✘ CLOSED / ft. raven kowalski ( @murdcrofcrows ) at remy's flat in brooklyn

hazy columns of pale morning light pour in through tall skylight windows that span the westward wall of a loft, quiet save for the soft pattering of raindrops ; the cool, almost ethereal glow of an overcast dawn spills across swathes of bare skin and pools in the valleys of dark cotton sheets. balanced precariously on the precipice between consciousness and a dream, remy exists somewhere else in this moment ; his body might be tethered to brooklyn, but his spirit ? when he breathes in, face buried in the dark locks splayed across his pillow, lungs swell with the sweet spice of ylang - ylang and bergomot and suddenly remy is in a cheap motel off the second to last exit on the i-20, tangled up in coarse linens and lithe limbs and covered in malt liquor kisses. no ! he's on a beach somewhere in the coastal carolinas on a blanket of warm sand, the taste of salt lingering on his tongue ― has it been carried from the ocean on the breeze, or does it linger in the sweat of the lover at his side ? perhaps both ? no ! it's a hammock, isn't it ? and they've pulled over and they're all tangled up, swaying under the rustle of trees somewhere on the side of the road deep in the appalachia after a long night of driving . . .

mornings spent wading through melancholic memory are not unfamiliar to remington luck ; how many nights over how many months had he been brought back to these very moments only to rise with a chest as empty as his bed ? ( he is no artist, but he suspects that he could paint each detail of each coveted scene by heart by now, the number of times he's recalled them . . . ) for a moment, he is inclined to believe this morning to be like any other ; he clings to sleep with a sort of desperation, convinced that once eyes fully open, any phantom remnants of raven's aura that remain in his grasp will slip through curled fingers like smoke. but there is a certain tangibility to the memory now ; where once came comfort in imagined intimacy, there is now a very familiar, very real warmth. tattooed flesh exists not as a figment but an embrace. raven is here. and remy ?

. remy is home.

. how long has it been ?

an arm unwinds from his lover's waist so a gentle hand can trace down their arm ; fingers entwine once he reaches their palm and remy pulls both of their hands toward raven's chest. nudging away unruly strands with the tip of his nose, he nuzzles into the crook of their neck, trailing light kisses along the slope of their shoulder. movements are careful, soft ― he does not mean to rouse them. christ only knows they need the sleep ! after all, worry plagues remy like a crippling disease and it isn't even his safety at risk. ( he suspects he's always cared more for their life than his own, though, so long as he's known them anyway. ) but it was that same worry that insisted raven stay in brooklyn, stay with him. three days now, it's been, that raven's been at his loft. and perhaps it's simply the surreal nature of circumstance but he's still waiting for it to feel real. as it stands, conscious or not, he's still half-convinced he is savoring a dream . . .

there's movement against him now, more than just the simple stirring of sleep, and remy hums an apology against supple skin. ❝ 'm sorry, ❞ he murmurs, ❝ wasn't tryin' to wake you. ❞ there's a pause as remy waits to see if they'll drift off again, but there's a smile caught somewhere between sheepish & sleepy tugging at his lips as dark eyes flutter open. there's a kiss pressed to their shoulder. ❝ i just started . . . ❞ another on their neck. ❝ . . . missin' you . . .❞ and then that little spot just below their ear. ❝ . . . a little too much . . .❞

for all that it seems to promise the allure of riches & splendor to those who frequent its many tables and slots, old world casino is surprisingly not a typical haunt for angel cardona ; she's never been much of a gambler, far too protective of her hard - earned cash to risk tossing it away on something as fickle as chance. on top of this, she once auditioned here ― several years ago, long before she found her voice, her star quality. does she understand why she was rejected then ? maybe. but that doesn't mean she won't still hold a grudge. three hundred floors and they still couldn't find a place for her ? please ! she could've been a back up dancer. at the end of the day, it's their loss. that said, angel is both an opportunist and a hedonist, and when the promise of a good time glitters on the horizon, she will agree to go just about anywhere ! tonight, old world is hosting a high rollers tournament. and angel ? she needs a new bag. maybe a new pair of heels, too ! what more is there to say ?

cocktail in hand, she weaves her way through tables ; a curious gaze dances from game to game ― or rather, player to player. ( what is she in the mood for tonight ? a young, cocky card shark with a lucky aura ? or a silver fox who could afford her tab no matter whether they win or lose ? ) they've found a spot near a high top to linger for a moment while they survey the prospects, and it's there that they're approached by another. a manicured brow arches and her lips twist into a devilish smirk behind the rim of a cosmopolitan. ❝ oh, you know it, baby ! ❞ angel practically sings. ❝ i may not play cards, but something tells me i'll still be going home with a grand prize tonight, if you know what i mean. ❞

·   ✦   ·𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐂𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐒 /   *    ( starter  for @warystares) + ❝ do you want to make a deal with the devil? ❞ from HERE

( 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐 ) Amidst the vast expanse of the casino floor, Rhodes, the seasoned floor runner, navigated with an expert finesse that appeared almost choreographed, weaving through the glimmering lights and the rhythmic hum of anticipation. The casino, situated in the heart of Manhattan with over three hundred floors, continued to thrive.

