acridtongue

[acridtongue]

CLOSED FOR: @gildcdglory, juliana! LOCATION: executioner's hq, amidst the debate.

eunha wasn't the most confrontational of the lot — not verbally at least. often, he just lingered and listened. compacted information for later, stored opinions like a weapon cache. now, more than ever, he speaks his mind. juliana, notably, has her eyes on a different perspective. take the bluff between teeth and swallow ; stay complacent. it wasn't worded that way, but that's how it sounded to eunha. complacent, stationary, the worst kind of stalemate. [ Mind your anger. Focus. ]

" tell me again, why, we should take this bluff seriously? " eunha has no real authority here, no power. if anything he's who emulates the power. one direction, one word and he's swinging in whatever manner needed. just an associate on paper, but much more than meets the eye. " consider. we take it seriously, we stay ... " he feels his skin crawling, " holed up here and they take advantage anyway. nothing productive about that, nothing. just a fucking gift basket handed over. "

[acridtongue]

CLOSED FOR: @ofhurricanes, hermes! LOCATION: executioner's hq, following snake den's message.

to say eunha was on edge would be putting it too lightly. a blade fit to swing tucked tight in a scabbard, locked behind laminated glass. thoughts fire a mile a minute, both his doing and not. for once he welcomes the clamoring of noise. the levy for democracy left a sour taste in his mouth ; the concept of ideals and morals weighed against already heavy shoulders. it shouldn't be a question. what would the executioners be labeled after this? cowards. worse, ununified. wasn't acting as one body the entire fucking point?

throat burns with words he wouldn't speak, kept behind the same glass. still, he does has some things to say : directed towards at least one of them that still holds sense. " it's just ... " pacing. he's pacing, hands thrown up in the air, " what the fuck is the point — we show a bit of softness once and everyone else will take advantage of it. " words spit like acid, tongue gaining third degree burns. eunha burns. a rage like this has never been shown before, but maybe all it's needed was a little fuel to feed it. " makes us no better than the governing bodies ... tucked away in damn safehouses. " eunha finally brings his pacing to an end, turns to hermes. to the lot of them, he's just a hot-headed associate. someone with more bite and bark than necessary. " that's what the others being so complacent don't understand. give a fucking inch, take a fucking mile. "

[acridtongue]

[acridtongue]

everything and everywhere all at once, that's where eunha resided. aimless wanders into the night when there wasn't a plan in place. no responsibilities, knife absent in his hand, no bass thrumming in his ears. a perfect picture of a ghost : the boogeyman he's made himself out to be. the lonesome night gave him the perfect opportunity to not exist, despite the quiet desperate scream that wanted to.

eunha occupies his time tonight with gentle pets to one of his affectionate strays. a routine he's constructed since finding cats were partial to him. the number of mouths to feed has grown extensively, but he finds it provides a purpose on nights like these. eye casts to watch one devour it's can of food, a lofty smile against his face. it comes crashing down, as always. [ Distracted. You're being watched. ] no, he isn't. no, he isn't. the brisk isolation of the night always sparked this : bottomless, aching paranoia. his hand tears away from the purring, black cat. it didn't burn realistically, but his palm begins to sting. it's time to move on. run.

feet carry him away with haste, the idea of littering the cans of cat food at the very back of his mind. [ Distracted. You keep getting distracted. ] for fuck's sake, why was it so loud tonight? eunha's pace picks up — he isn't running, but he feels like he should be. the opposite way. wait, the opposite ... ? as much as he could push his own distorted voice from his head, ignoring the rapid racing of his heart was another thing. ( you're slipping again. old habits, old habits. all you do is run and hide, but always to the wrong places. there's danger ahead. it's tainting the air. how are you still breathing? how are you still breathing? ). a hand lifts to grind against the browbone. this wasn't that voice, but it didn't matter. he wants to snuff it beneath his fucking boot.

[ Ahead of you. Turn back. ] huh?

eunha doesn't remember turning down this street, doesn't realize how far he'd went. there's an another factor here, too: he doesn't remember seeing a body at the swing set.

