#preyrage

Miro doesn't bother trying to stifle the scoff that flies from their mouth, nor the roll of their eyes that follows. Everyone loves to claim that peace is worth fighting for, and not once has Miro ever seen a positive outcome. Horrible acts only beget more horrible acts. An endless loop of malicious nonsense in the name of something good. What a joke.

"Some good those 'terrible things' have done. Everything is still miserable." They narrow their eyes at what's left of the drink in their hand, like something about it is to blame for the conversation. It doesn't taste anywhere near good enough to justify drinking the rest of it. But if this bartender intends to keep talking, they're going to need a refill. Fine by them. Their tab can take a little abuse tonight.

Rook had learned long ago that cemeteries were excellent places to hide out when there was heat on him. Quiet, usually out of the way and no one would bother him thinking he was there to pay his respects.

A hand pressed to the wound at his side, a bullet had just managed to catch him, thankfully missing penetrating him though it had left a sizeable gash. He weaved through the graves, the moon above his only light source, and then suddenly there wasn't ground below his feet. An undignified noise left him as he fell into an open grave, rolling onto his back when he recovered a little, sighing as he stared up at the night sky.

The other’s curt reply gets a hearty laugh out of Cain. As unexpected as that response was, it didn’t seem to offend him at all — nor did it deter him from talking to the other, for that matter.

“Noted, I hear you loud and clear,” he complied, a hint of playfulness in his tone. Idly propping a hand on his hip, he hummed to himself. “How about a cup of coffee, then? I was thinking about grabbing one myself. It’s not much, but it might help you get through the day. A bit of a pick-me-up, if nothing else. You certainly seem to need it.”