Attired in an impeccably tailored outfit, Rhodes emanated a quiet confidence that provided a striking contrast to the vibrant energy enveloping her. As she strolled past roulette tables and slot machines, her perceptive gaze deftly captured the subtle nuances of excitement, trepidation, and elation etched on the faces of the patrons. The soft murmur of conversations and the crisp shuffle of cards formed the evocative backdrop to her world. Rhodes transcended the mere confines of a formality, she emerged as an artist crafting an immersive experience where risk and reward unfolded seamlessly. The alluring question, "Feeling lucky tonight?" slipped from her lips, its subtle allure echoing the mystique woven into the fabric of the casino.

let it be said above all else that angel does know how to look out for herself ; though she could win an academy award for her portrayal of the manic ditzy dream bimbo on any given night for the truly air - headed fantasy she sells her clients, she's not actually stupid. in fact, she's self - aware enough to acknowledge that she surrounds herself with danger, that every decision she's made has been another step deeper into the snake pit that exists in the swampy bowels hidden beneath a concrete jungle. but every risk she takes is calculated, every choice carefully considered. she's got about half a dozen ❛ pros & cons ❜ lists scrawled in dry erase marker on her bedroom mirror at any given time with bullet points ranging from potential sugar daddy to potential death. she has rules ! and by following them closely, angel ensures that she lives to scam & swindle another day.

of course, rules aren't always foolproof and ther safety isn't always guaranteed. in reality, they should've said something to grey the second this guy crossed the line from annoying to aggressive in his demand of their attention inside ― she has absolutely no issue asserting her boundaries when there are sweaty palms trying to cop a feel the second she's distracted ― and normally, they would've. but angel got whisked away to a private room for a personal request from a favored regular before she could do anything about him, and by the time she's emerged from velvet curtains and patent leather platforms reach the main dance floor once more, he's gone. this is where she makes her second mistake. she should have checked. or hell, at least asked security to do a quick sweep. but angel stays busy ; she's in and out of private dances, twisting and winding on neon poles and slipping sweet bliss under the tongues of strangers. she doesn't think about him again until she's leaving ― and suddenly, there he is, looming in the alley behind gravity under the light of a lamp post that feels like it's mocking her fear for the way it flickers.

❝ how many times do i gotta tell you i'm not going home, huh ? you can't come home with me because i'm literally not ― ugh ! i'm waiting for somebody, okay ? ❞ it's a lie, and not even a good one at that ! what's she gonna do when she stands here another ten, twenty minutes and no one shows up ? she's not sure how long it's been now that she's been stuck here already. five minutes ? fifteen ? she may be tall, but he's got several inches ( and several pounds ) on her, and the way he's standing, she can't even slip away to go back inside. without laying a single hand on her ― yet ― he's managed to make her feel trapped ! for a second, she contemplates the mechanics of making an escape ― if she can get a hand in her bag, she's got a taser, but it's tucked under the shoulder closest to the wall . . . but she could give him a knee to the groin and―!

a familiar voice pulls her from the chaotic assembly of a plan and angel can't help the disbelieving laughter that begins to spill from her at the sight of lux hernandez ! all at once, the dancer is flooded with relief ; even her demeanor changes, stance suddenly taller, more confident as her boss ( and friend and makeshift guardian and protector . . . the list goes on ) suddenly appears between her and the man, finding a gap that angel herself had been unable to slip into. what are the fucking odds ? ❝ hiya, lux, ❞ angel says, and there's gratitude in her smile as she greets them. ❝ 'course not ! i told you i was getting off early tonight . . . ❞ her gaze travels upward then, landing once more on the man who seems truly dumbfounded by their new company. ❝ and i told you that i was waiting for somebody ! what did i say, huh ? ❞ back to lux. ❝ him ? i don't know, just some fucking rando― ❞ behind them, the man is growing more visibly irritated by the moment, clearly unaware of the threat standing between them, ❝ but i told him i was supposed to be meeting you and he wouldn't let me leave ! i got off, like, thirty minutes ago. i've been trying ! ❞

CLOSED STARTER, @warystares outside of gravity nightclub

despite their best efforts, only the most persistent, most dedicated manage to dig under the thick-walled and calloused skin to make a home there. how many times will they learn the lesson that caring comes with a price - likely when they are fully alone with no beautiful empress to take them under her wing, when the blood is spilled and the bones are decimated and only the most despicable are left to rot with their own guilt and permeance. until that reckoning day comes, lux will thrash and bite and stomp to lay off the inevitable. pushing those on the outskirts away is easy; it's when the few they manage to care about have a distant, uncomfortable energy to them that lux rises in action.

they know her silhouette anywhere. she's easy to spot, angel cardona, especially when lux knows how in demand she is. they couldn't find her inside - just a routine check, even though this isn't their territory (and maybe to look around - they have eyes, after all, and they've never exactly been known as the humblest of men) - and it raises suspicions immediately. lux knows what areas are usually inhabited, they make it their business to keep track even if they don't necessarily need to. so when they pass an alley with a pillow of smoke trailing from the cigarette in their mouth and spot them in all their glory, lux changes their course. the look on angel's face has their hackles raised immediately, spotting a man lingering a little too close for comfort. "hey, cardona," they greet casually, as if the man weren't even there. it's subtle, the way they stop so they're positioned between angel and this fucking guy, pausing only to smoke a little. "been looking for you all night. not blowing me off or anything, are you?" lux sniffles, glancing at the stranger for a moment too long to make it known his presence was not wanted before turning back to angel with a brow raised, tone sharp. "who's this?"

under any other circumstances, mikaere might immediately drop whatever various sundry tasks occupied their attention the moment the small brass bells over the entryway to the shop chime their pleasant song of greeting and alert them to a new guest ; the cabinet of curiosities has become their livelihood, after all ! it's taken well over a decade of elbow grease and due diligence, but he's wise enough to know that he's really built something here, something with value. of course, then, they would do anything to ensure not only its safety but incredible successes ! that includes top of the line customer service for every curious soul who happens along his menagerie ― there is no wallet too small nor attitude too large to deter him ! unless either of those happen to be in the possession of one liena chen.

how many years has he told himself to simply give up the ghost ? all the time he's known her, liena has been a spectre : clandestine and intangible ! countless times he'd convinced himself ❛ this is it ! ❜ that surely the trail of footsteps would lead him straight to her. straight to success. until her, mikaere had never known anything but the honey - sweet taste of victory ; she taught him of the acrid rot of failure, the way it would linger not only in his mind but his chest, his throat . . . years later and the sight of her still brings that same acidic regret bubbling back up. in this particular moment, he is doing nothing of import ― disentangling an old ball of cords and cables, the vast majority of which are long obsolete and unfit for sale. even so, he makes no move to pause for her. he's in no hurry.

