Where is My Mind? (1/20/11)

Featured Characters: Lizzie Roy & Caden Freemen/Vasillia.
From the Perspective of: durandarkdurandark.

South Central Project Housing, Room 213: It isn't much of a home, its barely a studio apartment. A single room with a connecting bathroom that's barely seperated by an aged door and a kitchen that seems all to abandoned. The fridge doesn't seem to be powered, that with the rust on the stove suggests the place is mostly untouched. The only notable feature in the room is a small bookcase, about four feet high and stacked with books from every genre. All the classics seem to be crammed in onto a single shelf. Beside that is a mattress with a few scattered sheets. The window, coated with a heavy sway of dull linen, leads out onto a rusted fire escape that winds up to the projects' rooftop. zTuCi.jpg

Around an hour after the last phone communication a dull knock is heard on the apartment door - more of a repetitive pressure than a punctuated rap.

A thuggish man with gentle features walks up to the door in a tank top with pajama bottomns, holding onto his Sig .45 with silencered twisted on. He clicks back the hammer and places it to the door before looking into the peephole. "Chinese food?" He asks, lower the pistol again as he unlocks all three bolts and opens up the door.

Behind an armful of little white boxes with telltale generic red chinese pyramids printed on the sides is a female figure, a wee bit curvier than she ought to be in 2011 and dressed down in what is likely a men's t-shirt - pilfered from wherever he keeps his clothes - and a pair of jeans. "You bet," comes a voice from behind the mass of take-out, shuffling sidelong through the doorway. "Box on top's specifically yours."

The hustler snatches the bag from the top as he keeps the door open for her, closing it after she passes. He gives a quick glance inside the baggie, mutter something in Spanish. "I've made the yearly income of a middle class man within a week. I think we've done something right." He comments as he locks all the deadbolts before heading to the mattress in the center of the room where a stripped assault rifle lay. A few boxes of ammunition are sprawled about with some labelled as incendiary. "How's the wound treating you?"

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes heads to the floor right next to the mattress and kneels, a bit wobbly as she tentatively leans down to unload her arms. As chinese cuisine is wont to do, it smells godly and swiftly fills the entire room. She lands clumsily on the very edge of the mattress and nudges her sneakers off her feet one at a time. She's classy enough to set the shoes aside, at least - away from the food. "It's kind of stiff, I guess. I put some of that neosporin on it last night, and then again this morning. Still, it looks puffy to me. Red. Doesn't bode well." Her bluish-grey eyes turn down into her lap as she pulls a first box of food into it, gingerly popping open the lid flap.

A thuggish man with gentle features leans over and grabs a box, looking around for the possibility of chopsticks. "We'll find ways to avoid that happening again. I went over that hunter site, some crazy shit. Especially that Renegade470 guy, but it all seemed plausible. Went out of my way and even got incendary rounds for my new M4. Has a scope too. Basically our key if we get into a fight is run, dodge, and toss heavy shit down range at'm. Maybe we can get some blessed holy water and carry it around in water bottles. Covert protection." He leans back onto the mattress, shuffling the handgun off to the side. He eyes over at the fair brunette as she settles in, taking in her movements.

Without lifting her head she points at a paper sheath sticking out of the bottom of the boxes; obviously, the chopsticks. In the same movement she plucks up the other set and snaps the sticks in half. Almost immediately she sets about using the chopsticks in an unwieldy fashion to pick up a single piece of noodle, popping it into her mouth. "Holy water? That stuff works? I kind of dug Renegade, yeah. I was wondering what ever happened to him the other night, doing a little browsing. Looks like Miami was an ulcer for awhile there. Maybe they won, but I have this horrible feeling a lot of them are dead." After a mouthful of food, chewing and swallowing she points at him briefly with the saucey chopsticks, "Hey, I wanted to ask you about something. You know vampires, right? Bloodsucker types? "

He snatches a pair of chopsticks seeing where she got'm and proceeds away at chowing down. He seems quick to eat what he can, eyeing over at her. "Anything is possible. Vampires exist. Werewolves. If all that shit works, maybe so does all the things that can kill'm. I know they're stronger than us and it doesn't hurt trying. Worst case scenario is we die." As he continues to eat, one hand draws out an MP3 player and he begins cycling through tracks. "I know a bit. Maybe as much as you do. Maybe less. I went through the site religiously, then did some of my own browsing. Why?"

