the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't — my guilt will not purify me
PERSONAL DETAILS
NAME... joji sakamoto
NICKNAMES / OTHER NOTABLE... joe ( his lazy americanized name ) , the muscle, traitor, that guy who killed someone with a teacup that one time
PRONOUNS... he / him
AGE... forty-three
OCCUPATION... arms dealer for the cactus cats / bouncer at glitter gulch lounge / ex-weiss, previously soldier and bodyguard for the forgotten queen
RESIDENCE... solstice apartments
BIRTHDAY... december 16th
STAR SIGN... sagittarius
SEXUALITY... pansexual / panromantic
ALIGNMENT... neutral good
PERSONALITY TYPE... infj-a, the advocate
ENNEAGRAM... type one, the informer
INFLUENCES... neo ( the matrix ), the narrator ( fight club ), alfie solomons ( peaky blinders ), john wick ( john wick ), ah sahm ( warrior ), kid ( monkey man )
SUBSTANCE
the flicker of a fire deep into the dark woods; bruised knuckles with skin rubbed raw; the iron scent of steel and blood, gunpowder fresh in the air; the musk of aftershave on skin; black iris’ that glisten and become alive in the light; ( shadows casting downwards on his face, shrouding and contorting his features, making him appear undead until the sun's rays turn on the glamour, everything falling into it’s proper place ); smell of spearmint and tobacco on breath; hardened, calloused fingertips; a knife's sharpened edges — the danger of such perfection; a dark corner adorned with desk and chair, the thinker; old varnish on an oil painting
APPEARANCE DETAILS
HAIR... medium length, rests towards the nape of his neck, jet black. facial hair kept trimmed, but remains present, the color is a lighter brown hue than the hair on his head.
EYES... black iris' that match the pupil almost perfectly.
BUILD... broad, wide shoulders, well muscled. build more similar to weight lifters than body builders, bulky.
HEIGHT... 6'0"
NOTABLE MARKS... his only tattoo is a full traditional japanese back piece depicting an oni ( ref ), peppered scars, gash on his chest, bullet hole in left shoulder.
USUAL COUNTENANCE... slightly disheveled in demeanor, well groomed, tank tops and jeans, canvas jackets, tense countenance; always prepared for the threat of trouble
BIOGRAPHY ( tw:// child abuse, violence, kidnapping, murder, human trafficking)
born in osaka, japan, joji was raised by his father, his two paternal aunts, and his maternal grandfather who was american, having taken home in japan in the dredges following the first world war. his mother died in childbirth, leaving him an only son with no hope for siblings to follow. in the wake of his mothers passing, his father swallowed himself in debt and gambling. joji, too young to understand at the time, didn't know what caused the disquiet in the home, the pacing of his aunts and the yelling of his father.
his grandfather did his best to protect him, teaching him english and mathematics, soothing him the ferocity of the storm.
joji was only thirteen when the yakuza came to claim what his father owed, and still he came up empty; the shattering of glass, hammers in the walls. his aunts cowered, his grandfather killed before his eyes for having attempted to protect him, and they asked for something else. they had wanted a girl, but his father had bore none, so they settled and took him instead. he was first shrouded as a maid, a mail boy, he ran barefoot in the streets between tongs. the 1960s was the boom for the yakuza, the peak membership and the widespread of their power. they owned him, and in a way, they raised him as their own in cruelty and bloodied fists.
at the age of sixteen he was deemed old enough to train, to show promise as a fighter or to be sold once again; the implications not lost on him. so he fought, he learned, cracked fingers and aching muscles, he fought until he became made of wood and iron, excelling in martial arts, particularly the art of judo.
he was sent on petty jobs at first, proving he was capable, before earning the right to truly feel bloodied, the weight of a count of deaths on his chest. he was sent to fighting rings for sport, bets placed on his head, being told when to win or lose, broken bones, the spirit of despair and hatred.
the day of his escape was one well planned and harshly won, not an easy route of travel from japan to california, smuggled on a cargo ship moonlit as a worker, hiding his face and passage, living off of scraps for more than two brutal months; and it was the best he had ever felt.
