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status: closed — location: community greenhouse — @anhedcnias
The constant fall of rain against plastic drums in his hands, head, and above all else — his heart. A part of him wonders how much longer this one will last against the onslaught. The dinky greenhouse on 2nd Ave and 96 flooded just last week; something to do with the sheets of plastic giving under pooling rain. This one, though.. At least the lean-to's steep enough to direct the rain down into some gutters.
"My turn?" Ryaan calls over his shoulder, not yet turning to see for himself as he's still wrist deep in a bag of rich soil. "Could you help me repot some of the apple mint?" The seedlings proved to grow much faster than expected, and the last thing he wanted was for them to choke out or accidentally spread through the seed starter pots.
Their internal coding was meticulously programmed and intricately threaded to facilitate multitasking. The ability to operate multiple functions simultaneously was paramount for covert operations involving the tracking and apprehending of misfits, malfeasance and other threatening malware. This capability was equally vital during moments when Belial offered to share their time with a companion such as Ryaan. And Belial remained optimistic that this greenhouse would endure where others had faltered.
Belial concluded their turn on the black and white chessboard with precision. Accustomed to strategizing from the black side, they had naturally assumed their place on that side of the board. With a subtle nod towards Ryaan, they affirmed, "Affirmative. Move completed. Queen to F7."
Stoneage Industries fostered a sense of community, friendships, and shared experiences, for the blade runner. Belial's voice, devoid of inflection yet laden with a semblance of curiosity, broke the silence. "The apple mint is ready?" The limitations of their coding prevented the full expression of excitement they wished to convey. "Our success rate has increased by 36%. Where should we designate for repotting? Near the vegetables to deter pests?"
In truth, he's not quite sure what to make of this one. Hardly his job to, really, and he's nothing if not a stickler when it comes to minding his own business. Yet they're both here. Playing chess among the mixed pots of soil and vibrancy of green. Perhaps there's a soft spot that resides within him, still. One that longed for connection in either of the three interests he's managed to retain.
Rayaan wipes dirt smudged hands against his pants before ambling over. Queen to F7, indeed. A hum, both affirmative and pensive, draws out as he hovers near the board. "Ready enough to repot, yeah. Needs a thicker container, too. Seen a few get too cramped and bust out of the bottom before. Once they get a lick of freedom, they spread like wildfire." Destroys like them, too.
"Yeah, not a bad idea. Maybe near the rosemary and other herbs? Usually does well with keeping the bugs away." A hand soothes over his chin before going to touch his remaining rook. Not even a second later and he snatches it away again. "Oh, you see the thai hot chilis yet? Some are ready to harvest."
The loud clatter of bucket and wheels follow his footsteps. One of the damn wheels is getting loose, but he can't be assed to fix it just yet. So he keeps on trudging through pristine hallways. Picks up bits of stray trash that didn't quite make it to the trashcans and stuffs them in a plastic bag he keeps attached to a belt loop.
"Long day?" He still not used to the way his voice pitches with friendliness in these walls. It sounds too.. Cheery. Nice. Like he's actually approachable when his facial features sometimes struggle to reflect that intent. But it's a little easier with her. So the rounding of eyes isn't delayed and neither is the more relaxed posture when he comes to a stop. "You taken a break yet?"
Funny how the bustle within the hospital almost matches the hotel. True, there tends to be far less emergencies in the latter, but both establishments swarm with life regardless. It coats a layer of familiarity around him upon entering. Again, posing himself as a visitor to a dear friend that coincidentally needs a talking to.
Things go far smoother than the last time he decided to drop by.
It's for that very reason that he smiles when he catches a familiar face in another set of halls. "Ren!" Seojun calls out, not too loudly but just enough to be heard over the ambient chatter. A lunchbox is lifted to eye level as a way to beckon the surgeon over. "Have you eaten yet?"
status: closed — location: jie's place — @wrvtchedhearts
He’s tired. Worn down to the very bone after sustaining another set of wounds ( that are thankfully easy to hide ). It’s fine, though. He’s had time to gripe and mend them. He's always healed relatively fast anyways so he doesn’t have to worry about overdoing things like this.