"Well," she begins, continuously pecking with a bird-like non-intensity at the box of take-out, "I was talking to somebody last night on the net, there's this live chat thingy… Anyhow. I got ahold of this chick - at least I assume it was a chick - with the username DollHouse431. It started out alright, then she started getting kind of wild. Told me she's a hunter of hunters, so to speak. Ready and willing to get going on all kinds of havoc. But she's also after this vampire in town a friend of mine met up with. He said the vamp's pretty harmless, overall, but who knows. They're kind of like serial killers who don't always act on the pattern in my experience." The box is set aside for a separate one, full of little but rice. It's given a sordid stare as she continues, "This 'DollHouse' had a lot of good information on where to find bloodsuckers in Los Angeles, but she also had a lot of good information on where to find others like me. Long story short, I'm taking her out. I shoved a trojan right up the net's ass this morning and pulled her IP. See, it doesn't save anything like that, usually, but this was necessary. Traced the IP to her apartment. I wanted to know: You wanna come with? "

"A hunter of hunters. Can we assume she's mortal? Nothin' we have to freak out over yet? If she's just a hunter, I think we can deal. You guys don't seem to absorb bullets any better than the rest of us. If she's out causing chaos, we can deal with her. What personal info you got? Any names?" With the subject brought up, Caden sets the chinese food down and begins assembling the assault rifle. It takes a few seconds and he manages a functions check to make sure the bolt is working. Methodically, he does the same with his handgun. "We can make it quiet. If we can break into her apartment, put her down without police, we'll be fine. Spray some bleach around. Destroy any information she might have that could link anyone. The only reason killing people is fine is to prevent an all out war. Its like the cold war on an epic scale and that's a scary consideration."

As to the thing's name she bobs her head into a nod or two and replies, "Yeah, some sexually ambiguous crap that still left me wondering 'he' or 'she'… Aiden, I think. Aiden Wendell." She turned her small hand over and glanced at the top where a messy scrawl in blue pen marrs the pale skin, "Yep. Aiden Wendell. I set up explosives around the foundation of the building and have a remote detonator around here somewhere. I donno. Might've left it in the bathroom…" her eyes travel briefly in that approximate direction as the chopsticks held loosely in her fingers prod and poke at the rice without actually eating any of it, "Either way, we don't have to use it. I can disable the device, easy peasy. Nobody else lives in her building. It's abandoned and totally off the grid. And, we could do it from here. Or from a rooftop nearby. Always did kind of like the Fourth of July for the fireworks. This would be a thousand times cooler than that."

A thuggish man with gentle features drops his handgun as she mentions explosives, looking over his shoulder at her. His mouth is slightly opened as if in shock. "You were gone for a day. Where the hell did you get explosives? And a remote detonator? When'd you even have the time to come up with that? Did you confirm the he-she lived there? Eyes on? It seems excess- Well, not excessive considering it, but that'd be one hell of a follow-up investigation on a building demolition." He has a mixed look of shock and awe from the idea, his eyes trailing off as he ponders what may be.

The young woman laughs a little, but it's kind of a self-conscious sound - a cover-up for a feeling less confident than amusement. Her bluish eyes stay down on the contents of her lap. "Well, I picked up a couple wireless Semtechs a couple weeks ago. Didn't have anything in mind for 'em, but… I donno. As for the explosives," her narrow shoulders roll into a gentle shrug, "I picked up what I needed at Wal-Mart and spent the afternoon cooking. Not here," she looks up at him momentarily, meeting his eyes long enough to confirm that she did not, in fact, make explosives in his apartment, "As for the investigation, there's sure to be, but I bought the building under Aiden Wendell's name this afternoon and set up an insurance policy. The bank was trying to pawn it off for like ten thousand, and policy is for a hundred thousand. So, building explodes. Insurance policy bought the day before? Seems fishy. Seems like Aiden Wendell accidentally blew him or herself up trying to cash in on a shitty abandoned building. As for the detonator, post-detonation there's no way to trace where the signal came from. I've thought it out, Cay. As for it being him or her, for sure? The probability that it's /not/ her is less than point oh-oh-two. If you still wanna check it out, I'm down."