( they're not real. leave. )

[ She's real. She's staring. Don't interact. ]

like a fucking fool, he steps forward. it wouldn't be his first hallucination and he's for certain it's not his last. well, maybe he's a fool for not believing the very thing that's kept his head on his shoulders. the visage is real and she's calling for him. ( calling for me? how does she know my name? ) the sing-song voice sends a chill racing down his spine. bones feel like they've been stored in a freezer. sickening familiarity ( from where? ). this isn't a stranger ( who the fuck was she? ) eunha's breath catches in his throat as feet crunch the destroyed mulch.

" what ... who are you? " words like a punch, forced from a throat closing in on itself. the hair is standing on the back of his neck. it wasn't fear of her : fear of being known. she couldn't know him, could she? maybe from a busy day at the nightclub, but ... ( you know it's not true. she wouldn't be here if it was. )

[ ... ]

( she's ███████. you know this. don't you remember ███ ? )

no, eunha doesn't. he doesn't want to. he sucks a sore into his cheek, fingers twitching with personified anxiety. " the fuck do you want? " bitebitebite, that's what he's regressing to. paranoia swims within the bottled anger, lost deep within the abyssal sea that was his body. [ DANGER. DO NOT INTERACT. ] " bit creepy you're just ... waiting for me? areyouwaitingforme? "

please, please, please let me get what i want.

Abandoned Playground 127th ST  ;  ━━━━  Harlem, New York. for @acridtongue // 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐔𝐍-𝐇𝐀.

REALITY  &  THE DELUSIONS    of  grandeur  that  Sian  wears  on  her sleeve  are  as  ANATHEMA  as  oil  &  water.  𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐓  𝐀:  the soundless maelstrom  of darkness that constantly reveals itself to her, as disjointed images assault her, memories she hasn’t ( yet? ) lived, sounds, voices, smells.  Then others that had: foxglove, delphinium, hollyhocks, lavender & a mutilated corpse, gently swinging in the warm spring breeze, your own hands stained with blood. Once upon a time, you used to shy away from the images reflexively, like a hand from a fire, but after project whispers… something in you broke and splintered & embraced whole heartedly.  (  but,  𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐓  𝐁:  there's  some  truth  displayed  in  the  omnipresence  of a body that has been torn apart  &   put back together multiple times.  scars that work as their own personal roadmap to her past,  she grasps onto memories like an OLD FRIEND ; painstakingly preserving them through the tempest in  her mind ).  So,  even  though  her  brain houses many "unrealities" & too much noise  that only she is privy to,   Sian's sharp enough to know when she's seeing something or someone that's actually tangible. 

Running into Eun-ha is unplanned in the cliche it's a small world after all sense. Which, to her, is quite boring — but beggars can't be choosers & Sian hasn't lost sight of him since. Expertly trailing behind she watches in mild fascination as he provides for various strays ( ≧∇≦ ), & dawdles around tattoo & pet shops alike. Her favorite, however, are his late night walks to everywhere & nowhere. She notes that he looks too lonely, somewhat mangy, even a little astray : & then that impetuousness kicks in, and she finds herself waiting at the abandoned playground he so often frequents during the witching hour after a week of proper stalking.

The common equipment is stained with rust, scattered dead leaves & broken cement trails. Still Sian sways gently on the neglected swing, messily chopped midnight hair flowing in the cold wind as she goes higher and higher with child-like glee.

【 He's here. He's watching. 】

Sian giggles & steels herself against the whispering voices circling her like a pack of wolves a lost fawn.

【 Do you think he's scared? 】

Don't be stupid! I'm his oneesan!

【 You've hurt a lot of people since then, killed more! Maybe he never wanted you to find him! Maybe he was running from YOU all this time! 】

❝  not. now. ❞ It comes out like a hiss. The wind whistles & howls, a high and lonely sound, frigid enough to make the soul freeze. The voices heed her command & recede to indistinct chortling. Then, she focuses back on the task at hand:

❝  come out, come out wherever you are little Eun-ha! O-tō-tooooo! i know you're out there, watching! ❞

You know because you've finally allowed him to — easily, you can sense his presence & you pray that he will approach. There's nothing to be alarmed about! You swear!

