ONE SIN ⋆ TOO LATE

as untouchable as finn acted to the naked eye, he wasn't stupid. he knew he could bleed just as much as any other walking meat bag and, he has. probably more than the average person, honestly, but he didn't care enough to really debate it. finn acted untouchable because he made himself that way, through networks and properly placed shamrocks or family that he knew would have his back. like dio, who had his back because it was in both of their best interests to do so. for his siblings or other shamrock family, well, they had his name or his symbol to protect them ( along with whatever wits they managed to conjure to be a shamrock to begin with ). finn could protect most of them with what he established, but there was very few that could promise his own safety, beyond the force of reckoning he was on his own.

that's why when his younger sister and brother had ended up on the compound as well, he took the time to inspect the room they'd been assigned and deemed it good enough before promptly moving himself into the major general's home for the duration of their stay.

he wasn't going to lay completely low, however. how often does he get free access to the halls of afterglow's compound? he knows about so many secrets he hasn't ever been privileged to set his glowing blue eyes on yet.

deals with the devil are almost always done in secret after all.

"it's been 'round here since samhain, eejit. the rich folk just get their turn with it now." as a fully urbanized crime lord, it's safe to say that finn does not deal with wildlife. "we got people to handle that type of thing, dai. we ain't those people." those people were the military, that little fuckass rebellion, or the rural members of devil's elbow. a different bread of feral. "just stay away from it. did you sleep outside the door all night? i got ye a room with dee."

Finn's words are met with a simple shrug, whatever sting they ought to deliver not sticking with the younger O'Brien. He's been called worse, by family even, and after 28 years on this planet, Daithí has learned that whatever his brothers say, whatever they call him—or each other—ultimately doesn't mean anything. It's simply how they talk, it's how he himself talks as a consequence of having been effectively raised by these men, and it doesn't define the relationship.

"I don't know if the army thinks it's real," Daithí counters, not really as an argument to stay away from it—Daithí may be dull-witted at some times, but he has no intention to personally fight a bear, especially one rumoured to be as scary as this one. Hell, he doesn't know if he thinks it's real, either. The way Finn is talking, however, he seems to think it is, and he doesn't know his brother to be the fanciful type of person. Perhaps there's some truth behind it all, then.

"No, I only waited for an hour." As if waiting an hour for anyone is a normal run-of-the-mill thing to do. "I think Dee got a bit tired of me, I've been tryna get her t' eat more'n a few crumbs at a time. Do ye know how long we might be here for? I haven't been able to get through to Celia, wanna know if they're okay."

❝ don't mention it. ❞ ares means it, too. he might not grow his own supply ( he's been looking into it, though―it would be more economical, more practical, especially if it's only for his and his brothers' private consumption ) but ares likes to stay well-stocked, and when he realized he'd be spending an indefinite amount of time in an emergency shelter in town with the rest of the general population, he made sure not to skimp on the green when he was packing. and smoking monty up feels like a small price to pay for the company of a friend. he's happy to provide. ❝ you need more, you come find me, alright? ❞

ares shifts on the crate he's turned into a makeshift stool, grunting as the plastic crosshatch cuts into his ass. yeah, no, he'd much rather be snowed in at his own place. if it weren't for the fact that apo and harmonia were already here, he'd have stayed exactly where the fuck he was. family comes first, though. so here he is, trying to catch a buzz in a goddamn closet.

❝ she's looked after, ❞ ares repeats with a snort, reaching for the blunt again. ❝ why'd you gotta make it sound so cryptic, huh? ❞ he's not actually expecting an answer, more ribbing monty than anything, but it is an interesting choice of phrase. ❝ better she's here than there. i haven't heard much coming out of that bunker, but from what i have heard? ❞ ares lets out a low whistle before taking another drag, holding it in his lungs long enough to shake his head. ❝ not the place to be. ❞

It's not something Ares hasn't said before—and explained the exact meaning of it too—and so, as he says those three words, Monty pulls two fingers across his lips as though closing a zipper, before taking another quick inhale, letting it leave through his nose. There are a million better things, health-wise, that he could do to get the edge off, but none are as effective and as available as what Ares offers him. Anything official, Monty knows he'd need to go through Afterglow, and that's the one thing he'll refuse to touch for the rest of his existence, having not just seen what happens behind closed doors, but also haplessly worked towards accomplishing goals he can absolutely never take back.