❝ liena ! ❞ there's a certain strain to the way the name tumbles off their tongue once she's found them ; all elongated vowels with a strangely jovial growl that stretches the moniker several seconds longer than entirely necessary. it's difficult to say whether they greet her like an old friend or an even older adversary. ❝ ah, i've been ages out of the game, love ― got bored of chasing a carrot on a stick and decided to plant my own garden ! much happier now, too, as a matter of fact. or, at least, i have been anyway . . . ❞ a sigh and a smile side by side provide a bizarre juxtaposition in this context when directed at her ; an unconventional display of displeasure. ❝ and on that matter, to what do i owe this little . . . visit ? ❞

WHO: Liena Chen & Mikaere Kahn (@warystares) WHERE: Cabinet of Curiosities

Liena faced many foes throughout her lifetime. Her teenage years were spent enduring the judgemental gaze of China's upper elite, including her parents. Her young adult years were spent forging and shattering bonds in the name of self-preservation and the desire to better herself and her daughter. Even now, she learned to view interactions with a skeptical gaze. A lifetime of fighting against her station taught her that everyone was waiting for her to fail, and only she could prevent that from happening.

Perhaps that's why she decided to visit MIKAERE KAHN'S shop. The owner was one of many foes Liena experienced in her youth. The duo played a never-ending game of cat and mouse, with the mob boss always dodging the hitman's attacks at the last second. Age had put a stop to their game, but the memories still remained buried in the mob boss' mind as she entered the store.

Her eyes glanced over the old technology and spare replicant parts. She was never as tech-savvy as some of her younger peers, so the objects didn't hold her interest for long. Nails traced along the store, plucking a strange-looking trinket off of one of the shelves as she heard shuffling near the other end of the store. A small smirk fell on her lips as she made her way over, heels slowing down at the sight of the shop owner.

❝Mikaere. Long time no see.❞ She purred, glancing around at the objects on display. ❝What a quaint little shop you built for yourself. Did you finally leave the hitman lifestyle behind?❞

it is a remarkably rare occasion for lindsay to find himself free of any and all obligations this early in the afternoon ; if he's not out on an assignment, then he's either back at sentry sifting through stacks of mindless desk work or trying to find ways to entertain his nearly twelve year old niece that won't amplify the already rapidly appearing grays in his hairline. but it would appear he's been gifted a few empty hours ― he's not due to pick up elspeth until three, and it's hardly half past noon. it feels silly to make the trek all the way back to his flat, though, doesn't it ? not when he's already out. for a while, lindsay is content to simply walk to pass the time ; he doesn't have a particular destination, no real end goal, but even just to be moving is almost meditative. like his daily four a.m. runs ― it clears his mind. or at least it did, up until the moment overcast skies give way to a frigid late - winter drizzle.

diligent eyes survey the block for the best place to wait out the shower and lindsay quickly ducks into an eatery only about a dozen meters away. surely he's got no more than a foot in the door when a familiar voice calls out ; he's not even all the way out of the rain when he's met with a surprisingly jovial greeting. or perhaps not surprising . . . there's an exuberance to the way the other man simply exists that lindsay himself thinks at times might be exhausting to maintain. maybe that's just his own issues, though ! coen seems to handle himself just fine. with a nod to the server to acknowledge his entrance, he reaches for the chair opposite coen.

❝ a fortunate coincidence, for certain ❞ lindsay agrees, and the words are earnest, lips twitching up in a smile that does well enough to convey his gratitude for the casual invitation. ❝ how've you been anyhow ? i expect ― oh, just a coffee for me, thank you, ❞ his words are interrupted by the approaching waitress, but he easily refocuses once she's left the table again. ❝ ellie's going to be cross with me if she discovers i've run into you without her. ❞

status: closed — @warystares

For a person that dines in alone, he certainly takes up as much space as humanly possible. The food hadn’t even arrived yet and Coen acts bloated. Legs sprawling beneath the square table ( even poked outside the edges as a tripping hazard ) and the back of his seat nearly touches the table behind. Any hinderances the server experiences falls on blind eyes ( or selective sight as he liked to call it ) the moment his order comes into the picture.

