bruises already growing on his cheeks.  the purple blossoming makes her fingers twitch.  she gets the sudden urge to press her finger against it and trigger the pain, in a dark and mean intrusive thought kind of way—but she doesn’t.  surely, that’s a win, and it’s another compromise, she thinks, because once she gets to know him better—if they ever meet up again—she’d definitely do it for the laughs.  she can wait until then.  “so, is that why you’re beat up and the other guy’s, what, dead?”  she’s joking—only half-so, because in a city like this, one could never be sure.  “the weather triggers your flight or fight?”

zehra gives him a wry smile.  “perhaps the grease and cheese just masks the flavor of blood in your mouth,” she offers.  “the only thing that’s about to be on fire is our asses on the toilet later.  i’m pretty sure this is a day or two old.  i don’t think dairy’s supposed to sit out for that long.”

zehra & deacon.

     𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 — or he’s just not paying enough attention. the smell of cheese and grease draws him towards zehra like a vulture to its dying prey, and without any hesitation, slips his hand inside the box for a slice. he’s stoned as balls, his eyes an alarming shade of puffy and mouth cotton-dry. the cigarette in his hand doesn’t help, nor will the pizza, but at this point, he’ll devour just about anything. 

he nearly moans at the first bite, grease dripping from his fingers onto the sleeve of his hoodie. “i like ass” he mutters through the munch. the cigarette is completely forgotten, the ash that had collected at the tip now fallen off on the small puddle at his feet. he stares at the burnt-out butt like it’s the first time he’s seen a cigarette in his hand, maybe forgets how it got there at least, but ultimately flicks it away.

“waiting,” is all he says. it’s all he can say. though this is decidedly not the first time they’re standing in an alley together — the one behind the hotel after her shift is a favorite to share a smoke with — he could never, in good conscience, trust zehra. no matter how much he wants to just divulge everything, get it all over with, then maybe have her hide him in the maids quarters like her grotesque little mongrel she’d feed with whatever scraps she could find… he can’t. so instead, he leaves her cryptic responses and compliments like, “i still think your hair is pretty, though,” deftly reaching out to let his fingers graze against her dark curls. “but can you like, steal the good shit from alfredo’s next time?”

❛ ━━━━zehra snorts, rolling her eyes.  “i’m sure you’ve burned off your tastebuds by now, considering all the extra vitamins you take in,” she remarks.  “no one likes eating ass, d; we just do it.”  when deacon reaches out to graze her hair, she narrows her eyes, honing in on the redness of his eyes, the grease on his hoodie, and the cigarette he so easily flicked away.  she swats his hand away and says accusingly, “oh, you selfish jackass, you’re high as balls right now, aren’t you?”  

zehra elbows him in the side, half-teasingly and half truly annoyed that she is sober and he isn’t ( despite her previous comment on his diet ); she doesn’t adjust the force to take into account his current state either, not caring if her nudging pushes him over.  “that’s strike two, deacon, and whenever i figure out how to get passed that bastard’s security android, i’ll send you a video of me chowing down boxes of alfredo’s pizza alone.”

where: the roof of the gravity night club when: random tuesday, around 6:30 am with: open

Usually she wouldn’t spend endless hours at the club; there were times when she enjoyed her slothful nights in the sweet comfort of her home a little too much. But a good relationship with management and security personnel came with its own perks; whenever the emptiness of her dark, cold apartment didn’t feel alluring, she’d stay a little longer, lingering by the corners or sitting by the bar – she was scribbling something in the margins of her notebook, biting on a pencil as well as her burgundy-painted nails.

The realization of the entire building succumbing to sheer silence got to her, though, and when Emmanuelle finally looked at her phone, it was screaming of an ungodly hour. On Tuesdays, The Gravity Nightclub would sometimes close earlier – and it was one of those lucky times; but she was still there, dancing with the shadows. Without much excitement, she left her chair and sighed. She wasn’t rushing to her car – instead, she checked if she really was left alone; she checked if the hiding place for a set of spare keys didn’t get changed. They still trusted her, apparently, and no higher reward could exist.

She put on her jacket, grabbed the leather bag and found her way to the stairs, leading up to the roof. Countless hours were there, looking at the neon city under her feet – lovely view, she always thought, as she was taking a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. —- With a second thought and puff of the smoke, she subconsciously looked back as an echo of an unfamiliar sound reached her – suddenly a blade in her pocket began burning her side. The was someone walking towards her, and she knitted her eyebrows in frustration. “What the fuck,” she silently mumbled to herself before they finally appeared in front of her. “How the fuck did you get here? At this hour, the building should be closed.”