[acridtongue]

[acridtongue]

Bad and Crazy 배드 앤 크레이지 (2022) // Episode 2

[acridtongue]

there's only two psychologists that barom bothers to attend. one, for the service. a certain joy exists in watching another person ( try to ) chip away at an endless iceberg. click their pen, tap their laptop. it brings a smile to his face, strangely enough. the second ... well, they're right under his nose at all times. they try to pick and prod, but it lacks the usual stark sterilization provided in a claustrophobic office. this ... open door policy sounded exhausting to them ( there's the claustrophobia! ) it provided more room for errors, room for disaster. such was the very thing barom worked to avoid in his own profession. psychologists for opening and healing wounds, memory makers for providing them and etching them into code. that was barom's angle, at least. a psychologist isn't why he lingers in the doorway to the office, however. seeks the scarecrow — the scraggly friend in the winding cornfield. the terror's very own functioning heart, of sorts.

" full attention, that's a steep offer. " barom speaks from their lean against the doorframe. hands rest casually in pockets of pressed slacks, a picture of a well-adjusted man.

" you'll wear yourself thin if you let just anybody wander into your door at all times of the day. " one of their hands retracts from rest, points directly towards virgina. " but i bet you've convinced yourself immune to that. haven't you, dr. youngblood ? " it's inevitable : the picks and prods at her. inevitable as the smile present in each instance.

open starter ›› loading . . . virginia youngblood.

location ›› le dádele clinique, but close to closing.

the picture of unbothered, if you don't look too close. virginia with their ballpoint pen, slow to notate on the pad of paper from their previous appointments, a picture of serenity. their desk, a clean space; the walls, painted ivory-bone to be more welcoming than the blankness of white. ( upon those kinds of walls, black words tend to write themselves. falsehoods. you don't deserve to fucking be here. ) upon that immediate corner of their desk, three different vials rest, next to a benign sprayer. it is an automatic one that releases a calming combination of lavender and vanilla into the office. it paints these walls with a different smear: you are safe.

directly across from their desk, the door is propped open. they do not look up at the movement, rather continue writing. knocking their whirring, old. computer awake, to be able to digitally transcribe the day's appointments, sighing wearily. ( you are not allowed to be fucking tired. keep going. ) "don't loiter out there, come in. it's open." they are expecting walk-ins when it comes to appointments. they have those listed as an option for those who cannot bear the routine. but it's also late enough that it could be anybody. including their family-in-arms. "i was just finishing up. you'll have my full attention." as was their nature. a scarecrow is meant to be a friend.

[acridtongue]

the lines tended to blur whenever akma was in his sight. an entirely opposite force of his own, but opposites tend to clash in life. pressed together in a magnetic draw ; never quite touching but never quite separate either. that's what it felt like to loom above him, to cast a shadow that doesn't exactly obscure, but mix with akma's instead. an act of consumption. what a conundrum ; the hellmouth consumed by the devil. backwards in every way, but they seem to chase the absurdity of it. the pout earns a hum, the awfully gentle brush of fingers a tilt of barom's head. another question — akma's seeking a lot of answers tonight isn't he?

" i'm in the business of handling lost causes, akma. if i didn't find your specific case of it enjoyable ... i wouldn't entertain it. smarts has nothing to do with it. "

barom shifts on their feet, fingers lightly drumming against the outside of the thigh it rests on. how the hell could he explain something so volatile? love : the act of making it. it should be easy for a person of his merit, someone that crafts and exploits the very core of human emotion. instead, he finds his throat dry and tongue stalled. at least, until another question is posed. the answer is immediate: " no. better if you don't say that. " i'd be able to tell if you were lying, but that's swallowed down thickly.

arms encircle barom's waist, but it felt like a further ensnarement. tethered to akma in a way he couldn't voice — wouldn't. their tongue clicks, mind finally catching up to the moment. strangely, barom couldn't help but to sound a laugh. it's a low sound, more rumble than mirth. " because that's exactly what it's like to make love, immersion. " akma might laugh if they explain the concept. all poetic and saccharine. everything this pairing wasn't equipped for. fingers tense against the thigh, other hand drawing slowly up a coiled arm. slow, enticing, tender. barom's more intimate with the subject of obsession, not love, but confident he holds more experience with it than the man who stares upwards. he doesn't hold it for akma, he's certain. has to be. still, they'll try to parse it into words : try for akma, as always. " immersed in a lover's presence itself, every curve perfection or imperfection. what they mean to you. slow, sensual at the start usually up until the cord snaps and you can't take it anymore. it makes you go mad, touching wherever a hand can go. swallowing every noise — every breath drawn. " barom's hand seeks throat, loosely lets his fingers encircle like the arms around his waist. he doesn't squeeze. lingers. he wouldn't let himself be the only one snared.