Both hands rub together as his eyes feast first. Nothing like a heaping plate full of eggs, crawfish tails, andouille, cheese, veggies, and perfectly roasted potatoes to catch his full attention. A clatter of utensils sound as the napkin's situated over his lap. Get the tail of his tie out of the way and —

A glance is thrown to the front when cheap bells announce another customer. “Whoa, perfect timing— grab a seat, join me for lunch!” Coen crows with a big wave of hand. 

palms raise in a dramatic show of self - defense when vincent makes a point to remind them of his history in the military ― as if they don't already know. mikaere is already well - versed in the details of the detective's past ; or, at very least, what of them vinny has been willing to share over the years. ( and okay, no, not always willingly or even to his own knowledge, but just because mika isn't invited to a wedding doesn't mean they're not going. they're great at parties, thank you. and they always bring a gift, even if they've not yet once approved of a single selection of his in matrimony. not once ! and have they ever said a word of it ? ) they ignore the rest of the mockery that vinny tosses their way ; their skin is thick, and anyway, they know the jabs are playful ― even if vinny doesn't always realize it yet. ❝ then you'll recognize that lovely little bit in your hand as a piece of art history ! and maybe as a result, you could be a little kinder in the way you choose your words when describing my wares. ❞ there's a brief pause, a positively wicked smile lifting at the corners of their lips. ❝ maybe it's just my kink for authority, but i'll bet you wore the hell out of that uniform though, huh, vinny ? talk about art history . . . you got any old photos ? ❞

if mikaere wants to take offense at the blatant ignorance required to ask if they know the chelsea hotel ― of course they do ! ― they bite their tongue. ❝ i own more than one of bettina's originals. she was an artist herself, as well as a collector, as i'm sure you must know. and i, for one, admire her priorities. i'd move my own bed to the roof if i ever ran out of space in here. ❞ brows lift at a vague but pointed accusation and mika crosses arms over their chest. ❝ as much as i love to see you wrong, don't presume to know what i can handle. i do aim to please. ❞ dark eyes remain locked on vinny as he leans over the counter, eliminating any lingering space between them until he's so close mikaere can feel the warmth of his words as they reach their own lips. breath catches in their throat for a second, the glint in their gaze almost akin to a challenge. ( kiss me ! you won't ! ) without moving back so much as an inch, the shopkeeper reaches with one hand to blindly hook a finger around a small bowl ; ceramic scrapes as he slides it across the counter until there is a dish of assorted hard candies and mints filling the gap that parts them. he releases it in time to swipe the lighter out of a waiting hand.

❝ i can taste your coffee, detective nolan.❞

"you must be going deaf, I said I'm older but you are, in fact, still old." he glanced over with a smirk then right back to the lighter in hand. vinny would hate admitting he found something he actually LIKED amongst the piles of junk mika was trying to pass off as a store. the older man used his free hand to mimic the other man talking. one thing was certain, the other dude could TALK. it was incredibly annoying ( even if he found it entertaining and interesting ). stupid thing that disconnect from the head and the heart, it has gotten vincent in trouble in the past - primarily with himself, but trouble nonetheless. "i was a marine for almost a decade, of course i've heard of trench art." vinny palmed the lighter and brought it with him when he sauntered to the counter.

a sardonic nod, meant to act understanding went along with the other man's words. "you ever heard of the chelsea hotel?" vinny shook the stick in the air. "historical place in itself but there was a lady called bettina grossman who spent most of her time there, over a span of something like forty years and she did it because her house was so full of art, she had nowhere to sleep." he doubted the point would get across and the cabinet of curiosities was not much different than most antique shops and flea markets he'd been to in his life time. the only difference was the strange creations and the obsolete android parts. DOESN'T MATTER the subject had changed. vinny eyed them, taking the time to look them over. "you couldn't handle it." and no, he would not be explaining what IT was ( not that vinny knew entirely himself ). "i don't have much planned, why don't you start by -" he got a little closer to them, a breath away at that point, eyes moving over their face once again. all to be divided by a hand holding up the zippo after an indiscernible moment. "ringing this up for me, champ." the unit chief backed off and gave them a wink while putting the stir stick back in his mouth.

it would be audacious to suggest that time had not treated mikaere kahn kindly ― sure, tanned skin that once sat taut against striking cheekbones sags now, worn and weathered over the years as hyper - pigmentation and a layer of permadirt muddle his complexion and time carves wrinkles into veritable valleys that crease around his eyes and mouth ; his hair, once an unruly mane blacker than the starless city sky, would appear to be more salt than pepper these days ; hell, even their joints cry out in active protest when they descend from their loft into the shop at each new day's start ! but none of that matters. and why not ? surely you're asking. what kindnesses are these ? plenty, says mikaere, for a spirit that could not have anticipated enduring more than twenty, thirty years tops on this mortal plane. but they are still alive ! and who would've guessed ? he's like a cat the way he's tempted fate, risked his life countless times as if he had half a dozen more to spare. and in some bizarre twist of karmic fuckery, their pestiferous resilience has only been rewarded in retirement.

❝ arin ! always a pleasure, love ! come in, come in ! i was hoping you'd pay me a visit this week. ❞ among the most splendid of their bounty ? human connection. mika never had children ― more than just a lack of time, they never bore any desire to drag an innocent into the cruel world they'd built for themself, it just never felt right ― but sometimes they think, if they were to have ever had a son, they should've liked him to turn out something like arin gore. more than just a valued patron, they have a familial sort of fondness for the young man who often comes bearing not only gifts but his time and conversation on offer. dark eyes roll toward a chandelier - lit ceiling, a dramatic reaction to what he'd argue is an unnecessary apology. but arin's always been the picture of polite charm, hasn't he ? at least insofar as mikaere has known him. it is one among his many quirks that has allowed the shopkeeper to become so quickly endeared.