No, maybe he's playing poker with this stuff, but at least he knows Ares Graves is on the level.

"I didn't mean it like that," Monty counters, leaning back against the wall. "I meant like, she has people here who love her just the same as me, and that aside, she just went through shit, and having people hovering isn't gonna help her. Better she gets some rest before I pile anything on top of her too." He means it, of course, but it's also a quarter of an excuse that benefits him. Joni being fine doesn't hinge on Monty immediately coming to see her, and he's had her entire life to put upon her that he loves her and cares about her. They don't need a crisis to underline that fact.

"Is he?" Monty asks, raising his eyebrows. "Zig is too." He nods slowly, chewing on his cheek. Of course he worries about them in that place, but ultimately he knows that the circumstances of Afterglow's operations are very particular—as nasty as some of the things they're involved in are, they don't snatch people up willy-nilly, and certainly not from their own premises. "They're probably safer there than we are here, ultimately." Monty lets out a sigh. "Well, Zig's gotta be anyway. I asked my girlfriend to marry me a bit ago and they gotta be my best man."

and it's not meant to sound vain or conceited, but even daye knows that it does. but she won't feel shame for it, because that would undermine her value, something she is well aware that she has.

an eyebrow raises, and though daye isn't exactly expecting anything juicy, she almost wants to yawn visibly at his words. a secret, perhaps, but a boring one, and she offers a little shrug. "i'm willing to bet that most people wouldn't pay for that one, anyway, so your secret is safe with me, i suppose. do you want to share why you're here now, of all places? or is that an actually interesting secret."

Rafe lets her explain the situation, holding his hands up towards the heating without a word or any sound of interruption. He's not necessarily much about conversation for the sake of conversation—everything has to have a point, conversations are for reaching goals. What those goals are changes per situation, per person, even. Engaging within this conversation, the goal has come into sight rather quickly: get to know about the inner workings of front-facing Afterglow employees by simply listening to what Daye has to say.

"Ironic, that, considerin' we work for the same entity," Rafe says, giving her sideways glance finally when there's a definitive period behind the points she's making. "Or you sayin' your boss, aka your best friend, is payin' you on the side as well? 'Cause as the market officer, I might have to take that on the record." He ought to, of course, if fraudulent business is happening, he read the policies—the biggest question is whether or not he would.

As it is, he isn't really interested in maintaining policy if it doesn't help him, but absolutely if it doesn't harm him and his goals in this position. But Daye doesn't have to know that one.

For her request to elaborate on his secret, Rafe tilts his head at her slightly, chuckling quietly. "Well, man needs a job, innit? Your government needed someone skilled with logistics, and here I am."

"oh, oh i see," he followed along with claymore without argument. father merrin isn't exactly a man of the elements. cormac grew up in the new california republic where they were lucky to get rain before the apocalypse ( though that was before mac's time, he only heard about it from his father. usually a tool to teach them to be more grateful for what they did have, that he did not ). "i believe i've met a beau before, i'm not familiar with a dixie though." his teeth lightly chattered as he spoke and moved and tried to take in the surroundings.

there was a startled 'welp' that released from the pit of cormac's subconscious fear when clay grabbed him. "y-yes, ma'am. i do." it wasn't that mac thought for even a second that clay would hurt him in that moment but he had a healthy dose of fear surrounded around military, ex-military, peacekeepers, officials, and criminals alike ( he was once one of them and regrets every moment of it ) mixed with the current conditions. cormac was scared for himself, unable to be useful in being anything people need during this storm, along with his son and what he's out there trying to do. if everyone from his congregation was safe and his neighbors.

he was just... scared.

"understood." he nodded and swallowed hard, working fast to get out of his own head and absorb the information she was giving him. "yes, i can do that." he'd try to be a voice of reason if he could, but he knew his wisdom or faith weren't always welcome in all conversation. "um, where will you be? do you perhaps know if anyone has a prediction as to when we'll get out of here?"

"Ma'am," Clay scoffs the word, shaking her head gently, "I'm not a ma'am, Father." It's not one she cares to remind people of too often, but there are some that get under her skin more than others—ma'am, too close to what she'd hear in the military too often, and certainly not one that Clay has ever thought fit her. Sir, however, is not any better. Regardless, the shrug she offers right after indicates that it's not a big deal all in all, but more a gentle rejection of the term.