That being said, there’s really no good reason he’s put in this much energy for a single meal.
If this was just the soup, then sure — it’s not that taxing on the body. But to hand pull his own noodles from scratch? Forego the usefulness of a pressure cooker to half the time? Jie acts as if this was an uneventful night. Like he hadn’t just fought tooth and nail the other day. Then again, the familiar motions seem to calm him. Even if his body protests with each movement, an unseen pressure eases. Feels more intact with his body instead of detaching his mind and fleeing.
By the time it’s done, he’s nearly serene. Like there isn’t an undying anger in the pit of his stomach. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to being calm and the effect lingers as two heaping bowls are dished out. Chopsticks and soup spoons clatter on the shitty kitchen table. Shortly after, there's a knock on the door. “Hey— just in time.” Jie lets Zakir inside before he goes and plops himself onto an equally as shitty chair. “Beef noodle soup. Kept the noodles pretty thick.” Only because his wrist started to flare up with during the continuous pulling and twisting.
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status: closed — location: community greenhouse — @anhedcnias
The constant fall of rain against plastic drums in his hands, head, and above all else — his heart. A part of him wonders how much longer this one will last against the onslaught. The dinky greenhouse on 2nd Ave and 96 flooded just last week; something to do with the sheets of plastic giving under pooling rain. This one, though.. At least the lean-to's steep enough to direct the rain down into some gutters.
"My turn?" Ryaan calls over his shoulder, not yet turning to see for himself as he's still wrist deep in a bag of rich soil. "Could you help me repot some of the apple mint?" The seedlings proved to grow much faster than expected, and the last thing he wanted was for them to choke out or accidentally spread through the seed starter pots.
OPEN TO: anyone !
LOCATION: metropolitan opera house
For a moment, whatever glamour Eden carries shifts in the corner of his eye. Any focus he's had on the swarming company during the intermission falters and he can see the change he's tried to deny. The halo he's been given, more than earned, almost flickers. He can see the shadows that creeps over himself just for a moment, feel it's weight dare to drag him down. What paints him isn't some omen the rest of the world can see, but just a trick of his own mind driven by the guilt of doubting his saviors— their saviors, all of them fed by the same industry. Eden is no different than the rest running through New York, praying to Stoneage and how they defy mortality.
"Will you let me leave already?" He murmurs, pulled from his thoughts by the desperation of flight rather than to squirm in his seat the rest of the night. Pretending is far easier with a script, and outside of his tilted stage, he's at a loss.
Eden realizes his mistake, though. This plea is murmured to not his wife, as she's left his side, but someone else. Is it too late to retract?
"Sorry, I thought you were— she likes the Opera—" His stammer is bitten, cut into pieces by a sigh. "Who am I kidding? How can I get the fuck out of here?"
It's.... A lot to take in. The singing, the scenes, the screeching instruments. He's never been one for the finer acts of art. Yet he's here. Figured it'd be a waste of a free ticket, and blatantly rude, so he gave it a chance. Made it past the first act, even. Still wants to plug his ears or claw out the eardrums, though — either would work in this scenario, he thinks.
"You smoke?" The misdirected question glides off him like water on duck feathers. He's terribly unbothered, mostly from the play, and this guy looks how he feels. "If you don't— then now you do, and I suddenly remember owing you one." A half empty pack shows in his hand as emphasis. Whether or not his offer's taken, Jie goes to stand anyways. He'll have a smoke one way or another.
Henry had just finished checking on his last patient and was leaning against the nurse's station, exchanging playful banter with a nurse whose name he couldn't remember, when he heard familiar footsteps behind him. " You just had to ruin the mome — " he began, turning around. A soft, wistful chuckle escaped Henry's lips as he beheld the unexpected sight of his father standing there, slightly out of place amidst the hospital's bustling corridors. " And to what do I owe this pleasure of seeing you ? "
"What? Can't a father visit his son every now and then?" Innocence is suggested in the lightness of his tone. Even goes as far as to keep his posture open with shoulders slackened and hands loosely pocketed. They both know he doesn't pay pointless drop-ins. Still, he smiles and amps up the role of a caring father. Which isn't to say he doesn't care about Henry — he always will, despite his son's.. Peculiar path in life — but he might have visited an old friend just prior.