❛ ━━━━club la boom had closed before zehra could get a good buzz in ( that’s not true; she has a good buzz but she isn’t ready to go home and face another dreamless night ).  so, instead, she makes her way to the gravity night club and finds—an extremely similar disappointment.  the denizens of the night were making their way back to the cold and quiet rooms, which, truthfully, was an affront to all that is good and reasonable in the world.  it was only 6:30, people, she wanted to scream.

but—instead of shouting at passersby and drawing unnecessary attention to herself, zehra waited until the drunkards cleared the streets, and before the morning light could grace her with moral reasonings, she picked the lock and slipped inside.  then, she jumped over the counter—less smooth than the action heroes did in the movies—and nicked a bottle of tequila from the bottom shelf ( it’s always a compromise; she’ll leave the top shelf goodies alone ) and then pocketed the salt bottle and a handful of limes.  after making sure the coast is clear, zehra does her nifty magic trick—read: illegal act—and makes her way up the stairs to the roof.  she expects to watch the sunrise, drunk off her ass, but instead, she finds someone is already there with, maybe, a similar idea.

❛ ━━━━zehra chugs her fifth mojito that hour and, with an annoyed wipe at her mouth with the back of her hand, grabs the long island iced tea from the counter beside her ( in front of the empty barstool ) before storming off toward the bathrooms.

"you think you can hide from me, asshole?” she mutters.  she pushes through a group standing in the way, flicking them a middle finger when they yell drunken obscenities at her back.  “always up for a stupid cooking class, but you can’t go forty minutes in a weenie-hut-junior equivalent of a night club before running off to the bathrooms?”

when zehra makes it to the end of the hall, she enters the men’s bathroom without sparing a second glance at the other rooms.  mustering her breath and the worst british accent known to man, she yells, “oi! i know you’re in here, you bloody melt!” there is a man at the urinal who looks at her with a horrified surprise and another one passed out in a disgusting corner.  two of the three stalls have shoes beneath them. “come on, you chav, are you havin’ a wobbly? didja think you could hide in ‘ere and i wouldn’t come in, you cheeky arse.”

after a quick eenie-meenie, zehra smacks the stall on her left and shoves her foot  underneath the gap.  “this you in ‘ere, mate?”

“sod off,” comes the reply in equally terrible british.

“fuck you, bloody wanker,” zehra snaps.

          Danny’s about to grumble that he thinks he has some cash on him ( hoping the service bot doesn’t ask him to insert the bill anywhere fuckin’ strange ) when the girl smacks the bot’s head emphatically . “Jesus …” Danny trails off, shooting a glance at the android’s face to make sure it’s eyes didn’t start glowing red.

He’s a few years behind New York’s technological advancements. Most of his detective work is still done the old fashioned way,  turns out there’s not much more effective than just parking a car outside of some’s place and waiting for them to fuck up. 

“I have cas —” the sound of her palm slapping against the android’s head fills the shop again. His lips part but, sure enough, the bot gives a flicker before chirping a happy song and letting him know it’s ready for his payment scan. “Remind me to never get on your bad side,” Danny shoots her a grin and waves his wrist in front of the sensor, exhaling when it enthusiastically accepts his payment. 

“Glad you showed up. I was starting to think I’d have to shoot it.” Danny gives the android another weary glance, just to be sure, then adds. “ … just kiddin’.”

❛ ━━━━maybe—if it were a different day; if zehra had gotten up on the left side instead of the right side of the bed; if it had been sunny instead of dark and dreary and drizzling; if if the pizza she stole were better than it is; if she weren’t a fucking widow—maybe then things would be better.  not good, because there was a distinct understanding in the back of her her mind that things could never be good, but just a little more tolerable.

today has been intolerable, however. all she wants is to break windows or set a governmental building on fire ( because, honestly, what is the p o i n t of all of those administrative buildings if every single suit-and-tie is under the oppressive thumb of one of the gangs ). but—that’s not allowed, neither legally nor morally; zehra only cares because she wants to at least try and meet her spouse on the other side instead of diving headfirst in the fiery pits the moment she takes her final breath.

so, as a compromise, she steals a box of cheese pizza—even though she’s lactose intolerant—and settles down beside another who’s about to get caught in the rain, maybe sans umbrella like her.

