"Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time."

con’t [x]

Hector had been right, and Ava is positively steaming as they both arrive. Fashion is never a highlight at these types of events, Ava knows that, but the fact that she wore blue at the last event (even if a different shade of blue) was outrageous. Those tabloids would be all over her for at least a week, and the thought almost dampens Ava’s entire evening.  However, her arm is looped through Hector’s as the throngs of people meld in from the entrance alongside the duo, and Ava prays to whoever is listening that maybe, just maybe, nobody got a photo of her outrageous fashion faux pas. It would be on her mind all night. Even if the dress Bella created was an absolute fashion must see. Hopefully, what the tabloids and fashion columns would talk about the couture sweetheart neckline, crystal covered, lace-up bodice, or the floor length, fluffed chiffon skirt, rather than the repeat color. The ensemble is eye catching, especially compared to the barely-considered competition. The actress smirks to herself, as being a showstopper is what she lives for, but the subtle reminder of ‘work first’ makes her tighten her grip on Hector’s arm.

This is less of a social event, more like an obnoxious fundraiser gala for Cohen and his newest production. As the stars, Ava and Hector were obviously supposed to be more for show rather than actual guests. They always arrived together and always left together. Drink together, mingle aimlessly together, and save each other from awful conversations. Ava gets hit on relentlessly, Hector manages to sneak her away. Hector gets badgered about what it’s like to work with Cohen, and Ava will whisk him away, drink already prepped in hand. They are experts at this stage, and tonight would be no different.

Hector looks dashing and even though they’ve been together this whole evening, as always, he still manages to make Ava blush. Her makeup does it’s job, hides most of it, and the only give away is her soft smile. The duo spot Cohen mingling amongst the snobby elite and they’re quick to turn their backs and make their way towards the bar instead. They would have to face Cohen and the ‘investors’ eventually, but right now, they need drinks. The bar is packed with patrons, another overly successful gala would ensure Cohen got his funding, but it made getting a good cocktail difficult. Unless, of course, your presence was as loud as the starlet’s.

“I can’t believe he’s doing another one of these events.” Ava sighed, barely putting up her hand before several bartenders dropped what they were doing to get the order. “2 shots of tequila, 1 Martini, extra dry, no olives. What about you mon cher?” She smiles and winks at Hector, her hand tugging at his lapel, as if to fix some invisible imperfection. 

“Drinks on the boss tonight, so let’s make them count, hm?”

Within minutes of arriving, Hector already has a headache. The flashing lights, the jumbled chatter, and the music swelling throughout the room bombard his senses in all the worst ways. Ever the professional, he refrains from letting it show on his face as his picture is taken, again and again and again. He knows that the photographers are much more interested in his date, and so the disciple is happy to play the role of handsome accessory. He stands mostly still, offering a faint and lopsided grin while Ava twirls for the cameras. Once she’s given them what they want, he’s eager to follow her lead to the bar.

“Well that was relatively painless,” he sighs out as she dotes on him, his eyes following her fingers to his lapel. A hand rises to rest over hers, stilling her fussing. For a moment, he meets her eyes without saying anything. Hector smiles as they glitter at him like polished jewels.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he eventually decides with a nod towards the bartender. As the man busies himself with their order, the disciple lifts the actress’ hand to his lips. A gentle, lingering kiss is placed to her knuckles.

Real life has been kicking my ass & I haven’t had the motivation to touch my blogs in a few weeks. First and foremost, my family is moving to a different state next week. It’s the first time we’ll be more than 10 minutes apart from each other, and it’s been a lot to deal with. I also have a demanding day job and a dozen other weekly commitments that I’ve been struggling to keep up with. Anything creative, especially RPing, has just fallen lower and lower on my list. 

