#julierightwell

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I can resist everything but temptation.

She senses his presence easily; the pace of his feet on the dilapidated city’s street and his scent, as everyone has one of their own. Already having downed a drink or two, it’s nearly impossible for her to resist riling him up.

"Well, if it isn’t Ryan’s bitch." 

She's bold, he'll give her that, perched on a bar stool and waving a half-full glass through a ruined storefront. The lilt of her voice, deliberate and teasing, sends a wave of irritation down his back. He knows she does it on purpose, yet there's nothing more he can do but fall prey to the lure.

She hates him. Or something close to that. This doesn't make any sense at all. His reflexive response is to shove her away, but that would be impolite.

We are all born the innocent. We were born to run carefree. I will hold on 'til the end, there'll never be an end.

The short drop between the crumbling edge and the street below made this balcony laughable. Only a fool would put a platform ten feet up and call it a second storey, but they'd built a city underwater and here he was, kicking his heels over a balcony.

Maybe he should do something about the Big Daddy lumbering after that couple. But then again, maybe not. If that lad and lass were fool enough to get in the guardian's way, then perhaps they deserved their unfortunate fate. Besides, there was a Vita-Chamber close enough.

The lights in the helmet were a verdant green, and so was the dress of the lady perched atop its shoulder. She had the bearing of a surgeon, but the absence of copious amounts of blood splattered on the crisp white fabric led him to believe otherwise.

It’s about as easy as one would expect to trap a blind person – he didn't even need to rough her up much. All it takes is a little circling and a few deft taps on the hands and legs with the length of pipe he’s been dragging along the floor, and the young girl quickly becomes less keen on moving out of the space he’s neatly managed to herd her into.

Ignoring her pleas altogether, Ferdinand watches her turn to follow the scrape of metal on tile, her head cocking to place him as he strides idly around. Eyes aside, the girl’s pretty intact, especially considering she was wandering about by herself when he came upon her.

It was hard for the woman to not drag her feet, but an obvious lack of sleep was starting to take a toll on her. Ever-resilient as Elizabeth was, she was still a human being, and though it was ideal to go on without letting one's guard down, it obviously would've been better not to pass out from exhaustion while in plain sight. Opting for an instance where she doesn't become another victim, the woman propped herself behind a large stack of crates, curling up as much as possible, and setting her head against the wood.

Kyle stood just behind the brilliantly lit stage, his palms sweating slightly as they did each night before he went on. The young-man started pacing, looking down to the molted wooden floor boards that were so masterfully placed not a squeak escaped. It was a good thing too, another of Cohens 'disciples' his 'prodigies' was playing in that hot spotlight, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he continued to blow away at his brass instrument.

Fitzpatrick paid him no heed, he had heard this all before, even helped the man write it for chist-sakes. He wondered how he looked, if his hair had fallen into disarray in the short time from his dressing room to his position just back-stage. Obviously not, but the twenty-year-old worried all the same. 

Finally the other man had finished and it was his turn to take the stage. As he passed they exchanged a nod of 'good luck' and 'good job', and then it was him striding out onto that blinding platform that held his current instrument of choice, a grand piano. He walked out just as the large audience finished their clapping for his fellow. 

Suddenly Kyle desperately wished he had brought a water, and knew that he was shaking. He always was. Truth be told, his spot was not in the limelight. He believed he played best when along and for the pure enjoyment of its sound. However, young Fitzpatrick didn't have that luxury as it didn't pay rent nor generate money of any kind. He had to do this, play these shows. It wasn't entirely bad, he wasn't coming out and stripping for their entertainment after all. 

The mun grinned. It was terribly nice to know that people liked and approved of the character she played. She fretted often over it more often than she liked.

Julie flinches, not really knowing there’d been anyone else around. The voice is feminine. It puts her at ease, having always been uncomfortable around men, especially men like her father.

"I…. don’t know. Not too long. Did I disturb something?" She turns, foggy brown eyes searching for the source of the voice.

Moira watched the woman suspiciously. Why did everyone insist on being where they weren't welcomed?

She crossed her arms over her chest, hip jutting out to one side in frustration.