Location: Anywhere

y/muse could be catching him red handed, it could be their car, or they could have just stopped for a second and he panicked, or whatever you want to roll with!

He was over halfway through his flask. It’s where his brilliant stupid plans come to him. Jameson barely caught the car from the corner of his eye, looked like one of Lucy’s. An old car practically winking at him to steal it. If he wasn’t doing something to terrorize his eldest brother,  was it really his life? A bit shaken on his knees he glanced to the license plate. It checked out. It did not. In reality he was one number OFF.

Jameson saw this as an opportunity he would solely regret if he didn’t pounce on it. A challenge he couldn’t just leave it alone. There’s a few minute performance from the random passerby whilst he patted himself down for phantom keys. Looked through the windows and cursed as if he had locked his keys inside for any curious fucks.  “Alright Lucy.” He muttered to himself, while he haphazardly  broke the window to the car. Alarm started to blare as he opened the car from the inside. He worked quick, using his covered sleeve to brush some shards off of the seat. Pocket knife out as he started the work. The alarm had been disabled, and if he would have taken two more seconds he would have noticed the detail on the dashboard. Clearly not Lucien Farrow’s car.

it didn’t register until there was a shadow that approached from his peripheral vision. A quick jerk of his head and it collided against what was hanging off the mirror. FUCK. Jameson cursed at himself. He was quick to get in, and he needed to be quick with his words. His head pivoted so his blue hues met the other’s. A chuckle followed by a hiccup. “Oh shit. Is this yours? Thought I lost my keys.” This was just his luck. 

❛ ━━━━ zehra doesn’t often get cabin fever—actually, it’d be more accurate to say she never does.  she leaves when she has to: errands, work, whenever her neighbor gets one of their bright ideas of taking random cooking or pottery classes.  the other few times that she leaves is when she feels like she starts hovering over him, or anyone really—like an insecure child, or a haunting.  it’s not the greatest feeling, feeling like a parasite.  if her husband were still here, he’d probably smirk his little stupid charming smirk and snicker about her being too in her head.

anyways, this is one of the rare days where she needs to take a walk around the block, and it is just her interesting luck that she stumbles upon an interesting sight: a man with a flask breaking the window of her stuffy bitch-of-a-neighbor’s beat up hyundai.  she steps closer, hands in her pocket and head tilted in an intense fascination at the speed in which he disables the alarm. 

OPEN STARTER  LOCATION: CHINATOWN  TIME: NOON-ISH?

There are certainplaces Danny avoids nowadays; particular pockets of particular boroughs where it wouldn’t be particularly difficult for him to slip through a crack to never be seen again. Chinatown, however, has yet to prove itself a place like this. Which Danny considers lucky given 90% of his diet consists of pork buns and ramen. The neighborhood was vibrant before what he’s taken to calling the Neon Invasion of 2025 and now color spilled incandescently over the streets, cramped boba shops beaconing out their promise of being the best with brilliant pink and orange lights.

Danny’s in one of those shops now, this one known more for its hand-pulled noodles than tea, but all staff seems to have vacated the place — save for the single Android beaming up at him artificially. An older one, he thinks, or not properly updated … though he’s admittedly out of touch with the advancements being made in that field. [ He had lost interest in the whole thing after he learned you could put your dick in certain models. ] “ Is.. is there a human working? “ Danny murmurs, looking a little lost and weary but not wholly impolite.

“Ready for payment, sir!” The android chips back happily, the tinny quality of its – his? voice making Danny pull a face he can’t help. “Yeah, yeah I’m fuckin’ tryin’.” Danny replies, gruffly but once again not without an apologetic undertone. He waves his smart watch over at the glorified Ramen Bot’s sensor for maybe the 6th time. “Ready for payment, sir!” The android says again, to which Danny hangs his head in defeat before instinctively looking around for some kind of assistance and — OH. He isn’t alone.

Danny grimaces, shooting a quick prayer to any higher power that would listen (sorry Ma) that the person hadn’t been there for attempts 1 through 5 of trying to pay for his noodles. He laughs and internally winces at how high strung the sound comes out. “I can’t fuckin’ get the thing to work. Are you any good with these..” He waves, still not totally sure what to call the Android.