I think I owe virtually all my partners here and on @rapturerecordssilas. I’m hoping to bang some replies out this weekend, as I’ll be babysitting all day Saturday and Sunday. No promises, but I do promise that I want to write with y’all. It’s just gonna be slow going for a while. I really appreciate your patience in the meantime.

con’t [x]

Ava is in the midst of fixing her hair as Hector gives his quick quip about Sander, and she makes no comment about it. She knows better than to argue with one of Sander’s disciples about what he notices and what he doesn’t. Sander comes to Ava when he needs a pretty face to stand around, to schmooze, or when he’s drunk and wants to gossip. She’s not at the butt end of his anger, his gross artistic endeavors and even though she’s pressed Hector before, he’s never broken. He won’t now, and so she won’t push him. She glances to him, her sharp green eyes trying to catch his, but he’s focused on his coffee, his mind a million miles away.

She thinks about bringing him back, but it seems the coffee is doing the job for her. Ava smiles ever so slightly to herself, barely a curve of her lips, before going back to adjusting one curl that won’t sit right.

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot, I have to pick up my dress from Bella Mia’s tomorrow. Of course I’m attending. Mandatory.” She nearly spits ‘mandatory’ like it’s a curse. Ava hates it when Sander basically forces them to attend, prancing around like his prize show ponies is never at the top of Ava’s favorite things to do, but free booze, lots of attention, and a lot of Hector are on the list. So, of course, she’ll attend.

Her eyes flicker to catch his, offering a coy smile as she reaches for her lipstick, finally fixing that pesky curl. Of course she has offers. At least 4 offers have come her way, and Ava has simply denied all of them. She knew Hector would ask eventually. He was the only date she genuinely enjoyed being around, and she would have to play with him just a little bit. If only to tease.

“Well I’ve gotten a few offers that I’ve been musing on, but they all just seem positively dull. A bunch of those boring corporate boys, floating around money like it’s a prize. C’est la vie.” Her tone is light, ever so slightly sarcastic, as she laughs, turning to grab the cigarettes by the door. She flips open the carton to offer one to Hector.

“However, in light of this perfectly delectable proposal, you’ll do, my darling. My dress will be dark blue.” 

He was the only date she ever wanted to go to these events with. Even if all they would do is drink, snicker behind people’s backs and lock heavy lidded eyes until it was acceptable to leave. It was her favorite kind of night. Even in his own way, Hector was a perfect gentleman, and her favorite date. 

“As long as we don’t have to try and sell some other idealistic vision of Sander’s like the last one, I think we’ll be able to actually have a good time. Mon dieu, that was painful.”

“I’ll do.” He snorts as he repeats the phrase, nearly rolling his eyes. He hates that he even had to ask, and resents more the relief that comes with her acceptance. Even after all this time, the fact that she can still make him nervous is irksome. Childish, even, as if he’s some school boy with a silly crush. 

“Oh merci,” he mirrors her sarcasm and her accent, “I’m so flattered, mon amie.”

The disciple fingers a cigarette out of the pack and places it to his lips. After a quick, pat-down search, he finds a lighter buried deep in his back pocket. Hector tends to his own smoke first before politely offering her the flame. A perfect gentlemen. He certainly could be, if he really put his mind to it.

“I don’t want to wear blue,” he’s arguing now for the fun of it, “purple has always been my color.”

There’s a twinkle of mischief in the actor’s eyes as he looks to her, a brow cocked in playful challenge. As dangerous a game as it is to push Ava’s buttons, Hector figures it’s only fair for abandoning him in bed.

No matter how many times he dies, no matter how many times Lady Death slams the door in his face and he’s sent spinning back to life, it still terrifies Zach. Something in him scrambles. A biological need to stay alive, to defend himself comes to life. Even though he knows his death will be temporary he twists in the vampire’s grip, trying to loosen it but it’s like iron. He writhes desperately, calling (no, screaming, it comes out a terrified scream) in the sorcerer’s tongue for his constructs to come rescue him.

His dogs, ever faithful, are at his side in a moment their eyes glowing bright with his power, drool dripping down their skeletal faces. Red lunges for the man’s leg, wedging herself between the two and allowing Zach enough time to yank himself free and get a good distance of space between him and his would-be murderer.

“I’ve got PROOF.” He corrects once his breathing evens out, waving a hand -still glowing with magic, at the vampire’s shirt. “And I’m sure the gentleman you just fed on can tell me everything I need to know once I wake him up.”