The question of where she'd be is more interesting to her, though, because Clay has considered it, and has yet to come up with an acceptable answer to the question. Clay sighs, scratching the base of her skull slowly as she thinks. "I'll be... around," she ultimately offers; she's been trained to make her way behind enemy lines, to function on very little sleep—though not for any extended time, but for as long as this blizzard might rage, perhaps—and that's possibly the only decent thing the army has given her.

Shaking her head, Clay gives Cormac another shrug. "Not really, I'm—" She lets out another sigh, quicker now, through her nose, as she folds her arms across her chest. "I think it's best we prepare for a worst case scenario. That means, based on the historical meteorological data I've seen in the past, maybe... a week? A week and a half? Without active monitoring, I can't be sure, but with the suddenness and intensity of the storm..."

Clay presses her lips together for a moment. "I don't know if that's the worst of our problems. If that door up there freezes shut, or it get so packed with snow, and Commander Muñoz's party doesn't survive the trip to town, there's a chance we might never get out of here." A doom scenario? Perhaps. Perhaps not all too helpful to tell Cormac, risking a panic when it's unnecessary. But planning for dire situations is what has kept Clay alive for so long, and she's sure that it's gonna keep them alive now.

armed with a cool compress, her hand is as gentle as gentle could be -- eyes scanning for anything else the enforcer could have missed. she is an observant young thing, of course they are. and yet, daithí brings out a neurotic kind of care in her that needs to be sure.

he grips his ribs. shit.

the kiss to her head does quell their raging mind -- even if it isn't long before their focused on what ails him. it feels like whimplash.

" your ribs. " celia remarks, face marred with far more obvious concern than perhaps it was before. arms coil around his waist as he embraces them, but she's careful not to touch them. " are they bruised? did y'check? "

but of course, they inevitably know their lateness is eventually going to come back up again. after all, celia didn't entirely answer his question. " i drew the short end of the stick 'n got stuck with the cleaning. now -- hold this to your eye. " she holds out the cool compress, which she hoped would help with the swelling. " let me see the side where it hurts. "

It's not that Celia is a fusser. Not necessarily. But the only one Daithí has ever associated to fussing over him has been Celia. None of his siblings have ever fussed over him—on the contrary, they've always told him to pull his socks up, and perhaps that's what helped make him so resilient—and his father, well... he can't recall anything about his father, really, beyond the sight of him being beaten to a bloody pulp by his oldest brother.

No, Celia is not one to fuss, necessarily, but they do have a habit to fuss over him. And he lets them, not because he likes it—he's charmed by it, certainly, even a bit confused at times—but because he's long given up on the fight to make them stop.

So as Daithí lets out a somewhat exasperated sigh, he puts the compress against his eye—and despite the fact his lid is closed partially due to the swelling, the feel of the cold against his eyeball is uncomfortable—without any proper complaint, knowing there's no use in it anyway. "It's okay, Celia," he tells her, but despite it, he wrangles his shirt up and over his head with a single hand, juggling the compress against his eye the whole time.

Deep purple bruises explode from his side, contrasting shockingly pale skin, the obvious consequence of repeated blunt force trauma. He hadn't checked the damage yet, hadn't felt it until he'd gotten home, when the adrenaline of the fight had flushed out of his system. "See? Nothin' new."

she chews for a moment on the inside of her cheek, and then chuckles at the same time that her eyes roll. the sound is foreign but the gesture certainly isn't. "i'm pretty sure i heard someone muttering something about a bunch of people throwing a party at the governors mansion, if you think you can get us an invite to that. pretty sure one of my brothers girls is there, if i remember right. and donovan du pont is sure to be the type to have one of those snotty wine cellars with enough alcohol to turn anything into a party."

As soon as the chuckle escapes from Deirdre, Ripley ducks down to be on eye level with her friend. "What's that? I managed to make Deirdre O'Brien laugh?" she teases with a smirk, holding the younger woman's jaw gently. "God, what can't I do, huh?" Straightening up with a laugh, Ripley puts her arm around Deirdre again, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"I would love to crash a party, and I would love to trash the mayor-governor's fancy mansion," Ripley answers, starting to guide Deirdre along, regardless of the fact that she doesn't really know where she's going, or where Donovan Du Pont's house may actually be. It doesn't matter too much to her, eventually they'll get to where they're going, and before that point, she gets to spend more time with Deirdre.