❛ ━━━━ zehra sips at her creamy ube boba as she watches the man struggle to get the service bot to accept the card in his hand.  it chirps and trills brightly at him as he mutters darkly and irritably; she can almost see the smoke wafting off the back of his neck from embarrassment, annoyance, or frustration, maybe some fun cocktail of all of them and more.  zehra was making a pit stop in chinatown to stock up on boba drinks ( no ice so that both the taste and quality would last longer in her crap fridge ) and grab dinner for her and her neighbor.  she had been craving the thai vegan place earlier, but for whatever inexplicable reason, she had made her way here—to think that she almost missed this fantastic show.

it tells him that it’s ready for payment again, like a broken record or a begging—please, please, just pay and go.  if it could speak, she wonders if that’s what it would say.

“they don’t bite, you now,” zehra says, snickering.  she sets her drinks on the counter in front of them and steps beside him.  “it’s an older model, so it can be a little buggy.”  zehra smacks the machine on its head; it’s slightly indented from years of use, and oddly curved in the way the way that the first and second trial prototypes were, revealing how the engineers hadn’t quite figured out how to seamlessly transfer the human physique to metal and plastic.  zehra gives it another good smack with her fist, causing the machine to flicker for a few seconds before settling back into its catch phrase—“ready for payment, sir!”

                           ꙳       ⋆        ⌕.      [     𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧    𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫   .    ]           :    //    𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗    .   .   .   time  square    :    02:00  AM   EST

                          𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬   𝐨𝐟   𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬   𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭   enough   to   visit   during   the   night.   she’s   alone   regardless   of   redeye’s   attempts   to   provide   aeirth   somewhat   of   a   life.   the   controlled   life   was   suffocating   for   humans   and   androids   alike.   when   given   the   opportunity   to   sneak   past   the   guards   aerith   refused   to   hesitate.   she   convinced   herself   that   if   she   always   returned   it   wouldn’t   have   mattered   if   she   left   —   better   to   ask   for   forgiveness   than   for   permission   ! 

 within   a   handful   of   years   new   york   city   developed   quicker   than   anyone   had   anticipated.   the   city’s   gothic   architecture   was   drenched   in   neon   lights   ;   erasing   the   history   that   built   its   diverse   society   from   the   ground   up.   greenery   replaced   with   screens   and   the   streets   were   flooded   with   sex   ,   money   ,   drugs.   you   didn’t   have   to   hide   in   a   city   like   this.   

                           𝐢𝐭’𝐬   𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.   𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬   are   nearly   empty   ,   everyone’s   occupied   in   the   clubs   and   casinos.   the   shining   lights   reflected   from   the   puddles.   aerith   observed   her   reflection   ,   unable   to   recognize   the   face   staring   back   at   her.   the   sensation   of   a   figure   bumping   into   her   awakened   aerith   from   her   trance   like   state.   she   became   defensive   (   after   all   ,   she   wasn’t   allowed   out   at   this   hour   )       ❛❛    who   are   you   ,   what   do   you   want   ?    ❜❜

❛ ━━━━ if it isn’t for that shady grocery store that’s practically in shambles,  zehra would never have a full fridge.  she doesn’t know what it is they’re doing in there—obviously, it’s a front for something bigger, darker even—but she hasn’t tried breaking in, both through their physical locks and cyber ones. she’s incredibly nosy—toxically and disastrously so—but if they ever found out and hunted her down—or worse, barred her from ever shopping their again—she’d truly reach rock bottom.  because of their less-than-clear activities, they were the only grocery store open past midnight; there have been several times where she had showed up at 4 am, a bottle of jack daniel’s in one hand and a wad of cash in the other, and they flipped on the lights and let her grab her ingredients for the week.  thus, she’s completely fine with simply (and obsessively) imagining what skeletons they have under lock and key from afar, but never truly knowing. ( a girl needed to prioritize her olive oil and tomatoes after all. )

with her bags in hand, she glances down for what feels like a brief second because it feels like her shoes are untied—when, in reality, she’s wearing high socks and slides—and then she bumps into someone.  it isn’t surprising that someone else is awake—the city that never sleeps has that reputation, after all—but shock and annoyance that someone was standing in her way, she drops a few bags.  some vegetables and cleaning supplies roll out; zehra clicks her tongue and swears as she bends over to collect her things. above her, the other person goes on the offensive.

zehra sighs.  “please calm yourself. i am a stranger;  i have no relation to whatever you’ve done or whoever you’ve done it to,” she says, her voice as dramatic as her words.  “it is 2 am and i’m trying to do my errands, and i would encourage you, if you continue to feel the intense need to stand and stare off into space, that you do it off to the side.”