His lips do more than part; his jaw drops. The thug seems to have been beaten verbally into a state of speechless existence. Even his hazel eyes held no words for what his expressions failed to offer. It takes about a minute for him to gather himself, focusing off to the side. "You say 'picked up' like it was nothing. Did you route the insurance to an account that you could draw before they shut it down and closed the whole thing? Play off as Aiden? Could at least profit.. Anyhow, that's irrelevant. What is relevant…" He draws a cigarette from his pocket, two in fact, and extends one towards her. "This is probably the sexiest moment I've been involved in.. in.. I can't even recall something comparable. I'm honestly all kinds of bothered in the all kinds of right way. Not only did I get chinese food, I'm listening to a fucking mastermind monologue an entirely ingenius plan. We can go watch. Do you drink? "

"Oooh, that's a bloody decent idea, that…" the girl replies when he mentions collecting on the insurance, her eyes sparking wide, "I didn't set up anybody as the benefactor. I figured they'd probably negate the policy due to foul play, but it'd still transfer to the account, at least for a little while. Long enough to pull it and put it somewhere ambiguous." Her head lifts and she gives him a pensive look that rapidly turns into amusement; an impish grin that brings to light the shallow dimples in her very round cheeks precedes her dropping the chopsticks to accept the cigarette, doing as he did the night before and putting it right into the corner of her mouth. "Sexy, huh? Can't argue with that." A faint flush appears on her face, whether due to the plan's acceptance by her compatriot or the fact that it's finally sinking in - she'll be carrying it out, and with willing company. Either way, it's kind of a head rush. "Not often, but I'd go for one. I mean, really, why the hell not?"

"Can't argue with it at all." His smile is spread wide and thin as he sets the cigarette to mirror hers, much like the night before. He seems to draw a zippo from nowhere, first lighting her cigarette and then lighting up his. When the zippo goes back into hiding, the thug takes a long drag. There's a flare reflecting from his eyes that seem from even more than the lit cigarettes that linger in between. From what once was an expressionless man lost for words is a hustler more than content with the world. "Choice of poison? We've got whiskey here, vodka, you name it.."

"Vodka. Russian drinks just /sound/ more badass." She takes a quick puff on the cigarette, making the cherry flare orange but doing little to pull actual smoke into her lungs. Still, when she exhales there's a tidy cloud. "I'm gonna wipe her - I'm gonna go with 'her' for lack of a better descriptor - drive twenty minutes before go-time. That ought to keep her at home long enough for the big boom, trying to figure out what happened. Twenty should be enough to clear out her cache and delete anything relevant. Might go for a remote connection. That's always priceless. Then you can /see/ them freaking out, trying to regain control." She laughs quietly, giving her head a gentle shake. Her eyes lift to focus on his face as her hand rises to cup the cigarette's filter, pulling it briefly away from her mouth. "What was it Hugh Grant said in Casablanca, Cay? 'Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship'? That's about what I'm thinking. Me and you."

Caden rocks to his feet and quickly grasping the handgun at the same time. He tucks it behind his back, the hand still clearly prodding out from the waist line and outside of the tank. He's quick to venture into the kitchen. Thought its seem mostly abandoned this time, when he opens the drawers its revealed to still serve as a storage area. A bottle of off-brand vodka is removed from the cabinet. In the other hand, a pair of shot glasses. First he patiently agrees that, "Russian does sound more badass," adding, "Maybe we can take up the language. Best case scenario is we take a trip there and party up for a week. I hear Moscow's nightlife is a blast." Each shot is filled to the brim with the clear poison as he moves back over towards her, extending the shot out. "One for the road. Twenty minutes to see about hooking up a beneficary, wiping her, and blowing her up. I think you're right about Casablanca, baby. We're most definitly in the same league of thought."

