Movies were strange, almost melancholic. The old ones, at least. Black and white, where one could hear the sound of the projector ticking as the reels oscillated and the ribbons of film fed into the machine as the grainy pictures and slightly muffled quality of the audio reminded him: the actors were dead, the cameramen were buried, and the sound stage had long since collapsed into rubble. A recording of people and places that were no more, he reflected with a faraway look. Then, the screen faded to black and the lights gradualy brightened.

Normally, that would be it. He'd pocket his hands and shuffle on out and into the lobby, depart into the twilit streets-- Yet, he balked when he felt something oppressive, a heavy air like the weight of a thousand spears. A tall man, dark as a shadow, dark as a reaper. Those eyes weren't trained on him. Elsewhere, on a young, unassuming woman.

𝓐𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖆𝐤 𝕷𝖔𝖚𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝓦𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘.

random dialogue prompts // accepting // @gviltys asked . . . why didn’t you fight back? → the doe !!

❝ maaan, 'cause that's easier said than done, ❞ doe answers, her red rose lips staining the butt of a cigarette as she draws from it. smoke leaves with an exhale, pastel green eyes watching it dance like ribbons before she continues. ❝ when everyone walks on you your entire life, you start believin' you're a doormat. ❞ there's a slur in her speech. not enough to make her incoherent — but enough to suggest she's already had a date with alcohol earlier before settling into nicotine.

❝ i guess it took me . . . a while to realize i can stand up for myself. y'know . . . ❞ her digits wave the cigarette between them. ❝ sometimes all it takes is for one person to really grind their heel into you before you finally reach a breaking point. ❞

another slow drag of the cigarette. ❝ i'll always fight back now. ❞

something to hide prompts

It's words that anyone else in his position had longed to receive, quietly murmured assent that hammered home a change in conditions. That signalled how the coast was clear, and therefore left room to take a breather. And yet, rather than utilise this reprieve, Miguel stays hunched over, body wound as tightly as a coiled spring as gaze darted from one random direction to another.

As if trying to anticipate from which direction an attempt on his life might emerge from next.

"Never got the memo." Making light of matters, the more likely possibility was some good samaritan, having just witnessed a man's skull make rough contact with the pavement thanks to a right hook, said as much to him earlier in the day, but the notion failed to register in his mind. Nor did it have any time to settle before the displaced Spider moved onto the next problem that required his strength and abilities to resolve.

How did Parker ever manage to keep doing this for so long?

IT'S A PECULIAR FEELING, none of his usual weapons at his side -- but Anthony doesn't complain when an operation needs infiltrators, and who else would be assigned but the most charming of the bunch? Small gun tucked deep into his disguise, his attire transformed for a formal setting; Lockwood is eager to find the suspect, if it weren't for the dozens of eyes surrounding the duo.

"I would suggest to split up, but I'd worry that you'd get swallowed up by the crowd," he muses, adjusting his cuff links. "I didn't think it would be this loud either. What a palava." Yes, Anthony revels in messy fights and the adrenaline pumping in his veins, not the posh politics that runs the world. He would drink in all of the attention if it wasn't for the fake alias he was underneath, forced to play politely. The FBI was practically punishing him by not letting him pull the usual.

It's not his usual crowd for sure -- a fancy ballroom occupied with people with higher net worth than his own pay grade. The agent shifts, checking to see the comfort of the other one. "Well, what backstory do you want to tell people?"

@gviltys sent:

you sound so scary sometimes.

There is a silence for a moment. It is not, nor will it be the last she has been told this. Perhaps it is just the nature of her now. Given how things have been it makes sense. There is a twinge of guilt, that maybe she should be softer, that maybe this war was cruel enough to everyone she should not add to it.

But, after that fleeting moments thin brows sharpen, features tighten. They need someone willing to step in and make a sacrifice when people like Brim and Sage can not. She is that, she is their worst case, she is their contingency. So she will let the fear swirl around her and envelop her like a tight hug, even if it deters the other agents.

❝Not all of us can afford the outlooks of Brimstone and Sage. Or Clove for that matter. I might be scary but--❞

It is not intentional. It is not to be cruel. The words cascade around in her head for a moment. She has to be methodical, she can not break the wall of who she is for this one.

Kat does not seem as gentle, as tender and held by the world as some of the others. But, that does not mean that she is able to understand this, to comprehend the things that Sabine knows. To be able to understand that Viper is not just some nickname here, that it is not just because of her dealings in toxins.

She is simply the realist of this team. And that is the horrifying reality of this.

it takes seven seconds for pentele to be on the patron himself once he hears the man yipe from across the club, and twelve for the other two bouncers to be surrounding the scene, their job not to intervene in any fashion, but to keep others from trying to do the same themselves.

pentele's hand is gentle on katarina's upper arm, tugging her back and away from the filth that he would soon be taking care of so that she can disconnect from the situation and begin to return to herself. he knows nothing of the history she has, nor does he need to know. all he needs to know is that this man - if he can be called such - will be facing repercussions for whatever action had taken place in the blind moment live, visual monitoring had been broken.

the music that fills the club has already been shut off, lights turned on, and though the order is given, it does not need to be. it's implied as the jaguar bends down into the space of the man on the ground.

"clear the floor."

the two bouncers accompanying him begin to direct both patrons and other staff either out of the club entirely, fielding questions of refunds and policy as easily as if this were the thing they were really trained to do. katarina is left alone, allowed time, but within two minutes, it is only her, pentele, and the offender. at some point in the process of clearing, margot - the bartender for the evening - had placed a glass of water into katarina's hands.

the ginger is silent, crouched down and examining the man in front of him with palpable disgust, drenched there in his features as he waits. waits for the excuses. for the explanation. for the demand that something be done about the situation at hand.