" but sometimes it's the other way. so, so entranced you can't help but to collide together with a startling force. consuming, all bite. tearing off whatever separates you, it's an act of violence itself in a way. then ... it softens, melts into something fragile. it's not about the gratification — just fucking to get yourself off when you're all hot and bothered. " eyes search akma's back, seek understanding or at least a following interest. they're not sure how much they'll find, but he offers a softer edge to his eyes. another thing he couldn't help. softening edges. like offering your jugular to a knife.

" you can't make love with just anyone. " deadpanned, grave. it doesn't match the haze present in his gaze. thumb presses into akma's pulse point. revels in the pounding life it provides. tongue swipes against his bottom lip, leaning closer. drawn in, really. " it provides everything fucking you hasn't. hence the offer to ... 'roleplay' " lip twitches into a slight grimace instead of a pout, another opposite. " does that answer your question better, akma? "

well , you’d have to love me first .

he’s unaware of the pout that rests on his lips and how it’s accompanied with the softest of huffs . he doesn't want logistics and prerequisites . he wants an explanation , a dump of information dressed in metaphors and eloquent speech in the special way that only ba-rom could provide . he’d barely understand in the end — perhaps . . . have you ever considered i just wanted to hear you speak ? the sensitive notion summons a half - smile out of him , short - lived when he’s hovered over with a hand so gentle on his thigh that it almost tickles like a feather’s touch . his head falls back to meet their eyes with his own , a dance of honey and chestnut fed through heavy eyelids . i’ll mold you a memory . his pout returns . what is ba-rom to him if not a culmination of experiences and new memories to hold ? someone to take him away from the depths just to push him back in . he reaches up to sweep the other’s bangs out of their face , fingers dropping to linger on the curve of their cheek . “ do you think i can do that ? pretend to love you ? “

he searches for something in ba-rom’s eyes before the shadows clouded his own once more . “ for someone so smart , you’re putting a lot of work into a lost cause . “ that hand falls from caressing ba-rom’s cheek , as if discouraged to stay , but his arms find their way around their waist to settle them into an embrace . what was it like to make love ? hell , what was love like at all ? he quietly wonders if it’s the way his stomach never settles as he sits under ba-rom gaze , then he lets the idea leave him with a quiet exhale . “ should i say that i love you ? “ an almost timid whisper fills the air between them as his face wears an expression more curious than unsure . “ for immersion ? this is beginning to sound more like roleplay than you answering my question . . . “ he sounds annoyed , his eyes rolling , but he holds ba-rom with care , thumbs rubbing overly affectionate circles into the small of their back .

[acridtongue]

the 'or worse' is far from what eunha wants to hear. the quicker he's out of here, honestly, the better. a weary sense of dread pits in his stomach. a product of ... everything. silence plagues him while yoshi speaks and goes about his preparations. eyes flick with haste to the snap of the glove, an impulse he couldn't control. every motion following is taken as stock information. the sterilizing, the small almost satisfying click of the glasses. eunha's hackles raise further, but the fingers digging into his knee aide in his composure.

immediately he's squinting beneath the flash of the dull lamp, but he adjusts with a quickness. this was the easiest to stomach, the strobes of a nightclub besting its severity. ( push-and-pull are the sensations ; trust and the lack thereof. it wasn't yoshi's fault, really, but the misfortune of his profession falling in line with the worst of his nightmares. ) a glance towards his tools and then a swallow of his words. ... pretty little head? he has to hold back a bark of laughter, only lets a snort sound instead.

" flattery will get you everywhere. " it's playful, but it's meant to bite. eunha's already shifting, but stiffens once the cool metal a screwdriver touches his temple. the memory swims back to him, like a fish attempting to find it's school. ( rapidly explaining the cybernetic, where he thought the panel entry might lay. a vague construct of what little he could piece together between flashes of stark white walls and drifting subconscious. ) it threatens to engulf him, pull him under — but yoshi speaks again. his vision evens, stares a hole into the garage ceiling.