His eyes flicker towards the corpse. His spirit should be near by, it would only take a few moments, to call him back.

“That is, unless, we can have a civilized conversation. Preferably one that doesn’t end in me being made a meal.”

In an instant, Hector’s back is against the pavement. There’s pain searing up and down his leg, and he can feel the wet warmth of blood seeping from his skin. At least it’s his own, he thinks, looking down at the mess of himself. The dog--where the hell had it come from?--still has his limb locked tight between his teeth, and he hisses with a foolish, fruitless attempt to yank it free.

“You call this civilized?” He exclaims, his gaze fixating on the other’s illuminated hand. It’s been a while since he’s met someone else like this. Different, like him. Dark brows knit together in a mix of confusion, apprehension, and awe. 

“...’The hell are you?”

It’s more of a rhetorical question as Hector’s eyes dart around, surveying the scene as if he’s only just awoken there. The high from feeding has completely dissipated. His pupils quickly return to their normal size, and his fangs hide themselves away. 

     FRANK RAISED HIS GLASS in unison with the other man, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Rodriguez.” The criminal half-smiled through the words, taking a sip of his whiskey as he studied the actor’s reaction carefully. “Though, there ain’t no need to be so formal. You can call me Frank.” He added, along with a playful wink.

     THE BRIEF FALTER IN Hector’s composure didn’t seem to be one of fear, which allowed the con man to feel more at ease around the other man. His reputation was a necessary evil to his line of work, one which worked ever so well in his favour when it came to putting the fear of God into your enemies and workers alike, but not so much when sociability was concerned. However, the criminal still felt as though he could never truly connect with other people, regardless of whether he was seen as a ruthless, power-hungry degenerate or otherwise. It seemed incredibly unlikely to find another person who’s brain worked in a similar way his own.

     ON THE CONTRARY TO his love of spending time alone, either in his apartment or in his office, his mental state did not allow him to escape the overwhelming feeling of loneliness whenever he interacted with others on a personal level. It was a kind of isolation that he could only cover up with a facade. There was nothing he could do about it, it was just a part of him. The disconnect was a strength for his businesses, at least. His woes were usually forgotten by the end of the night with the help of a little white line or two.

     MOST OF THE CITIZENS of Rapture seemed to be overly concerned with trivial things, which was something the criminal couldn’t relate to. He supposed that was the main reason he’d never been able to appreciate art in a similar fashion to some of Cohen’s most die hard fans, and why he’d never been to see any of the artist’s shows unless it was absolutely needed. 

     “WORK. ALTHOUGH, I AIN’T gotta be back at the office tonight, so I figured I’d spend the little free time that I have seein’ the sights of the Fort.” Frank simply stated, a smile still hanging loosely on his lips. “So,” The criminal continued, his grin widening briefly. “You come here often?” A small, subdued laugh left him before he took another sip of his drink. 

Often was an understatement. It’s more like the stool beneath him is molded precisely to his ass, not unlike Cinderella’s magic glass slipper. The bartenders, the dancers, even the janitors in this place all know him by name. Collectively, they’ve let him slide on his tab, fall asleep at the counter, and even hop up on stage once or twice. So long as he wasn’t hurting anyone, Hector was a welcomed lout in this little corner of Rapture.

“I do.”

His drink is refilled and, with a grin, Hector lifts his glass in toast to his company. A quick clink precedes the gluttonous sip he takes. The liquor goes down smooth, barely touching his tongue as it drops straight down into his belly. He can already feel it churning--it’s going to be an ugly night--but he’s content nonetheless. A dreamy expression befalls him as he leans in closer to Frank.

“There’s not a lot t’see here, y’know, once you get past the flashin’ lights. Cohen wanted t’build it out more but, at the end a’ the day, it’s just a bunch a’ slot machines an’ cigarette girls.”

Drunk or not, Hector suspects there’s more to the other’s visit--it must have less to do with the Fort itself, and more to do with the man running in.

