#;wallace

"There's an outstanding Warrant.

..You doin' some sorta costume play now? Like them Star-Nerds?"

If Molly had noticed Wallace standing there (let alone speaking), she didn't give any indication. Her thumb merely continued flicking the screen of her smart device, scrolling aimlessly as she waited for Oliver to rejoin her. The question hung in the air between them as she picked up her milkshake glass, sipping from the straw at just the right angle to make an obnoxious sound.

It lasted perhaps a little longer than necessary.

“I don’t scream, you fucker, I hit.” Which simply meant Molly grabbed up the first thing she saw--a heavy, painful-looking book she’d only just received from Lucy. It seemed a shame to harm it in the course of defending herself, but needs must.

Yes, he looked as though he was terrified, but that didn’t matter much to her in the scheme of things. Why? Because he was tied to her father, and whoever the hell else her father was working with at the time. Wrapped around her father’s little finger, and worse, whoever the fuck Casamir was. Whatever trouble had followed him in that line of service was not her problem, and she didn’t appreciate him making it her problem.

“Bullshit.” She snapped immediately, looking ready still to thwap him with the hefty novel. “You make my life hell and you think I’m going to lift a finger for you? Fuck you.”

That said...Molly was a sucker for a wounded animal.

“Calm the fuck down, Scarface.” Molly practically growled, shoving the pointing finger away from herself before returning to mending her father’s head. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for this. Maybe next time.”

“Ungrateful bitch.” Alan snarled, hissing as his daughter continued her stitching. He gladly guzzled from Wallace’s flask, grimacing as he handed it back. “It’s from a fucking bookend. You’re something white—like a fuckin’ ghost or some shit. Shut up, don’t look at me like that.”

@infamouscabal

Alan held an ice pack to the back of his head, still nursing the wound that had knocked him for a loop. He hadn’t asked Wallace to meet him again--but if the idiot was sitting across from him, it had to be important. 

Or, at least it had better be.

Shooting Wallace a look, he slid the photo closer to himself to get a better look at it. Frowning, he took in the features, attempting to connect them to the mere glimpse he’d had of the culprit--

The streets of Ketterdam– or rather, the barrel–were no place for an officer of the Law. But Wallace was rarely on the right side of anything, let alone the law.

And so he had not cried out for help when this barrel-rat skimmed his ribs with one of her pigstickers. He merely grunted; tightening his grip and twisting her wrist.

“Well if it isn’t the itsy-bitsy spider,” He growled, checking the spot where she had stabbed him with his other hand– all while grinding his knee into her back in an effort to hold her still. His fingers came away wet with blood, but the wound seemed superficial.

“Tante Heleen sent me, so quit squirming!”

The problem with the Law was that it simply did not obey itself. There was perhaps a time in Inej’s life that she might have willingly complied--might have believed in the word of the Law and those who served it, because they symbolized the greater good. Inej was not that girl anymore. There were very few things she found herself believing in--herself, and her Saints.

And Kaz. But that was...something else entirely. 

She only just barely stemmed the hiss of pain as his boney knee ground into her spine, panic threatening to grip her tighter than his hand at her wrist--many men had their hands in Tante Heleen’s pockets. It didn’t surprise her that she would send some halfwit officer to run her errands for her; but if he thought Inej would come willingly...well. She was glad to show him more of her, ah, pigstickers.