the dream was of a new life, to be a regular man with a regular job, a home that wasn't watched, maybe fall in love, have a kid or two. it wasn't until he found himself in california that he realized he had no skills, and no knowledge of how to make these things happen. he traveled the coast for awhile, finding himself arizona and new mexico, wandering homeless and seeking employment, when he stumbled into a familiar crowd. the underground fighting ring was familiar, the floor warm with the feeling of a fight, the air thick and dense with sweat and blood. he did what he knew how, and began for the first time to build his own life, his own funds.
he took night classes, his education abandoned in childhood left him missing large chunks of knowledge, he continued to train in martial arts, living in a tiny apartment near new mexico. it was in his moonlighting as a fighter that he was found by the weiss syndicate. they made him an offer he couldn't refuse, enough to start the life he actually wanted, though it plagued him, was a heartache to realize; this was all he could be good for, but with it came a dark familiarity, the feeling of home.
he was trained as a soldier, doing a lot of the things he was raised doing, a keen fighter and a hell of a shot; he did well. well enough he was trusted with the lady of the house, the bodyguard for miss verity du veuve. of course he loved her, the first woman he ever truly was close to, tasked with her protection and with his lack of affection in life it was easy to confuse the feelings, but he didn't let it distract him. he stayed professional, intense, the strength of a clenched jaw, the promise of keeping her safe kept with a furious zeal, and in those moments there was a closeness he had yet to experience in the life he had before.
her children, the brutality of their births, they were pieces of her that he saw reflections of himself as a child, small and weak, not yet sullied by life, and he had swore to protect them as well. it wasn't until they wanted her dead that he realized he was a slave once again, bidden by his own hand he was tasked with killing the only person with which he had gained true affection; he became a wild animal, scared, angry, chewing on the bars of his enclosure. the walls were closing in, and that feeling of captivity choked him; the deadly eye promised with this he would gain his freedom once more.
it was with her blood on his hands that he finally found his soul, a sob ripped from his throat as if forced, an almost inhuman sound. he fled the scene with the weight of his guilt overcoming the animalistic need for freedom, soaking into his bones and taking him over. he spent the subsequent years across the country in new york, trying in vain to find a new version of himself once again. it worked, for a time, his career paths still on the darker edges of life but willed with his own hands.
he found himself craving the lights and heat of las vegas, something in his chest begging him to return after almost a decade of floating, lost on the sea of faces and nobodies.
so he returns, taking up his role as an arms dealer, weapons his next closest friend after his own fists, and working security at the glitter gultch, keeping the girls safe, a kosher, real person job. he keeps away from the weiss' best he can, though his freedom was hard won, he somehow doubts the deadly eye's fealty. he doesn't know what it is he's looking for, what really brought him back, but sometimes he swears he sees her face in the shadows.
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open starter: status open @boneyardstarters
at the mean eyed cat bar
zuzanna knew she needed to get out of her own head a little pit and whilst she did have several unopened vodka bottles in her apartment, she would much rather go out and drink a not so pleasant one at the expense of her sanity. it had never been her issue per se but her past continued to feel dirty to her because she still blamed herself after all these years. it had never been her problem but everything became her problem - if she felt bored and unfulfilled, she needed to remind herself of the alternatives. when it came down to it, zuzanna had always neen an accountant, a book keeper and her other career would have never taken off the way it did if she hadn't been smart about it. to some, it would have been a shock to learn that the woman that approached the bar used to sing, jump and scream in front of thousands of people at a time but she did and she absolutely loved it. zuzanna made her way up to the bar and nodded. as much as she had loved it, she'd loved another a lot more and felt she couldn't continue without him. so now she had her boring corporate life out in a desert and went for her runs like clockwork. "vegas- it's so weird when you actually live here." hen parties, stag do's, birthdays... the list went on and on and so would the sights throughout the night. "still, can't complain. what do you recommend? for drinks?"
the day had gone on in a haze, heavy and clouded. working nights meant that daytime felt as if walking in a dream, the living dead. having to get out of bed to get things done with the rest of society was a burden even on a good day. today it seemed he made it through, dragging one foot after another until the blissful creeping of nighttime allowed him to plant himself at the mean eyed cat. he had some business to take care of with the cactus cats, once that was over, he felt he'd earned a drink. hell, he was already here, why not?
