SOUTHERN ♚ DEVIL

🎵 ┋ The after party of his concert was a full house, and Hop was still riding the high of the performance. He never thought he'd receive applause for anything he did, nevermind such a raucous and enthusiastic standing ovation. He could still feel the final note in his blood, thrumming through his body in time with his pulse.

Of course, the alcohol was helping him stay zoned, too.

Just one, Jay had said, as he, Hop and Mimi had all thrown their customary shots back before the night began. Only for Hop, just one had become I'll just take one more, then I'm feeling good and it's a party, why not?, and now he was fitfully drunk.

He swayed slightly on his feet, blinking hard through the slew of bodies on the dance floor. Sober, he'd be terrified. The sea of people ahead would blur like headlights moving at high speeds, and his lungs would feel as if they had shrunk to the size of walnuts. He'd stumble away like a newborn calf, hiding in the bathroom until the crowd thinned.

But drunk...?

Drunk, he was giggly and loose, sliding across the long tables in the centre of the huge room until he bumped hips with someone.

It was comedic...in a sad sort of way in which Clark wrapped himself in such extroverted affairs and played pretend as if he wasn't wistfully looking for the exit anytime he was dragged into yet another conversation with a stranger still giddy over the concert and eager to share with whatever ear they could grab.

He was the man in the nice suit. The man with the easy, polite smile, the attentive ear. Clark was someone you could seek out in a crowd and talk at (and who didn't love talking at someone?)-— and he hated it.

Every loathsome second of vacuous small talk and vapid performance where he had to nod and pretend he wasn't aching to slither his way back home to the quiet. Horrid.

This was a hell of his own making, of course-— as with most of his grievances. He did these things and he became these sort of people because being the man in a nice suit who people gravitated towards meant networking and networking meant connections and connections meant... well, he could keep going but you get the gist. They were important. Suffering this lifestyle and this persona was vital. It was a necessary evil. A very evil necessary evil.

There'd been a short window of respite from socializing in which Clark found himself standing a bit awkwardly near a pocket of minimal clearing in the center. Most would assume wandering off the the outskirts was the play, but no. Rookie mistake. No better place to hide than in the crowd itself.

Clark had lifted his wrist and turned it to glance at his watch. How long was long enough at an after party? At what point could he simply slink away? How many business cards and hastily scrawled numbers on napkins folded into his breast pocket were enough for this to be considered a successful romp in the sheets of the social world?

He never settled on an answer as his train of thought was physically derailed by a bump against his hip. It was enough for his drink to go sloshing and spilling over the rim, but not so dramatic that it ended up anywhere but on his hand and the floor.

He held the glass out at arm's length as some of the liquid dripped from his fingers and blinked at it as if contemplating if this was a suitable enough excuse to leave. Maybe he could excuse himself to the bathroom and simply never return. It was a lively enough party; no one would feel the absence of the nameless man in the nice suit who was only spoken at and never indulged in speaking anything of real note back.

❝ Oops! Sorry! I'm real clumsy sometimes! Let me grab you a drink? ❞

His brows knit and he his gaze drew from his glass, to the stranger, to his glass, and back again. His expression remained impassive aside from his pinched brows. Was he confused? Agitated? Mournful of a new exchange on the immediate horizon? It was hard to say.

He didn't want a new drink. Clark had only been juggling this one for appearance sake. He sucked his teeth and forced that polite, salesman-like smile.

❝ No worries, dear. I'd love another drink. ❞

He drew one of the number-scrawled napkins from his suit pocket to wipe his hands down-— a necessary sacrifice in the face of a soiled hand-— and crumpled it to keep there in his fist as he turned his body fully to the newcomer. A flicker of recognition was all that was offered at the sight of him and he continued to hold that slight smile.

❝ Should I... wait here? Or come along with you, old sport? I'm a bit behind the times with whatever the drinking etiquette is nowadays. You'll have to forgive me. ❞

Damien stared blankly at the man beside him explain how he could be read when it came to sharing a name that wasn't his. In truth, the van-lifer is grasping at straws, getting bits and pieces of what perception was shared. Instead, his eyes are wandering. Whoever chose to sit next to him carried a strong presence. The chosen attire spoke for itself, and unconsciously judgement is passed on that alone.

'He's better than me.' With such a sharp look, it was any wonder the two might garner the occasional stare, although his own appearance had its own sense of contrast. He wore a brown leather jacket with a plain, dingy white tee underneath, relaxed fit, dark wash jeans, and old style converse. Tattoos were evident on the neck, and peeking above the hem of the shirt. More were observed on the backs of his hands and on his fingers.

"Well, I hate to break it to ya luv, but you're not as right as you think you are." The visage twists to showcase the brief grimace of embarrassment on behalf of company. The left hand loosely held the near empty whiskey glass with a cube and a half left in it, while the right is motioned around while he spoke. The movement becoming open and fluid the more the alcohol set in.