She could tell he was upset, and sure, she couldn’t blame him, but what did he want her to do. Be late, or god forbid, not look her best? She blinks, almost insulted, but brushed it off faster than a second thought. This was Hector, il est son amant. Sa préféré. He meant nothing offensive….probably. 

She knew by the soft look that glazes over his eyes that she has him. He isn’t rigid and snarky like a moment ago. This is the Hector that Ava adores, more than she would admit to anyone under pain of death. Even as he stands there, breath hot, cheeks bright red and smile mischievous and playful as hers, she leans in and sneaks a soft, quick kiss. “Oh, it was tempting. I almost did.” And she almost had. Waking up under the tangled mix of his arms and sheets, the tickle of his hair against the back of her neck, the thrill of really trying to wake him up and-

Ava leans back, her imagination halting short and saving the daydream for a different moment. She releases him and opens the door handle that rests just behind the small of her back. “But then how would my hair look this good?“

The dressing room had been built up to her specification, Sander had made sure, and Ava always snuck in a few things here and there for Hector. An extra chair here, some extra blankets, cigarettes…and before she can make another move for him, the stagehand arrives with almost no noise. Slightly out of breath, he holds out the coffee cups for her and Hector (and to Ava’s delight, she notices the pack of cigarettes he leaves at the table next to the door, she would thank him for those later). 

“Sander didn’t even notice you were gone. He was so focused on that poor dancer that somehow made it here full time, and still has 2 left feet.”

Hector ignores the remark about the dancer as he accepts his cup of coffee. It’s warm and soothing between his palms, and the aroma already has his headache ebbing. He thanks the stagehand by name--something Ava would never bother with--before offering a reassuring, albeit teasing smile. It says, ‘she’s a real monster, huh?’ The stagehand chances a smile in return before taking a quiet leave. The disciple sighs contently, and helps himself to a seat in the center of the room.

“Oh, I’m sure he noticed.” There’s no humor in that phrase, but Hector does try to keep it sounding causal. The actor’s been late to rehearsal enough times to know when he’s actually in trouble. It’s not when Cohen tries to make an example out of him in front of his colleagues, screaming at the tall top of his lungs until the whole of Fort Frolic can hear him. No, it’s when Sander says nothing, and does nothing, that Hector knows what he’s really in for. It’s a sort of discipline that’s kept well out of the public’s eye, leaving marks in places their audiences would never see. Even Ava would be kept in the dark. Literally. The bedroom lights would simply have to stay off until the bruises all healed.

Hector pushes the thought away, and the general unease that comes with it, as best he can. The first sip of coffee is heavenly, and he very nearly moans.

“Speaking of dancing--there’s that gala on Friday. The one we’ve been highly encouraged to intend.”

The police had ruled them animal attacks. And, well Zach couldn’t blame them. People would go to any lengths necessary to rationalize what they refused to understand. But still, he shook his head at the very thought. Really, what were the police thinking? That a pack of wolves were somehow roaming the streets and had managed to avoid ALL attention?

Zach for one had not bought it, and after some of the families had paid a fairly handsome sum of money to find out what had really happened to their murdered loved ones he did some conjuring. None of the spirits had had to speak for him to realize what had actually happened. Vampire bites were a bit hard to mistake.

Still, even the mutilated spirits had done nothing to prepare him for coming face to face with the creature, the blood of it’s latest kill soaking it’s shirt. 

Zach took a moment to remind himself that he couldn’t die and his upcoming gruesome murder would not be permanent. 

“Stop.” His voice was soft, but commanding. “I have cause to believe you murdered four innocent people.”

@hector-goddamn-rodriguez

He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone. Truly. When he fed, it was for survival, and survival only. That was a strict rule. Yes, it would bend every now and again as he took some pleasure from the act. But, he never drained anyone completely. Catch, bite, release. He wasn’t a killer. It wasn’t in his nature, however ironic that might sound.

Yet, as he’s caught soaked in blood, a lifeless corpse wrapped in his arms, Hector cannot deny what he’s becoming. The anguish that’s been ravaging him for weeks is making him sloppy. Impulsive. Vicious. He’s not feeding, he’s gorging himself in an attempt to fill the recent holes in his heart. Specifically, the loss of a recent lover--a man he was going to turn, and spend eternity with. A man he’ll never, ever see or know again.