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes keeps an eye on his back as he trails into the kitchen, lacking the social grace not to look like she's doing exactly what she is. Still, just a second or two after he turns back around she's looking elsewhere, pulling an oh-so-casual side-long glance at her knee. Apparently, the knee has become terribly interesting. Everything said is reacted to with a nod of agreement, a hint of unusual excitement bubbling right under the surface. She gets stiffly to her feet, slower than an uninjured person would've risen but showing promise along the way of recovery. The shot is taken into hand and she holds it up, as though engaging in a one-person toast. "For the road," she says, and tosses the shot back in one. It puts a crinkled-nose grimace on her impish face that's not quick to fade. She even shakes her head firmly, one time, as though trying to clear the sting from the back of her throat with a gesture that absolutely won't manage it. "Yowch," she says on the matter of the shot, then bends to one knee to set the empty glass on the floor. "So, where do you wanna watch the show? The building's less than a block away. Hell, we could even go up on /this/ roof. I can wipe her from my phone, and the detonator…" she seems to remember the fact that she has no clue where it is in that moment, and turns to shuffle into the bathroom. She returns with a small palm-sized item that looks entirely unlike detonators from the movies. It's just a simple remote, more like a wii controller than anything else. "Found it."

As she downs the shot, Caden's quick to follow with only a slight wincing expression. "We could go up there, we'd be bound to see the explosion.." He smiles a bit as they talk, heading over to the door where he flips the back end of his tanktop over the handgun hilt. "After the explosion, we come back.. We could even kill the bottle. By the end of this week, our combined cash will be in the triple digits with little effort. If we felt like it, we could live it up like rockstars for a few days." He gives a quick look back towards her, the smile still shining on. Off-handedly he muttered, "The most interesting things happen in back alleys.. To think that's where I met you, of all people.."

"I'm down with living like a rockstar for a /night/, a week would be wild. Yeah, dude… Lets do that." The brunette pushes her hand through her hair, the tousled disarray smoothing for one shining moment of organization. A sleek matte black phone with a generic touch screen is pulled from the back pocket of her jeans and given a brief tap, bringing bluish light to the top. "Got a fire escape?" As to his last comment she subdued a fairly puckish smile down to its half form.


A Storyteller osays 'Here's what I got from the other night: Lizzie manages to route Aiden's account not just to a fake account, but to transfer the funds directly to a reloadable VISA gift card purchased with cash for $10. The building will explode without a hitch, /really/ explodes. However, when it falls it takes out an adjacent building with a a homeless man living in it (won't be known until the papers print about the casualties most likely). Did I miss anything?'

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features osays 'Actually, could I sweep that building with clairvoyance?'

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features osays 'The target building.'

A Storyteller osays 'Inside the building is one individual, male, fairly dirty, sitting in front of a desktop computer going crazy. He looks extremely stressed. The site open on the monitor is hunter net, but he has a windows explorer window open beyond that. He appears to be manically browsing completely empty files, the likely source of his stress.'


With the sting of vodka still making her tongue tingle and the little white detonator secured in the hollow of her palm the brunette makes for the window, climbing out it onto the fire escape in lieu of exiting out the main way. Her face is turned straight up toward the distant rooftop, blue eyes at a ponderous squint before she leans back in, looking for the thuggish-looking man. "Goes all the way up to the roof, doesn't it?" she asks, "The fire escape. I mean, it looks like we might die trying to climb it."

The thug smirks slightly as she speaks, slipping on his hoodie as he heads behind her. "Goes all the way up, and you won't die lovely, trust me, I'm right here. And I've done this more than enough times." He draws out a cigarette, slipping it between his lips as he reaches for a light. His foot begins pushing itself through the window to pull him in.

Up the creaky and no doubt rusty ladder the young woman climbs, taking the rungs one at a time. She clambers onto the roof with rather little grace and walks to the edge, peering down onto the street; her eyes go a bit wide, the heavy lashes batting just once. She waits for her companion to come up behind her, which likely takes just a few seconds. "Wish we had some lawn chairs. Even better, a couple of those Easy Chairs. Oh man, imagine sitting up here… two Easy Chairs, one bottle of vodka and a detonator…"

"We'll get there one day." Caden remarks with a now-lit cigarette as he rushes up the fire escape, rather carelessly. When he gets to the top behind her, he passes her to the building about to ka-boom and takes a knee. "This is going to be entertaining. Hey kid - keep down when you hit the button or we might die after all, alright?"

