#wshstart

“Wanna play a game?” Immediately, a freckled nose wrinkled. “Gross, that totally sounded like I’m about to sling you into a Saw trap, or something. Disclaimer? I don’t own a tricycle. Swear on the bible.” After saying so, Lana lifted the barrel of her red water pistol, aiming it dead between their eyes. She had a cowboy hat of the same colour on her head, matching her boots, and anyone would think she’d dressed for a costume party -- she hadn’t, but Lana liked to set her own themes. “What’d you think your last words would be? Like, one chance to talk your way out of it. Schmooze your way to freedom. Verbally, like... suck on the teat of Michael Myers. What’d you think you’d say?”  

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“excuse me -” she had slid out from apparently nowhere, low pigtails flying as she stepped into place - crumpled paper in hand, which she shoved unceremoniously into the other’s face, revealing a hastily drawn image of a - purple? - rat, big chunky letters spelling ‘MISSING’, “ - have you seen my rat? she ran out in a fit this afternoon,” the sky had darkened considerably - had been doing so, more and more every minute - her jeans were covered in dirt at the knee, and the streetlights hadn’t gone on yet, “i tried to follow her but she’s very fast, and very skittish - but she has a penchant for mystery, and i’m afraid she might’ve run into the old fidelis building.”

“are you good at keeping secrets? i hope not, i’m bored,” mili asked, a coy smile on her lips as she took the empty space on the couch, immediately turning to the person besides her, whole body facing them in case there was any doubt they had her full attention. there was little left of what had once been her costume, so now she was just clad in a little red dress, only one shoe on, the other forever gone. “tell me one, come on. your best one. i’ll trade you.”

“do you wanna sign my cast? you’re not allowed to write curse words because my mom might see them and ground me for it,” levi said, sitting down on an empty spot, resting his injured arm on the table like some sort of offering. “i’m kidding, doctor said it’s illegal to have anyone write on casts once you’re over thirteen, so that’s lame, because it’s very white as it is and it just doesn’t go with my aesthetic, right? i’m supposed to be preparing for mcr’s comeback, and now i have this thing that just doesn’t look quite as emo without any cringy lyrics on it.”

“Bada bing, bada boom! Full house, assholes,” Slapping his cards onto the table, the people around him groaned obnoxiously when they realized that Teddy had the best hand between them. Coming to a stand, he snatched up his winnings - two packs of cigarettes, an impressive-looking watch, and a mini bottle of tequila, “Beginner’s luck, I guess,” he explained, faux sympathy in his tone as he turned to his companion watching beside him, “Told them I didn’t know how to play, but what they don’t know doesn’t hurt ‘em.”

Bradley had been intermittently hurling pistachio nuts at a frat guy from across the room for the past half hour, always swivelling and seamlessly blending into conversation when he turned to find the culprit. By now, though, his temper had piqued. “Right,” he all but roared, cheeks practically trembling after another hit him square in the forehead. He went so far as to cut the party’s music, eyes flying angrily around the room. “Who the fuck keeps doing this? Reveal yourself, I’ve fucking had it!” As his gaze fell on Bradley, she lifted a thumb and gave a limp gesture at the person standing besides her, speaking up from the crowd to place the blame. “It was them, your honour. Colonel Mustard, in the drawing room, with the lead pipe. Such a sick bastard. Better dole out the spanks.”