the words go in one ear and right out the other, until he manages to catch them fading.  how was he not supposed to take this seriously?  stilwater was all sorts of fucked up— almost more fucked up than los santos, and if lamar had it his way, he would’ve been on the next flight out to california.  instead, he finds himself in the saints row church, an expression that reads frozen and distressed curving into every single crevice of his countenance.  this was fucked up.  everything was fucked up and assumed to get even more fucked up.  a deep breath is inhaled as he attempts to clear his expression, in signature lamar davis fashion, his head shaking for self-directed encouragement.    “yeah, homie— you right.  not too serious.  i don’t give a fuck what it is, i roll hard!  big dog, big nuts, take no prisoners, all that shit— you know?  i got apache blood in me!”

❝ let's get out of here, yeah? i could kill for a waffle right now, anyway. consider it my treat for tonight. ❞

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈'𝙳 𝙼𝙴𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴. One full of bloodshed and a paranoia that seeped through her flesh. When Yelena had considered the frigid Russian air a comfort and wore the mantle of the Black Widow. [Never with a sense of pride, but she at least wore it.] The only title she carries now is her own name: Yelena, along with a New York City address in the borough of Manhattan. And she couldn't be happier. [A blatant lie, but it helps her sleep easier at night.] When they meet again, the tides are switched: her the one with a sense of awareness, him the one seemingly confused. Her visit to Hells Kitchen was meant to be brief: light reconnaissance for an upcoming operation. But, it also wasn't every day you found the man without fear with his back flush against the city's pavement.

❝ You don't look well. ❞ A simple statement, one that could be confirmed by a glance in a mirror. Yelena remains hovering over the currently-grounded Daredevil. Though, she offers no helping hand to help him collect his bearings. Instead, she raises an eyebrow and keeps her gaze planted. « Where is Natalia? » Her native language and accent swirl in the air, synonymous to a lit-cigarette in the stygian alleyways of Paris. She's not a threat to him; not right now on the streets of Hell Kitchen. [So long as the Devil answers her questions without a hidden ruse of his own.]

"Hmm, Geralt," Philippa offers a faint smile, her eyes narrowing as she considers his words. "Always one for intriguing aphorisms."

She takes a sip from the goblet of deep red wine resting on the table before her, her gaze never leaving the witcher's unsettling gaze. The dim candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the room. "While it's true that murder and justice occupy different ends of the moral spectrum," she continues, her voice smooth and measured, "one must consider the intricate dance between them. Justice, is often upheld by the powerful and the self-righteous. It can sometimes be a mere facade, a clever veil woven to justify their actions in the eyes of society."

Philippa's fingers tap gently on the table, a rhythmic pattern that mirrors her thoughts. She leans back in her chair, her posture relaxed, yet her mind is anything but. "In contrast," she muses, her eyes momentarily drifting to the candle's flame, "murder, a grim act by all means, can also be perceived as an agent of change. A disruptive force that shatters the twisted systems that perpetuate injustice. An act that challenges the very foundations upon which societies are built."

Philippa's lips curl into a wry smile, her eyes narrowing as she regards @pulchral with a cool, calculating gaze. She leans back against the table, a picture of composed confidence. Her hands grip the edge, fingers absentmindedly tapping against it. "Always the poet, Lambert," she snarks, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and a touch of mockery. "It's charming how you see the world in metaphors."

The finger-tapping halts abruptly for a moment, before picking back up. A subtle sign of her impatience. She leans her upper body forward, her gaze never leaving his with an intensity that can send shivers down the spine of many men. "Opportunities, Lambert. The tapestry of power is shifting, and those who can weave its threads will shape the future. Choose wisely where you stand."

Philippa's blindfolded eyes seems to pierce through Keira Metz's mocking comment, a bitter smile curving her lips for one fleeting moment. She reclines in her makeshift hideout, a subtle air of authority still clinging to her posture despite her current circumstances. The dim candlelight casts uneven shadows, accentuating the scars of her past and the undeniable weight of her choices.

As a mirthless chuckle escapes her, she tilts her head slightly in @pulchral's direction. "Your wit remains as sharp as ever. How fortunate that I can't see those wanted posters you speak of. But pray, tell me, are they as imaginative as your pathetic attempts at annoying me?"

Her fingers trace the edges of the worn table, her lips curling in a mixture of condescension and nostalgia. "One might assume you're seeking a prize for crafting the most entertaining jabs at the fallen," her tone drips with a venomous amusement. "Though it seems your talents remain more suited to endangering the lives of innocents than to producing clever banter."

@pulchral : " so cool. " ( han for mia )