#thread(open)

Location: Pest Nightclub

Status: Open to all

 The thumping music. The people who drank more than enough to abandon common sense. The dimmed lights. The cocktails flowing. The lines being snorted. The apotheosis of London escapism. Fletcher felt right in his element here. He sold the newest batch of drugs to enough rich assholes tonight that he could relax, kick back and enjoy himself. Fletcher had made so much profit, he could’ve pocked a portion and it would’ve made no difference, but he quickly disregarded the idea out of self-preservation. Damn Fazal had eyes and ears everywhere it seemed, and a few extra cash wasn’t worth the risk.

“Barkeep,” Fletcher slammed his hand against the polished bar surface, grabbing the attention of the friend who worked behind the counter, “fetch me your finest whiskey, please.” Being on a Pestilence payroll, and Pest Nightclub being his metaphorical office granted him certain privileges – not having to wait in live for a drink, and not having to pay for them, either. Halfway through his whiskey, Fletched had felt a touch on his arm, slightly startling him.

“Hey, no touching unless you buy me a dinner first,” he turned around, flashing a smug grin at the first person stood behind him, and taking note of another lingering next to them. 

Standing behind his bar, Nathan couldn’t help but be a little bit proud at how busy it was. Sometimes it still baffled him that he had a legitimate business. He had created something that was entirely his own, and built it from the ground up to be both sustainable and something good. Sometimes he enjoyed being back in the kitchen cooking, others he enjoyed being behind the bar just chatting and waiting on patrons. Tonight he was covering for one of his staff, so he stayed behind the bar and kept himself occupied as people filtered in and out. 

However, seeing a familiar face, he couldn’t help but approach with his casual cocksure smile as he asked, “Anything I can get for you?” he asked. 

“Okay okay, calm down,” Soren muttered at his dog as she pulled against her leash. The guy at the pet store had told him the harness should help with her leash anxiety. But all it seemed to do was make her stronger and Soren was beginning to get the feeling he’d been up-sold. We’ll be avoiding that guy from now on, he thought as he tied off the tiny bag and dropped it into the garbage.

Pesto, to her credit, had been in the house all day and had resisted the temptation to tear up  something valuable. The least he could do was reward her by keeping up with her pace. Soren released the lock on the retractable leash once his bag dispenser was securely shoved in his back pocket and Pesto tore off, yipping happily, down the walkway. 

Straight towards someone walking their way.

“Hey, hey,” Soren called, locking her leash again trying to pull her back as she jumped on the unsuspecting stranger. Pesto wasn’t a big dog by any means. The Border-Terrier barely came up above Soren’s calves, so she truly posed no thread. “Sorry about that! She won’t bite I promise,” he said as he jogged towards the dog, finally managing to pull her away. “She’s been inside alone all day so she’s a little starved for human contact. You’d think she just got out of prison.”

There is only one situation in which Adrian doesn’t absolutely despise begging. And this isn’t fucking it. All he’d needed--when he left his shitty trailer and walked down the shitty road to the shitty convenient store--was a shitty pack of cigarettes. 

His tips from last night, he could have sworn, had been in his pocket this morning. Whatever was left over after he’d divvied up the rest of his half of the rent. But when the cashier, with her stupid smug face and her grin that boasts yellowing and missing teeth, gave him his total, his pockets were mysteriously empty. 

Outside Adrian snarls obscenity after obscenity, beating his hands against the wall. Now, getting a cigarette isn’t just a fuel for an addiction he’s had since he was a teenager. Now it is absolutely imperative to his health. And he’s not interested in hearing any lessons on irony about that. “Fuck,” he growls, slamming his fist against the wall one last time.

The doors slide open again, an electronic bell alerts him of another costumer’s exit. And Adrian, as quickly as he can, pulls himself together. His bloody hands are shoved in his pocket, and a grin tries to mask his utterly disheveled, gaunt face. He knows he looks more appealing in the dark with neon splashing against his shame but he’ll have to make do with the daylight. “Excuse me,” he says politely, all the rage gone out of his voice, “I promise I’m not homeless. I left my wallet at home and I don’t know if you can tell by looking at--” he quickly gestures towards his face with his unbloodied left hand, “--all of this. Bu I really need a fucking cigarette. If you’ve got a ten to spare?”

if there was one thing minhee hated about being a trainee, it was the constant diet restrictions placed on her by the company. sure, minhee was a little bit meatier than some of the other female trainees, but she’d like to think it’s from all her years of dancing rather than the huge appetite she has been accommodating since she was eleven years old. there’s nothing wrong about loving to eat! but it always came to a point where even the lack of sugar and carbohydrates got the best of the trainee, forcing minhee to avoid the eyes of the hjh staff throughout the day. after all, they can practically smell fear so if she even dared to lock eyes with one of them, they would know instantly that she was hiding something. it happened before!

but with an hour before vocal practice and believing that she was far away enough from the main building, minhee unwrapped the treat that she had been hiding the entire day and took a rather huge bite from it; and for a moment, she was in heaven, happily greeted by the familiar, but greatly missed taste of chocolate. of course, the bliss only lasted momentarily as she caught red-handed not even a moment later. recognizing them instantly, minhee froze in place. 

Somewhere that’s not Pest territory

Open to anyone

“Alright, alright, calm your horses, sweetheart, your turn will come.” 

He decked the asshole so hard, his head hit the pavement with a thud that was bound to cause a concussion, but Fletcher had been focusing on the other assailant first. Perhaps he should’ve seen this coming, as he ventured into the enemy territory with no back-up, but he had to meet an important client and he sure as fuck wouldn’t waste an opportunity like this.

Fletcher had been on his way back from the meeting when he’d exited the building, and before he could reach his car, two idiots had tried to take him out, but he’d always been quick on his feet. His fist rammed into the now swollen face of the assailant number one too many times for them to stay conscious, and once they were down for good, his attention turned to the other one. They’d fought hard, and it would’ve mattered, had they not fought against Fletcher. In under a few minutes, the Pestilence power had them pinned against the brick wall, with the grip around their throat so tight that threatened to crush their windpipe at any given moment.

Probably if not for the footsteps that were fast approaching, he’d committed a second murder under a span of ten days... His hands still felt bloody from curb stomping to death whoever was trailing Victoria Pinkett after Jack’s funeral.

“Enjoying the show?” He snarled at the newcomer, “I’m sure this little guy would love to address the audience but I’m afraid he’s a little tied up,” head tilting to gesture at the man still in his grip, Fletcher flashed a menacing smile.

     the internet is magnificent. positively wondrous in the things it brings to the table. sydney is referring to muggle net, not the witch alternative (which consists of a great deal many of things and inner workings that she simply didn’t understand). but point is, when rina had showed her the video, sydney knew they had to have it. which brings us to the cheery afternoon in the school courtyard, where sydney jung sits on her knees, plain (?) stapler in one hand and blue dyed denim in the other. 

     she had watched the video repeatedly—but reality always seemed to differ greatly than the delusions that run her mind. in the video, it had been over by five minutes. here, in real life, sydney struggles to even properly use the muggle contraption in her hand. “i—ugh—” her eyes squint, nose crinkling in her bent over position to glare at the staples embedded in the denim. it went in, but, didn’t close. was there another step for that? a button? should she ask rina? her gaze turns again to the instrument in her hand, shaking it a couple times. 

     “ugh! work! hey—!!” she huffs, a rare state of frustration that builds in her core. as a ravenclaw, she loved crafts, inventions, the works. the fact that banging this muggle thing incessantly against the hem does nothing to close the staple is beyond her. “oh my god,” sydney audibly groans, eyes lifting up for a moment just in time to catch the feet of another.