" 'cause you were too fucking quiet, yoshi. shit for bedside manners. " he snaps back immediately, flexing his fingers to his own thigh. silence begets danger and whenever he'd found himself in a like this ... warning signs blared in neon. " just tell me what you're doing. i can't see what you're doing, so just give a guy a warning would you? " he supplies no reason, applies no context. no, he couldn't. that would just open the floodgates, pose too many questions. eunha's trust in yoshi's deft fingers was more than enough. he tosses him a glance, swallows down another sting of discomfort. " not asking for special treatment here, alright? " he speaks through gritted teeth, " just ... consider it another favor. i'll return it later if i have to. "

until eunha finishes his movements, yoshi remains still. such is his way. the majority of his time spent on the strees, he paced, circled, bared his teeth. not in this place, considered his territories, marked by his symbols, by the scattered limbs of death around him. sinew and wires, wires and parts, a metaphor for the breaking-open of the self — as-fucking-if. there he remains, stationed until eunha takes what he offered as a seat. absorbing the information in that almost taciturn silence; how it is a woollen cloak, draped across his shoulders. ( he almost doesn't know what to do. because eunha is moving. mercurial. something like quicksilver in a palm. clench far too quickly and the whole fucking thing slips to the ground and vanishes forever. ) this is far too interesting for yoshi to let it vanish forever.

doctor. ( doctor. doctor. ) serving as the echo chamber yoshi is positive eunha wants. but the last thing he will do is let him know he's succeeded. in return to the repetitive nickname, he quirks his brows, widens their eyes. one of them remains fair and hidden beneath its scar tissue, which remains fair and hidden beneath its patch. yet both snap to eunha's ocular eye. the migraine within. if he stared long enough, he could peel back the skin without touching it, look at what lies beneath. ( lookatit lookatit lookatme. his mind thins into a vapour. ) "it's your fucking eye, whether you can feel it or not. there's nerves in there. you getting into shit at the club probably got a few nodules knocked loose. or worse. but don't you worry."

the shit prescribed and described, yoshi has his doubts. but about these things, he is not intending to become invested. ( danger. danger. ) in order to reach the nerves in question affecting the eyesight and pain, he would have to peel back the cover and go in with the needle-nosed pliers. he re-snaps his glove, an indication of preparation before retrieving them. sterilising them in the alcohol, wiping them off with a clean rag. the fucking hygiene. it matters. ( he can feel himself being watched. that playful little challenge, crawling up his spine at the same time. )

"let me look and i'll tell you." flipping down his magnetising lenses, which click until five times the zoom-in speed as he comes to stand beside eunha's chair. beside him. looking down at him. the light above the chair, flicked on, engulfing them both in a yellow glow. it throws their shadowy-bones into vapid, siren lighting. "patient-doctor protocol says this is all confidential. don't worry your pretty little head." it slips out. he would say it to anybody, in the dead hand or out. ( he tells himself this. ) "but you do have to stay still." a tray of other tools rests above the arm of the chair like this is a orthodontist. ( open up wide, sunshine. ) he gets the smallest screwdriver he has. his hands are steady, lowering them towards the connection point at eunha's temple. "the last time we were like this, you jostled the fuck around."

[acridtongue]

eunha was beginning to come down from the adrenaline rush — performances always set his heartrate off the charts. further than dancing around in the crowd, selecting based off of interest or worth or even levying information. regardless, he's looking for a reprieve ... and it seems he may just get one. the voice isn't rapid enough to warn him of the eyes on him, too many to shift through after the mind-numbing spins. his own seeing eye pinpoints anaïs's gaze immediately, brows lifting in quick interest. now, this wasn't her normal outing. he's moving even before the gesture translates.

