cynical;

Sebastian was sitting at the table with a drink in his hand when the other man had entered – a face he recognized instantly. This was a guy who he’d helped in a fight a few months ago, and he remembered the entire thing clearly. Lips spreading into a smile, Sebastian nodded at the other man before calling out to him, “Oi! ’aven’t seen you in a while!” He chortled, and waved his opposite over.

Yeah, Trevor remembered him. It was one of the fights he’d been in -- the guy had been all kinds of handy. Maybe someone like him was the kind of people he should be hanging out with -- he seemed resourceful enough. “No one has, mate,” he said, and then noticed the bottle. “Is that--” he gestured, almost frantically, and then looked back up at the boy, his mouth parted just slightly. “Do y’have any more?”

“Can I help you with something?” Dean called from behind the counter, holding up the rag he was using to clean in his hand to get the other man’s attention. Since he’d entered the room the energy felt tense – probably having something to do with his incessant search for something; Dean didn’t know what he was looking for, but if he could help him find it then maybe this guy could chill out.

Surprised by the attempt to help -- didn’t people in asylums usually just punch each other and have psychotic breaks? -- he whirled around, trench coat twirling theatrically as he did so. “Yeah, mate, s’matter of fact, that’d be lovely,” Trevor approached the man with careful steps, as if walking too quickly would spook him. “Y’seen any alcohol ‘round here?”

Perched on one of the counter tops scrolling through her phone, it took Kass a moment to look up and see that her friend – who she had become increasingly worried about – had entered the room. He seemed occupied and probably hadn’t seen her yet, which made this a great opportunity for her to catch him off guard. Hopping down onto the floor, the brunette practically glided in her steps toward him – before punching him hard in the arm once she was close enough. “You asshole! Where the fuck have you been?”

Just when he thought he was making some sort of headway -- a hidden cabinet here, some suspicious bottles there -- he stood to find a fist in his face. He cried out on impact, his head swinging toward the floor and hand shooting out to grab the counter in the attempt to keep himself upright. “Hell, mate, dunno what I’ve done, but--” he froze when he stood straight again, looking into the concerned eyes of probably his best friend. “Oh. I see.” When he’d locked himself behind that wooden door for so long, he’d never forgotten -- but he figured no one would care what became of him. All at once, it came flooding back: the way she’d taken care of him when he was losing his mind, or when he’d been stabbed. He should have just taken her behind that door with him. “I’m-- Well, it’s been a while, certainly.” He was beating around the brush. She was going to be able to tell he was avoiding the question. “I had to... Leave, for a while. I mean, I never left the fuckin’ castle, but. An isolation, of sorts. You ‘member that from Broken, right?”

Tommy had just finished his tea, but still sat alone for some time. The quiet today helped give him peace, like his warm drink. Every inch of him felt weak due to another sleepless night, but that was nothing new. Looking up when he heard the noise a stranger was making, his green hues stayed on the figure and examined him from top to bottom. Something was familiar in the way that the man hunted with desperation for whatever he couldn’t find; an alcoholic would do the same. This man wasn’t being as sloppy about it and Tom knew nothing about him, yet already a grudge formed and his relaxed expression hardened. “You might have better luck asking around.” At the other establishment patients were known to hide secret stashes. Here it couldn’t be much different.

Out of all the other patients milling mindlessly around the dining area, he hadn’t expected the one to speak up to be the one idly drinking tea. More of a slip a bit of bourbon in his tea kind of guy, Trev was somewhat taken aback by an answer from such a person. “You speakin’ from personal experience?” he joked, one side of his mouth sliding up, just a tad. He slipped into the chair across from the boy, folding his hands on the table and propping his chin up on them. 

David nudged the door shut behind him, stepping over towards the other (and vaguely familiar – he recalled something, but wasn’t quite sure what that something was) – man, exhaustion written into his expression. Whether it was purely physical or had mental components was another question entirely – a question David wasn’t interested in humoring. “Away for a while?” he asked, cocking a brow, slight disbelief passing over his features, though he didn’t offer any questions in return for his statement – apathy stifled his curiosity. “It’s simple. Focus on what you want, and our demonic overlords will send you whatever you like… with a few unfortunate exceptions.” He muttered the last line under his breath, his gaze flashing with another burst of irritation. Thus far, despite his wishes, he hadn’t been granted what he needed without murdering his prey himself – not that he’d complain for long.

Vaguely, the guy reminded him of a lion. He stepped with the prowess of the animal kingdom’s greatest hunter -- despite the all mighty man of course -- and spoke with such precision. Killer, then. Of course he was lucky enough to run into one of those. He wasn’t drunk enough for this, Jesus Christ. “Y’heard me,” if he was curious enough, he’d ask more specific questions. But he wasn’t about to just open up to a stranger. “Right, mate,” with a sigh, he looked hard at the counter top and murmured, “Stranger things ‘ave happened,” beneath his breath before looking up and asking directly for his favorite kind of hard liquor. And suddenly it was there, as though it had been all along. “Tricky,” he said, half in disbelief. He was fucking ghost after all, why the hell was he surprised? “Unfortunate exceptions? Like, dunno, ladies?”