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes stiffly lowers herself to her knees, using her small fingers splayed out against the rooftop to support her in a slight forward lean. A little plastic cover is flicked back from a protective shield over the top of a simple, flat switch - like a button in appearance, you just pull it up instead of pushing it down. "In five, four, three…" without waiting for 2 or 1 she pulls the lever. The low crackle of moving fire is followed by an almighty rumble; the upper floors of the abandoned building quiver and sway back and forth as a bright orange color begins to appear through the wood blocking off the lower story windows. For a moment it seems like the bombs were duds, and the girl frowns, her nose crinkling as she edges forward just a little, trying to get a closer look that really only pulled her in an inch or two. Her faintly glossed lips part as though about to speak, but no words manage to form; instead an ear-shattering explosion sends the target building rumbling off its old foundation, crumbling from the middle down and taking the top with it. The flames are burning white as they lick out the windows, quickly stifled out by the dust and rubble. The sheer force behind the boom knocks the girl backward, right onto her rear end and back.

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features osays 'What do I see in clairvoyance? -this is gonna be a trip-'

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features osays 'Its like acid, with fire.'

A Storyteller osays 'Almost exactly what you just said - it's like the craziest acid trip imaginable. The fire is amazingly beautiful, changing in color from orange and red to white and blue. It looks like lace as it travels through the building, apparently running along the actual foundation lines and supports from the ground level to around the fifth floor, where you see the explosives. When the explosives hit - and they look like just buckets filled with a clear fluid - the acid trip happens. About a billion different colors in shades of blue, white, orange, red and black, all working in some insane swirl as they devour and destroy one another.'

A Storyteller osays 'The man you had seen in the building before explodes in a cloud of red mist that rapidly evaporates.'

Ducking down in the explosion that catches him off guard, even with the countdown, the hustler gives a quick glance in the direction of the maestro. "Holy fuck." He whispers hushed, scrambling over to her while keeping a low profile. He repeats, "Holy fuck!" His knee shifts, placing beside her with a hand to her shoulder. He gives a look back at the once old building, nearly abandoned, now a firestorm. One more time for good measure he reiterates, "/Holy fuck/.. Lizzie? You good, beautiful?"

The gesture is instinctive as she rises back up to her knees; her arm slips around his back and stays there - a motion of camaraderie unusual for her, rather than clinging. It takes her a moment to reply. She stares at the immolated building, eyes wide enough to reflect much of the burning rubble in the glassy irises. Eventually she nods and says, "I'm good." Her hand gives the small of his back a gentle pat and she pulls her arm back, as though suddenly aware of the contact; she gives him a grin that makes her face look all the rounder, like some kind of mischevious sprite. "You know, I'm pretty sure that was overkill," she says with a small laugh, playing the role of Captain Obvious. Her words are proven right when the remains of the smoldering structure suddenly teeter to the side and begin to crumble, crashing down over the adjacent structure. She moves to the edge of the roof immediately and looks over it. "Shit."

The hustler rises with her, noticing the ash now gathering about them almost like snowflakes. He lets out a laugh that he seems to catch and silence. He's quick to step up to the edge, giving a look over what remains. A small minor explosion occurs at the fire end, possibly a pipeline that opened up. He flinches somewhat, looking towards the neighbouring building as the sounds of siren become apparent. "The only time you'll hear sirens that quick in South Central. Jesus christ babydoll, you are one helluva artist. I almost wish it'd been packed with fuckers like him. I wonder how long 'til insurance goes through."

Her sleek little cell phone is tugged from her hip pocket, the screen given a tap to bring it to life. The bluish light doesn't do as much for her face with the building burning like the sun just two lots over. Her fingertip drags and taps a few times before she says, "Twenty four hours. As soon as it's put in the account it'll transfer to a midway, just a dummy account - one that doesn't even really exist, actually. The 'account holder' is putting the money on one of those reloadable Visa gift cards, and the card's coming in the mail, courtesy of Aiden Wendell's P.O. box. I figure, it's probably about three days before the whole thing comes to fruition." One more tap and the screen goes black. She pushes the phone back down into the snug enclosure of jean below her left hip. "I figure we can take a road trip and cash it out somewhere else."

After some consideration, he takes a step back from the edge and towards the fire escape away from the inferno. "We should get back inside. We could always hit Vegas or San Diego on our way to Mexico. Whatever works. I'm really starting to like what we've got going here." He realizes that he hasn't even taken a drag from his cigarette since she pulled the trigger, but by that point he doesn't bother. With a quick flick to off the roof, he steps towards the start of the fire escape with a look back to his comrade.