“You have ‘CAUSE’?” Hector flashes a sardonic grin, his teeth stained crimson. He swipes at his dripping chin, smearing blood over his lips and nose. What a mess. Even he’s made uncomfortable by it.

“No no no, pal. You’ve got nerve.”

With remarkable speed, Hector closes what space separates them. Poised to strike, he grasps the other man tightly by both shoulders.

Watching Hector sprint into rehearsal, looking a little more than disheveled, had almost made Ava feel bad. The redhead simply shrugs him off, a half smile gracing her face as he grabbed her wrist. 

“Well I sure tried.” She pauses, flashing a quick smile, “Once, anyway. Mon cher, you were just so tired you refused to wake up. Tu as juste l'air si adorable…” A quick flip of her wrist as she murmured her compliment, and Ava catches Hector’s hand with hers. The redhead offered a pout of her dark, rouge colored lips. “Coffee slipped my mind, that I will apologize for. Je suis desole, but here you are, darling.” She patted his hand lightly, a slight tug pulled him next to her. “Come, join me. I’ll have someone bring us some, hm?”

The smile drops, her eyes sharpen as she looks around and sends a loud snap towards the nearest stagehand. The poor sap closest to them straightens up, realizing who had summoned them, and they dart off behind the stage to fetch the coffee. If they were smart, they’d return with coffee and cigarettes, but it was so hard to find good help around here. Everyone all spliced up. 

Ava leads Hector back towards her dressing room, her soft smile sneaking back on. “I do apologize, but I certainly tried, you were just so tired.” She touches his chin lightly, a soft gesture of affection. 

“Honestly, I was lucky I got up at all. You’re just so…comfortable.” 

Her usual charms and deflection aren’t doing anything for him this morning. Hector is far too peeved to buy-in to her shallow attempt at endearment. Arms come to fold over his chest, and his head tips to the side as he cocks an expectant brow, “That’s your apology?”

His eyes roll back in his head as she proceeds to frighten a stagehand half to death. It’s a stark reminder of why she and Cohen work so well together--they match perfectly with their snappy tempers and sense of entitlement. Hector huffs, “No thanks, m’wide awake.”

The rejection falls on deaf ears, however, as the disciple finds himself being lead to her quarters. He ignores what apologies follow, and tries his very best to stay mad throughout the journey. But, by the time she’s got his chin between her fingers, he’s already failed.

“....Comfortable, huh?” He hates how the compliment thrills him. Hell, he hates how she thrills him this early in the morning, after such a wild and sloppy night. The finer details are lost to the liquor they’d drowned in together, but the disciple remembers enough. Her hands on his chest. Her mouth to his neck. Her warm, wanting body, and the way she’d devoured him with it.

Hector blinks, momentarily lost in the memory. It combats his hangover by bringing some much needed color back to his face.

MR. R O D R I G U E Z ·:

      NO  ONE   CAME   TO   THE   KURE - ALL   ANYMORE.    Maybe   a   walk - in  or   two   at   the   odd   hour   on   a   good   day.   For   the  most   part,   healthcare   in   Rapture   was   going   the   way  of   the   dodo.   Who   needed   a   doctor,   after   all,   when  splicing   assured  a  sturdy   constitution?   That’s   what   they   said   at   least   –  The   ads   doubling   in   nauseating   numbers   across   the city,   grabbing   the   eye   and   ear   wherever   you   turned ; Typed   up   in   confident   boldface   under   an   artist  rendering   of   a   happy   family   or   spoken   with   cheery  conviction   over   the   PA,    acting   as   preemptive  broken   promise.   With   half   of   Rapture   already   hooked,  left   dealing   with   the   cost   of   evolving,  it   was   a   wonder   who   they   were   trying   to   fool  anymore.   Those   who   have   seen   the   effects   of   ADAM ,  up   close   and   personal,   knew   better.   He  knew  better.   Intimately   so.

