#djdivius

>. "I'm sorry --- is this guy bothering you?"

She had been watching the scene unfold for the past minute or so. Usually, Binary stayed off public spaces like clubs and bars, but tonight she just needed a drink - bad. After obtaining said drink, she observed the stage for a while. Watching the neon-colored DJ play some pretty good bangers before sneaking off to observe the main stage.

Right as intermission had begun, a guy had appeared on stage. Trying to talk sleezy to the performer - and from what Binary saw - that conversation was very much not appreciated.

So, doing something completely against her standard routine, Binary made herself known. Drink in hand, staring daggers at the man trying to act all too smooth. Then when her gaze turned to the DJ, that stare softened into concern.

" --- You ok?"

"'I think therefore I am.' Descartes." Dante grins, hands going up behind his head as he leans back in his big fancy executive-looking leather chair, kicking his cowboy boots up onto the big fancy executive-looking mahogany desk. All part of Devil May Cry's special image. Except for when he forgets to pay the power bill.

He sighs and adjusts his posture in the chair to get a little bit more comfortable, the leather of his boots squeaking lightly on the desk as he does so. "Buuuut I suspect my good humor isn't what had you looking me up in the yellow pages." If Dante had to guess, she's here to chew him out for the belt he bought at the thrift store the other day. They spotted it at roughly the same time but Dante, being half-devil and all, had been just a hair faster, managing to walk away with the prize.

Oh.

Oh that felt nice in a sort of aching way. Nice enough that Piper's eyeroll was all Coffi got for cooing at her like a baby. Nice enough that her eyes shut. At one particular press Piper's leg jumped, twitching in a way that just made her laugh.

"Well my reflexes are still in working order." She loosely gathered her hair back so it could get off of her neck and fan around her head instead. "Good sign."

"See I knew you would kick my ass on leg day, I've seen your quads. But shit, man, I'm humbled all the same. Gonna have to up my game." An arm draped across her eyes as she relaxed, muscles giving involuntary twitches now that they could finally, truly, rest.

thirty-seven years of age have brought doctor zharonauta to NEW YORK CITY.

she'd never planned on america, let alone the east coast, let alone manhattan, but when the long-feathered wing of the united states government reaches out and offers safe harbor and an open invitation to pursue whatever scientific avenues this geneticist sees fit to her full capacity at any cost -- whatever cost -- by god, she is going to seize the opportunity with both hands and make it her own for as long as she can. she knows far better than to take any government at its word.

the work has begun, but that doesn't mean she hasn't seen fit to probe the city by night; this place is a wonderland of the absurd, and every person she meets has the potential to be as fascinating as a rare microbe under an ocular lens.

okay, not everything is a study. today was an terrific success, and yet the last thing she wants to do is spend the evening celebrating with a bunch of sorry colleagues scrambling to walk back their doubt.

nah, she wants music. she wants a drink, she wants anonymity, she wants to pretend for a little while that she doesn't only see genetic material unraveling before her eyes in place of every unique individual life around her. they're all part of a larger tale, spanning eons. maybe for an evening, she'll be able to remember she is a part of it, too.

This was a far cry from the galas and the charity events and the award recognition gatherings he had to go to. Although he's not a fan of those either, at least at any of those other places, he could see the goddamned exit.

"Excuse me --... @djdivius, -- you know where I can... get out of here?"

Sometimes, people are a little bit too easy to bribe.

Coordinating this hit was as simple as paying off the tough guys for information and to look the other way. This was made infinitely easier by one of them having bought Gear off Mox for the last eight months.

Mox? Mox doesn't touch the shit, never will. That doesn't mean he's unaware of his potential clientele, or how to make the most of those connections when the time is right.

So he got in fine. Unfortunately for the Gearhead and his friend, he didn't come alone, and they're both twisted in a pile in a dumpster out back courtesy of his men, Pac and Gabe. The thing about the Death Riders? They never go it alone...including to this job.

He entered alone, wicked looking knife in hand, pistol holstered. Too messy, too impersonal. He was hired to make this a scene, and he didn't ask too many questions. This was presented to him as an order, not a request.

Blackmail. The details of which bad enough he said yes without a fight. So he'll do his damn job. It's just some musician. He thinks he's heard of her, was warned she's a mutant. Tough shit, he's dealt with them before. All it takes is extra planning.

What he didn't expect was taking something directly to the forehead the instant he was through the goddamn dressing room door.

He's on the floor, stunned, and then he's rolling out of instinct, not quite ready to clamber to his feet. The knife cut into his hand during the fall, but he's still got it.

Stupid. Sloppy.

He's breathing, alright, and he's rolling onto his side to fling that knife. He's not exactly a ranged assailant, but distraction is distraction, and when it's left his hand, no matter where it ends up, he's pushing his massive frame to a crouch and springing forward for an attempted tackle...