#abysel

when johnny perches himself in the chair, lamar follows— a sheep following the herd. he sits adjacent to the man across the desk, eyes watching johnny kick his feet up, lamar offering a quick knit of his eyebrows in response. player's smooth with it, he'll give johnny that. [the vibes almost remind him of los santos for a split second, allowing a momentary lapse of home feeling to spread through his veins.] but it'll take more than legs being kicked up and a chill attitude for lamar to calm down, especially his nerves that are a ticking time bomb. tick, tick, tick— he takes a breath, exhaling as he shifts around in the seat, taking mental note of his qualifications.

“where do i even begin, homie? born and bred in los santos, worked for simeon yetarian— ever heard of him? legitimate businessman-type shit, had me boosting cars for him, killin' bustas, and kickin' ass. my man franklin, he was involved with the fib and shit— had me helping him with his bullshit, but he's the homie, y'know? gotta look out for the little homies. i even got the ballas in los santos in a gang war at one point. pimp type shit, y'know?” lamar forgets to mention how the ballas once showed up at benny's motor shop and he ran out the backdoor, but does that truly matter right now? what matters is— he's in stilwater, trying to make the best of his fucked-up situation. money doesn't come easy, nor does it come cheap without getting your hands dirty. (he knows that better than anyone.)

he's convinced eagly can make a better partner than this guy— in fact, he's starting to consider asking if eagly can be added to their payroll. [he's seen eagly demolish so many birds and besides, it's not cannibalism if it's an eagle! who's to say he can't fuck up some people too?] vigilante, though? holy fuck, they were all so screwed— more screwed than a wife after banging the pool boy. the man's words ignite something in chris, a negative feeling tittering on the line of becoming a total outburst— his anger spikes, america's values coming to the forefront of his mouth. “uh, yeah, i can— and you want to know why i can? because all the supervillains i've talked to are six feet fucking under, buried, and all that shit! where are yours? oh, right— fucking walking!”

❝  and  i  know  i’ve  asked  this  a  thousand  times                      rey  ,  was  it  ?  𝐑𝐄𝐘  .  but  you’re  absolutely  certain  you  know  where  we’re  going  ?  we’re  not  --  walking  in  circles  or  something  crazy  like  that  ,  because  i  wouldn’t  be  SURPRISED  if  we  were  . . .  ❞

        leaving beacon hills was easy.         it was forgetting about beacon hills that was hard.

                              or, perhaps he should amend — forgetting about her.

chris made the mistake of mentioning other creatures -- ones with particularly interesting knack for memory alteration -- that has him shoving everything he owns into a duffel bag, slung over his shoulder as he boards a bus for a one-way ticket to the rumour.

   new orleans.

mindless, no plan in sight, his impulsive trip to a foreign land is beginning to take its toll, desperation seeping into his bones as he wanders up and down the streets of a lively city peddling all kinds of unique ingredients he’s certain he’s seen before on the shelves of a veterinarian’s office.  until he catches a scent he’s never caught before.

everything about her sets his body on edge, already itching to board that bus right back home to familiar danger.  with an unnerving talent for surviving against all odds, isaac knows by now that his impulses usually serve him well.  that doesn’t mean he always listens to them.  the stares of onlookers ring alarm bells; those, he ignores too.  his approach is fluid, graceful, in a way that a six foot tall boy shouldn’t be able to accomplish.

    ‘ are you a local? ’