#luch3gor3

Mox has been awake for twenty hours. That's not an overly long time, but it's enough to have him grouchy and fighting to stop scowling. Sensory overload barely begins to cover it at this point. Every little noise, every goddamn fluorescent light, every grating voice...it's all nails on a chalkboard, it's icewater straight to the veins, and he was grinding his teeth so hard they're starting to ache by the time he was finally dropped off here.

The airport cell phone waiting lot is, mercifully, nearly deserted. Plenty of cameras here, and that's half the reason it was picked as the drop point for this shit.

There are eyes on him either way. He doesn't know where that microchip is under his skin, but he's been taunted with the tracking app enough times to know it's real. That, and one ill-advised trek without permission that resulted in a few very bad days? He's not keen to cause an issue- not with this client.

They're not late. He was just left here early as a precaution.

He closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Holds it...exhales. There. Better. His chest feels tight. Why does this feel different than usual? He should be used to this by now.

There- headlights. He straightens from his lean against the pole of the streetlight and reaches up to lower his hood. The duffel bag at his feet is his only luggage. He doesn't need much.

You hire a dog, you get one. Not that he sees any of the pay. All black, denim and cotton unpretentious. A strained, exhausted expression. Were it not for foreknowledge, the fact he's got on a collar the hoodie underneath the denim jacket can't quite hide, he might manage to pass as any other traveler, were he to try.

He's got a job to do. He bends. Grabs the bag. Stays.

her eyes may have seemed blank but there were so many thoughts swirling around in her head it would make anyone else dizzy, like the room would have started spinning. there hadn’t been a discussion between them since they started seeing each other, what was supposed to be a one night had turned into something much more. the longer they tried to stay apart made mariah want him even more. just looking at each other in passing was enough to initiate falling into bed together once again. there had been a deeper feeling between the two of them lately, it was felt every time they were together unbeknownst to anyone else.

Usually when he's trying to tackle someone he picks a target, waits, and then launches himself forward as fast as humanly possible,. it may not be the fastest, but it is the prettiest, and he's quite proud of it. What he isn't proud of , however, is when he launches himself into the wrong fucking person, rolling over them only to realize at the last second he's completely fucked up.

There's still a fight happening. He shifts, bringing himself up on his knees before shouting "ARE YOU FUCKING SORRY?", clearly mixing up "are you okay" and "i'm so fucking sorry".

If there's anything Gabe's sick of, it's being around good boys. Being around cozy, coddled little dogs who wouldn't last ten minutes with him were he not restrained. It makes him sick to hear the handlers praise them, makes him sick to see them visibly happy and well-fed and enjoying their work or lack of it.

Gabe loves to fight. Feels like he was born for it. Having the chance to get to do so in a controlled setting, under bright lights and amidst the cheers and jeers of an audience? It feels like some missing piece of him has been returned. The outlet for his aggression has proven excellent, at cost of life and limb for others.

Mox got the C2. Mox tried the G1 once and got far enough it was admirable, but his time with that's done.

Nobody deserves the slot more than Gabe Kidd...if you ask him, anyway. Not that he's looking to be asked, or looking for permission- he's here, and you're going to have to deal with it.

He's off the plane from NYC and stepping out into the chaos of O'Hare, sunglasses on, hood up over his cap, brim pulled low, attitude turned high. He's here to win, and he's not going to wait about on the slow walkers in his way. He pushes ahead when he has to, jostles whoever, rolls over at least one foot. Gets a coffee from a stand before exiting to bag claim, his ta a little too toothy to be comfortably received by the barista.

He waits at the carousel, scrolling through messages and sipping at the coffee. When the buzzer goes off to alert bags are about to start coming up the chute, he tries to reserve his ride...only to find the Uber app is down.

"Fucking..." Lyft? Down. He's startled for a long moment before realizing... "No reception?"

Someone didn't put his phone bill on autopay.

He's in Chicago. His suitcase has just been spat out. And he can't call a fucking ride to the hotel.

Typical.

An electro beat pulses through high-grade portable sound equipment, the lights flaring to match, this disused warehouse space turned into a bacchanal to remember. MDMA and cheap liquor flow like blood. Sweat, cloying perfume and overbearing cologne, lost high heels, sunglasses, beaded bracelets.

Pac feels this as intensely now at 39 as he did as a younger man. Always a bit more inclined towards drum and bass, true, but this is serviceable, too. He pushes through dancing bodies like a stalking doberman, eyes locked on his end goal, string backpack clutched in his hand by its neck. He can't afford to lose that here. Can't afford an interruption.

kenny himself couldn’t believe kota was once again next to him, sitting in his presence like a dream he’d had over and over again. he had walked in prior and the while balance of his life shifted once more. his eyes saw clearly, nothing but good smells ran through his nostrils and kenny was always soft in his touches, but even more so now. the way he spoke was like a rush of heaven, the most beautiful sound he could have possibly heard in that moment. not to mention just how kota made him feel, he didn't even really have to say anything. the way he looked at kota, full of love and yearning, was enough to hopefully send the other a clear message.

He likes running errands.

Usually it's low stake stuff, drop offs, meet ups, occasional car rides with the worst people he's ever met digging out drugs covered in babybel cheese wax from dead bodies- easy stuff. The best part is when he's alone he's showing up in a shiny 1990 Miata. He knows he looks cool and he knows the car is cool and he knows that folks he's meeting with are totally jealous of how cool he is.

A year ago this was explicitly for the Conglomeration, now he's acting as a free agent- "Conglomerate Adjacent Civilian Warrior" had a nice ring to it back when it was first used to describe some of those not quite in the organization, now he thinks it's a bit of a mouthful and not exactly a good idea to leave people like him as loose end.

Whatever, that's not his problem.

Problem for Orange is he is not inconspicuous. He stands out- if not for the Canadian tuxedo it's the posture and the way he is Absolutely Not trying to not be suspicious. And the way he seems almost incapable of carrying out a conversation.

"No it's uh...the color. I'm not a fruit," he's talking to a small speaker box on a digital ticket payment machine. It has one of those slots that eats the card and then spits it back out, but his card is seemingly stuck. He's already paid for the day when he entered the garage, more than happy to complain to Brisco about the $32 fee via text, which only just led to toxic positivity and a reminder of the word of the day - Perseverance, as in he best persevere into the underground level specified with the folks he was to meet up with or no one is going to be happy.