"yeah, it can take awhile to get used to." there's a pause, head turning slightly to meet the woman's eye, his own drink down to it's last sip. politely he asks, "where are you from?" then there's the sound of sucking teeth, thoughtful, before simply admitting, "i'm afraid i'm not really the guy to ask, more of an old fashioned or bourbon neat type." he hesitates, a shrug of a shoulder, "the have blanton's which is pretty good if you're into that. otherwise this place is pretty divey, not sure if they have a real cocktail menu. i'd honestly recommend a beer if that's something you can stomach, or if you want something sweet you get what i call the college girl special; classic malibu-pineapple." he pauses again, thinking that might sound strange out of a forty year old man's mouth and adds the context, "i work in a club, so i see a lot of that."
closed starter: amala for joji ( @shotgunsaints )
where: glitter gulch lounge
when: 4:30am.
"It's not that big a deal," she assured both bartender and bouncer. "If this makes it back to Mama, though, I'll know it was you." There was a smile dancing at the edges of her eyes, almost haunting the corners of her lips as she gazed up at the both of them. Behind the bar, Amala was fashioning a spiced rim. In no certain terms, however, she was garnering for the bouncer's attention.
Under cover of the bar tucked away to the side wall, she found opportunity; lights significantly dimmer to draw attention away, focussed to vacant tables, empty poles, and a center stage.
"It's fine, baby," she encouraged again, far more sincere in her tone and her malicious compliance as she shooed off the bartender with a double click of her fingers and a pointed instruction toward the other end of the counter. "It's practically the Mojave in here, I'm off in thirty, and we both know I've earned it." She punctuated her justification with the hard shaft of lid to base and the loud shake of ice and liquor. She didn't mean to give him a show in the process, but there wasn't much she could do when frilly red lingerie was all that clothed her lithe figure. Perhaps the eye contact was overkill, taking him in with keen interest.
With the flip of dark micro braids over her shoulder and the skilled crack of the mixer with a single hand, she poured her spicy marg—heavy handed, of course—into its coupe. "You won't get in trouble," she promised as she took the glass between nimble fingers. "Not for this." No, Amala would happily take the blame for her own boredom. Which, unfortunately for the hired muscle, she'd decided could be eased with his attention. Elbows rested against the counter as liquor slid down her throat; as she set the cocktail in front of him in a friendly, flirtatious offer of sultry eyes and the hint of a smile.
"Take the edge off," she encouraged as the tip of her index finger, filed to a point and painted a blushing pink, tapped at the rim of her glass where her lips had been. "I won't kiss and tell."
the last thing joji was ever worried about was the actions of the employees. there's a bit of amusement in his gaze, watching her make her drink with assurance, his tone conveying a shrug that doesn't touch his shoulders, "you know i'm just the muscle." in other terms, if no one was getting hurt he really didn't give a fuck. he liked the leave that to the big dogs in suits that manage this place. his concern is the well being of the employees and occasionally the other patrons. although, generally, if a patron was getting hit, they usually had done something that warranted it. he's just here to grab them by the ear and throw them outside. his business with this place ends there. this job, ironically, is more of a hobby than a commitment, something to fill time and make him feel like anything resembling a normal human being. keep it kosher.
he watches her movements, standing off to the side, the area he was designated to watch until whenever the next rotation was. she was trouble, of course she was; a dancer in the heart of vegas, like a poisonous predator created vibrantly, stunningly to lure prey. he wasn't stupid, he'd been around the block, but danger had always been a vice he couldn't shake. her voice honeyed, the watchfulness of her gaze, locked in behind the shaker in lingerie. he wouldn't necessarily say this was a usual circumstance, his roughness around the edges and introversion alongside the fact he wasn't here to throw cash and catch cheap thrills usually kept the dancers attention away from him. the drunk bachelorette parties however...