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes follows in his wake, her tread slow and somehow relaxed; she steps down the fire escape with what is likely a lot more care paid to her footing than is necessary.

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features shuffles down the fire escape and in through the window, offering a hand to pull her in as he glances down the hallway in a paranoid fashion. He seems to bite his lower lip with some anxiety, the shot of vodka earlier apparently losing its calming effects.

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes takes the offered hand with a quiet word of thanks and steps through the window, standing beside him with a close look at his face—particularly the expression on it. "You alright, Cay? You kind of look like you're expecting something."

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features looks at her, appearing to relax somewhat by her question. "Just… Natural paranoia, you know? Mix it with adrenaline.. It's like I'm expecting cops to come busting up stairs to do door to door raids, even though we know that won't be the case.." He glances back down the hall towards his room, hands folding back into his pocket. "Prison wasn't nice and I really hate the idea of going back. Let's clear the hall." There's a smile that tries to pierce through the veil of worry as he turns his face from her and in the direction of movement. Even with the explosion the hall manages to be undisturbed, giving the sense of how ghostly the projects really are.

She gives him a quick nod to show she understood his sentiment, even if on this one, she couldn't really relate. As he walks she falls into tread beside him, managing to keep up in speed if not stride for stride. "You ever thought about leaving the projects?" she asks mildly, slipping her hands into her rear pockets and walking with them like that. "To live in your downtime, at any rate. I mean, I get the feeling this is the best spot to be for keeping an eye out. That's why I came here to begin with. But having someplace to go that isn't right smack in the middle of the workplace might be… I donno. Theraputic. I'll go with theraputic."

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features pops open the door, laughing as she asks about leaving. "LA is all I know lovely. Maybe it would be therapeutic.. But if I start enjoying too much, branching out.. I could leave myself open, you know? Maybe if we hit it real big and could hit empire status.. Cause then everyone would be in our pockets. I wouldn't have to worry. As it stands, I'm a hustler with a lot of heat." He takes a quick step into the room, standing off to the side to let the brunette enter.

The girl walks ahead of him into the apartment, tugging one hand out of her pocket to run the fingers back through her mousey brown hair. "Not Los Angeles, necessarily… just, you know, maybe not South Central. What I'm proposing, albeit in the most awkward way imagineable, is, well, it's kind of a bit soon and we're not what I'd call 'dating' - unless you call that a date up there on the roof, which I could see some arguments against - but I wanted to get a place somewhere else. I was thinking about Santa Monica. There's uhm… there's trees in Santa Monica, and ocean." She explains the two 'drawing points' like a travel agent, ticking them both off on her fingers. "So, I guess what I'm saying is, 'Yeah, we just met and we're not dating, but do you wanna get a place with me somewhere that's not South Central'? It'd be a spot to rent zombie movies without having to worry about actual zombies." She walks to pick up the bottle of vodka and pulls the cap off, bluish eyes scanning the floor for her shot glass. "You want another hit? Shot. I meant shot."

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features looks with a bit of inquiry as he closes the door behind her. He smirks, giving a nod for the shot. "We've got the money for it. Maybe we could just setup some false identites, play normal when we can. It's.. not awkward at all, Liz. Oceanside, view of the beach.." He walks past her, leaning over to snatch up a shot glass as he peers around for the other. The smirk expands into a full smile and his disposition becomes rather relaxed, as if the flaming inferno still isn't occurring outside. "This was just a safehouse. I'm all for Santa Monica. Zombies or no zombies."

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes manages to find her shot glass when she kicks it with her foot, chases it down as it rolls across the floor and picks it up, victorious. "Sounds like a pipe dream, doesn't it?" she asks with a smile, "I'm all for it either way. A nice super-free zone…" The bottle of vodka is poured into his glass first, then hers; she returns the bottle to him after doling out the twin shots, "..with the kind of security the White House would cream over." She holds up her glass a little in the faux-toast gesture before tossing it back, leaving a shallow film across the bottom. "Can I ask you something? I mean, feel free to say no… I'm just wondering: When was the first time you ever noticed something was not right with the world? I don't mean like, 'Man, these politicians are crooked' kind of wrong. /Wrong/ wrong. Monsters stalking around eating people kind of wrong."

