twirling cosmos

Nate smiled, because technically. Yes. They were part of some kind of driving service. And they were, coincidentally, also waiting to pick someone up. They stared at their phone, they opened the door to the black SUV. "That's me," he said, with enough confidence to convince himself of the fact as well. Could be him. For all he knew, it was him.

It was much saver to assume it was him, than to get a good scolding later when he showed up empty handed. And he didn't see anyone else waiting to be picked up. "Have a seat!"

— 𝙃𝙖𝙙 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙, he would have known better. He would have questioned the man in the car, checked the license plate, asked for a photo ID or even confirm the service he worked for. But Bank was not in the right state of mind. The sidewalk swirled before him. The buildings across the street melted into the starless night sky. That last drink had been one too many – or maybe it was whatever that guy in the bathroom had offered him. Whatever the final straw had been, Bank did not have the means to question the dark car or the nameless stranger. 

So he climbed into the back seat. 

❝ ‘m goin’ home,❞ Words slur out of his mouth. ❝I’m on...uh...three blocks over from here...I think...❞, Bank offers, failing to supply as much as a building number or adjacent street he could be dropped at. ❝D’you have any aspirin? Advil?❞ He asks. ❝I gotta try and prevent the inevitable.❞

he's wondering what she'll be wearing tonight, for once in his bleedin' life he's on time ( if a ten-minute leeway counts, sure, he's on time ), his breath fogs out in front of him stepping out of the car so he can lean backward against it. he's already reaching into his pocket for a rollie, when the little posh boy opens his mouth.

" m' i from wa' ? " incredulous, the hushed laugh is harsh, breath fogging in a sudden cloud. " look a' me mate. " a hand gestures down at himself. a sweet swiss watch, the name of which he cannot pronounce, italian shoes ( can't afford them yet, they're borrowed, but the geezer doesn't know that ), despite the temperature, his lightly oiled chest and gold chain ( nothing too chunky, just enough to glint a bit ) still makes an appearance in a deep V under a thick velvet shirt that's framed by the leather jacket. " y'think a bloody chauffeur dresses like me ? "

— 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙠'𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙣𝙩 at the man's features before him. But his eyes swim — was that a leather jacket, or a cheap pleather knockoff? The gold chain around his neck, could Bank see some of the paint rubbing off? He stares harder, and the silence lingers for even longer.

❝Honestly, I have no idea if you're dressed like a chauffeur or not,❞ Bank admits. Most of the time, they knew Bank by name and, more often than not, they would even open the door for him.

Bank pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe he'd had more drinks tonight than he'd realized.

❝Shit. Uh —❞ He scrambles for his phone again. And then, quite blatantly, says ❝I can't read this, man.❞

Her half-sibling, Bank, possessed an uncanny ability to elicit in Anchali an overwhelming desire to drive her head straight into the fucking wall. Recently, due to an embarrassing incident involving a board meeting, the two found themselves entangled in the clutches of a corporate retreat—a purported team-building event designed to instill a semblance of cooperation in their sibling rivalry. Anchali's trademark undercuts and her turbulent disregard for her brother's authority had undoubtedly earned her a spot on her father's shit list, condemning her to navigate these tense corporate waters for the foreseeable future.

The setting for their reluctant collaboration was a high-tech marvel of a building, effectively functioning as a metaphorical prison, where Anchali and Bank were compelled to work in unison. The Escape Room, of challenges presented a series of puzzles that demanded their joint efforts to decipher and ultimately "escape" within a designated time frame. The tension in the air was teeming as the half-siblings found themselves immersed in an environment that mirrored the complexities of their strained relationship. Anchali's sharp wit and acerbic commentary punctuated the air, "Would it kill you to approach this with some semblance of competence?"

— 𝘾𝙤𝙧𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜: you're not getting along and I have to prove to HR that we're at least trying. Bank, however, was a grown man, and under the belief that he did not have to spend time with anyone that he didn't want to. So why was he stuck in a maze of rooms trying to locate three keys which would only lead them to another series of locks and puzzles with his sister nagging in his ear?

❝Would it kill you to take the stick out of your ass?❞ Bank groans. He is not taking this team-building exercise seriously in the slightest. ❝ I mean — how is this even a 'team building exercise'? I've spent thirty years working with you, what is one escape room gonna do to fix that?❞ Eyes roll. ❝You're just getting in the way of me solving this, anyway,❞ Not that Bank had been looking hard for clues. He was smart enough to hire other people to look for him. Delegate. Wasn't that the point of a good leader? ❝Aren't you miss smarty-pants anyway? Why haven't you solved this thing and gotten us out in record time?❞

Veer was being inconspicuous, black hoodie, skinny jeans, beat-off vans, his hair fluffy and falling over his forehead. He was quiet as a mouse, moving through the world without leaving a single imprint, could've been a spy, if he didn't have such a big mouth. He'd been sitting at the bus stop for about ten minutes, staring out into the rain, the other person gave no sign that they'd noticed him.

They weren't so sure if they liked that, the silence would drive them mad. Sound, they loved sound. Even in their hide-outs now, they had a machine nearby, the wiring of its fans a reminder that they were alive.

"Did you know this bus stop was the direct inspiration for the famed bus episode of Spongebob?" they asked, smirking as they spoke. "One of the writers sat at this exact spot for three hours, then really had to pee, and as they returned, the bus drove off. Then they sat another four hours before another came. True story." Perfect bullshit. But hey, Spongebob had saved their life in prison, truly.

— 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙘 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, in fact, he would call for an UBER before setting foot on a bus. The smell, first of all, and having to sit next to strangers? He wasn't looking to get a case of lice at all, thanks. But bus stops were useful for a few things - he could stand out of the way, without worry of someone pushing past him. There were a few with shaders up - which meant a bit more privacy when making phone calls.

And, perhaps more importantly, they were better for smoking cigarettes than some grimy alley where rats might run across his foot.

Ironically, he is actually waiting for a ride, but not from the bus. He brings a cigarette to his lips while he waits, thinking he'll mind his own business and the other bus stop occupants will mind theirs. Until, that is, one of them starts talking. In a black hoodie and jeans, they're irrelevant to Bank. But once they start talking, Bank knows he would recognize that voice anywhere.

❝What the fuck are you talking about?❞ Bank asked. ❝Next thing you'll tell me is that the whole show was inspired by someone who went scuba-diving while they were high and had an enlightening conversation with a starfish.❞ Bank was not having any of it. ❝ I call bullshit.❞