he couldn't help the touch of intensity to his gaze, her lips on the glass, the touch of interest in her eyes. she sets it down, slides it closer to him. his eyes flickered down to his watch, a silver tudor with a mother of pearl face that glared back the hours ticking away into the morning. he only had another thirty minutes as well it seemed, there's a crack of a smile, something between a laugh and a scoff, the sound of air releasing from his nose. "it wouldn't be very polite of me to say no, would it?"
he picks up the glass without so much as a glance over his shoulder, the sheer emptiness of the club not giving much else to grab his attention, never mind concern him with getting caught. he leans forward on the bar with an elbow, closer, and brings the glass to his lips, certain to take the offer of the lipstick stained rim. a mouthful, citric with a sharp spice, slow swallow, a thoughtful nod. he leans a little further forward, intent, when he says, "you're pretty good at this." and then leaves it hanging in the air, the implication being making cocktails, but the pull of his eyebrows more effective than a wink at maybe implying something else.
she wants to run cleanly, silently, but the rain has other opinions.
the storm does not simply fall around her — it intercepts her, apprehends her, drags its wet hands through her hair and clothes as if the sky itself had been waiting for this moment of reckoning. each raindrop strikes, fat beads bursting against her skin like tiny warnings she refuses to heed. the downpour distorts everything: sound, breath, memory.
her attempts at escape collapse beneath it.
the deluge turns the alley slick and treacherous, slowing her stride, betraying each step with that wet percussion — swish, slap, splash — her boots sending up little fountains of inevitability.
the umbrella slips from her grasp — flung more than dropped — clattering against metal and broken glass. the crash ricochets down the corridor of brick, far too loud, a discordant announcement of her presence.
her old, unused and forgotten name — eva — slices through the rain, through the dark, through the narrow alleys of the past she has tried to burn down.
eva weiss — spoken with the exact intonation she remembers, a cadence that once calmed her, once held her steady through storms far tamer than this one. strange, how a voice could be both balm and blade.
she feels the betrayal awaken like an old creature in her chest, roused from sleep by the familiar footsteps approaching. a sob tears through her before she’s aware she’s given it permission, ragged enough to make her whole body quake. her heartbeat hammers against her ribs like it’s trying to escape too.
the lightning fractures the sky — one brutal flash — and she sees him clearly for the first time.
the illumination is unkind. lightning paints him in white-blue strokes, harsh and, revealing every sharp memory that once cut her. the angles of his face, the set of his mouth — they shift with each stuttering flash, like he’s being sculpted and shattered in the same breath. for that split second, he is every version of himself she ever loved, feared, trusted, and lost.
and then darkness reclaiming him again, mercifully, before the next strike renders him anew.
she hates that mercy.
the past slams into her with each strobe of light.
weiss soldiers’ hands bruising her arms.
peter's hand on her chin — cold, authoritative, ownership masquerading as devotion.
his lecture dressed up as righteousness.
her own voice cracking as she begged, begged for the life that was never his to grant.
shame stirs hot in her belly even now. rage soon follows, sharpening her spine.
and yet some traitorous part of her remembers him as sanctuary — the illusion of it, the architecture of safety she once mistook for truth. marble floors and stately manors had never made her feel as sheltered as the man in front of her once did.
it sickens her now.
she retreats — slow, calculating, her eyes darting for exits, mind already mapping escape routes through the haze of memory and rain. she has survived far worse nights than this. her bones remember how.
“don’t come any closer.” the snarl rips from her before she can smooth it down, feral with the trinity blooming inside her: hunger, judgment, wrath. the storm hisses in approval. her fangs ache.
she has imagined this encounter a thousand times — some versions cold, others cruel, most ending with her teeth in his throat — but the reality seizes her in a chokehold of emotion she cannot swallow. her face betrays what her voice cannot yet parse: the fractured anger, the ancient grief, the shock of seeing a ghost wearing a body.
her brows knit tight. her eyes burn. her throat is scraped raw by a dozen unsaid things. her lip trembles with the weight of them all.
and when she finally speaks, it is not the declaration she rehearsed in all her fevered imaginings.
it is something smaller. sharper.
something true.