Times  were   changing,   and   the   Medical   Pavilion   had   changed  along   with   them   ;    making   a   gradual   shift   into  one   big   surgery   unit   dedicated   to   aesthetic,   satiating the   public   interest.   It   was   a   moment   of   surprise  and   celebration,   therefore,   when   someone   arrived  genuinely   seeking   help,   and   not   directions   to   Dr.  Steinman’s   office.   And   this   was   not   just   any  someone.

The  staff   of   the   Kure-All   –   what   little   remained   –    had   been   all   a   titter   at   the   arrival   of   one  of   Raptures   finest;   an   actor   and   affiliate   of   none  other   than   the   great   Sander   Cohen   himself.   Or   rather,  former.  Nick  couldn’t   keep   track   of   the   whispers,   nor   did   he  care   to.   Who   he   was   or   wasn’t,    what   he   did  or   didn’t,   was   all   left   at   the   door.   Once   admitted,  Hector   Rodriguez   was   simply   someone   in   need,   and   to  Nick,   that  was  all   that   mattered.

It  was   impossible   to   tell   time   at   a   glance   ;   what  use   was   a   clock   when   the   sun   had   abandoned   them,  and   below   the   waves,   with   the   fluorescent   bulbs  beyond   their   windows   as   the   dim   exception,   all   was  night.   He   had   guessed,   it   was   the   twilight   hours.  There   was   something   about   them   where   everything   seemed still.   As   though   the   city   dreamt   collectively,   leaving  a   moment,   however   temporary,   of   quiet   in   its   stead.  Quiet,   yes,   but   not   peace. 

It  was   one   thing   to   witness   serious   treatments,   another entirely   to   take   part.   During   his   short   time  working,   he   had   aided   in   things   ranging   from   minor  illness   to   emergency   surgeries.   This  was  a   new   and   unfamiliar   beast.   Something   about   the  procedure   left   Nicholas  UNNERVED.   From   his   rather  unaccredited   studies,   electroshock   therapy   was   touted   and  praised.   Yet,   faced   with   it   in   reality,   left   the  young   medic   in   training   with   uncomfortable   questions.  First-time  jitters,  he  told   himself.   Case  like   this   is   complicated.   Not   like   the   doctor   would  do   this   for   the   fun   of   it.   Right?

A  case   like   this   was   indeed   complicated.   And   for  Nick,   all   too   painfully   familiar.   Perhaps   that   was  why   he   had   barely   shared   a   word   with   the   man   in  the   times   previous.   A   simple   courtesy   question,  compulsory   to   ask   if   anything   is   needed,   and   off   he  would   go   until   next   check-in.   Not   that   their  patient   was   in   a   state   for   much   conversation   anyways.  Regardless,   the   realization   was   one   that   left   him  riddled   with   guilt.   Behavior,   however   subtle,   an   unfair  projection   from   a   raw   nerve   residual.   What   better  way   to   make   use   of   the   current   calm   than   to  remedy   that.

Approach  is   careful,   adeptly   soft   to   not   disturb.   Lips   part to   speak,   when   the   catching   of   a   soft   melody   turns  attention   to   the   radio   beside   them.   Its   melancholic  lyrics   were   nothing   short   of   ironic   ,   but   in   that  understanding   form   a   concerned   knit   to   his   brows.  Gaze   shifting   between   the   reclined   man   and   mocking  box   before   decision   is   made   to   silence   the   latter  with   a   full   click   of   the   dial.

❝  Station  was   getting   pretty   stale   if   you   ask   me . ❞

Going  by   the   direction   of   the   other   mans   gaze,   he  hadn’t   the   slightest   inclination   to   do   so.

❝  Doctor  is   gonna   be   out   shortly ,   Mr .   Rodriguez . ’ Till  then   …   I   could   hang   around   for   a   bit  ?  Keep   you   company .   Talk   your   ear   off ,   if   you’re  not   in   the   mood   for  conversation ?   ❞

A small sigh is all that’s offered in thanks for shutting off the radio. Though, after a moment, Hector reluctantly breaks his silence.

“...I guess.” 

