#ftwevent

David found himself walking in an aimless direction, staring down at his phone, deleting all the messages and wondering if he should try calling someone. Not knowing what kind of the stress the Ivories were under or if he had his name on the blacklist since he’d fucked up. So preoccupied he hadn’t stepped out of the way and banged shoulders with someone else, phone dropping from his hand and cracking against the sidewalk, “Oh jesus -- I’m sorry that...that was my fault.”

There were only three reasons Evelyn was standing alone in a gallery after a long shift at work, drink in hand and avoiding having to schmooze with politicians. One, the free alcohol. Two, the free food. And three? The museum was one of her favorite places in the entire city. When she had first moved to the city, it was her escape. A place where she could disappear and not have to feel so lonely. It allowed her to be alone, but without the empty sadness that accompanied it. And she continued to come frequently, even though her life slowly filled with people. It was a safe space for her. 

Sipping her glass, she surveyed the people around her, knowing it was going to be a difficult balance for her. She saw friends and colleagues, talking, drinking and dancing, not five paces from the people who had not long ago told her to bury a key piece of evidence. This should have been easier, two years into this arrangement, but the all too familiar knot wound its way through her stomach.

Feeling someone approach from her right, she took a deep breath as naturally as she could, and turned to them with a polite smile. “Some kind of party, eh?”

Why exactly Mason had agreed to do this, was still something he was asking himself, too. But he figured it wouldn’t hurt to do something that didn’t involve blood, guns or knives. At least not yet. “You know, apparently I’m not allowed to drink beer when I’m on this side of the booth,” Mason started, pouring yet another glass of beer for the brunette. “...Which means it’s now your responsibility to drink enough to compensate for the both of us.” A small grin settled on his features as he spoke, and while the words were just a gentle tease, he had a feeling Nic was capable enough of doing just that.

when: 8:35 pm

who: open

Hector felt like a fish out of water, or lipstick on a vulture. The city’s highest and mightiest were all milling around him, holding champagne flutes and laughing like the bubbles found in them. He held one too, awkward in a corner after a waitress pleaded him with her eyes to take the last off her tray. He didn’t know what to do with it, with himself, here.

Hector was invited because he was a first responder, and Wyatt Delore was wanting the public servents backing. He supposed he was high up on the list because he, at one point, was involved with Savannah. It was the same kind of affair, all tense smiles and self-doubt. He could pretend he heard a call for a first responder on his radio, clipped to his belt, but the receiver stayed stubbornly silent.

 He wasn’t really sure when it happened, but at some point he stopped looking at who was asking for beers, but just kept pouring one after the other. It had only been a couple of hours, but he was clearly not made for this. Somehow his day to day job – if one could even call it that – was a much better fit to him than pouring beers all day. Never again. Just as he was about to hand over the next one, his eyes fell on the brunette. “Oh –,” he started, one corner of his lips tugging up into a lopsided grin. “I think I’ll have to check your ID, we don’t serve minors.”

It all started with the storm warning, something that few genuinely took serious the moment they stepped into Charlie’s. Hard to when the atmosphere felt more like a rave then it did a potentially life threatening situation. Once the doors shut and the wood went over the windows, it was like people could forget about the reality outside. The music masked the cracks of thunder, the alcohol numbed that anxiety, and people seemed to be thankful for their predicament. It was a free night out, or at least, that was what some saw. Channing on the other hand, found herself in a situation she had never expected. The blonde walked around with a drink in one hand, the other ghosting along the walls. Her eyes never stopped scanning the room, waiting for the weak points to give and for something to be done. Channing Marx was a survivor,  but there was little draw to anyone here that would drive her to do anything to risk that perfectly crafted exterior. 

That is until the weak spots caved, until the water began to fill the room, and panic started to burn away any drunken haze people suffered. Channing turned for the kitchen, eyeing an exit path when the opportunity presented itself. But that was when she saw Savannah, potentially one of her only friends in this godforsaken city. They were peas in a pod, in a way, which made Channing admire the blonde. Even if her noble ambitions would end with a bullet between the eyes. If the flood didn’t kill her first. Everything happened so quickly, but in Channing’s eye it was so slow. She watched the wood make contact, she watched the blonde dip under the rising water, and she waited. Come on Savannah, get up. But nothing. 

“Fuck”, she cursed, pushing past who she could to make it to the small window that separated the kitchen from the main room. Boots first she went, slipping through the small space to break away from the crowd. Without hesitation, she welcomed the cold water against her skin as she fell into the rising tide in hopes of getting to her friend in time. Channing wasn’t going to let anything happen to Savannah, not even if it meant risking it all