Glancing down at the girl in question, Ripley considers her for a moment. "Hey, you got a place to stay? I don't mean right here, right now, but like... outside. I take it you aren't staying here. Doesn't seem your speed, you're way better than that."

lindsay can see the shift in real time when it happens. the moment he gives them the instructions―the orders―everything about maisie's demeanor changes ; they stand taller, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed and set. focused. he knows why. of course he does. there's not a single doubt in his mind that they'd been anticipating he would dismiss them in light of the current crisis, that he might send them off to go entertain themself while he tries to locate everybody and make sense of everything. a year ago, he might've. but he's not stupid, nor is he blind. maisie is more capable than he ever gave them credit for aloud.

and right now? right now, he needs them.

as much as lindsay would like to be the one taking the lead in this situation and gathering the information himself, he's got the baby and both matriarchs of the muñoz family to look after. that's his responsibility right now. family. he's got to trust maisie with the rest. and he does. ❝ aye, we've enough formula with his things in the bag we packed tae get through the night, but i dinnae ken how long we'll be stuck here. 's a good idea, finding more. i think they've got a childcare center in here somewhere, might be a place tae start. ❞

lindsay bounces gus in his arms and looks back toward maisie. ❝ go on, then. i expect a full report from ye sooner'n later. ❞

Maisie is very grateful that Linds has been keeping this thing strictly business—they can't imagine how they might react if he weren't in commander mode right now. It makes it far easier for them to stay focused, to keep their head on objectives, on the situation they find themselves in and not on things that muddle everything, like feelings. "Yessir," they tell him again in reply, adding putting the childcare centre on their mental list as well.

So they go off, helping whomever needs help, trying to reunite family members, getting blankets and helping those with medical training gather what they need for serious cases. Between it all, they manage to catch Dante—though he keeps slipping in and out of the crowds like a damn ghost—get the news about Santi's intentions, peeved as they are about it.

It's nearly five hours later when Maisie comes to find Linds in the room the Muñozes have been assigned, bringing more blankets to keep their abuelitas warm. Shaking the bottle of baby food with their thumb on the nipple to keep it from leaking, still warm to the touch from where they'd pulled it out of the microwave five minutes ago. "Here," Maisie says, handing Linds the bottle before moving over to their abuelitas, tucking the blankets around them as they reassure them everything will be okay in Spanish.

Moving back to Linds, they drop the bag they had slung over their shoulder onto the floor next to him. "This is all the formula I could find, I don't know how long it'll last, but I know it should be a while." With a sigh, they sit down next to him, pulling his arm around them not in an attempt for comfort, but so they're closer to his core, and help heat him up with their body heat.

"Listen... Gonna need ya to stay calm when I say this, alright?" A funny ask, since Maisie has been trying to get angry texts through to Santi between all the work since hearing the news. "Dante said Santi, Benny, and Connie are planning to come here. I've been tryin' to get through to the eejit, but none of my texts have landed. They're tryin' to set up a radio broadcast, so maybe when that's up, I'll go yell at him over the radio."

"no rush, cowboy." bash snickered, even though it's not really teasing if his friend, is in fact, a bona fide cowboy. it's just that he always thought people on the surface were all mutated or had to travel around in human sized hamster balls or hazmat suits. obviously, it was nothing like that at all and while bash has definitely seen some weird stuff since he's been out of the bunker, it was nothing like they said.

truthfully, bash was trying not to freak out about the fact that the last time he was in this place he watched not only his ma, but also a lot of people he knew and loved, die. instead of fighting, bash had chosen to hide and knows in his heart of hearts, that if the army hadn't shown up he would've easily been killed by those awful people. bash was keeping it as well hidden as he could, the video games helped and having people he knew like sullie and sue there helped a lot, too.

"holy fucknuts dude!" bash nearly jumped out of his skin when sue's cold hands quickly dropped the temperature of his legs through the fabric. "if you wanted to get my pants off that is definitely not the way to go about it." he didn't make him move them though, if anything, bash enjoyed the closeness. a bit touch-starved which brought him to the next subject of conversation. "my dad isn't verbal or whatever that means, santiago said that when i tried to talk to him earlier." bash shrugged.

"as for your stace, yeah. i showed him around the governor's mansion after that country western wedding a few weeks ago. he taught me how to line dance and everything." bash looked over with a signature mischievous grin. "i'm surprised you hadn't heard. anyways, what's the eta on us getting out of here?"