❝ unbelievable ! and you think i've got the time ? ❞ mika demands, but in spite of the serious timbre carrying the question, it's clearly in jest. as a matter of fact, they're already picking through various scraps of jewelry and mechanical miscellanea on the counter. ❝ what else have i got to do, huh ? ❞ mika looks up from a particularly flashy jewel - encrusted timepiece and wrinkles his nose. ❝ you're the first to wander in all morning, ❞ he says, and despite how it sounds, it's not meant to be pitiable. the truth of the matter is, his truly lucrative clientele tend to show up at more peculiar hours ; in the daylight, business often remains at a slow trickle. they never mind, though ― it allows time for mikaere to indulge their whimsy. ❝ well, no, that's not true . . . there was a rat ! i've lost track of him, though. we had a fun bit of cat and mouse going, if you'll forgive the pun, but i think it spooked him when mr. bigweld jumped down from the loft on him, ran off after that ! poor bastard didn't know the actual cat wouldn't hurt a fly, just blind as a bat and didn't see him there. ❞

mikaere abandons his rambling as arin begins to thumb through the racks, attention quickly redirected for the third time. ❝ oh, none of those ! come here ! ❞ sliding off of his stool, mika begins rummaging around beneath the counter for a moment before reappearing with a large plastic tote. ❝ i was waiting until you came by again to put out new inventory ― ❞ new, they say, as if it's not all been sourced from estate sales and corpses ! ❝ ― because i've got a few things i thought you might like to see before they reach anyone else's grubby hands. ❞

thread: @warystares' mikaere + arin location: the cabinet of curiosities

even in a city like this, pelted with all the misery of the world, there isn't a single miserable corner that can rival what red eye has given him. compared to the constant malleability of the rest of his life, having a place that remains the same feels like a blessing above all else, and heaven in the great, cool fires of everlasting servitude. you stay a servant long enough to the whimsy of your gods and you stop believing in them — but not arin. arin gore, in this skin, in this life, inhabits these bones and leads them to an ill-spoken sanctuary. when the door to the shop opens, he greets its proprietor with a bag of goodies, as like an offering to the guard to the doors of eden.

"sorry, i haven't had the time to sort these out." these are trinkets. arin doesn't keep them. the shroud has no use for them when they can be used to trace back to him, so he wipes his hands clean of any shiny thing and makes a few extra credits on the side. it's a quiet endeavour, but one carefully wrapped in soft cloth, wrapped in self-same clothes that their original owners wore in death. "some watches and things, nothing special." nothing that can be missed. what use do dead people have for time they no longer have? "hope you aren't too busy today. i was hoping to get more neutral colours today." he turns to a familiar aisle, lined in the detritus that once swaddled human flesh. "how have you been? holidays treat you alright?"

oh, saint is in his absolute prime right now ! skin slick with sweat & spit & blood, he is positively glistening as he staggers out of the arena ; blown pupils search the crowd for a gap, a break in the bodies that he can shove through for a gasp of fresh air. ( on the water, it is still salted as it fills his lungs, but the harbor is refreshing in a way the heavy, pungent perspiration of the ring is not ! ) he doesn't stray far ― the chaos is still but a few meters away as he finds an open space and shake the filth from damp curls. a wet dog ! ( . . . though one might argue he smells worse . . . ) there's a towel slung over his shoulder ; he scrubs his face until skin stings in protest, and when it is lowered, there is a figure standing before him. saint blinks, visibly processing, when her compliment kickstarts the direction of his reaction. a fan ? unbeknownst to himself, the fighter stands a little straighter. she's not wrong, after all ― he's well aware of his own talent ― but he thirsts for praise. he's starved for it, in fact, nose to the ground and greedily scarfing up any crumbs tossed his way.

❝ you watch the fight, then ? ❞ saint grins and suddenly rows of chipped, stained porcelain are on display. ❝ you here with somebody ? that not your man i laid out up there, is it ? ❞ her question elicits a laugh ; it isn't a critique of her curiosity so much as a reaction to an unfortunate truth saint tends to ignore. ❝ no, none of that ! better to abandon yourself to destiny, ❞ he says of the torment of precaution, and if it sounds a little too profound for him, that's because it isn't an original thought but rather a sloppily paraphrased quote. ❝ napoleon said that, i think. short, angry little fuck, that guy, ❞ when he speaks, the fighter's eyes drift briefly to the ring where it's now o'shea up for a match. ❝ point is, damage has already been done, i think. the worst of it, anyway. fuck am i supposed to do, wear a helmet ? ❞

who: @warystares ( saint )

where: faceless ship, fourth floor

the excitement of the ring always had a habit of drawing dominika in. it was quite the spectacle and something universally done around the world. that fact made it quite beautiful in a sense. violence was a universal language and sport. there was one of the fighters that night she'd seen before. he won quite often, she'd observed along with why it seemed he did. that pure, unfiltered rage was something she knew quite well, seen many times. while she tended to be brutally soft, she appreciated brutality in all forms. as well as an unhinged mind, it was relatable whether she chose to address that fact or not. "you're quite good, as i'm sure you already know. i'm a fan, though." the dancer commented, silently wondering if he made a lot of money from all of those wins. "do you ever worry it will leave lasting damage? or are there precautions you take for all of that?"

the roar of his pulse is deafening as it churns in grossly misshapen ears ; he can already feel the fluid filling the gaps between cartilage and skin, tight & sharp, from impact with bare knuckles. ( he'll have to get the swelling manually drained by his brother later lest he risk any sort of permanent deformity ― chipped teeth and numerous facial fractures have left him with enough of those already ! his bone structure is a far cry from what it used to be. ) over the rush of his own blood and the cacophony drifting from a swathe of onlookers frenzied by the sight of vibrant red, the fighter almost doesn't hear the question hurled at him from the sideline.

