bloodied lives

Wolf began somewhat-frantically shuffling through files on his desk. "Oh, no, I'm sure they are around here somewhere. I was playing... well. It was with a pen. I wouldn't think to toss anything you gave me." He continued looking for anything that looked out of place. "Maybe they are... well - what files exactly? Did you need?"

"Oh? Playing with a pen?" Sarang rests her freshly manicured hands on the front of the secretary's desk. "There has to be a more entertaining way to pass the time."

When Romi first locked eyes with Sarang, she could feel chill run down her spine. She saw her from across the dining room and it took everything in her not to turn and bolt the other way. Up until now, she’d had quite the talent of slipping into another room anytime she saw her sister’s old best friend. Given that she was still a member of the Weiss family, in her own right, this happened more than she cared to admit. But up until now, she’d been able to dodge any sort of real, inevitably uncomfortable, conversation. As she saw Sarang approaching, there was nowhere to run. So instead, she gave a tight smile.

When they’d been younger, she’d simply been Petra’s annoying little sister, always wanting to spend time with the older girls and be their friend. But then, as they’d gotten older, the sisters’ relationship had become more volatile until finally, it all came to a head that fateful night. Afterwards, Sarang had had questions, understandably so—she wanted to know why her best friend had just seemingly up and vanished. But Romi hadn’t had any good answers for her at the time, too guilty to even discuss her sister. She could tell that that the woman didn’t trust her. However, she’d been certain there was no proof of her wrongdoing so therefore, no reason to worry. That was until she ran into Petra herself, last summer.

Now with Sarang here in front of her, she wondered to herself if she knew that Petra was alive after all. And if she did, there was no way her sister hadn’t aired out all their dirty secrets. But she couldn’t be sure, not yet. I had to give my compliments to the chef. That was her first red flag. It’s not that Romi didn’t try her best—she was doing the best she could with what she was given. But the Flying Saucer was no fine dining establishment and she was pretty certain that the dark-haired woman had more refined tastes than this. Still, she smiled along with the compliment—what else could she do?

Romi met Sarang's greeting in its level of inauthenticity, the sort of saccharine excess responsible for the bulk of childhood cavities. Each word uttered comes with the sensation of hard candy ramming continuously into an already decayed tooth. It's only a matter of who could stomach it the longest, and Sarang's tolerance for falsities is especially high from years of practice. It was the only way for one to adequately maneuver social interactions with the local elite. By skirting on the outskirts of propriety, Romi carves out a pocket of the world purely for herself.

In her own way, Sarang understands wholeheartedly what it means to exist to your parents as a sum of failed and met expectations and nothing more. It's one of the major reasons leading to the unexpected demise of Sarang's own mother. In some alternate universe, Sarang is even sympathetic toward the youngest Weiss sister. She'd been succumbing to the weight of life chosen by someone else. It is a fierce loyalty to Petra that prevents her from doing so, a loyalty venturing beyond the realm of mere reason.

Sarang follows Romi to a more private part of the restaurant. Her expression of mock sympathy is paired with folded hands clasped across the table. "I've been wondering how you're doing. How have you been handling things? Since the... accident." Sarang is unspecific in her address, but the event didn't require specifics for Romi to have known what she'd been referring to. It was the sort of accident capable of derailing her future in its entirety. "I thought it would be the perfect oppurtunity for me to check in on you."

WREN'S LEAST FAVORITE, YET MOST CRUCIAL, PART OF BEING A SLAYER IS TRACKING DOWN VAMPIRES. Although he had weapons on hand in case he encountered one, he always felt like a lamb walking into a den of wolves whenever he went out by himself. He'd feel more comfortable with a teammate, but he knew part of being a slayer meant tackling assignments solo. After all, there were only so many slayers to spare and such a large city to cover.

And a situation like this is precisely why he longed for a partner. He had spotted a vampire feeding on a patron outside of a club, and after checking to confirm the human was alive, he ran after the creature in an attempt to slay it. But, with his luck, the vampire slipped away in the crowd.

And that wasn't the only thing to slip away. Wren had turned to move, but ended up slipping on an untied shoelace. He fell to the ground, watching as his stake rolled out of his bag and ended in front of a passing bystander. His face flushed red as he stuttered, "I can explain."