“i trusted you more than i have ever trusted anyone else.” was their a sliver of the universe where he'd already known this? "i trusted you with my life, with my daughters... you were supposed to protect us."
he feels as though in a dream, equal parts nightmare and blissful rest; to see her again, but in these circumstances. the memories rush back as if yesterday instead of years having passed between, looking down at her, his fingers too tight around her wrists, heart thumping erratically in his chest, his eyes empty, cold; the tears had not come until later, the guilt had never stopped stewing, had never set him free. now it boils hotter still, burning him alive from the inside out, the veins in his arms and his fingers on fire, his knees weak, legs numb.
he knows what he did to her, and he doesn't think there are words in any human language to express the depth of his pain, a pain he knows is only amplified in her, his willingness to take her life for his own. the only selfish act, for now he would throw himself upon a sword just to show her how deep the well of guilt and shame goes, and what he would be willing to do to try and make things right.
he has held a gun to his head so many times in the time spent alone since, the only thing preventing him from pulling the trigger the sickness in his chest telling him that he deserves to suffer for what he did. he thinks of her children, small, screaming, and scared. he held them, too many times to count, looking into the faces that were smaller versions of her own, only tainted by the touches of their father, a man unfit for such delicacy. though he now sees, he himself is no better.
he doesn't last long, her words slicing into his chest like molten hot blades, he falls to his knees, the torrential fall of rain plastering his hair to his face, the damp road soaking through the knees of his jeans. he falls apart. he doesn't see a world where she could forgive him nor one where he deserves to be forgiven, but all he can think is to apologize, to beg. he doesn't know where to begin, words never something that came easily to him, heart aching, his face drawn into an expression of horrible pain.
"eva," he says it, and the word, for the first time in years, feels good in his mouth again, he's watching her from across the alley, the lightning illuminating her features, haunting and hurt. "eva." he says it again, tearing from his throat like a prayer, like a request, wretched and destroyed. his hands touch the ground as well, a traditional bow that puts his forehead to the earth, as low to the street as he can get, as if he could sink into it, fall into the pit of hell where he knows his soul is destined to land.
in this moment he understands the cruelty of the elders, the nature of seppuku, of slicing open his own stomach and chest to show the endless horrors of his pain, an apology made in suffering and sacrifice. the thought of his own blood mixing into the rain, covering the street in front of him, circling her shoes, so that he could be close to her just once more, to show her how barren the fault in his loyalty has left him.
"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry." it's said with a rasp that shows how difficult it is to say the words, his voice like the crack of thunder, the storm is right over them, lightning stiking once more as he raises his head, looking at her, pleading. "i thought i was better, i thought you could trust me, i wanted you to be able to trust me." almost a heave, an illness, the nausea in his stomach, the aching in his chest. "i'll give you anything, take anything, i don't expect forgiveness, all i want is for you to know how desperate i truly am."
STATUS: open
WHERE: the mean-eyed cat bar
@boneyardstarters
ON NIGHTS LIKE THESE, THE BOUGIE HOTEL BAR BECAME AN ILL SUITED ENVIRONMENT FOR ROSALIN HELLADIUS. she opted instead for somewhere seedier— somewhere that felt more akin to her typical stomping grounds. when you lived a life like the helladius widow, pricey champagnes and wine frequently failed to take the edge off. “my usual. thanks.” the bartender proceeded to pour the strongest whiskey they had, no ice, before sliding the glass in her direction. she returned a singular nod of gratitude in response before downing half the drink in a fluid motion. the whiskey warmed her chest— reaching the most hallowed out parts of her, carved and emptied over events of their life.
during her usual people watching, rosalin continued to catch the gaze of the same person [it didn't help that rosalin was unafraid to full out stare.] a vampire perhaps? or just plain old nosey? “do i know you from somewhere?” a cliche delivered for the purpose of information fishing. their gaze is scrutinizing— unflinching. “outside of seeing you around in this shit hole, i mean.”
another meeting, more business shit that he doesn't know why he needs to be here for, and another two hours later and he's sat at the same bar he always ends up at outside of work, with another scotch in his hand. it's a sort of giving up he supposes, accepting monotony to avoid the endless streams of tragedy. he's looking at the people around him, a habit, usually more of a skim than a watch per say but there's the syndrome of someone catching your eye that triggers the paranoia of going back for more. they make eye contact once, twice, and third times the charm when the silence is broken.