❝ the fu―you talkin' to me, horne ? ❞ words slur past swollen lips ; harsh and wet, they leave specks of pink-tinted spittle in their wake. he saunters over to the edge of the ring, dropping arms against the rope to hang his weight there and lets out a throaty scoff. ❝ incentivizing him to lose ? ❞ the phrase is repeated ; for a moment, it is uncertain whether he does this out of need for clarification or simply because he is floored by the idea. ❝ fuck you think i look like, jack ? you think i'm gonna lose ? worse'n that, you think i'd wanna buy a win if i was ? ❞ to the other man's credit, he has already taken a beating tonight. so maybe he likes a little pain. ❝ you know i don't fuck with the money anyway. all them fuckin' numbers and the bets and shit ? no. no way. 's all si. ❞

the  catch  of  the  day  sweats  off  the  sea,   brought  to  lie  under  the  limelight  of  another’s  making.     saltless  and  raw,   a  renewed  thirst  for  home;   their  scales  glisten,   in  the  ring,   and  the  blood  on  their  hands  lingers  like  thickened  water.     wring  the  hand  that  bleeds.     watch  their  blood  drip  into  those  metallic  dog  bowls.     and  when  all  that  skin  isn’t  enough,   peel  your  nails  back  until  you  see,   once  more,   a  holier  flesh.     the  swift  punches  land;   a  crowd  cheers;   his  shoulder  pulsates.     someone  parted  your  skin  until  your  rot  blackens  the  once  human  skin.     his  scar  sways  with  the  boat.     the  man  finds  his  bet  away  from  the  herd.     (   now  where’s  his  side  of  embittered  fries?   )     winning  without  a  sprinkling  of  salt  in  his  wound.     he  stares  at  saint,   tilts  his  head  like  a  curious  dog.     ‘   y’sick  of  seeing  me?   ’     his  synth-voice  crackles,   anticipating  the  laugh  that  jack  doesn’t  give.     your  venom-lined  mouth  juices  a  lemon  before  you  realise  what  you’re  doing.     he  nods  to  saint’s  opponent.     what’s  a  match  without  a  little  banter?     ‘   he’s  looking  a  bit  too  much  like  a   winner   now.     you’re  not   incentivising   him  to  lose.     i  could  help  with  that   ––   sell  him  my  bets  an’  then   ( … )   i’ll  be  gone  an’  you’ll  be  a  winner.   ’

REMINGTON: Okay. That's reassuring, at very least. REMINGTON: Are you going to be staying there alone? REMINGTON: Before you say anything, I know you can protect yourself. Probably better than I could, if I'm being honest. But that don't mean I won't worry about you all the same. [ there's a long pause in which remy can be seen typing and pausing several times ] REMINGTON: Let me help you. Stay with me. REMINGTON: Please?

RAVEN: She is one of the few people I do trust. As far as safe? In general? I have no idea. RAVEN: Plus she has an entire condo she doesn't use, I am positive her bedroom is bigger than my entire apartment. RAVEN: Me? A plan? Oh baby, I don't even have a pla. RAVEN: That seems like something for future Raven to figure out. I am simply taking this minute by minute as best I can. 💜

❝ do i ? ❞ comes orson's flat reply. ❝ perhaps that's less a reflection of my character and more a possible underdevelopment of your own amygdala. i'd be more concerned if i didn't suspect it beneficial to your line of work. ❞ is he a bit more acerbic than usual ? perhaps. but cleanliness is next to godliness and while orson may no longer be practicing, he is more than aware of the unholy mess that awaits him within the confines of ( clearly only allegedly ) waterproof vinyl. to say that he loathes the thought of sifting through heaps of visceral muck would be an understatement.

but even as a scavenger, a vulture staking claim to only the scraps of a feast slaughtered by others, orson is not ignorant to the plight of the predator that stands before him, nor is he blind enough to remain unaware that he is the beggar in this situation, regardless of which among them pulls rank. after all, he is merely expected to dispose of the bodies that are delivered to his crematory ; the condition that they arrive in should be of little to no matter. but it is. this is not zekai's responsibility. orson's knowledge of this does little to assuage his sour mood, but it does make him mindful of the level of venom in his words. he is not looking to rile any beasts with his displeasure ! not tonight. nothing more is said regarding the carpet.

❝ the garden of earthly delights, ❞ orson supplies. a reproduction, of course, all three panels of the famed triptych reprinted and stretched taut over canvas on a wooden frame. he keeps them hidden away back here for more private admiration. ❝ a feast for the eyes, isn't it ? in any case, i would hardly consider painting to be a lost art. dying, perhaps, but i would challenge any connoisseur to name me a single physical, tangible medium that isn't. ❞ all the same, orson finds he agrees with zekai ; he seldom takes interest in newer art, less impressed by hollow digital design. ❝ you could begin by helping me haul this sack. ❞ there is no question, after all, that left to his own devices, the capo will struggle. gaunt and anemic, he is hardly the picture of strength his counterpart appears. ❝ i expect it'll be straight to the incinerator for this one, hm ? ❞

If he was meant to shame another family it would not be Hanging Man.     It would not be Yamato.    Loyalty is like a loose slab of meat in a butcher’s freezer.     It’ll last all the winters,    but it will never taste the same like it would that first one    —   that fresh kill of desperation.       It’s war itself,    really,    that slips along his spine and breeds more paranoia than needed.    He is impulsive and repetitive.     Instinct sedated by fear.      “Ain’t that something    [ … ]     you always look like a ray of sunshine to me.”      He grins    —    Orson knows the inner workings of a soldier too.    Despite his lack of service.    How the body reacts to patterns.     Blood,    guts,    death.     They numb the nerves down to dull points.     If he knew how unsanitary the real art of killing was perhaps he would have a different perception.    People piss themselves.     They wail.    They beg.    Even great gods of men.    The bravest of them always meet death with a tongue wet from bargaining.      Zekai leans against the doorframe,     coat seems to make him into a taller figure     —    a retired reaper.     “Do we have to talk about it?”      Gruff and calm,    but it’s a warning.    Soldier to capo,    coyote to handler.     He doesn’t like talking about the way the body jerks and the spine shatters.      He would rather avoid it.    Deny that his hands can become something other than weighted fists.     A flutter of lashes,    he’s looking at one of the paintings in the hallway.     Expression listless,    mouth crooked and held in a half-smile.     “I like that one.     You think paintings will come back?     Everything’s so    [ … ]    artificial now.     Emotionless.     Guess that’s what makes things human,    eh?”       The toothpick rolls in his mouth to the other corner,   sticks out like a nail.      He always liked touching things that reminded him of how soft the skin is.    How easily pierced.       “Anyway    [  … ]      you got another task for me?     I’m restless tonight.    I’d rather not go home and stare at the ceiling.”  