"I tell you what, Ian is my name. ... partially. But.. remind me, why should I tell you again? You look real flashy to be asking me my name, you hitting on me? .. gonna be buying me gas later?" A smug grin lifts into view before the drink is brought to his lips again. He thinks his lie is so smooth. He's also joking, and he for one, thinks he's utterly hilarious. Amongst the camaraderie, the left eye is beginning to respond slower. Where the right eye would look, his left did also, but with a slight.. delay. Something is slightly off, or, it's possible he carried a lazy eye.

The suited man had lifted a single shoulder in an easy, casual shrug.

❝ Just because I think I'm right doesn't mean I AM right. I'm not so arrogant as to not be open to correction. ❞ But he typically usually had a suspicion he was probably right most of the time.

Ian. Partially a name. A nickname or a shorthand. Whatever the case: ❝ It still counts. I'm still right, darling. Names carry weight and it means something when you aren't bringing all of that weight with you here. ❞

Clark Thompson was by no means an expert on people. In fact, one might say he was downright bad with them when the scope focused beyond the general concept of them. But he'd been around the block enough on top of his own preternatural senses to be able to make an observation here and there and be mostly confident in it.

❝ You don't have to tell me anything. I've already confessed to not using my own name and I've no intention of telling that to you, why should I demand you offer up the same information that I deny you? As for hitting on you-—is this how it usually goes for you? Is this how suitors usually approach you? What a strange love-life you must lead. ❞

“Yeah, don’t bother trying to protest this or say you're not joining. She’s going to call your boss or your boss’s boss or whatever and have you assigned to her. You just got drafted. Welcome to the team."

Lips part to speak. Close again. Purse. It's evident in the way his head twists to regard Grace through darkened lenses that he's hardly pleased to be there.

❝-— And you are...? ❞ He wants to say he had no intention of protesting-— but hadn't he? You involve yourself off the record with aiding in making sure your shared world doesn't die with you on it and suddenly you're being dragged front and center onto some team as if Clark had anything to supply but money and connections-— both of which Stratt seemed to have endless supplies of already. So, yes. Maybe he had intended to do just a pinch of protesting. There were other things he could do to help, things that required he NOT be stuck on some ragtag team of geniuses and powerful people and far too many eyes.

He also wants to say something along the lines of how he was as high as his line of command went. Clark Thompson, sat at the tippy-top of his own food chain, had been dragged into another by a very determined woman and a shared interest in preserving humanity.

❝ Right. So when I initiated contact and gave a secure line, I intended that to be the extent of our meetings. I wasn't under the impression that was me signing up for...a team. ❞

🍋🍊━━━an intriguing turn around of events: everything that could go wrong, went wrong. And yet, with an appealing smile, Onofrio meets Clark's ire with a silent acknowledgement that, despite this mess, an alternative skill exists. They are cut off from communications and the target that is supposed to be a predictable gamble, turned into a terrifying plot twist. Now lost, along with a shipment now sinking just on the horizon. They are stranded, somewhat, and the helps is each other. And yet, despite it all, Onofrio holds up his chin as he watches four billion dollars swallowed by the Mariana Trench; he smiles. His counterpart paces. Something about the crack in Clark's demeanor is sickeningly satisfying. The pristine, perfect, proper accountant who came out of nowhere with intentions offered to the Giovino, Mister Answers, Mister I-am-glad-I-am-not-doing-the-talking now snaps back at Onofrio with a fury. Perhaps, the consigliere has been jealous of that monotone expression and the cashmere neutrality. He will admit to it; he has admired this uncanny partnership. But he likes emotions. He thrives on reactivity for his own peaceful answers.

And yet, despite this little needle of friendly vengeance, the consigliere harbors a plan close to his chest.

Gallows cants his gaze to Clark. "Be my guest." He answers flatly to the sarcasm offered in poor taste. An unprofessional panic attack in front of a colleague is something Onofrio refuses to unravel. Those are allowed with a strangling pillow around his face for now one, not even an ant, to hear in the villa when he is alone, or sinking under the water of his aromatic bath. The consigliere exhales, closing his eyes to think. His eyelids snap open when Clark's digit dents his tie. The advisor flicks his eyes down at it and scoffs before taking a step away to remove the touch. Raising his hand, he brushes his fingertips over the front of his chest to pat the fabric into place.

The consigliere's eyes follow Clark when suddenly the accountant pauses. There is a shift in his demeanor, just as sharp as his explosive critique. The gears turn in his intelligent colleague's head, and when those eyes capture Gallows again, the advisor merely smiles. Yes, guilty as charged.