" hmm, i guess i have some time to spare for you. " it's light, airy. though a sharp edge of a knife is just beneath the surface ( he wasn't all he seemed either ). that same knife drew once to carve away a few layers to anaïs ; the endless construction that she was. to say he's curious would be an understatement, he's always curious when it comes to her. he just hopes hers ( the curiosity, the sinister draw she presents ) doesn't run deeper. he sits beside her like an old friend, a certain ease in his motion. " and just ... what did i do to deserve your company tonight, ana? " head tilts, inviting the conversation.

one thing is certain, she doesn't fit the atmosphere ; all grind and howling bass. here anïas sticks out — elegant and smooth. really, he should be too, but he's crafted the perfect characteriure. " don't mind chatting, though. i'm a bit beat after ... " a hand motion towards the lifted stage, " all that. something on your mind tonight? "

                          @acridtongue

LOCATION: gravity nightclub. FOR: eun-ha song.

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 a cesspool in the advanced eyes of anaïs gossard -- where the worst of human nature comes out to play. and while she was certainly all for endless amounts of anarchy, what took place behind its walls was far more than simple godless deeds. humans were sloppy within these walls, perhaps the truest forms of themselves. overtime, however, they realized that clubs were perhaps one of the best educational opportunities the world had to offer when it came to the human condition. thus, the empress finds herself in the midst of it all. amidst the gyrating horde of flesh and bone.

she has become familiar with one dancer in particular -- eun-ha. not only is he charismatic, drawing the eye of more than one person in the room.. he has somehow become one of the few people to see past the humanity she has feigned since her creation. it is refreshing, to rip back the perfectly constructed mask. allow someone to see all the work that had gone into her.

eyes lock with his from across the room as he descends from where he's performing -- an elegant finger beckoning him to join her. " aren't you a sight for sore eyes, my dear. " anaïs eventually speaks, arms resting along the back of the booth she's seated in. " have a little time for lil' ol' me? " the smile on her face is nearly maniacal -- sinister, beckoning him to join her within her darkness.

[acridtongue]

[acridtongue]

RESPONSE TO: STARTER 001

eunha doesn't end up in bars often outside of gravity nightclub's. when he did, he often had a reason. tonight's reason was to catch his breath — time was lost and blended from his report to janus and his appearance here. in the blur, he entirely missed the presence of someone he'd ... well, for lack of better word, seen before. eunha slinks to a seat near the dart area. he can't help but to watch, his greatest downfall. there's a chrisp twenty on the line, he overheard. wonders if she'll succeed. margot's arm is steady, at least for someone he assumes has had a couple. he always has some faith in people, so he believe she'll hit the board at the very least —

[ Angle's off. Disaster — ] or not ...

eunha thinks of warning her, a choke's all that comes out as the dart flies and the angle is, in fact, off. luckily nobody is harmed ; all eyes and body parts in tact. that dartboard, however ... he snorts a little to himself before he jumps out of his skin. he didn't anticipate the exclamation. " well ... in another universe it might count. " he looks from margot to the board then slowly back. composure comes back quick for the sake of his own face. " ... maybe you should try again. y'know after you, uh, fix that. "

███████▓ 𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝟶𝟶𝟷

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: open. 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: a rundown bar. 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴: 𝟷𝟷:𝟶𝟶𝚙𝚖.

Margot has had one tequila, two tequila - not quite yet a third. Dark hues focus in on the dart board, a chip on her shoulder and twenty bucks on the line. She knows this is childish behaviour, that letting herself get tipsy when she could receive a call any minute to get her ass in gear, but - look what happened to the last guy who was all work and no play. But also fuck that movie, Margot would’ve cherished Shelley Duvall to the moon and back. The dart is cold in her hand, she knows how to throw knives at a target, so what’s the difference? There’s just less death at the end of it all… maybe. Aim, throw- and for some reason lady karma decides to fuck it all up for her. The dartboard swan dives to the ground, the nail holding it up cracking the wall as it falls, and Margot’s dart lands right where the nail had previously been. “Hey! I still think that counts!”

███████▓ 𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝟶𝟶𝟸

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: open. 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: the burnout. 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴: 𝟶𝟸:𝟶𝟶𝚊𝚖.

It’s not her night to race, but that doesn’t mean Margot is going to pass on the smell of gasoline in the air and the sound of roaring engines. If anything this is the closest she has ever got to a home, there’s no roof and a lot of drunk men placing bets to stroke egos, but it’s the one constant Margot has without a body count. She rubs her hands together for warmth but also in excitement, rocking and back and forth on her feet as if stillness itself would be a curse. She turns to the person next to her, needing to start a conversation with someone to pass the time before the flag would go down. “First time on the island? Haven’t seen you around before, and I’m sure I’d remember you.”