Despite Bash's protests, his hands stay where they are until his fingers have warmed up enough that it doesn't feel like they're on fire in some weird, roundabout way that brains work. At some point, freezing to death feels exactly the same as burning to death, he's read, and while the idea of it is insane, things like this, Sue can almost understand where the sensory input blends between one extreme or another. "Shut up, if I was gonna suck your dick, I would've just done it. But hey, the night's still young, or whatever."

The idea of Stacey teaching anyone, let alone Bash, how to line dance isn't even the weirdest thing he's heard about his little brother, so all Sue does in response is shrug as he rubs his hands together. It's not Sue's idea of a good time—aside from living on a ranch and training and riding horses for a living, Sue wouldn't say he's much of the picture of a rancher.

"Iunno," Sue replies to the question, shifting as he puts an arm around Bash's shoulders in a casual display of affection, eyes on the screen. "I think your dad, your uncle, and your aunt are organising some sort of... trip? Sullie was telling me about it. She said we should think about going with them. I think that's a bad idea. Though I don't know if it's a worse idea than staying here." Sue turns his attention back to his friend again. "What do you think?"

"oh, my bad," wes shrugged. he knew full well that it was the proper thing to do, he's slept through many etiquette classes but there's a reason he isn't quick to introduce himself to anyone. first, if they don't already know him from the amount of headlines and political ads he's been a part of ( forcibly on both parts ) then they usually know soon after he's said his name, who his father is. and who the hell wants to explain to everyone and their dog about his trauma every time he says his goddamn name? no one. that's who. "my name's wes." is where he decided to leave it today.

his eyes rolled when ripley started in on him. what they don't know is he says way worse to himself and the general public has said even worse, no one worse than their king, his father. not a lot phased him anymore, not when seventy-five percent of his thoughts are wrapped up in drugs in some way. when will he get the next fix, how much is too much, getting high, etcetera. which only seemed to get worse with every bout of sobriety and fixer treatment. then again, that was the complaint wasn't it? maybe he ought to talk his dad's boyfriend into making that a priority.

as if donovan would ever make weston a priority.

"no, but thanks for the vote of confidence. you're welcome to my number if you really think i'm that cute." he shot her a grin and winked quick before making his face completely neutral again. "i uh, this is personal, okay? i ain't tryin' to make news or nothing. i'm trying to get sober and like, um' i'm trying to get sober and like, um, stay that way? is that something your stuff can do?" he tapped his forehead to the heel of his palm a couple times and took a breath. "i'm just trying to fix the damage i've done, you know?"

If Wes purposefully omits his last name, Ripley doesn't notice—or at the very least, doesn't care. It's not unusual in Lost Angeles for people to never introduce themselves with a last name attached; hell, there are many times you'll only know someone's 'street name' and that's the only verbal identification you'll get of them. Even Ripley, as well known as she'd been in her circles, many of the people around her only knew her as 'Ripper', without realising it was simply an extension of her nickname.

No, Ripley accepts the name he offers with a shrug and a nod, satisfied to at least have a name to attach to a face.

The quick—and well-practiced, it seems—flirtatious manner has Ripley raise an eyebrow, not so much due to how forward it is, but moreso out of amusement. "Uhu, well, see, I don't think you mean that, man, but even if you did, sorry to say I'm far too gay for you to deal with." She gives him a wink of her own in return, but unlike him, her grin remains on her face, even as he continues.

And she does listen, of course. Glancing around, Ripley casually slings an arm around his shoulders as though they're old friends, starting to guide him away from this public place to somewhere a bit more secluded. Although his request isn't something she gets often, she's heard some rumours, the way people have expanded upon the black tech version of it—it's not outside the realm of possibilities.

"Can't say I have that kinda shit lying around, my guy," Ripley explains to him, and as they pass a small group of people, she raises her voice and pats him on the chest with a laugh. "God, that's hilarious, what did she say?" As she continues to guide him along towards somewhere that looks a bit more sheltered and away from the public eye, Ripley drops her arm and turns to face him.