"There are things that are confidential, Mister Thompson." Gallows answers, averting his gaze to the disaster in the distance. Something exploded on the ship, possibly the engine drowning in the overwhelming fire. So many lives sacrificed, the news will say, but the cruise ship merely holds on beating heart and heaps of blood money. "The passengers purchased tickets that belong to a competitor. We paid double to change their course to the same destination, throw in some bonuses. I apologize," his eyes flick to Clark. "I may have forgotten to report that expense." His smile widens. "The man on that ship," Gallows indicates the disaster with his tilted forehead. "Sinks with his debt. I know he owes us this debt and it is a tremendous loss for the Giovino, because, in turn, we owe someone else, however, this has also tanked the rates of, well, everything, on the black market from where this debt was conceived. Which means an investment as low as a million puts us," Gallows narrows his eyes at the sky, swaying his head back and forth. "At the top of the Pacific food chain. The debtors, ah-hah, owe us." Freeing his hands from his pockets, Onofrio gestures to Clark.

"That is your role now, Signore." The consigliere smiles. "The expected value of this sinking assassination is triple of what he owes us and black market monopoly." Gallows claps, dispelling his mask into a beaming Italian mafioso. "Now, how about a limoncello somewhere with a good WiFi, Signore? Andiamo, on me. We have some shopping to do."

"There are things that are confidential, Mister Thompson."

Not from him, he wants to say. To this accountant he'd been running around as? To whatever mask and suit he'd put on to play pretend for awhile until he got bored? Sure. But to Clark himself? No such thing as confidential. It felt like cheating to dig into more contacts and pluck at more threads than he absolutely had to. And why? Cheating by whose rules? His own? This was his game he'd set up for himself as the only real player. And yet he'd gone and given himself such a substantial blind spot all for the sake of... ? Fun? Was this fun? God, no. He was frustrated, he was agitated, he was restless. He ought to just toss down this alias and vanish the next day and find something else to fill his time.

But he knew he wouldn't.

He loathed to admit it but being frustrated was good. Being surprised was good. Do you know how rarely someone could surprise Clark Thompson nowadays? These stakes were still low in the grand scheme of things; he'd lost nothing but temporarily his cool and some of his pride. And what had he gained? Genuinely being thrown off. If only for a bit. That was worth more than any amount of money lost or gained or a few moments of sheer and unadulterated frustration.

❝ I'd say you're too smart for where you are but... I suppose you're in the perfect position, aren't you? ❞

You had to be intelligent to be head of anything, this was true. But it was hardly a secret that the real brains behind any operation were located behind the scenes.

A heavy sigh puffed through his lips and he bent his head forward to pinch at the bridge of his nose as Frio tipped his back and nodded this way and that in casual calculation. He wasn't sure if he wanted to strangle the man or kiss him for all of this.

❝ You've crashed the criminal black market economy. And you're not worried about any repercussions? ❞

He sneered some at the mention of his role. He hated finances. Hated the numbers game. It'd just been the easiest position to wordlessly slip into-— not that it'd been easy by any means. But Clark was growing impatient in it. It was all well and good to be surprised, but it had to be different each time to be a GOOD sort of surprised. If he missed something again because he'd been left in the dark, he would not be so pleased a second time.

❝ Or is that why we're seeking out a decent Internet connection? ❞

LIKE FOR MEMES !!

&. Starbucks. A worldwide known company and yet, it hadn’t hit the small town of Forks, Washington. So, when he mentions the shop, Carlisle couldn’t help but to let a light chuckle escape his cold lips. Many of the town people had created petitions to have one created in the small town, yet others opposed to continue to keep out big corporates, not wanting to loose its charm. Carlisle couldn’t agree more. Big corporates meant housing and more housing meant more civilians and well — the rest was self explained. He enjoyed small towns, excluded areas. It was easier for his family and him to live as vampires.

“I’m sure Forks will welcome Thompson with open arms. I assure you we would prefer it over a Starbucks.” He says as his eyes go towards his extended arm, offering it for a shake. The immortal accepts his gesture and extends his own arm, his hand shaking his.

“Walking awfully far away from the town. Residents don’t come this way. However, I can offer a ride back to Forks if that interests you.” He suggests. Whatever his intentions were, he kept his guard up. The random event wasn’t going to expand to something else, he was going to continue to be kind but also try to remove him from his property without being harsh.

Thompson returned his hands to their polite fold at his front. He wasn't inclined to take the offered ride back and yet... what choice did he have? His excuse made little enough sense as it were, but to then refuse the offered help? Too suspicious. Oh, he hated cars though.

❝ Are they... ❞ his head cocked and he regarded Carlisle with genuine curiosity. ❝ Are they owned? Protected? I haven't gone and committed a federal crime have I? I suppose this is really why you chat up the locals first before havin' at it. ❞

He breathed in and exhaled it as a heavy sigh. That much was true. He really ought to have chatted up the locals first, especially being a business owner and technical newcomer himself.

❝ It interests me, yes. But I would hate to trouble you more than I already have. ❞

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