“Mate,” Zach laughed into his hand. “You’re the second dude to come from Europe. Do you guys have a club in here or what? Poppin’ up like daisies.” And there was Zach’s usual first impression he gave off. An asshole. Because he was. Even when he tried not to be, he just was. It was probably genetic or something. He looked the man up and down with a raise of a brow. He looked… half dead, in his opinion. Definitely sounded it, too. What was this guy, new? And who called booze ‘liquid courage’? “Aha, okay, you’re old.” Zach quickly observed, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, mate, all you have to do is ask and this place provides. That’s always been, like, a thing. Where’ve you been? Or did you just get here?”

Honestly, he should have expected this from teenagers in a dark, post-asylum hell -- he didn’t have the most experience with teenagers in their natural habitat, but from what he remembered from his time with Kira, she had her rough spots. Frowning, Trevor reclined in the chair, sighing as he sunk into the wood. “Mm. See -- there’s more than one person that’s lives in Europe, yeah?” Combating assholery with more assholery was probably not his smartest move, but hey, he wasn’t drunk enough for this. “I s’pose you could say that. Older than I used to be, at least.” He ran his hands through his already untamed blonde hair and sighed again. He should have just stayed behind the fucking door. “Been away a while. Bit... outta tune.” Trevor held out his hand, cupped as though holding a bottle, and commanded, “Jim Bean. Devil’s Cut. Quickly, if you’d be so kind.” And, fuck, there it was. “Ah.”

Name one scar your character has, and tell us where it came from. If they don’t have any, is there a reason?

He’d admit it – not really – he hadn’t exactly handled his latest pursuits well, having taken to trudging down to the kitchen each day to drink his weight in liquor. Normally he’d go later in the afternoon, when he could be certain that others had finished lurking about and that he wouldn’t be interrupted (especially not by those he was explicitly avoiding), and thus far he’d been met with success, if one could refer to his obvious issue as success. He pushed open the doors to the dining hall, prepared to gather the materials needed for his daily ritual, of sorts, when he noted the other man rifling through the cabinets, a slightly irritated sigh escaping him. “You do realize you can just ask for whatever you like, no searching necessary?”

The deep but familiar voice startled him into banging his head on the top of the cabinet he was currently rifling through. With a low groan, Trevor rose to his feet once again. He studied the man -- yes, familiar, though he couldn’t quite place why -- and made a sound low in his throat. “...Explain,” he said, gesturing to go along with his words. This guy looked rough and tumble, and maybe the owner of some alcohol that had Trevor’s name on it. “Been away a while, might’ve forgotten a thing or two.” He vaguely remember the whole wish it here thing, but he’d been wishing for alcohol for a while now, and nothing had magically appeared yet. Maybe it was just him -- it was very possible that he was defective.

If Zach wasn’t in his room, he was in the dining hall stuffing his face. He was seventeen after all, hungry all the time. He sprayed whipped cream into his mouth only. Then, when he found cheese in a can, he sprayed that in, too, and stuffed nachos into his mouth before crunching down and chewing. He made a sandwich that had things in it that shouldn’t be mixed together, but in Zach’s sure mind, if they were delicious when separate, they’d have to be incredible all together. For someone that knew very well how to cook and bake, this was turning out to be a huge mess. He bit into it, hearing a crunch, and peered up when someone entered the room. He nodded up at the stranger with a kind wave as he chewed and swallowed.

So far he hadn’t had any luck -- not a drop of alcohol anywhere in the close vicinity. Frowning, Trevor rose from his haunches to peer around the room, wondering if, just maybe, he’d spot someone who looked knowledgeable on the subject. One of the teenagers that appeared to be stuffing his face with -- whipped cream and cheese? Dear God -- gave him a little wave. Ah-- Yes. Teenagers. Alcohol. Like two peas in a pod. Adjusting the trench coat that had been swept to the side in his search for liquid gold, he trudged over to the table the boy was currently at and slipped into the seat beside him. “Tell me, mate,” he began, his tone friendly and approachable. And also rough with lack of use (because, really, he hadn’t spoken to anyone in quite a long time, unless you count his snarls directed at the hallucination of his brother). “Is there somewhere close by that I can find some liquid courage, eh?”

“If they don’t shut up in the next five minutes, I’ll slaughter them.”

Glancing up from his reclined position on the couch, Trev peered at the man out of one, suspicious eye before raising both eyebrows. “I get yer peeved, but calm down, mate,” of course, he’d always known the man to be violent, but recently, he’d been reasonably docile. “Egg ‘em, maybe, but slaughter’s goin’ a bit far.”