as uncommon as it is for orson to allow anyone into his preparation room ― perhaps an act of preemptive defense for a man plagued by many morbid fascinations, but he holds his right to privacy with the highest regard ― there are a select few permitted behind locked doors while he is working. see, the thing about orson that most people fail to understand on a fundamental level is that, at his core, he is an artist. even the way he operates feels almost akin to a performance ; practiced hands sculpt and shade wax and flesh with elegance and careful precision. he takes his time. on a facial reconstruction this . . . extensive, anything less would bode imminent failure. the man who sits across from him now is an artist as well ; though their preferred mediums vary drastically, orson cannot deny there is a certain similarity between their work.

a question is enough to break laser focus and orson lifts his gaze. ( for the first time in quite a while, a fact for which orson favors marcellus among his colleagues within hanging man ― silence is neat, tidy, and he appreciates those who can appreciate that fact. ) they're both fortunate that orson received this particular cadaver from the medical examiner's office and not from a sopping body bag hand - delivered by one of their soldiers. it arrived in pristine condition. and for the degree of disfigurement he's been left to work with, he expects the clean up was extensive. ❝ traumatic brain injury from blunt force ― multiple blows to the left side of the skull, shattering the zygomatic and supraorbital margin and caving in a significant portion of the frontal and parietal bones. ❞ as he explains the cause of death, orson delicately manipulates the head of the cadaver and points out the areas in question, half - reconstructed. ❝ seven, i believe it was. with a crowbar. ❞

status: closed — @warystares

Tick.

Graphite glides along cold pressed paper; thin, broad strokes to contrast the soft cream.  Various shades of monochrome begins to take shape. Marcellus couldn’t help but tap the end of his pencil against the outer most edge; deep in thought as he compares what's already known anatomically.

Tock.

Lost in his own little world was he. Only somewhat attuned to the impression of his surroundings. Unlike him to do so, but he's in decent enough company. Lips stay softened in a concentrated frown as he continues on. Line by line, angle by angle. He's bound to jot down notes of any information he's unaware of. A blink of dark eyes and something shifts in his periphery.

"What'd you say was the cause again?"

if orson is at all disappointed as the grandeur of his sentiment is swiftly dismissed by akira's blunt demand, such a human reaction remains neatly concealed behind a level gaze and a practiced smile. ( but aren't they all when it comes to orson lloyd ? the expression feels unnatural ; he can feel his zygomaticus major twitch in response to the unfamiliar upward stretch of lips more often pressed into a hard line. ) the hand curled around the pen extends to drop it abruptly into an open and waiting palm as orson finds a seat on the edge of the table and drops his gaze to the trolley where akira arranges his supplies. ❝ you're welcome, ❞ he says simply ― more than polite enough a reply to ❛ give it, ❜ orson thinks, and anyway, he means it. more or less.

( would it come as a surprise that he enjoys the way he is spoken to here ? for someone who claims to crave control, he becomes incredibly obedient under the proper hand . . . )

❝ i don't know if it's any consolation, ❞ orson offers dryly, but there's a twitch of a wry smirk tugging at flat features, ❝ but many of them will die of melanoma. karmic retribution ? it's a shame to imagine art of your caliber wasted. if a higher power exists, i'm sure it would be inclined to agree. ❞ he tries not to appear visibly appeased by the praise, not so much as he really is ― and really, he is ― but he does take great care to preserve the canvas akira has inked. brows crease but for a fraction of a second at the contact when akira's hand finds his cheek ; he is unused to touch that is not cold, lifeless. intimacy is a scarce commodity to the man who spends more time with the dead than the living.

and then, a laugh ; a quiet, odd sound . . . more of an exhale than anything. because it's not a lie, is it ? ❝ nature is cruel. if given the option, i choose to avoid it. there are better ways of tempting fate. ❞ orson complies with the direct instruction and begins unbuttoning his shirt as he speaks, folding the garment once its been removed and turning his exposed back toward akira. ❝ i fear i may be allergic to sunlight, coincidentally, ❞ he adds, straightening his shoulders in preparation for the intricate stencil. it would be only one of many things his body vehemently protests ; but like a cockroach, orson is persistent ― resilient ― if only because he hides away. ❝ but it's a hypothesis i'm hardly inclined to test, as i'm sure you can imagine. ❞

nothing equalises men better than death. so many must go through their lives never having to face it until the last minute, and only then must they confront the undying dilemma of whether to persist or relent. akira finds it beautiful. he's had it engraved on his skin, from elbow to the back of his hand: a tombstone to follow, and now orchestrating the same marking on someone else that will hopefully last until orson must face that inevitable quarry.

