#anne.

bloody days muses + taylor swift lyrics (pt 1/?)

❦ with @anne-dubellay​ , in a downtown alleyway ( based on this ) 

        Clichés were usually a decent indicator of trouble — at worst, predictable entrapment; at best, wasted time — and best handled through remaining steered clear of altogether. Briar held such truths in mind on a daily basis, perhaps ironically given she was one of the very things that lurked in the shadows going bump in the night. Alas, sometimes life had a cruel and clever way of catching even her own heavily armoured line of defensive mechanisms off guard. No sooner had the sun dipped below the horizon did the first cliché of the night arrive, painting a dark and stormy night picture that could have been extracted directly from a gothic 1930s celluloid reel and superimposed over Seattle’s skyline.

Nonetheless, the strict dusk-to-dawn curfew attached to the safe hours Briar had to roam the streets had officially reset and begun its nightly countdown. The chance of getting caught in any unpredictable rainfall promised by the thicket of cloud cover over the city was a risk far outweighed by the reward of fresh air. Equipped with a rare night off, Briar walked aimlessly throughout the grid of sidewalks, content to people-watch from a distance until a desirable idea struck her. The night was young and devoid of devotion to any cause, be that a person or place, which brought the rare hint of a smile to Briar’s lips. Foolishly ( in retrospect ) her mind had dared to speculate over the potential indulgent activities she might partake in to best pass the time, when all illusions of normalcy attached to the evening were effectively shattered.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Briar’s senses were assaulted by the shrill pitch of a distressed scream — no more than a block away, if she had to guess. Even more unnerving was the manner in which it was abruptly cut short, the unnatural conclusion automatically prickling the hairs at the back of Briar’s arms and neck. Gritting her teeth, Briar urged her footsteps to quicken as she pursued the source of the sound. Her approach halted the instant the reached the mouth of a dimly lit alleyway, her nostrils flaring at the minute yet palpable shift of humidity in the air: a cocktail of cortisol-spiked sweat and heavy metallic undertones, laced with the sour aroma of adrenaline.

With a quick once over of the narrow space, Briar immediately registered the culprit of the potent stench — the silhouette of a slumped figure propped up against the alley wall. Human. Male. Alone. Most definitely injured. Allowing her professional instincts to surpass her personal affliction to getting involved in matters unrelated to benefitting her, Briar tentatively took a few steps closer. Forgoing wasting her breath on any common courtesies, she called out to the motionless man, “Can you hear my voice?” Wary to maintain a breadth of distance between them, unnerved by the mystery surrounding his current state, Briar waited in silence for several seconds before trying again: “Give me a sign if you can hear me. Show me if you know where you are. Anything.”

The longer Briar stood locked in communication limbo, immersed in the alleyway, the more impacted she became by the other pervasive scents which reeked around her; blocked drains of decomposing leaves and torn garbage bags gradually eclipsing her ability to discern who else may have been nearby by scent alone. It seemed a needlessly conspicuous crime  — certainly not the amount of spectacle caused by a usual hit and run or aggressive mugging incident wherein swiftness and subtlety were key.

There were, of course, good things about having the metabolism of a football player. By design, so it was that possessing fire magic meant that there was constantly a need to burn something. This meant that Matty, although a lightweight, was able to sober up considerably faster than most. This also meant that events such as this, which were as traumatic as they were fun, were dangerous. Unlimited amount of alcohol? No one to keep her in check? Why, it was an alcoholic’s wet dream. In true drunk girl fashion, Mateo sought out a friend to do shots with, as it was never as fun to do it alone. Who more fitting for the task than her literally ‘death day’ buddy? If anyone was worthy of a shot, it was certainly Anne. Her eyes scanned the crowd for the woman and it was by miracle that her eyes caught those of her friend. With the determination of at least a handful of drinks under her belt, though she had honestly lost track at this point, Mateo weaved her way through the crowd, a shot of fireball in each of her hands. 

“Dude, you look hot,” she stated appreciatively as she finally reach her. With one hand extended towards the other woman, she stated, “here, take this, I think we need to celebrate being alive or whatever blah blah we want to celebrate.”