"I just stopped by to see if you were eating enough. You work long enough hours, so I brought some dosirak." Two boxes, to be exact. Just like how he used to pack them when Henry was but a child.
* ◟ : 〔 LEWIS TAN, CIS MAN + HE / HIM 〕 ZHONG JIEGOU , some say you’re a THIRTY SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both INTUITIVE and BULL - HEADED, one can’t help but think of VENGEANCE by COLDRAIN when you walk by. are you still the HITMAN for THE HANGING MAN, even with your reputation as THE OUROBOROS? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and REMORSE SEVERED BY ONE'S OWN HAND, FEELING THE WARMTH OF AN INFERNO BUT NOT THE PAIN, SINS OF GENERATIONS PAST STILL SEEK PENANCE, although we can’t help but think of SENSHI ( DUNGEON MESHI ) + CHARLES SUN ( THE BROTHERS SUN ) + CASSIAN ( JOHN WICK ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.
ENTER THE OUROBOROS.
You’ve overstayed your initial timeframe on these grounds. Every nook and cranny’s been memorized. Yet you still walk the streets as a stranger. The concept of settling in is always within reach, but you’ve long forgotten what having a home means. Though some broken part of you will always long for it. So you tell yourself you don’t mind the constant rain as compromise. When in reality you’ve always fucking hated it. The memories it digs up stings worse than broken glass underfoot. But you carry on. Keep your head held high, shoulders back, spine straight just like you’ve been taught.
PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:
Name: Zhong JieGou
Appearance: TBA but does have a face scar from corner of mouth to cheek & one in the middle of his left hand.
( tw — child endangerment, murder )
Does anyone really know who their parents are?
It's a question that Jie never thought twice about growing up. He'd always been told he was the apple to their eye. Their miracle child, the embodiment of their love. And he was. Throughout his childhood, his father was a modest man that built his morals and teachings based on the hard truths of the world; mainly faults and redemption. Whereas his mother was perfect in just about every way as a successful realtor, loving wife and mother. Everything was fine — normal until he turned eleven.
The sudden, horrendous murder of his aunt sent his mother over the edge. She became unstable at a rapid rate; long nights out, hardly social, a husk of her former self. Even worse when the murder didn't remain at large — law enforcement hardly kept vivid interest until the case went cold. Jie and his father tried everything they could to console her to the best of their abilities, but she was cast further than they could reach.
Everything started to crack when his mother stumbled home covered in blood. No one was given a moment's notice before she robbed Jie of his father's life; knife driven deep into the throat twice and left to bleed out on the floor. He wasn't given the option to run for help, or reason with his own mother for the horrors that unfolded around him. All he was given was the same greeting that his father received and was swiped at with a blade. Straight through the left hand, raised in self-defense and fear. Unlike his father, he fared better with his instincts and managed to evade a fatal blow. Still, the knife carved into the right side of his face; just next to the corner of his mouth and up to the meat of his cheek.
They struggled for several minutes on end. Jie pleaded in pain while his mother remained unreachable — convinced that it was better if her own family died at her hands instead of the cruel world they lived in. Then there was a slight break of clarity of what she was doing. She remained over Jie, her own son, knife poised to drive a blade into a vital point. It was in that moment of opportunity that Jie fought back. He bit the very hand that had fed him all his life and fought to survive.
The altercation ended with both parents deceased and himself very much alive. He had his mother's knife grasped in shaky hands. They didn't stop shaking until he realized that — no, he really didn't know his parents. Not his father, and definitely not his mother.
Hell, maybe even himself.
Life after that incident was different. Jie almost followed his mother's descent into numb madness. Yet the support of his grandparents and new friend fished him back out; unknowingly helped him keep a level head as he figured out what the hell he truly was. Though terribly difficult, he worked towards some semblance of a normal life. Yet misfortune laughed in his face once more when he reached seventeen.
