#viclinstrings

"No, I think we should get the ones that will be the loudest. And the brightest." A malevolent schematic had spun itself together when the blonde had followed him in like a lost duckling to the store, his casual offering for his... leech ( she could be no sister of this, he was still convinced that he wanted naught to do with any other gremlin his mother had the audacity to bring into the world when she hardly cared for the two pre-existing goblins she had ) to join him on his own idea of festivities — if festivities could adequately describe tormenting the snug abodes of the city council for his own entertainment, if he must be here over the last flight out to Paris today — and he let out an exasperated sigh, already partially regrettable of his choices. Prying the box of pop-its from her hand, he chucked them back into their designated spot, dry sarcasm pooling between his teeth when he asked, "Didn't you ever do anything dangerous growing up when your mother wasn't watching?" Their mother, he thought bitterly, and venom had fueled the familial lineage before he was ever thought of or borne into the world. "The only thing that could be more exciting than that is a flare gun."

He had positioned himself on the hood of the vehicle, perched cross-legged and a Redbull balanced immaculately on his kneecap, for once paying mind to an instruction thrown his way when his older sister told him to stay put, and talked out of buying himself a Coors from the Pump'n'Shack. Seconds after he'd heard the satisfying crack of the aluminum can's seal popping, the familiar but unwanted voice which felt as if it was breathing right upon the shell of his ear caused a Greek tragedy in the making: in a rare instance, Sévérine started, and the drink was chucked forward by the lurch of his body instead of grabbed in forethought of a weaponry, and it collapsed onto the asphalt and exploded into a caffeinated car bomb, chucking sticky energy drink back in his direction. In the aftermath of it, he was dripping with the remnants of his own fallen fuel for the little mob errand, and ten seconds from turning around and wrapping both hands around the scrawny neck of the parasite who had decided she was his sister. "Why." Honestly, the single word was all that he could initially scrape together, twisting around and pressing a hand to his face to wipe the bubbly away from his spotless countenance. "You have. Ten seconds. To tell me why you couldn't just. Stand in front of me. And what it is that you want. I'm kind of busy."