[acridtongue]

sometimes ... you just need a stiff drink to keep your head above water. sloane found herself unable to sleep and sleepless work often opened the door to mistakes. if she weren't careful, she could destroy herself — maybe even the people hiring the name without a face. she couldn't afford that, could she? she'll opt for the liquid courage instead, maybe enough for her to sleep. she's polite in declining help from the bartender's name she doesn't know and watching nahome appear instead, smiling for a moment. " oh, you know, was just hoping my favorite bartender could recommend me whatever's her favorite. "

that's her reply ... affable and smooth, eyes already hazy without the help. she liked nahome, but she always seemed to duck away. keep a low-profile. sloane found it admirable, really. she'd probably do the same if she had to stare drunk men in the eyes for hours on end. " something you'd drink right now. cause, damn, you look like you'd benefit from a few. "

LOCATION: olive branch. FOR: open! ( 0/5 )

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 going to work most certainly commonplace -- it was nothing like the anguish nahome experienced when preparing to enter the olive branch. not only did she have the tasks that were written within her job description -- making drinks, keeping a clean and polished bar -- but she was also tasked with keeping her ear open. residing in the city that never sleeps certainly wasn't cheap, and a bartender's salary most certainly could not cover every bill, every debt to be paid. thus, she knew it was best to keep her head down, mov through the night swiftly and without incident. don't be a disruption. it was easier that way, both upon her sanity and the other half of her livelihood.

" just doing my rounds -- " nahome begins, placing the fresh stock of liquor upon the counter having just emerged from the back room. it seemed that they were " is my coworker taking care of you -- or can i get you something? "

[acridtongue]

" dungeon ... come on, in this day and age? " sloane speaks with an air of bemusement, not sharing the cold and steadfast air tamsin exudes. it was dangerous to tangle herself in the walking red string which connects evidence, but the thrill was too engulfing. fingers thrum against her half-empty coffee cup, follows the tune of the background music. " ah, my wants aren't as important as yours. aren't you the one ... how can i put this? " 'seeking me', she says to herself. trying to get the mole that was sloane ryder out of her dungeon. she wasn't interested until tamsin's tenacity poured, endless like the lost fountain of youth.

a smile, a tut of her tounge: " you're looking for me. i think you're the one who wants something, don't deflect. " sloane ... does want something, but she hasn't decided what yet. " i'm just throwing you a bone. showing off my face so you don't forget it. so ... what do you want, miss chief detective? "

the coffee at the slow down has never been a match for the cafe right by harlem. she can remember spending her days after school there, a small hole-in-the-wall cafe with a smell that hits you right in the face as soon as you walk in. that alone might be enough to wake her up, but she's going on almost twenty hours with no sleep, so she figures it might be best to get the coffee. it's nice to reminisce, regardless - to see the tables she'd sat at so many years ago with her friends, by herself, with nahome - to see the owner a little more grayed and still as friendly as the stray cats you see roaming around, it brings her an odd sense of peace for someone who has been notoriously so hellbent on erasing every part of her past to rewrite a new future.

the voice that rings out doesn't click automatically. call it denial, sleep deprivation, whatever. hearing her name on the woman's lips is foreign, a stranger only in the flesh. tamsin knows more than she'd like to about her, has only just recently placed a face to a name, an enigma behind a screen that shows up only when it suits her. it startles her - tamsin doesn't much like being caught off guard. she stands there, coffee cup burning her palm as she watches sloane, emotionless. her curiosity wins the better of her in the end. she sits across from her carefully, weighing her words on her tongue to see what fits right. "so you decided to crawl out from your dungeon - or wherever you hide. i must be special, hm?" she tests the waters, gaze lifting from the table to the woman before her, unflinching and undeterred. "what do you want?"

