#mslangermann

How rough of a crowd? There was a time when he would have defended Priwen's ideals to the death -- one might even be able to argue that's precisely what he did. Loyal and fanatical until the last, except his sense of self-preservation ultimately won out in the end. The years have given him perspective if nothing else, knocked away the rose colored glasses and cast his former circle in a less favorable light. A part of him will always feel indebted to Eldritch for saving his life, but he's come to realize that sense of obligation was a weight no child should have been allowed to carry. "They were no Boy Scouts," he says, but leaves it at that. There's no good way to explain that part of his life without sounding like a career criminal. Which, while it might be true, isn't an easy topic to dig into.

Not that the continuing thread of conversation is simpler to navigate. Geoffrey's never been the best at handling delicate matters. His position and demeanor once gave him a reputation as a merciless fanatic -- while his people never accused him of being cruel, outsiders saw his methodology as cold and callous and presumed he relished in the bloodshed dealt by his hand. Though hunting brought grim satisfaction, there was no real joy in it, in destroying lives even to stop evil. But empathy and sympathy were twin weaknesses in the profession, and he tamped them down in the name of duty.

He admired her aggressiveness, it showed spunk. Looking from @mslangermann to the pan and back he snorted, stepping through into the apartment, hands in pockets, looking around as if any of the accoutrement would catch his eye.

“Ya, but she ain’t there”. He tried for aloof, but there was clear disappointment on his face. “Folks at the bar don’t take too kindly to me, so I figure if anyone else might know, and have a vested interest in gettin’ me on my way”, looking slyly through his bangs he grinned, “why I expect it might be you”. He bent forward to peruse the few objects atop a table, whether he was truly invested was difficult to perceive.

Courtroom proceedings are rarely as fast paced and dramatic as what Hollywood would have you believe. It's a drawn out slog of a process -- bereft of last minute evidence and witnesses that turn the tides in favor of the protagonist. Less drama, more headaches.

Lynn might be the expert on all things Murkoff, but Alice knows of their tricks by extension. They're experts at bending the legal system however they see fit, circumventing consequences at every turn. The trial against them has spanned a grueling number of years that have been more than hard on her friend. For as long as Alice has known her, Lynn has been motivated by her desire to bring justice to unchecked horrors -- but there have been times where she worried this trial was going to take it all out of her. At least the spotlight on the case kept Lynn safe from Murkoff's machinations, but that was a hollow satisfaction.

Which is to say, this victory has been hard fought. They'd spoken over the phone but this is the first Alice has seen her in person since the verdict was announced. She's quick to throw her arms around the journalist, pulling her into a tight hug. "Lynn, oh my god, I don't even know what to say! Congratulations? Is this a congratulatory thing?" It feels too reductive, all things considered, but also manages to feel too celebratory at the same time. A sigh of relief feels more appropriate than anything. She's just so happy to think that Lynn can finally start putting Murkoff behind her.

Alice pulls away but not completely, taking Lynn's hands in her own with a reassuring squeeze. "How about just -- thank fucking god that's over?"

He thinks, too, that he might know her from somewhere, or that he'd at least heard her name somewhere on the other side of all this. But it's difficult to think straight in this place, and that can't be entirely attributed to the stress. Not when there's so much else at play. The drugs, the "therapy", the repeated head trauma, the subliminal suggestions needling into his skull at all hours. Combined it has a way of muddying the mind, making it easy to forget some things and falsely remember others. That's the point, he supposes. Scoop everything out, wipe the slate clean, and fill yourself back up with Murkoff's bullshit.

More often than not Miles feels like he's grasping at straws, and for what? The only apparent way out is to lose yourself entirely. Maybe the corpses littering these nightmare dioramas had the right idea. It's not like they can own you in death.

Lynn's presence is a distraction from all that, though. She's given him a new objective, and the departure from routine is exhilarating in a way that will make him question his sanity later. He guides her carefully through the shadows, around broken glass and string-suspended tin cans. Their target is just ahead -- a body Miles doesn't recognize, their eyes milky with the film of death. Stiff where they're slumped against a cabinet, a broken bottle clutched by rigor mortis stricken fingers, but not yet decomposed. He doesn't know how often they actually clean the trials out. They still have their toaster, and that's all that matters.

He's about to say as much to Lynn when he catches the same sound that alerts her -- the lockjawed mumbling of a prowling ex-pop. Doesn't sound like a Night Hunter, though, which means, "They can't see in the dark," he murmurs, squeezing her hand for reassurance. Miles sounds more confident than he feels, creeping forward with renewed urgency until he's within arms' reach of the failed reagent. "Wait until they pass, then we'll get this guy undressed."

He doesn't remember stumbling into the back of the bar, doesn't even remember how he got there. What he does remember is running with Pratt, and then being pushed off a balcony by him. Remembers frantically grabbing for staci's wrist, his sleeves anything as he fell, a failed attempt of taking the other man with him finally getting him away from jacob. He had been right fucking there literally within arms reach and yet Emmet had come back empty-handed with nothing but the lingering effects of that damned music box to show for it.

He's already thinking about going back, thinking about his next move, how he could finally get Pratt out of that situation, and then they'd all be one more step from leaving. Leaving and never looking back. He's so lost in thought he doesn't notice Lynn walk up, though beer bottle being set down in front of him catches his attention.

Glancing upwards, The deputy watches her shift her weight before slipping into the booth in front of him, and for a split second, he simply stares at her though he does so without fully seeing, his mind far from the bar he sat in. "...If it were your friends. " He finally begins, hand reaching out to wrap around the offered cold beer bottle, though he doesn't drink from it -- not yet.

Fear had riddled itself throughout his body; adrenaline pumping harshly within his veins alongside his blood. There was a tightness in chest from panic as bullets were shot in his direction, somehow managing to get out of Hoyt’s compound—even surprising himself.

Hand pressed firmly against the bullet wound near his shoulder—not taken care of, probably close to getting infected. Why would they take care of it? He was nothing but live stock to these people—to be sold for a profit. It was unbelievable; truly a living nightmare. His breath was ragged as he hid amongst the foliage, sitting between the leaves & overgrowth; catching his breath and wincing from the pain of his old wound. Arms were scraped from branches & the like, but it didn’t matter. He got out of there—it was one step closer to getting out of here completely, he hoped.

Momentarily, Riley closed his eyes, bringing a hand up to wipe blood from his face. He couldn’t hear the voices of the Privateers—but he knew there would be pirates around. He wasn’t sure where his friends were—if they were still alive, or sold off already; or if Jason & Grant were looking for him ( god, he hoped so ). He winced as he applied more pressure to his wound; his movements before causing blood to seep from it. Blood loss would screw him over—he had to find someone who wasn’t a threat before it got infected & he died from it.

Slowly, Riley moved from his position & started to move throughout the jungle, trying to avoid wild life & making it to the road. Leaves shifted from his movements when he saw her—She looked…normal. But maybe he was crazy? ‘God, please don’t be one of these fuckers…’

“Hey—“ He called out to her, though his tone was hushed. He was taking a chance here; & he really hoped that luck was on his side today.

// @mslangermann | Lynn.

“Threatening? It was just a well meant piece of advice... you shouldn’t be so... weak... not a good look for around here, either.”