"it's possible, do you spend time at the glitter gulch? otherwise not likely, this shit hole's my usual haunt." it's not said without humor, he can admit the bar is as seedy as it gets, if you're looking for anything more complicated than straight liquor or a beer you're in the wrong place. joji, however, is someone known for 'wrong place, wrong time' as it is, so of course he's wasting his night here when he should've went home an hour ago. his eyes flicker back to her for a moment, and he turns slightly on his stool to face her more head on, but doesn't move any closer. "sorry, i'm being rude, i'm in the business of people watching, it seems." his tone conveys an almost earnest sort of exhaustion, he tries a smile but it doesn't quite reach his face beyond his lips so he abandons it, but holds up his glass as an extension of greeting, "name's joe." and it's been a long day.
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a desolate street in the outskirts of vegas, 7 pm
with @forgottendclls
in winter it gets dark too early, the sky black by the time the clock passes six, the feeling of a heavy night closing around you, choking, suffocating the warmth of the sun on skin. it gets cold, even in the desert. it's fifty degrees and the sky is adorned with clouds, heavy, full of an incoming storm. a rare sight, only a few inches of rain ever touching the city of sin.
he's leaving a deal from a side street, his pockets empty of paraphernalia and instead filled with cash; jeans, a light jacket with a hood that hides the edges of his face. the scruff of his facial hair slightly longer than he likes it, the stubble reaching his neck, his hair just touching the back of his nape. he feels, in some moments, like a stranger to the city still. he always has, even despite the years he spent here. new york hadn't felt like home either, the entire country, the continent even, felt as if it rejected the very sight of him. returning to japan wasn't an option, so he was destined to be forever misplaced, lost. there was one moment he felt he belonged, but that was in the past.
he walks, a leisurely pace, fingers fiddling with the stack of cash in one pocket and a packet of cigarettes in the other. he debates lighting one, that sickly euphoric feeling the nicotine can give him, the short sense of peace that can fall catch him. he moves to pull the pack out and the first drop of rain hits the pavement next to him, one moment soft, the next harder, faster. he leaves it where it is, to not get them wet.
he looks out ahead, the one car rolling down the street, headlights cutting through him, then leaving him entirely alone.
then he sees her, he swears he does. just a catch of light, a ray across her face. he would recognize it anywhere, he sees it in his dreams, in his nightmares. every time he closes his eyes.
he forgets himself, for just a moment, pulling the hood from his head as if that would give him further clarity, the rain wasting no time in wetting his hair, his face. he doesn't feel it, doesn't notice it. he takes off in a run to the retreating figure, footsteps hitting wet concrete too loudly. he rounds the corner he watched her vanish behind, a figure lost to time, one he thought he'd left dead, one who's blood had stained his hands and broken his heart.
in the moment he had chosen himself, for the first time, and certainly the last. a pyrrhic victory.
he sees her silhouette at the end of the alleyway, undeniable, and for a moment thinks he must be dreaming, hallucinating. he calls out her name while lighting cuts through the sky. he stops moving, seeing her shape, willing her to turn around. he calls her name again, with the crack of thunder rolling overhead.
he stands outside the back door of the club, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette poised between fingers. a breath, a cloud of smoke, head leaned back, eyes almost closed; a moments reprieve. meditating. the night looked like the usual, a couple of scuffles but nothing that couldn't be handled with a sharp look and the promise to throw someone the fuck out. violence was an unfortunate necessity in his life, the only way to eat, to survive, and this was the most kosher it'd ever been in his life, a strange sense of anxiety that comes with it.
if i don't get them, they'll get me.
there was no merit to it, logically he knew this, but the feeling remained, the clench of fists, heated blood in his veins. he opened his eyes to the sound of the door banging open, expecting one of the girls or the manager, but instead he's greeted with the sight of a patron, blonde hair and lean frame. when he turned to face joji he sees a stream of blood from his nose, joji's eyebrows draw together, not so much concerned as confused. the guy he left in charge while he went on break seemed to be shitting the bed if this is what's happening in here. 'fuck him,' he thinks, 'he's a cunt anyways, i'm off the clock'. he sighs, barely audibly, taking another drag of his cigarette before taking sympathy and saying, "you okay there, kid?"