The sound of his own voice actually startles him. It doesn’t sound like his at all; it’s so ragged from fatigue. His throat is still so raw from being forcefully emptied. Hector swallows thickly, and winces with residual pain. Days later, and he can still taste all that bile they’d pumped from him, too.

“....”

As the younger man talks, Hector is immediately annoyed. Yet, he can recognize kindness when it’s being offered to him. Settling back against his pillow, the disciple resigns to his two choices--either play witness this awkward attempt at companionship, or simply make conversation. The latter seems the lesser of two evils.

“Make yourself at home,” he says dryly, giving a loose wave around the hospital room. There’s a vacant chair positioned in the corner by the door. With another flick of the wrist, Hector invites the other to take it, “M’not goin’ anywhere for a while.”

Or, so he thinks. Belatedly, it occurs to him what the young man has said. “Wait--”

NO MATTER HOW HARD SHE TRIED TO DENY IT, she knew she would eventually be brought back to the EAST. The closest thing she had to an actual birthplace but Ramona suppressed so much of it till it became a blur, she would rather not remember the East. It’s not like she had many fond memories, she’s never even been outside for that long, she spent all that time underground, growing up, imagining the sun instead of seeing it. Now all of it is mud, pure, fucking mud, & she rather not think about the blood that was shed & left behind. Even so, she found herself shedding more of it when she arrived in the West ( such is life? ) & found herself bleeding much more often; especially from the head. But after the second war of Hoover Dam, Ramona hoped to settle down & finally finish what she originally started—to bring her family back & start over.

It is tougher than anticipated. Especially relocating. 

Ramona is a little far off from the Capital Wasteland, barely passing it by a hair, but how could she even begin to explain to her family what she’s been through, she wore less clothing, she has a scar on her scalp, she’s… a little more unhinged, she cries much more now. ( was this move really such a good idea? ) But here she is, baring a small cactus planted in a pot as a gift & a couple of other souvenirs in her pack. 

Diamond City isn’t exactly her favorite, then again, any place with walls didn’t sit well with her ( save the Strip—a rare expectation. ) She sat at Power Noodles, bundled up more than usual, she held a lit cigarette in one hand, chopsticks in the other as a steaming bowl of noodles sat in front of her. 

The sound of her name shocks her to the core, she almost drops her cigarette at the sound of it. No one should know her here, she hasn’t been to the East in such a long time; still, her stomach churns, she turns, & that’s when sees Hector’s familiar face.

His hand grasps her shoulder, he greets her with a smiling face, though Ramona looks more withered than she’d like to admit. ( She just… really doesn’t like walls—or crowds for that matter. )

“… ’m visiting family,” she answers, in her tone, the fatigue is quite obvious with how her tone croaks; still, she tries to be polite by providing him with a small smile. “It’s good to see you too, Hector. Now—what the hell are you doing here?” Ramona laughs, taking a drag of her cigarette.

The timbre of her voice, no matter how ragged, is music to his ears. He’s so busy being soothed by it, it’s hard to hang on to the actual words she’s speaking. He tries his best to keep up, but it’s equally hard to hear her over the thud of his own pulse. The actor notices then how much it’s sped up, and how hard it’s thumping against his neck.

“Family, huh?” He catches that much--enough to attempt small talk. Yet, his smile falters and excitement dampens as he takes a better look at her. She seems haggard, like rest has been eluding her. He does his best not to react, and fights off the immediate urge to pry. At the very least, his concern comes from a good place--one of affection for her, however guarded.

“My troupe’s in town for the week. We’re doing A Christmas Carol.” He shifts his weight between legs, and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s an attempt to keep his shivering at bay. As if it’s only the cold to blame.

“You ever hear of it?” He takes a step closer, minding her space but testing the waters. He offers another, softer smile, “S’by Charles Dickens. He’s an old pre-war author. Not as old as Shakespeare, but up there.”

It takes every ounce of willpower he has to keep his eyes from wandering her curves, however concealed they may be. The longing is enough to make him dizzy, though, and Hector moves to steady himself by leaning a shoulder to the shoppe wall.