#lawlessstart

Veer was being inconspicuous, black hoodie, skinny jeans, beat-off vans, his hair fluffy and falling over his forehead. He was quiet as a mouse, moving through the world without leaving a single imprint, could've been a spy, if he didn't have such a big mouth. He'd been sitting at the bus stop for about ten minutes, staring out into the rain, the other person gave no sign that they'd noticed him.

They weren't so sure if they liked that, the silence would drive them mad. Sound, they loved sound. Even in their hide-outs now, they had a machine nearby, the wiring of its fans a reminder that they were alive.

"Did you know this bus stop was the direct inspiration for the famed bus episode of Spongebob?" they asked, smirking as they spoke. "One of the writers sat at this exact spot for three hours, then really had to pee, and as they returned, the bus drove off. Then they sat another four hours before another came. True story." Perfect bullshit. But hey, Spongebob had saved their life in prison, truly.

𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐑. even if octavia had become used to the throws of her father's former livelihood -- allowed herself to take on his burdens and his side-hustles, when the end of the day came she relished in the thought that she would soon get to go home. it was perhaps the most human instinct that the woman otherwise viewed as a machine possessed. she picks up the sound of footsteps at the front of the gym with the keen hearing of a cat, eyes darting in the direction of the sound in a matter of seconds. as she emerges from her office, formerly her father's office, she soon assesses the individual in front of her with a raised eyebrow. they certainly don't appear to be a threat -- but octavia has certainly been wrong before. she'll stand her guard, while simultaneously making every effort to get them the hell out of here. much like the rest of society, she had dinner to eat and shows to watch.

Hands full with an assortment of paper bags, Marcellus finds himself in the midst of a sporadic juggling act. All for the sake of a single smoke. Naturally, it would’ve made sense to put the bags down first. Yet the underlying itch for nicotine had eaten away most of his patience. And, well, he's always had a knack for making small things more complicated than need be.

A small, triumphant grunt leaves him when he finally bests the challenge. Cigarette now stuck between the lips, he cranes his head towards the lighter. Tilt too far and some items fling themselves from crinkled paper bag confines onto the parking lot. “Shit.” Cigarette temporarily forgotten, he happens to see someone in his periphery.

Solitude had been Jade's comfort from the moment they felt the first hint of abandonment. They watched as prospective parents rejected them, felt the impact of loss at their own hands, and even with their ties to the White Crocodiles, the words family still never slipped through their teeth. It seemed easier to shut themself off from the world before the world had a chance to do it first, but it was hard to be fully alone in a city as big as Manhattan.

Perhaps that's why they sometimes found themself hiding out at The Godfather. It was easy to go unnoticed when the allure of the jazz band drew everyone's attention. With the relaxing music and range of seating, Jade usually never had a problem tucking themself into a corner and enjoying their peace. Today, though, they noticed a presence near their end of the bar. Their hand traced the edge of their glass, a slight scowl on their lips as they commented,  ❝If you're going to hover over me, at least have the decency to buy me a drink.❞ 

— ❝𝙅𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙❞, Bank stands on the icy sidewalk with only a light jacket to keep him warm. He rubs both arms to keep warm. There was enough vodka in his belly to keep him from freezing right away, but the impending chill was imminent. How much longer would he be out here, waiting? He tugs on his sleeve to reveal his watch. ❝Damn, they were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago...❞ Or was it twenty minutes from now? The numbers were swimming too much for Bank to see properly. When a car parks itself at the edge of the sidewalk, Bank squints his eyes and approaches. ❝Are you here with...uh...❞ His mind blanks on the name. When he requested for a driver, they'd sent him a confirmation message, which now slips Banks mind, and he fumbles to procure his phone from his pocket. ❝Just tell me, are you from the driving service?❞

wit   was   accustomed   to   a   certain   amount   of   pain   after   his   fights.   not   even   pain   in   the   physical   sense.   it   was   all   around   just   a   pain   in   the   ass.   still,   he's   never   had   to   dodge   security   to   clean   his   own   wounds, breathing through his teeth like a rapid dog.

there   was   a   nasty   gash   just   above   his   eyebrow,   the   blow   he   was   paid   to   let   land.   pain   in   the   ass.   but   he   got   around   the   johnny   bravo   looking   idiot   that   was   there   to   ensure   he   followed   the   rules,   and   just   about   made   it   into   the   supply   closet   without   ripping   the   mask   that   dug   into   his   injury   clean   off.   

and   it   did   dig.   the   brass   plating   probably   gave   him   a   whole   load   of   infections   that   he   was   struggling   to   clean   with   the   alcohol   he   found— not rubbing alcohol, mind you, just straight house vodka.   he   would   need   to   stitch   it,   and   that   would   definitely   be     (     ʸᵒᵘ ᵍᵘᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ⁱᵗ    )     a   pain   in   the   ass. so much so he nearly didn't notice the door creak open.

the crowd is milling, splitting in fits and starts around the entrance. it's too packed to move; too early to make a run for it. hands in tux pockets, itching for a lighter, wishing he'd taken the elevator when he was asked to, teddy sits at the bar.

he's waiting. for? fuck-all in particular, really. things have a way of turning up.

so, waiting. he's stuck, in fact; hemmed in next to someone that could be anyone. the mask betrays nothing. felt and silken, it shutters the lines of them to the world. soft? hard? no. it could be anyone. we covered this part. a civilian. brass. low-end brass, at that.

even worse? they could be ugly. great. just bloody mint. this mask bullshit just knocked down both networking and hooking up off the possibility list. teddy pushes to stand a little higher. even knowing it's a dead-end, he finds himself burning to strike up a chat. just because. he clears his throat a bit. he even hunkers down, really, actually scoots out of his chair just to catch their eyes. no fire wasted, right? he's here. they're here. he might as well figure out if they're friend or canon fodder.

with a sigh, and just a swish of a smile, his hand comes down to tap on the bar mat between them. ‶listen. I can't even see your face and I somehow just know you're glowering.″ he tucks his chin; holds back from winking, but just barely. the edge of the better part of wisdom. ‶like, chill. people are going to think you owe them money.″ his smile turns up. ‶do you? owe them money, that is.″

It's not the first time Val's been lost - and it won't be the last. Even with the red-tipped cane, even with knowing the nightclub by now like the back of their hand... there's always something to distract. And suddenly he's feeling a wall and groaning. "Am I walkin' towards the bathrooms again? Shit." His Irish lilt is heavy on his tongue, a drink in one ringed hand and long curls tied back into a messy bun. Most noticeable, however, are light and listless eyes that don't seem to focus on any one thing. The music is loud which doesn't help matters. But they hear some kind of voice, which indicates a person who can help. "Ey, ey, love, I'll buy you ye're next round if y'tell me where the fuck I am. Please? Is it that weird bathroom hallway? I always end up there for some reason."