"Look, can't help you right now," she says, voice quiet, but pulls a pen out of her pocket, grabbing his hand to write down her number on it. "Don't come 'round the Gate asking for me unless you want to get your rocks off." Raising her eyebrows with a nod, the question of whether he understands hangs in the air. "I'm not gonna spill your shit, my job requires confidentiality, 'kay? But I need to know details. I need to know what I'm looking for, what I need to put together."

of course, rosaleen is well aware that the pat to her shoulder is his way of telling her that all of them would make it through. that everything would be fine. and even if she doesn't necessarily expect it nor need it, it's appreciated, even if it's only internal. neither of them had ever truly been well-versed in the emotions department anyway.

of course, the enforcer is fully fluent feary's body language, after all of their years being around each other. " of course ye already got sometin' up yer sleeve. how could i have ever doubted ye? " the blonde hums, eyebrows raised before her eyes look outward to their surrounding crowd. she had already noticed the moths flitting to and fro along the walls -- some that she had recognized holding court when they thought no one wasn't looking. " say te word, and tey'll snap like twigs. "

considering feary often handled thing one and thing two himself -- rosaleen is nearly delighted at the thought that it would be she who wound get to haunt them this time. " don't ye remember? i can be a person's worst feckin' nightmare. " just as she speaks, her eyes fall on the chief medical officer along the way. he has no idea what he's in for. " i'll make sure neiter one of tem sleeps a wink. "

Feary chuckles at Rosaleen's words, eyebrow raising as he tilts his head slightly. "What's that, Rosaleen? Ye doubted me?" Letting out a short scoff, Feary shakes his head, glancing around with only those lightning blue eyes. "Don't antagonise 'em, yet," he says of the cult, far too aware of the can they're stuck in. "They might have more t' lose, but it ain't like we don't either. Settle down, settle in. Keep the rest from antagonisin' 'em too, 'til I've done my talks."

Finn had already sent him a message, telling him to kill them all, but as it is, Feary doesn't take orders from his older brother—suggestions and insights, maybe, but not orders—and unlike many of the Shamrocks, and Finn himself too, Feary knows his older brother is naught but a man, a violent, volatile man, who can smile well and uses his fists to settle disputes, half the time.

No, there would be no fighting, unless the talk he has in mind with this moth boss goes wrong, and until Feary says so.

At her words, Feary follows her gaze to the doctor in question, before they immediately move away again. Would he dare tell Rosaleen that this is a personal one? Internally, the higher officers in the Shamrocks, certainly Rosaleen, know Feary has had a long-standing understanding, or business arrangement, with Afterglow's chief medical officer. Feary has not let anyone know, his oldest brother included, that Felix has gotten to him in the worst of ways.

There's a long pause as he steps closer to her, voice so soft, even she might have to strain a little to hear him. "Make sure no one harms him in any capacity," he tells her, before raising his voice more to be easily heard by her. "As for the mayor-governor, if he succumbs to stress, I wouldn't shed a tear."

"Compromised? What makes you think so?" Roy looks up. Fork hand paused on the rim of his plate. He still eats like the kid whose not sure when he'll see a full meal next— somewhat possessively hunched over his plate, arms to both sides of it in protective anticipation of any thieving hands he knows don't exist here. It's a hard habit to beat. At least he no longer comes down his food, the pace becoming more measured— even normal as he grew older.

Roy hadn't heard yet. It bothers him and mentally starts mapping any potential points of failures or gaps in his network. His eyes have been elsewhere. "I'll put my ears to the ground. If I don't, I'll find an in." For all Roy knows whatever connections he may have held, they might have been burned, killed or died some other tragic way.

What is it about Sasaki that makes Dio suspicious? The same thing that made him suspicious about a first lieutenant all those years ago. He doesn't have concrete evidence, which is why he hasn't acted on anything yet—if he's going to remove people from command, he sure as hell will make sure he's certain beyond a shadow of a doubt. "Some of the body language," Dio finally offers Roy, though both men know that he might as well have been 'it's a gut feeling'. Unsubstantiated. Dio has been in this business for long enough to know when to trust his gut feeling and when not to.

To Roy, these things are also a clear suggestion for him to look into it further, without Dio having to openly tell him to. There's very little orders Dio has given Roy over the years, sometimes because Roy has already anticipated what needs to be done, sometimes because having orders on record would be too damning.

The offer to cast out lines has Dio nod in approval; even if his first lieutenant doesn't have connections here and there, he knows how to make them, which strings to pull to get to what they need. It's why Dio doesn't care to micromanage anything he does.

"Singular, the last I've heard," he confirms, taking his own bite of food, not commenting on Roy's eating posture. His father would've long whacked that out of him, but Dio puts less emphasis on etiquette in private, that's for business and presentation only. Roy doesn't need to pretend in this space, and they both know that. "Normally I wouldn't blink about a body, it's simply whom the body belongs to. Or rather, the family."