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features smiles as he raises his shot glass and just as quickly downs it. "Most of our hopes are just pipe dreams." His other hand takes the vodka from her, pouring another shot for him. When its filled to the brim, he offers to pour hers. "Whatever you want, I'm in. Hell, if you said Italy, I'd probably not hesitate to go. On the latter, well, lets see.. I never thought anything was outside the realm of possibility. Especially with my gifts, when they came to development. When I realized people just couldn't see me at will.. A lot of other options become possible. Some people are so sure that nothing outside of us exists and this is all an accident. Then one day they see a spirit possess someone. That'd fuck every concept of reality they had for the most part. I basically did that - fucked myself into believing it. It just took a few years to confirm it."

A fair brunette with choppily cut layers and dark liner smudged around her eyes nods and holds out her glass for a second fill-up, holding onto it for a moment without touching the alcohol. "So it's been since you were a kid," she says dully, giving her head a slow shake as she takes a sip, rather than just throwing the whole glass back. "That sucks, honey. I mean, really. I guess some people might call it a blessing." Her narrow shoulders roll in a half-bloomed shrug and she finishes off the rest of the drink. She starts to look a little flush once the shot is finished, a bit glassy-eyed. The glass is clasped between both hands and she stares at it. "See, I usually feel kind of sorry for myself about the whole thing. Not sorry enough to put a bullet in my head or actually /do/ anything about it, but sorry. Then I start thinking about the others; you, too. The life is rough for everybody, but I sure as hell don't have it worse than anyone else. Can't imagine not having a real childhood. That's like the golden era, you know? Something to think about - the good times. I'm sorry for you."

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features lowers the bottle to his hip as he downs the shot glass. "It's genetics I've been told. Other members of my family can do the same, some have a variant of what we can do. I wish I'd met'm to actually talk about this, so far I only know what Agent Williams told me about the whole ordeal." He falls back onto the mattress centered on the living room, eyeing the fair brunette with a nod. "I stopped feeling bad about much a long time ago. I can't change it, just gotta adapt and survive. I've had a lot of fun in all the bad, so its masked my childhood. Maybe its just I never experienced it enough to know what I lost babydoll. For me though, I mean, I was pretty much destined to be this way. For you it almost seemed luck of a draw.. You're just thrown into it, its like a bullet that could've been dodged. For me, it's just always been the way."

The girl remains standing there with her empty glass for a moment or so, her typically animate expressions gone still and almost stoic with distration. "Yeah," she finally says in response, acknowledging the whole conversation with that single word of dulled agreement. Her sweater, laden with dry ash and in dire need of a wash, is pulled off and given a rapid shake; grey dust rises from the garment, but it doesn't come what one would call 'clean.' She drapes it over her forearm and looks down across her abdomen, flicking away a single lingering speck of charr from her t-shirt. She sits down on the edge of the mattress, facing the room, and covers her mouth with her hand long enough to stifle a quiet yawn. "You got a gun on you? I left mine by the computer." The question is posed like it's the most natural thing in the world to need a gun nearby, and chances are their sentiments match.

"Always. Tucked behind my back and my jeans. For once, I forgot to lock the door." He eyes up at the door as his hand slips into his jean pocket, drawing a battered pack of cigarettes where only a few remain scuffled. He stares into the box, drawing two out. He holds the pair, perhaps the only two cigs not entirely damaged in the tight space, up into a Y-Shape, leaning one in the direction of his femme fatale as an offering. "Sirens getting closer. The flames still sound massive, I'm wondering what's collateral on it. There'll probably be a door to door inquiry. Think anyone saw us?"

The girl reaches for one with a quiet word of thanks, giving him a quick wink as the cig is slid into her mouth in 'his style' - off to the side. "I bet you'd know if they had," she says, sounding thoughtful. Without further ado she kicks off her sneakers, letting the battered shoes fall into a tidy pile on the floor before lying back on the mattress with one arm folded behind her head. The other stays free, presumably for up and coming cigarette usage. "I don't think anybody did… if they had… well. Not much they could say. Two kids on a rooftop three lots over ain't a whole lot to go on. Don't be nervous, Cay. I think we're good to go on this one. Somebody comes by, well, we were here all night, and stepped on the roof for some fresh air." She chuckles a little around the filter. "I get the feeling the cops don't care much about what happens in South Central anyhow. I envision a token investigation, leading to the simplest possible solution."