[acridtongue]

[acridtongue]

CLOSED FOR: @burninqhill, tamsin! LOCATION: a inconspicuous coffee shop,

this wasn't where sloane typically got her coffee. in fact, it was well out of the way of her usual stop. she preferred hers sweet — an herbal mix like lavender syrup. her cup is half full by the time her company enters the shop ( tamsin doesn't know she's sloane company, not yet. it's exactly what she wanted, though ). her eyes watch tamsin with intrigue, noting her gait and the sleepless daze to her eyes. oh, she's one of those. relies on other means to keep herself upright throughout the day.

sloane waits. perches, really. she's made herself obvious enough at with the table closest to the door, positioned to be seen on exit. it works exactly to her plan. tamsin has her coffee, tamsin has her meeting again. her voice rings in a friendly tune and like she'd greet a dear friend. " oh, you come here too? i never would have guessed. " playful and light, her smile is clear behind the coffee cup she lowers from her mouth. " why don't you sit with me, tamsin. coffee loves company. "

[acridtongue]

WATCH YOUR STEP, OR YOU'RE GONNA FALL APART ...

* ◟: 〔 KRYSTEN RITTER, CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER 〕 sloane ryder , some say you’re a thirty-nine year old lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both supportive and deceiving, one can’t help but think of youth knows no pain by lykke li when you walk by. are you still a capo, hacker for hire for the burning gods, self-employed, even with your reputation as the fixer? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and the electrical cords and their soft vibrations raise the hair on the back of your neck, floppy disks littering the floor — once archaic but now a safe guard for information best kept close to the heart, digital footprints can say many things about the type of person you are and some people create an entire list of references, although we can’t help but think of CLARA LILLE ( WATCH DOGS ) + NEAL CAFFREY ( WHITE COLLAR ) + SOMBRA ( OVERWATCH ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

... HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER INSIDE THE DARK.

TW: MURDER MENTION, MISSING PERSON.

BASICS

full name. sloane ryder nicknames. the fixer, PR0PH3T3SS online. date of birth. september 14th. zodiac. virgo. age. 39 gender. ciswoman. pronouns. she/her. sexuality. bisexual ( woman leaning ). occupation. capo for the burning gods, hacker/mercenary for hire.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

height. 5'10". hair color. black. eye color. hazel. build. lithe and spindly, very minimal curves. tattoos.   a singular tattoo on her wrist. ref01.

PSYCHE

stability. scarily stable. intelligence.  above average. positive traits. supportive, quick-thinking, alluring. negative traits. deceitful, vindictive, stubborn. alignment. chaotic neutral. temperment. melancholy-phlegmatic. sins.  lust / greed / gluttony / sloth / pride / envy / wrath. virtues.  chasity / charity / temperance / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice.

AESTHETICS

the one that seems to know everything and how to get it ; you can't escape her, a collection of computers and old hard drives, a caring nature scarred by a traumatic experience, work comes with a price and quality is dependent on the pride, your importance is based on how useful you are, a girl once soft turned hard.

FACTS DUMP - TW: DEATH MENTION, MISSING PERSON.

normal art kid in her teens + early 20s who turned to hacking and extorting after the disappearance of her sister. She thought her sister told her everything and that she was just a Havard law bound student: but she was involved in an intense hacking ring called liminal space. they blackmailed and extorted high profile targets and even involved themselves in paid kidnappings of business figures. Sloane got into contact with a friend of cybils trying to figure out what happened to her and went down a rabbit hole.

Safe 2 say she figured out her sister kept secrets and lied to her about her life and to their parents; had a forged Harvard invitation and was planning to move out east. However, she never moved since her friend was still around and meant to follow her.

Sloane took up learning hacking/computers through her friend and got involved in the cyber scene that way. Eventually figured out liminal space was harassed by a rival group and many members were taken and never heard from again. The friend Sloane worked with turned out to work with them and tried to kill her, but she ended up winning the altercation and doing so instead. She stole all of his shit and equipment and made a run for it and made a name for herself online as PR0PH3T3SS and obsessed over discovering the secrets to liminal space as a group and the disappearances.

She's still trying to tie the pieces together but is using her time to hack and expose secrets much like her sister and in her sisters name --- bringing to light any and all corrupt names and after learning how to handle firearms and track even taking to hit markers. She's called THE FIXER bc she takes up hired gigs for people if it's to her standards. Bright eyed girl turned cold and deceitful--- hates 2 be lied to but finds power in secrets. Works for the burning gods and has been for awhile and eventually got to CAPO position.