The sudden disappearance of his best friend uprooted him completely. The circumstances had been too clean, too random — too everything wrong. Yet the local police couldn't see that. They couldn't see past the fact that his friend was a full-grown adult with a rough past. They didn't do much of anything besides the bare minimum; just like they had with his aunt's murder.
It hadn't felt like a coincidence to him from the very beginning. Two horrible occurrences within his very young life didn't just happen under the pretense of random misfortune. He didn't accept it — couldn't accept it, and his disbelief ended up being right.
The body of his best friend turned up years later — dismembered and almost beyond recognition. All faith he had in law enforcement was buried along with the discovery. No one was there to help level his drowned thoughts. No one was there to tell him to try and move on — continue to live life to the fullest. No one was there to stop him from taking matters into his own hands as he finetuned his skillset. Eventually marketing himself as a hit for hire.
* ◟ : 〔 DEV PATEL, CIS MAN + HE / HIM 〕 RAYAAN IYER , some say you’re a THIRTY FOUR YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both RESILIENT and RASH, one can’t help but think of CANVAS by AVRALIZE when you walk by. are you still the SOLDIER ( THE BASILISK ), JANITOR for THE TERRORS, STONEAGE INDUSTRIES, even with your reputation as THE BASILISK? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and BLINDLY FOLLOWING ONE'S CHOSEN BEACON, MEMORIES AKIN TO A TALL SMOKESTACK BLEEDING OUT GHOSTS, TIRED OF SUFFERING BUT NOT KNOWING WHO ONE IS WITHOUT IT, although we can’t help but think of MARCILLE ( DUNGEON MESHI ) + CANE ( JOHN WICK ) + KID ( MONKEY MAN ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.
ENTER THE BASILISK.
The tumultuous downpour's all white noise at this point. It's one of the few things that remain steady. Unchanged. If only it's as cleansing as the poets say. Routine continues to be a challenge you're not completely familiar with just yet. But you still try, little by little. Deal with the moments of paralysis in a better, though still difficult, way. Blend in with society where it smells less of dust coated cordite and more of vibrancy.
PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:
Name: Rayaan Iyer
Appearance: One word summary — inconspicuous. From apparel to expression, Rayaan keeps himself to the more minimalistic side. Nothing too loud or in-your-face with his speech or mannerisms. Simply cordial, calm, mostly collected. Tends to dress in a more monochromatic scale. Says he's not allergic to color, but they often exhaust his eyes.
The concept of family ( of a healthy, functioning one ) had never taken root early on in his childhood. A loving yet ill mother and an expectant but rage triggered father lined everything in eggshells at home. As influential and powerful as his father was, he wanted Rayaan to be nothing less than of the same standing. Like-minded in greed and politics, never wavering despite the circumstances, charming enough to weave his way into the right field, and obedient. Always obedient.
An accident reaped the life of a peer – seemingly by his own hands. Truthfully, the details of it had morphed into a conglomerated mess, and only the raw emotions stuck out crystal clear. Horror, guilt, and shame. And instead of being fought for, of being offered compassion or even a shred of love, all he was met with was disdain from his own father.
Rayaan became a stain on the family name. Single-handedly ruined that hard earned reputation.
The case built against him fell through the cracks with what little evidence there was. Nothing outstanding or suspicious had been found in regards to the deceased. Yet even then, he’d been cast from his parents. Word of mouth travels fast, quicker than wildfire but just as life devastating. So, he was sent away. Told to live with an old family friend that had shown the smallest scrap of sympathy for the boy. Other than a letter or text from his mother once every few blue moons, Rayaan was fully estranged from then on out.
High school hardly held any glitz or glamor. Hormones were horrible, rumors that lacked truths festered, and he still hadn’t found a solid connection at ‘home’. Friends were few and far between – a measly handful that he always held at arm’s length; still too plagued by the deeds of recent past. And yet, as the fates would have it, he still managed to find some semblance of a best friend within another.
Graduation couldn’t have happened sooner – even if his plans past school fell rather short. With no family to help, no concrete passion for any career path, he let himself get swallowed by recruitment. At least then he could tread along with the only person that seemed to give a damn about him. The only pillar of light in the midst of ever creeping darkness.
