#bikertrxsh

   +  mourning is always evident in the eyes, how grief carves the human features is surely one of a kind. he keeps a low profile --- slumping in his seat, a table for one in the center of a lumiose cafe. he slips the waitress a hushed thank you as she places a mug before him. his parents always taught him manners, and how lumiose turns bitter in the winter, along with its people. 

   and how could the only place that gave him so much hope stab him with such fatalism? death is predetermined and inevitable --- arceus, he knows that for a fact. but his father was an empire, a god of death and kilning the clouds over alleyways, the translucent infection they all breathe. what he built from a vacant storefront, now industrial --- an iron grip on the city. were slater’s dreams as full as his grave? faust hears the spade tink against the hard clay of the earth, and he tells himself he doesn’t really want to know the answer. but even for slater --- cheating the system? impossible. tampering with the circle of life? simply idiotic. 

         his target catches his attention, laughing with a group of bikers and suspicious men, blissfully unaware of potential threats like him.