Rosalin sighs, a sigh of exhaustion more than anything. Not from lack of sleep (for she hadn't slept more than four hours since her early twenties), but the sort of exhaustion that could only come from being responsible for someone other than yourself. To think that she'd vowed to remain childless all her life, only to end up the pseudo-guardian of two fully grown men. She wears a somber expression of disapproval.

Despite his clumsiness, Rosalin possessed a soft spot for the young slayer. She knew when he dropped his gaze, obediently doing what he was told, that it was fueled by a dutifulness she didn't recognize. Parental expectations were foreign to her.

Even though he came across as a kid carrying around some kind of costume, there's always reason to be suspicious. She reaches down to pick up the stake, slapping it rhythmically into the palm of his other hand. "What's there to explain, Wren?" Rosalin sighs once more, returning the stake to Wren's bag. "You've gotta be more careful, kid. What if it was a vampire and not me that passed you just now?"

"If you're tryna be discreet," he calls over his shoulder, Australian accent thick despite the years he's been a Vegas local, "think a little harder about y'shoes next time."

He's used to having his head on a swivel, and having no movement to show for it; makes it almost impossible to get the jump on someone who's always ready for it. Almost.

The sun has well and truly set, the street's lit up by some flickering LED that blinks and buzzes to life before it dies out cyclicly every few breaths. The lights to the shop are decidedly off, despite the specific instruction to leave them on for every junkie, drunkard, and hopelessly lost tourist to wander through the backstreet. The alarm code strings a long, activated beep, heard clearly even through the metal bars of a protective, anti-theft door—that same cautious intelligence not applied to the glass windows in the shop's front—and the thick wooden door behind it.

It's eerie, the diegesis that follows. The sound of a hand pushing keys into his pocket, strung around a keychain that harbours the shop's name tag, and the shuffling of his own feet on a sidewalk in desperate need of a new layer of concrete, small rocks broken off and blown down the alley crunching under his feet. The thick, dense silence of limbs settled, body facing the other's, eyes unmistakeably disinterested, unthreatened, in their lazy-lidded blink of thick lashes and a dulled green hue.

He's sizing them up without meaning to; a brief threat assessment that's filed as inconclusive, for better or for worse. So he pushes for details.

"Got a reason for this show-and-tell?" A beat passes, giving Alfie space to pull his hand from his pocket; to fold arms across his chest and venture a follow-up. "Bit late for an odd development job, don't'cha think?"

Nevermind what he's doing still hanging around.

He'd been on his way from the corner store with his favorite snacks in tow, prepared to stop for a quick smoke session before returning to his apartment, when he was startled by an unexpected stranger. "Holy shit, dude." A beat passes, and he lowers his balled up fists once sure the mam hadn't snuck up on him for a fight. "You can't be sneaking up on people like that, forreal."

"Huh? Oh... my bad. They're fresh kicks so they're liable to squeak." He'd been waiting in line all day to secure a pair of Air Jordan XII's, spending a sizable sum of his most recent work earnings to do so.

"What's with all the questions? You a cop, or something?" He wasn't accustomed to inquiring strangers. Either that, or maybe he'd been hoping to sell Jahmir something. Sure, he'd been used to drunkards and junkies tweakers striking him up in conversation— but this interaction was decidedly different.

Jahmir props his tall frame against the brick wall behind him, hands buried in his pockets, grocery bag dangling from his forearm, eyes scanning the man beside him. "I'm just existing, man." Jahmir offered him a shrug, as if to say, what more could you possibly want from me?! Maybe he needed to find a better place to smoke than a suspicious back alley, but what better place was there for green smoking?

In all his 27-ish years of life, Jahmir learned quickly that when you didn't have an answer to a question, the best choice is to answer said question with a question. At the very least, it would disarm the questioner for a few moments.

"And what are you doing back here? Being all discreet, and shit?" His eyes narrow in suspicion. "I think the dude shadow walking in the alley definitely seems way more fuckin' suspicious than I do."