The years spent in the military blurred with one another. Body and spirit were broken, reformed, enhanced – made his strength concrete and wits razor-sharp. Through all trials and tribulations, he stayed consistent by his best friend's side. There to support him, to be supported himself, until everything was severed in one fell swoop.
Instinct had him cover his partner under fire, and it resulted in two gunshots to the abdomen. Not one, but two surgeries were required – both of which came horrendously close to the line of fatality. Yet somehow, by some miracle, Rayaan managed to fully stabilize after a long while. By the time he woke and began to gather his bearings, his worst fear had taken wind. His partner hadn’t been safe and well, but rather the opposite with a medical emergency himself. Thankfully, the both of them survived the horrors of war. Scarred both of skin and mind, but very much alive.
Once healed enough, Rayaan was medically discharge from service; once again left at the whims of the future’s unknowing. But not all was lost in the gloom. His partner was still there, ready to help shoulder the torment and work through acclimation back into society. Except.. the latter never really happened. The trauma echoed far too loudly, too persistently, to settle into a regular nine to five. Not to mention that their financial needs were more than just tight.
WHAT'S BURIED UNDERNEATH .
HISTORY BEING WRITTEN .
The solution to restlessness and shortage of money alike was presented in the form of a call. An acquaintance of years past caught wind of their unemployment and offered them a job. At first it was supposed to be a one time thing. But one became two, two became three, three became four.. Eventually it became obvious that neither of them had the strength to walk away. Working in a gritty, uniform order was the oil that kept his body’s machine running. So he stayed. Fully integrated into The Terrors. Rayaan's loyalty continues to through – even if he carries additional stress from a more recent part time gig.
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* ◟ : 〔 PARK HEESOON , CIS MAN + HE / HIM 〕 JISEOK SEOJUN , some say you’re a FIFTY FOUR YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both COMPASSIONATE and UNFORGIVING, one can’t help but think of PINK PONY CLUB by CHAPPELL ROAN when you walk by. are you still the OWNER, RETIRED ASSASSIN for THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, even with your reputation as THE WATCHMAN? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and TIME STOPPING PAST THE THRESHOLD, ACTIONS & IMMEDIATE CONSEQUENCES, UNSPOKEN TRUCE BETWEEN CUPS OF TEA, although we can’t help but think of WINSTON ( JOHN WICK ) + ROY MUSTANG ( FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST ) + HUTCH MANSELL ( NOBODY ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.
ENTER THE WATCHMAN .
tba - i'm lazy & will fill out the #vibes later. update: i never did fill out the vibes :)
PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:
Name: Jiseok Seojun
Appearance: Typically tidy with his upkeep. Sensible fashion that can also be utilized to his advantage if ever in a tight situation. Does prefer to side with comfort ( though still fashionable ) when retiring at home. Yes, this includes a row of robes and slippies.
Proud father of two children ( WCs will be sent.. later, but definitely open to plotting! ).
Also a proud owner of a white cat named Dubu.
Has sick ass tattooes in various places :o)
Has done hits intentionally!
WHAT'S BURIED UNDERNEATH .
Birth name: ███ ██████
HISTORY HIS HEART KNOWS ( PRIVATE ) .
Corrupt or not, ██████’s always taken business wherever able. The line between good and bad have never been more than a guideline to trace over and bend. Of course, that’s always made things more complicated than playing one side but it’s always made life interesting — well worth the endless hoops and loops he’s had to contort through.
All until one particular case.
The couple that hired him were well feared; their influence ran strong far and wide. So when contacted to help find find their son and kill those that had a hand in the disappearance.. he had no inclination of declining. How could he with such a big catch?
What he found months later is still hammered deep in the layers of his conscious. The mark was by no means someone that initially warranted sympathy. Then again, neither did he. Seasoned as he was with such requests, ██████ should've seen it coming. Though, to the other party's credit, the trap was quite elaborate. Definitely made the escape beyond harrowing.
