Remember Me

He returned a half-hearted shrug, wholly unapologetic about possibly offending the guy in front of him. Luca shook his head as he grabbed a glass from the bar to clean. “I mean, crocodiles aren’t usually where my brain goes when I decide to fuck off into the land of thoughts, but hey man, go off.” He glanced around the bar, wondering if there was anyone else he could go and bother, but when the only other lonely patron looked like he was about to pass out on the table, Luca chose to stay. “Please, tell me more about them crocodiles. I’m about to go insane if I don’t have something to do.”

Others might have found Poet’s compulsion to lie irritating, but she always knew what to expect with him. He was a little chaotic. It was kind of delightful. 

She winced a little. “She’s going to kill herself,” she clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Our numbers are thin enough as it is without some of us trying to off ourselves.” She seemed to think to herself for a moment, a frown pulling the corners of her lips down. “I think it’s time we pick a building and bring it down, to be honest. Time to make a statement.” 

“at least call me ten like i goddamn deserve. this? this is a ten.” nine waved along the general length of her body, behold me, but that only reminded her that she’d jacked her arm up. “maybe not in this specific moment. but other moments. i’m a ten, baby.” said, of course, with all the deadpan candor of someone who knew well and good she was not a ten, which she knew poet would confirm, but as her brother-in-arms it was his legal, ethical, and moral responsibility to keep her humble or whatever. it was fucked up, honestly. she could ride in circles around most of the hooligans in this town, hold her own in a street race without question—but as soon as she got around to practicing, she got, what, cocky? and scrapped her shit up. it wasn’t even worth it, trying to clip that tight of a turn. so much for improving her time. “nah, i’m cool, i’m good, i’m fine.” she clapped her hand onto the crook of poet’s elbow and pulled herself up with a wince—alright, maybe she had fucked herself a little. the arm she’d skidded across looked more or less like someone had taken a goddamn meat hammer to it, but it would heal well and enough. as for the rest… she lifted her shirt, surveyed the damage to her side, and then with a certain nonchalance, she shrugged. “yeah, i’m good. don’t tell iffy, holy shit, she’ll never let me live it down.”

and then the real victim: she glanced at her bike and cringed. “fuckin’ a. i just waxed her and everything, too.” 

“a ten?” poet snorted. “you know you’re like, a 6.7 at most, right? i’m being real generous with eight.” that was a joke, because if he were to give a serious answer for once, he’d say nine was a ten in both looks and general recklessness. because nine was his girl, that’s why. a dumbass, but a dumbass he cared about. that was why he didn’t let his tease simmer that long. “nah, fuck it. you’re not a ten you’re straight off the charts. out there in the stratosphere. you’re clocking in at 295,490,291,043.” 

WHERE: the Rotten Apple

WHEN: 2 am

WHO: open

Wonderland was often fine to be a silent owner — because it suited her needs better to be out of the spotlight — but sometimes she liked to be in the thick of things and getting the respect she deserves. She’s never been one to act as if she weren’t fully up her own ass on her star and how it’s rising, but there’s something to be said for ‘decorum’ in its own right.

She’d been dancing a few hours previous, but now she was relaxed in a plush chair near some dancers — male, female, and otherwise — giving it their all as they danced in a few suspended cages. Though her eyes were lazily focused on the cage-dancers, she did notice the muffled approach of someone to her left; she’d chosen a chair so no one could technically join right next to her, but there were scattered seats around, and so she offered, “If you’re here to kill me, try again, but if you’re here to have fun.. what can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry, but the clinic is closed for the day.”

That’s what he says, and that’s what the sign that hangs in the front window says, but when has either actually stopped someone from coming in as they please anyway? Especially the type who typically find him at this hour, when the sky outside starts to turn and everything starts to look a beautiful monstrosity under fading lights.

So when the footsteps change from crunching on asphalt to echoing on tiled floor instead, a clear indication that this is an audience that refuses to go unseen, he’s not surprised. Exasperated? Yes. Tired? Definitely. But it’s all to be expected by now, and really he only has himself to blame for never putting his foot down.

“Is this an emergency?”

“i’m sorry man, i had no idea you were closed.”  he did know. he knew, because you don’t break in through the back door if you think your establishment is otherwise open. but words like open and closed had very little meaning to poet, who always said that doors were meant to be opened, locked or not. at least he’d done amber a solid and picked the lock this time. normally he just smashed the doorknob, or found a way to pop the door off its hinges. 

