#topaintandwrite

@topaintandwrite : "You have finally caught my attention." - R Simon, though his identity isn't obvious due to a deliberate change in tone, posture, and that his face and form is obscured in dark clothing. (Assassin time)

MOTHER, WE ARE YOUR DAUGHTERS 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;

The other pair of footsteps has accompanied her for three or four streets by now. She has counted each turn of the corners with even breaths, with a cold, detached lucidity — enough not to obviously alter her stride upon realizing she was being followed to begin with, enough not to plunge into fruitless paranoia. Though her first, instinctive thought was to make for Rue de Rivoli as swiftly as she could, abandoning its desolate and rather labyrinthine side streets for the open and well-lit main artery, something makes her hesitate. A single, stolen glance over her shoulder — the stubborn shadow persists.

So she comes to a momentary stop, ready to turn around the now umpteenth stone-lined corner — resolved to abandon that detrimental fit of independence and wish for safety and privacy, to step into the lamplights and hopefully hop onto the first empty carriage to bring her home. It is the dead of the night, but she is certain it won't be difficult to find a couple of them running on the late shift. As she moves, Clea cannot help but turn her head to the side, glaring briefly at her mysterious pursuer; to make it clear she too has her gaze on him. He's dressed to blend in with the night, it seems — and it proves difficult for her to clearly focus on his features, on his chest in search of a familiar golden pin to reflect the distant gaslight, on his hands for anything he may be carrying, or readying.

It's right as she almost disappears behind the corner that his voice reaches her, and she stops mid-step. It's a raspy yet calm sound, and its suddenness instinctively brings her hand to clutch at the bag at her hip, ready — though the stranger, the man by the voice, keeps his distance. It's hopeless to pray for enough concentration to attune to chroma, out there; in a situation possibly requiring self-defence out there in the streets, her longest hairpin would probably suffice to buy her enough time to flee to safety. She's ready, uncertain of his next move — until the echo of his very words has her still, frozen in place. Finally— ?

—Finally, he's said. The word implies patience. A duration of watching that now feels suffocating, like a boulder falling to weigh on her back. A daring, aggravating thought — deeply and almost violently uncomfortable one to indulge. The implication indeed has her blood boil, against the most rational part of her mind that prays for her not to react. To reach for the sounds of the main street, and head home. The escape would give her identity away, despite her obvious precautions to hide some of her features — but it seems too late to play pretend, or hide.

He too has stopped in his trail, just before following her around the corner, and she has that momentary stalemate to assess him with lifted chin and squared shoulders. She offers him silence, pondering how much to possibly give away. She concludes the answer must be very little, though by the way he addresses her and knew where to find her, it's clear as day they are not playing on equal terms. How bothersome. ❛ Have you followed me just to unveil the extent of your diligence to me ? I'm honored, Monsieur, but I suggest you save this devotion for someone else, ❜ she speaks carrying a flatness to her voice she usually has to reserve to dull guests, at events.

Asking why would be kind of pointless. Verso had been known to be a private and rather cagey individual even before the Fracture. Following his father's advice and keeping things close to the vest while they tried to navigate the end of the world was sure to backfire sooner or later. And Verso honestly couldn't blame his old friend for eventually getting fed up with the dribble of information Renoir provided.

For a moment, Verso can only stare as though she's said something that is fundamentally at odds with itself. " You don't? " A hesitation, as though he doesn't even quite know what to say. " They're kind of the same thing, aren't they? Romance, you know — the gentle things, the —— "

And he gestures vaguely, fleetingly, that artfully expressive way he ever has of talking with his hands as though trying to summon words from the air. " It's all part of it. You can have love without romance, I suppose. Like —— family, or friends. But love of that kind without romance sounds terribly dull. "

Her fury is fair. The fire took more than just her brother. The Dessendre family was in shambles, physically and mentally. Trust broken beyond repair by people they had been cordial enough with up until recent years. People he could barely refer to as "coworkers", but that he was affiliated with regardless. Her fury was understandable.

But that definitely didn't mean it wasn't annoying.

Help how? Admittedly, he wasn't entirely sure himself. Gustave had known the Dessendre family for many years; Verso was his friend. Tensions weren't just unbearable between the family and the Writers. His relationship with them had essentially made him an outcast -- not that he really cared. Just as painting had never been Verso's real passion, writing had never been his. Gustave hadn't technically been involved with the faction for quite some time, but the fire -- the murder of Verso Dessendre -- finally severed those ties.

He doesn't know why it bothers him. His father has a small collection of firearms, carefully stowed away — most old, more historical than practical. He never was one to be particularly fascinated by them outside of a boyish interest as a child that faded swiftly when even looking at them brought a strange, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Since then, he's been mostly unaware — a few outings as he'd grown with a few other young men to ranges, sure, but it never was an interest.

Some people have them. He knows it. And so why does it bother him now? He wouldn't be able to define it if he was even asked, but there's a curl of unease in his gut that won't be ignored, and for everything he is, he's gotten good at watching over the years. Seeing people ——

Outside, the weather is appropriately moody; lightning distantly flickers as drips down the window, the storm's fury likely coming later in the night. A stare flits over, brief and unblinking. " Because I have eyes? " And even though there's no one else here, his voice lowers anyway. " I wasn't snooping, if that's what you're asking. It was under your coat. I thought it was mine. "

"If you asked Maman, it'd look like me finally pulling out the easel and paints." Verso rolled his eyes. He was lying on his bed with his head dangling over the edge so that he could look at his older sister.

@topaintandwrite sent: [TXT] : i hate that you were right. - Simon

A self-satisfying grin spreads across her lips upon reading the message. She knows she shouldn't gloat, but it shouldn't hurt once an awhile, right?

[ SMS: To Simon, 5:34 PM ] You should have listened~ [ SMS: To Simon, 5:36 PM ] How bad is the situation? If it didn't go horribly wrong, the experiment shouldn't take you too long to clean up and reset.