To make matters worse, ██████ struck gold with information he wanted nothing to do with. All of which were turned over to his clients to execute punishment as seen fit. And despite the knowledge gleaned from very sensitive details, he was left to live in favor for being so thorough.
Sometimes he wishes that courtesy hadn’t been extended.
HISTORY BEING WRITTEN .
Seojun retired soon after ( for the most part ). Had his documents redone. Assumed a new identity and left his perch in South Korea. He knew what sort of field he was getting into when pursuing hospitality. Yet he did it anyways. He works alongside meticulously chosen crew, runs a tight ship day-in and day-out, and deals with any issues that happen at the Borderline Hotel.
It’s the smoke that gets to him first. How acrid it is in both smell and taste as it floods every sense available. Through the nose and mouth to kindle the lungs, burns the eyes to bring forth tears, seeps past the pores of his skin to stain sinew and bone..
He can’t breathe like this. No, keep low. Even if it makes him look a fool to rush half crouched and puts a strain on his legs. Better that then half dead from too much smoke inhalation.
Pierce has his jacket off but draping around one arm where most of the hungering flames are present. Rotted as his core may be, he still does his best to try and help others. Herd the ones without experience in a raging inferno. All while he tries his damn best to keep familiar echoes of panic at bay.
"Hey— wrong way! You're going the wrong way!" He shouts, straining the strength of his voice as he tries to prevent someone else from diving into the fire's depths.
Unease crawls under her skin like ants swarming their injured nest. To be among so many influential figures makes her.. Sick, to put it bluntly. Perhaps it'd be easier to stomach if the morals behind this overarching interest aligned. Even then, it's one hell of a reach. She still can't get Somi's face out of her head. Rather, what looked like her sister.
How many of these participants are like her father? How many of them have no qualms in reconstructing the human soul into their vision?
It's enough for her to slither away. First from the most condensed area in the room. Then to a hallway that'll lead to a moment of reprieve. So she hopes. Yujin's nearly to the moderate safety of the replicant workshop when she picks up on another presence. Which is.. odd. She knows why she's here, but why would someone else be skulking around this far down?
her hands wrapped around the ankles of a dead man, dragging the still-slack carcass over the hardwood, leaving a broad streak of dark blood in its wake. overlaps its brother, the blood of the first body to be hauled up basement steps and laid to rest in plain view of the shattered glass windows. now, a pair — an exhibition. two men who entered her gallery and attempted to break into her barricaded basement office, who did, who earned precise, life-suffocating bullets shot directly into unsuspecting chests. veda screamed herself into a stiff sleep, shoulders tight to her ears, lungs heaving with quick, even breaths. a nervous kitten.
the mother, the all-at-once murderer, has dragged over three hundred pounds up the stairs. catches her breath crouched under the shadow of an interior wall, watching the daylight slip into the pale blue of threatening twilight. does not, cannot, reconcile what she's just done; can only hear, understand the cicada-reminiscent thrumming of survival. nothing else exists.
the crest of a shadow appears against the sidewalk, creeps larger, longer. indira picks up the gun, fingers curling tightly around the talon grip, and shrinks back further into the wall's negative space. shoulders dropping, gun aimed at the corner of the door as the figure realizes itself. she swallows her breath. she'll hide until they won't let her.
He walks these ravenous streets not in fear, no. There’s a certain ease about him. More so than any other day of the year. Marcellus walks in the shape of his own body once more. No longer a stranger and unfamiliar with the reenforced walls built among society. Every corner holds the worst of humanity — allows it to be seen in plain view.
How broken must he be to find reassurnace where there should be none?
The crunch of glass catches underfoot. He pauses. Shadow casted face turns to take in the familiar building; now disheveled and shattered into a shell of greed. Something just as sharp twists in the hollow spot of his chest. Digs deeper, still, as he approaches the half busted threshold.