The music is loud enough that it vibrates in his teeth, bass punching through his ribs. Max is half a drink in and fully in his element in the Underworld's dim glamour, bodies packed too close, air thick with perfume and heat and wasted money. Fully relaxed as Sarang approaches, as her fingers trace a bicep, that wide grin, dimples and million-dollar smiles under pulsing lights and mist. He lets his gaze drag over her face, openly appraising. "The one and only," he's only slightly sarcastic as he says it, leaning back against the bar languidly.

"Did she now?" Sarang studies the sharp lines of Max's features further, the dim, pulsating strobes giving her all the reason to have a closer look. "She's had excellent taste for as long as I've known her." The space between them grows increasingly smaller with every sentence uttered.

Max is under no impression that this evening would go any way other than bad. Crane dinners were already notorious for being cold and fucking fake, Max can distinctly remember the tables growing up, family dinners were never loud. Never warm like you see in movies, no overlapping voices, no laughter spilling over plates. Long tables and expensive food going cold, Marcus Crane at the head if he was there at all, eyes always somewhere else, mind already three meetings ahead. Aurelius and Claudia had eventually grown up and out, lives pulling them away - in Claudia’s case, into enemy territory, and Max had been the only one left. Too young to escape, too old to be fussed over, not that he’d ever been particularly fussed over to begin with. Sitting across from an empty chair more often than not, pushing food around his plate while their father took calls between bites or didn’t show at all. Silence so thick it felt intentional, affection always rationed and he’d missed the window. He learned how to fill in later, had started to just ditch altogether when he realized he could, filling up with noise and people and charm, but back then it had just been cold and lonely in a way that settled into his bones.

The condo now feels like a grown-up version of that same quiet, it’s tradition, Aurelius had proclaimed, and Max had to think of whether or not they remembered sitting at the same table growing up.

Max lets himself in without a knock or announcement, just the quiet click of the lock and the soft thud of the door closing behind him. Aurelius’ condo is immaculate in that deliberate way, everything curated to look effortless. It makes Max’s mouth twist. The Crane family has always been very good at that: immaculate surfaces, rot carefully kept out of sight. “Before she shows up, I wanna make it clear that I knew this was gonna be a shit show from the start.” Spoken indifferently, he sidles up to the island and tosses his coat over the back of the stool, sunglasses placed onto the counter. “You know, just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you actually have to start acting like dad.”

By the time Maxim Crane is born, the performance of fatherhood was long abandoned by the Crane patriarch. It's what makes Max's birth well into Aurelius's teenage years all the more surprising, to the point that rumors of Aurelius Crane secretly being a teenage father began circling, for that suggestion become far more believable than the truth. Perhaps Marcus Crane consulted a psychic or somehow divined his eventual need for a new spare, with future Claudia being slated to fuck off to the side of the enemy, and all. Once again, the reality of it all was far less exciting. For Marcus had been your typical egotistical patriarch who's interest in his children never ventured beyond the level of investment that an employer has in their employee.

The last proper Crane family dinner must've occurred when Aurelius was still in his 20s— right around the time his own life began unraveling— for he nearly succumbs under the pressure of being heir permanently. Part of him wished the desire for his wellbeing is what propelled him back into action, but the real truth of the matter is: Aurelius looked death in the face and saw only legacy of failure. That is what leads to him fully stepping into his role. He continued playing the role of the dutiful son, patiently awaiting the keys to the empire he invested the entirety of his being in. The place he sacrificed any semblance of a marriage, life, and family. In some alternate timeline, he'd likely been just some guy with a 9 to 5, a wife, and two kids. He's miserable, but in a conveniental way. He sees his family over the holidays and they go on holiday any chance they get.

Instead, Aurelius possesses only the jagged fragments of a family. Any attempt at holding them too close, at holding on too tight— and Aurelius cuts himself on the edges, emerging bloodied each and every time. And still, he continued to reach for them, the truest marker of a madman. Today is no different. When Max enters Aurelius's apartment, he's finishing up their dinner preparations for the evening. He'd learned to cook some years into his recovery, motivated by his desire not be a gym bro who consumed endless chicken breasts and boiled eggs. And he'd grown surprisingly good at it. He awaits whatever complaint Max will level at him to start the evening— that was typically how his greetings began. "And a hi hello to you too." Not a lick of fucking manners in this family, man. "It's not going to be a shit show because you're going to keep your mouth shut about anything work related and I'm going to do the same. So keep your big fucking mouth shut. I want your lips tighter than one of Tom Cruise's NDAs."