Location: Random street on the strip
Date: December 3
Cap:♾️
@boneyardstarters
He couldn't sleep. Which wasn't out of the norm for him these days, of course. His mind was swamped with visions of things that he had witnessed. Whispers of the disembodied voices or screams. Things that kept him from the enjoyment of sleep. Though he could not remember his nights, something in the morning always felt like he had slept even less than the brief naps of the daytime he could steal during his busy schedule. Clenching his jaw as he wandered the streets this evening, avoiding going home, as he tried to do most of the time. Due to the 'whatever is stealing his sleep' going on, there. Hearing a noise, he froze, turning slowly, dark sunken eyes shifting nervously to find where it came from. If it even came from anything at all? He wasn't sure most of the time, actually. Everything felt, so often lately, like unreality. The entire world had become disturbed with this never-ending waking he found himself entombed in. Pale, extremely ill-looking, dark bags under his eyes were not all that fatigue had brought him. Now, with this recent bloody coughing, he was sure the worst was to come, still.
The noise continued. He stares for a moment, breathing heavy, the light in an alley flickers, once, twice, then violently as something inked out in the shadows from it. Pulling back, Azazel trembled, quickly backing away from the vision of shadows stretching out from the flickering light. Only to back into someone behind him, “Ah-” Turning suddenly, the flicking stops as he directs his vision to the other person, “S-sorry.” Blinking, he grinned, “I thought- I saw… rat.” He swallowed, “A big one.” His eyes shifted to one side, seeing The Cracked Jewel, at least, a vision of her, and her chest split open, blood pouring onto the ground. He twitched a little before looking back at the other person. They might be a vision to, he wondered, reaching out to poke at them, just to test the theory. But, he didn't imagine that just because the person in front of him was real, it was safe. He didn't feel safe, not in these last traumatizing months of absolute world upending madness he had been dealing with, “You…real? Or am…I ...sleeping?” He questioned tiredly, poking out a finger toward their face. It is hard to tell these days.
another endless dark night. joji was making his way from his shift at the glitter gulch, the evening was relatively quiet, a couple of the usual troublemakers but no blood was spilled. the day had stretched and pulled into an amalgamation of too short and too long, the dark bleeding in too early in the winter and the sun rising too late. the last thing las vegas needed was endless night, feeding into the sicker instincts of its residents, and yet the sky seceded, letting them have their way.
his hands steadied the shape that backed into him, instinct making him first irritated, before the feeling quickly left him when his eyes met their face; frantic, tired, lost — scared. he followed the strangers gaze, to the nearby alleyway drenched in darkness, then they trailed back to his face. joji's eyes are hollow, sly, yet somehow understanding as he grabs the man's hands, not aggressively nor gently but something in between. "you're awake, at least partially." he pauses, studying their disposition, the expression, their hollowed eyes and cheeks stained dark with exhaustion. his first thought was drugs, strung out to hell and back, but there was something missing in the pits of the other's eyes, something that didn't add up.
"you want to come sit down for a bit?" his apartment wasn't far, the instinct of letting strangers into your home, especially ones hallucinating in the street, didn't quite apply to joji. he wasn't really worried about fighting or getting robbed from this kid, he was barely able to stand as it was. joji wasn't known for his moral code on average, but something about abandoning him made him feel sick; an image of himself in his worst moments looked a lot like this. he thought about assuring the kid he wasn't a serial killer but technically that wasn't true. instead he just settles on, "or i can help you get home but you can't stay out here, it's not safe."