for now, though, he enjoys the boy's company, and lets him talk, nodding along dully. this assent -- agreement? -- can naturally be mistaken as the natural bobbing along to the dense mixture of bass and synthetic strings blaring through the speakers. he must look a sight now, no more a normal artist than the rest crawling through the dregs of this city, and all the more innocent for it despite the permanence cutting art he preferred over softer, lost canvases. in this, he supposes, he and orson are similar, so he hums and covers his trolley, prepares tools of the trade, approval splayed clearly on his face when orson decides to sit at the edge of his table this time rather than yammer on about fucking birds. "thank you for asking," he answers, rather than provide one too long-winded. better to leave those stories and hope they lull the man to sleep during the process. "why is your shirt still on? if you're going to give me that pen --," he extends a palm, expectant, "--give it. and talk about your winter, not mine. it's just been boring for me, you know -- surprisingly." he prepares a few paper towels. some wipes. having to reapply a stencil is an arduous task, but a necessary one. akira doesn't leave room for mistakes; even his own. "not a lot of people want to get tattooed in winter. it's like they all wait for the summer to ruin their new ink, just so they can show it off. which is why i like you the most."

this is a smile that isn't a smile. it's all knives aching for meat. "you probably don't go outside, which will make your tattoo last longer." he pats the man's cheek happily before rubbing his own hands in sanitiser. "that's good. don't let anybody tell you otherwise. now take that shirt off. we've only got until five, don't we?"

REMINGTON: I've been keeping an ear out since I heard. I would have reached out sooner but I wasn't sure the best way ― the last thing I'd ever want to do is to compromise your safety. REMIINGTON: And speaking of, are you? REMINGTON: Safe, that is. REMINGTON: You trust who you're staying with? Do you have a plan for after tonight?

[ texts sent to remington luck from a burner number after finding out red eye names may be exposed to government agents ] RAVEN: hey it's rave - just confirmed some harrowing information RAVEN: not sure if you've seen the news RAVEN: I am going to have to lay low for a bit, going to a friend's place tonight RAVEN: I don't expect you to get involved I just wanted you to know I didn't fall off the face of the earth.

the fighter sits sprawled on the opposite side of the couch as his brother, lounged back against the cushioned corner with limbs askew and a half - empty jar of peanut butter sitting open and precariously balanced on one thigh. ( and yes, there is a spoon in it, thank you ! he's not a fucking heathen ! well, not always. ) pausing the current match of street fighter ― he's been getting his ass handed to him anyway, no surprise, but it never stops him from trying ― he rolls his head to one side, gaze fixating briefly on the flame as silas lights up a joint. ❝ no, hold up, ❞ saint starts, sitting up a bit straighter as he begins to process his brother's idea ; the gears are visibly turning in his mind as he reaches for the joint. ❝ no because i think you might be on to something with that shit, si ! ❞

a deep pull has the cherry glowing red hot and saint ashes into his open palm before rubbing the char into his sweats. ❝ public transportation in this city's already fucked but, like, the masses . . . the majority of people rely on it, right ? who drives ? like, who's really fucking driving anymore ? no, the MTA is the great equalizer. everyone rides the fucking subway, si ! see, this is why you went to harvard, you brilliant son of a bitch ! ❞ he holds out the joint and reaches for the spoon, yanking it from the jar only to point it at silas emphatically. ( don't worry, it's the crunchy peanut butter, it's not going anywhere ! ) ❝ you pick the right stations, the right lines, and we've got the potential to really maximize the impact, leave 'em out of commission for weeks at least. shit, man, i now really wanna blow up a fucking tunnel, si. ❞

who: @warystares ( saint )

where: saint & silas' apartment

the thought had crossed his mind already, many times but he had not been willing to share it until it was fully worked through in his head. there was no way he'd let any of them make a move if there was an obvious chance they'd get found out or caught. being apprehended was always a risk but silas liked to keep that factor as low as possible ( for obvious reasons ). sitting on the couch of their living room, silas sparked the second pre-roll of the day, taking a couple hits and handing it off to his brother. "i was thinking we should hit the vehicles and transportation first," he piped up still holding the smoke at the back of his throat. the controller to the playstation set down so he could focus on smoking and explaining his idea. "if we take out a couple subway lines, some busses, mail carriers, stuff like that -" he was interrupted by a quick cough before continuing. "that's sure to piss people off and have them going after those government fuckheads in swarms."

✘ CLOSED / ft. veer sivakumar ( @wrvtchedhearts ) at snake den headquarters

❝ now look ! see ? i don't know how many times i gotta say it 'fore somebody listens, huh ? ❞ the frustration evident in his tone as saint chucks a plastic spray bottle of bleach into a bucket a few feet away feels relatively misplaced given how he just watched the younger con-man eat shit on the slick spot in front of the door he'd only just been scrubbing. ( to be clear, that's not to say the fool would be concerned by his associate's wipe out under normal circumstances ― if anything, it's more of a shock he didn't start cackling the moment veer's feet slipped out from under them ! saint has always been a man of simple pleasures ; he's easily amused ! ) the crumpled rag in his hand is quick to follow the bottle's trajectory and free hands tinged an angry red from the caustic cleanser and saint scrapes palms against dark denim before extending one in an offer. ❝ i told 'em, didn't i ? said it don't matter how unsightly it is, a wet spot on the floor's gonna be more dangerous than a goddamn dried up blood stain ! ❛ no, saint, you gotta clean it up ! it's unprofessional ! it's incriminating ! ❜❞ and okay, no, maybe he can't actually refute that part, but that's beside the point : he doesn't want to be doing this in the first place. ❝ c'mon, you good ? lemme help you up, i'm done with this shit anyhow. good e-fuckin'-nough ! ❞

AARON TAYLOR-JOHNSON 2024 | Mario Sorrenti ph. for Armani Beauty as new "Acqua Di Giò" Ambassador