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features fumbles around for a lighter, only to realize it was in the pocket of the hoodie he'd dropped to the floor. He draws it out and politely lights her cigarette, before lighting is and using his tongue to roll it over off to one side of his mouth. There's a chuckle that hits him before he collapses next to her. He lays faceup, eyes drifting off into the ceiling. "I find it funny how my paranoia just comes. I could be chill in the worst case scenario, next moment I'm havin' a fit about a police car nearby." He laughs as he takes a drag, exhaling slowly from his nostrils to create a thick rise of smoke. "I kinda hope the cops arrive, so we could attempt to make it as awkward as hell for'm when they did." His hands fold across his chest and he adopts a demeanor of authority before speaking in a mocking voice, "/I assume you're aware of the explosion across the street. At such and such time, what were you doing?/ Well, piggy, I was occupied with things you wish your wife did and your imagination couldn't comprehend. There's a reason the mattress is the center of the living room and not the coffee table."

"Being locked up would probably do that to anybody," the girl replies in a low tone to his first statement, reaching up to lightly pin the cigarette's filter after a slow drag inward, pulling it out of her mouth for the shallow breath out. Her bluish eyes flit toward him as he continues, followed by her head turning just slightly into that direction. She's unable to prevent herself from laughing, head tilting slightly back into the mattress as she does so. "Jesus," she says, shaking her head through bouts of girlish laughter, "Yeah, that'd probably send 'em down the hall saying 'thank you!' over their shoulders just to get out of the conversation."

"Better yet, if we hear a knock at the door, we need to dress down. I'll get down into my boxers, you into whatever, and we'll have a belt around my neck.. I'll find some empty bottles and we'll lay it around the room, put some Nine Inch Nails on blast. I'd even burn myself with a cigarette for effect. Take some ketchup, rub it into the wall and floor. You could claw me. Then I'd answer the door." He seems to nod with a sense of satisifaction for the idea. He draws the cigarette from his mouth as he begins to laugh with her, rolling to one side to face her. "Its nothing if it isn't traumatic."

The girl manages to get through a fair portion of his would-be plot with only laughter, but by the time he gets to the cigarette burn-hole she's made the attempt to close her lips around the cig in hand; she chokes on the little bit of smoke when steady more mirth follows and has a fair hint of difficulty responding, "..Oh… my god…" is managed, "I can just imagine the look on their faces…" With a last burst of now breathless laughter she shakes her head, turning her head toward him entirely, though her body remains face-up and in the same comfortable position with one arm folded behind her head. For whatever reason she simply looks at him for a moment, expression a bit strange through its haze of mild intoxication. Then she just smiles, the laughing a haze of quiet amusement, and releases one of the more pleasant kinds of sighs. "Christ, you're going to kill me… That was way funnier than it had any right to be."

His smile tries to rein itself back in, but any attempts at avoiding such a happy look fail miserably as he draws the cigarette back into its corner. "Unintentional, I swear. I just thought what'd be the best way to fuck with someone and it came to mind. It is most definitly not the vodka." He laughs a bit harder, giving a look towards the direction of where across the street would be at the wall, then back at her. His expression softens as his eyes look into hers. For a moment the hustler's attention is held together. When he realizes that the look broke most rules of comfort, his eyes close.

The look that should be uncomfortable is maintained on her part for a little longer than was particularly wise. When his eyes eventually close she seems able to breathe a little easier; a slow exhale follows, and she gets a bit too close to his face with her own, as though planning on doing something that would, ultimately, ruin the comfort factor once and for all. After lingering there for a mere second or two the mattress shifts as she rolls back to a face-up position, looking perplexed as she focuses on the ceiling. "Uhm," she begins, a little quieter than the norm, "G'night Cay." Without further ado she turns onto her stomach, letting one arm curve around to link about his elbow. She doesn't move save what's needed for breath for the rest of the evening.

A hazel-eyed hustler with gentle features lets her move without trying to bring attention to himself. When she settles, quietly saying her g'nights, he shifts himself beside her. His free arm slides over her hip and his hand settles on the other side. Each breath he takes slows one after the other to a nearly unnoticable pattern. "G'night Lizzie." The whisper comes soft with a tone of comfort unrevealed by the hustler before as his eyes keep close.

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