“Poet?” Iphigenia said his name like a song with a smile on her lips. She was dressed head to toe in a gown that looked plucked from the pages of a history book. As she walked, her heels made a distinctive sound against the floor. She liked everyone in her crew, she found herself even genuinely enjoying the company of quite a few of them. But there were a select few folks who held a special place in her heart. She wouldn’t call it love. She didn’t know how to do that. But she was doting, and that must have been close, right? “D’you think it’s been… too quiet around here?” 

@poetsup​

“shit, fuck, cocksucking motherfucking fuck.”

no matter how many times nine ate complete shit on her bike—this time: clipped a turn too tight until the whole thing went belly-up, and her arm skimmed along the dirt beneath her for what would surely turn into some wicked road burn later while she went fully parallel to the ground; in an instant, the motorcycle beneath her sputtered and spun out, machine skidding across the ground in one direction and nine’s body thrust in the opposite direction, ragdoll-rolling across the dirt and the dust a few feet, and thank god it was a pretty empty segment of this piece of shit city, not too many buildings around for her to make a wreckage of—no matter how many times, she never stopped getting that heartskippage, the split second where her stomach bottomed out and her entire body screamed, ‘this is it. this is when i fucking die. this is the time.’ 

and every time she opened her eyes and saw the shit sun and the shit sky and this shit city all over again, and her senses processed the pain that indicated she was, indeed, still alive, she thanked her lucky fuckin’ stars. “jesus fucking christ. don’t even—don’t even look at me.” nine could tell by the shadows that someone lurked nearby while she took inventory of her body. okay. well, nothing felt broken. “listen, i meant to do that. i meant to do that. i stuck that landing. what, you couldn’t tell?” at least she’d killed the engine on the bike when she felt its center of gravity start to pull away from hers.

it wasn’t funny. she could have died—and in the least interesting way possible. a motorcycle accident? that involved no one but herself? hell, not even a rat or something to blame for her skidding out? boring. lame. if she had died, he would have invented some better story so she could go out like the badass fuck-up she was. on the other hand, watching her flop across the ground like a salmon that overshot the upward jump was fucking hilarious. besides, she was fine. nine had a weird cockroach ability. he was pretty sure it would take the cold miserable vacuum of space to off her. “nah, i’m gonna look. that was funny—you suck, eight. you didn’t mean to do shit. but don’t worry, i’ll tell everyone someone took a shot at you.” 

open

Luca waited till the patron had taken a sip of the drink first before settling himself on the other side of the bar. The unnaturally quiet night afforded him a little leeway when it came to the speed of service, and honestly, at this point in his shift, he was about ready to tear his own head off. A break would be nice, and this unfortunate customer was about to get a conversation partner. “So you look downright miserable,” he said, propping his chin on his hands. “Care to share?”

location: paranoia  time: late night open

The darkened club was in full swing for the evening. Bodies spilling in and out the only door, twirling, running, dancing, moving. Jude easily followed along the chaotic flow. She had a drink in one hand, a half used joint tucked behind her ear but still she felt like she was missing something. With practiced fingers she  dipped her hands lightly, in and out, of people’s pockets. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. Perhaps something to fill the tick in her head. Finally. A victorious smile as she pulled a small baggie, filled with a mixture of white powders.  Jude turns, makes eye contact with someone a few bodies away. It was clear they’d seen everything. She purses her lips a bit, eyes narrowing. “Hey.” She points at them, pocketing the baggie. “Snitches get stitches and all that.” 

It was one of those nights - Kaiden was out on the town, per se, keeping an ear to the ground, doing his job in the most menial way. The most fun he’d be having that night came from a drink in his hand and a cigarette between his fingers. There was something comforting about the thought of a cigarette; there had been numerous advancements in technology over the past century, but the cigarettes remained the same. 

Looking up as he heard a voice beside him, he gave the other a smile. “Nice night for a drink,” he commented, nodding a little bit. “The neon’s seemin’ extra bright tonight, isn’t it?” A simple comment, allowing the other to direct their conversation, Kaiden’s specialty. Offering to pay for their first drink, too - he was in it for the long haul for even the most menial of details. For a minor detail from six people could make one crucial detail in Kaiden’s mind.

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