#thieved

he's finishing painting for the night, adding his final touches when someone approaches him from behind. they compliment his art and express an interest in him. are you muse!? his lips quirk, pleased by the interaction — and then in one quick movement, the man is unconscious, draped over muse's form. the artist huffs, readjusting his grasp on the individual so that they're hanging over his shoulder. he begins the lengthy trip back to his lair, utilising his powers to remain hidden from cameras.

another lost soul for him to take apart and make beautiful. he's giddy, and he's struggling to maintain his composure because of it. alas, his imperceptibility means no one casts a double take in his direction as he carries his victim. he blends in, like a shadow on the wall. when he reaches the deserted track, he begins his way down it, too fixated on the man in his arms to notice he's being pursued. with an exhale, he lowers his victim down onto his table and takes a good look. oh yes. he's going to make something incredibly special. glove-clad hands begin the process, and within seconds he's about to force needle deep into femoral artery when a sound has him grinding to a halt.

smoke  slithered  from  the  charred  remains  of  her  clothes,  unfurling  in  polished  pirouettes  &  mocking  the  graceless  way  she’d  crash - landed  here.  she  let  herself  drop  beside  the  other  woman,  ignoring  the  sea  of  empty  seats  as  if  they  weren’t  even  an  option,  like  the  floor  was  the  only  place  that  made  sense  at  this  moment.  exhaustion  had  dulled  the  usual  spark  in  her  mien,  dragging  at  her  features,  enough  that  she  barely  acknowledged  the  company  she’d  just  imposed  on. 

“ hi—  got  a  smoke ? ”   questioned  through  ragged  breaths,  swiping  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her  cheek  to  smear  away  grime  that  had  settled  on  her  skin.  a  lopsided  grin  followed,  finally  facing  her.   “ i’ll  trade  ya  for  whatever’s  jigglin’  in  my  pocket,  if’cher  feeling  lucky. ”

part of her thinks she ought to warn olympia. tell her to steer clear of gwen grayson and maybe penny lent, too.

(the latter is a little full of herself but harmless as far as things go; it's gwen that shouldn't be trusted, pretty and proper and perfect in pink and yet, there's something sharp behind her eyes, something calculating.)

"not a precog, but i was raised by one. does that count?" probably not, but khione is going to go ahead and count it, anyway. "i like to think i'm good at people-watching."

"what? don't tell me you're about to say that i'm the first one to tell you that you strike me as the type of person capable of landing on your feet?"

would you look at that? there is a first time for everything, isn't there?

laughter  rang  out,  wholehearted,  untouched  by  ridicule.  there  was  no  mirth  at  the  woman’s  expense,  devoid  of  any  underlying  cruelty.  how  could  there  be ?  she  didn’t  blame  her  for  the  misunderstanding,  for  even  after  all  these  long  years,  she  herself  did  not  know.  the  cards  remained  an  enigma,  their  power  a  thing  beyond  comprehension,  their  call  something  she  obeyed  without  ever  truly  grasping  its  source.

he remembers the last time he saw olympia. it was the day after the funeral, he only stayed that long to say his goodbyes. he remembers it hurt, saying goodbye to olympia - more than it hurt saying goodbye to his mother. he remembers it aching, like a hole sunken in his chest, willing himself not to turn back to look as he walked away. it would have been harder to go if he had looked back. but at least he got to say goodbye to her. ellie never gave him that.

they're older now, so much time has passed, but he sees her in an instant - unmistakable even in a crowd. he never thought he'd see her again. that sunken hole - scarred over, but never fully healed - starts to ache again.