Aurelius rolled his eyes. Sure, he'd definitely been behaving something akin to a father, but he resented the idea that he'd been acting like their dad. "There's nothing Marcus Crane-ish about me inviting my black sheep siblings over for dinner. That would make me the antithesis to dad if anything," Aurelius points out. He sighs. If Max appeared ungrateful now, then CiCi would surely put him to shame. The woman sustained herself on coffee, negativity, and the failures of her siblings. He'd never have dinner at her place, partially because she'd never invite him, and partially because he couldn't know for certain if he'd leave poisoned or not. "Hell, if we play our cards right, maybe we can leave with dirt on the Weisses."

Eyebrows low over their eyes, they nodded. "We go in," they said, "through the window." They're not against this, repeat repeat repeat. But their mind was worried. Bo had never been a soldier, never been any kind of jock. They'd been fast, but mostly they'd been smart. They'd put all their attention on getting better with how they presented themself. If they could convince people of who they weren't, they could get away with anything. And their boyish smile was winning in all the right ways.

But it wouldn't help them with this raid. For that, they'd need more than a good brain. And they hoped they'd trained enough. "What if we get seperated?"

At the suggestion of their separation, Rosalin gestures to a room on their makeshift map with their pointer finger. "The closet over here. It's large enough for us to fit in and isn't attached to a room." Thank goodness for rich fucks and their gratuitous amount of rooms. She slaps her palm over their shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Just focus on staying alive, kid, alright?" Rosalin says, expression steeled. "I'd rather a failed mission than a dead lackey. Remember that." Missions could be done again. Life could not.

OPEN STARTER FOR @boneyardstarters, ( 0 / 4 ) outside the underworld

The club spits them out well past midnight, neon flickering red over cracked pavement and cheap cologne. Lux plants themself against the brick with a bottle dangling from two fingers, cigarette burning crooked at their lip. No amount of blood could satiate them tonight; it's not often Lux finds themself here anymore, not like they used to. They've had years to perfect it, a temper always on the wrong end of the scale, picking battles instead of manufacturing them. Tonight, though, the old itch is back, that tight coil under their ribs ready to fucking snap, so old haunts become familiar again.

The door bangs open behind them and a group tumbles out, loud and careless. Someone clips Lux's shoulder on the way past without so much as a glance, and between the drugs and alcohol pumping through their system, it's enough. The cigarette drops, ember skittering across asphalt. "Watch where you're fucking going," they snarl.

It was a simple game. A pencil holder sat on the far side of Wolfgang's desk. With one eye shut, he would simply fling a pen at it. If he got it in? Three points. If he hit it? One. If he missed? Minus one point, unless he forgot. Wolf was currently on fifteen points. Or, at least, he thought he was. It was hard to write down his score when his pen was regularly on the other side of the desk.

Wolf closed one eye, lined up his shot and -- damn. Fourteen points. He went to mark down the loss only to realize his pen was on the floor on the far side of his desk. With an annoyed tsk, he stood up from his chair and circled around to retrieve it. He scooped down, picked up the projectile, and paused, trying to remember what his score was now. It didn't come to him - and no bother. It was written down on a sticky note on his desk.

He stood back up and, as he turned, caught sight of someone just entering the office door. He popped up with a bright smile. "Oh, heya. Is there something I can help you with?" Wolf moved back to behind his desk, taking a quick glance at his notes. Fifteen points. Nice. "Or - wait. I was supposed to have something ready for you, I think. It's probably almost done. Just, uh... what was it?"

Her eyes flicker to the man at the desk appraisingly. He definitely worked there— he'd been recognizable enough, but there'd been nothing she'd presently requested of. The corners of her lips turn upward. Perhaps there'd be a way for her to have fun with his present discombobulation.

"Forgotten me already?" she responded, feigning offense, lips turning downward. "A shame. Don't tell me you've turned my requested files into trashcan basketball fodder."