“Indira?” It’s a shot in the dark, really, but the tinge of concern stays true. Besides, she owns the gallery he so adores. “Anyone—” That’s when he spots the two lumps amidst the floor. Still. Presumably lifeless. Fingers subtly brush over the hilt of a holstered gun, still hidden under the jacket he wears. “Alive here?”
at the short sure... yoshi hones in. without augmentations, he can smell the reek of the blood pouring from seiko's mangled hand. "holy fucking shit." he doesn't make eye contact when he utters the curses, slurs them at his gloves as he yanks them up to his wrists. "have a seat, good man, you are something close to permanently ruined up the sewers with that." he juts his chin towards the leather chair, one of his hand-me-downs from his apartment. literally just a recliner. this is where he slaps all of his human clients, the bloodstains tattling as to just how much there are.
he drops his other tools into the sterile alcohol-water and sniffs, shoving at the eye patch concealing his left scarred eye so that it stops tickling his cheekbone. "tell me what happened, who did it, whatever the fuck else." when he turns around, he has his tweezers. but they are long, and thin, and sharp. "the more details, the better."
Doesn't take much for him to be moving again. Then again, it never does. Seiko goes to sit with the grace of a bumbling donkey, yet manages to do so with care. He might be in need of immediate medical aid, but that never means he should be careless disrespectful about it.
"Um." The details are there. Just out of reach. Moth bitten and horrendously discolored. It's stirring up previous moments almost parallel to this one. A pounding head, barely capable of putting one and two together, but still alive and breathing. Hurt, but still present. Sort of. "Two people, um." He's swallowing thickly, trying to keep the churn of bile at bay. The body remembers what his mind cannot. Except it's pulling from back then. Bridging a long forgotten piece of his past back into place, but the edges are still raw. Remembering hurts so he's never tried, but now he is. Looking at his other hand ghost white, almost fearful that it, too, would need to be replaced.
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Liena didn't have enough hours in a day to keep track of her various employees. She tried her best to remember the names of the opera workers and the Jade Tribe members, but every so often, she'd spot an unfamiliar face. That momentarily slip of control grated on her, so now, she was using the time to catch up with one of her associates, VERE CALDER.
She smiled a bit as she listened to Vere's joke. Liena wasn't much for comedy--- she preferred dramas or emotional productions over crude humor. Still, it was refreshing to see an associate speak so light-heartedly at her. ❝I miss all of my associates. Sometimes I envy my capos because they get to be more hands-on with you all.❞ The words weren't a lie, but Liena wouldn't sacrifice her current role just for a glimpse of comradery. ❝I just wanted to check in on how your assignments are going. I want to make sure my associates and soldiers aren't feeling overwhelmed or burnt out.❞
"Oh, how sweet, but you're one busy woman and I respect that. I'm just happy that you carved out some time for little ol' me." One of the drinks is placed before Liena. She's not expecting it to be taken, really, but still brought it as a friendly gesture. "Everything's going as planned, and I appreciate you asking about burn out. Not a lot of people do." And she means it. Means it in a way comparable to the depth of a shallow pond — internally. There's still an ease to the cheeriness she upholds. Even if some part of her doubts the check in being fully genuine.
he's far too cheery for a measly little monthly check - up. he knows there's a time limit but he never remembers and more it's the furthest thought away. he just enjoys her company and he's never shy to express it. he adores all of his friends and yujin was no different. still, just as she eyes the plastic in his hands, he sets it his lap to pull open the lid and — " it's something new i wanted to try: peanut butter blossoms! " just like it shows, little chocolate kisses are perched on top of sugar cookies ( rather beautifully, too ). he made sure it involve presentation and everything. whilst leaning forward, he perks up with a smile that never fades. " c'mon, try it. it's goo~d. " he sure does not hesitate to sing the last part.
Peanut butter blossoms. She plucks one from the top and gives a small indifferent hum. Dark eyes shift unto Ha-Jun only to confess, “I’m allergic to nuts.” Then Yujin takes a sizable bite without hesitation. Still with a blank expression and no sign of stopping before she swallows. “Not really, they just make my stomach ache. More of an intolerance.” Still shouldn’t be eating them, but that never stopped those plagued with lactose intolerance from consuming dairy ( herself included ). Honestly, she still would’ve eaten it even if deathly allergic. Not many people gift her things — especially more than once.
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