malo-le-squer

[malo-le-squer]

"I'm no scientist, but I believe it has to do with the amount of people in here. Body temperature, and what not," he's perched on the roof of a car, feet on the windshield which he feels is an appropriate use of a Tesla Model 3. Resting his forearms on his knees, Malo looks up at the night sky. Not a single star in sight. Not that he's used to seeing them. His family navigated between Paris and London when he was a child. He couldn't have been able to tell the difference between the two dippers if he saw them in the sky.

"I could be wrong though. Like I said, I'm no scientist," he yawns. The smell of marijuana fills the air. He's not going to try to conceal it. It's not like he's gonna get in trouble for it. The owner of the club, and the car owes the Jabberwocks a lot, and he's here to remind them of it.

OPEN STARTER

Not having a home meant that Bo could always be on the road, they had a backpack that held everything they could ever need, they rented places, clothing, bikes, and so forth. Whenever they had money to stay at a hotel, they'd make sure to wash all their clothes and soaks in a bath for as long as possible.

Anyone who met them on the street would not suspect that Boudhayan had no home to call their own, they simply came off as someone mysterious who was always typing away on their laptop and drinking coffee, and who was shy when spoken to.

Except at the clubs, when all their belongings were stowed away in some locker, and they had the freedom to move around without having to worry how far they strayed away from their spot. They were sweaty and hot and in need of fresh air and water, making their way outside of the club with a bottle of water - no cap - and took a few sips. "It's bloody hot in there," they said, brushing the sweat from their brow. "And freezing out here."

[malo-le-squer]

This place was the furthest thing from hip, as the boomers would say. Plastic trays ? Weren't they trying to save the planet ? How tone deaf. Malo still would have to walk in because she was here, at long fucking last. Her schedule was not much of a riddle but he couldn't be arsed to get a copy of it, not when this would be a matter of a couple of days.

He had walked up to the counter and figured out easily enough that he would have no luck ordering an iced chai or matcha latte, respectively with oat or coconut milk. That was rather disrespectful of the place, but Malo settled for a proper cup of tea, with a dash of milk and peach scones that looked quite appetizing. He picked up the cup and the plate from the tray, serving his most sugar sweet smile to the waitress before he found his way to her.

"The seat's free," it was an affirmation, not a question, but for him to sit down without waiting for her response wasn't that strange per se. They were in London. Plenty of weirdos around here.

"It's going to be a nice day," he stated. He had his Persol sunglasses hooked to his collar. Evidently, his job paid well. That was the least he could say. "Don't you agree?"

who: Olivia & Malo @malo-le-squer where: Somewhere between Covent Garden and Islington when: A Wednesday morning.

The early morning shifts were always the worst. It wasn't just that Olivia missed the warm comfort of her bed, but for some reason, those five-thirty a.m. starts always felt like the day would drag on without an ending in sight. Unlike the Saturday afternoon shift where they had a smaller window to clear up between shows. Those flew by. On the plus side, the traffic was light on her way to work, and when she left a few hours later at nine a.m the city was coming back to life. Her favourite place to stop for breakfast on her way back home was open. The small family-run cafe was quaint, and thankfully much cheaper than the majority of the newer more modern locations. It was often full of construction workers lining up dressed head to toe in hi-vis gear to order their bacon or sausage baps and a coffee so they could waste an extra thirty minutes before actually doing any work. Sometimes, if Olivia were lucky, they'd be on their way out just as she went inside. Today wasn't one of those days. She waited in line at the counter, her eyes scanning the menu to see if there was something in particular that might excite her taste buds. When she reached the counter she ordered the sweet potato breakfast hash and a cup of tea with just a dash of milk. It didn't take long for the food to be prepared and passed over to her on a blue plastic tray, and Olivia carried it over to a small, empty booth where she could enjoy her breakfast in peace.

[malo-le-squer]

send ACHIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they completed / achieved something they were proud of

These people always thought they were smarter, better than the rest. The lack of self awareness was how they usually slipped back on his radar. Malo's employers weren't precisely impatient when it came to money. They were so damn rich it would have taken a miracle for the family to ever go bankrupt. He didn't believe in those, never had. He knew he'd never do well academically, and so he didn't wait on a miracle and pulled himself out of that system.

This was where he belonged.

Perched on the back of a cushioned seat, Malo was taking a look at his surroundings, he was listening closely. This wasn't an awful place to stay but to someone like his target, you might as well have lived in a cage, like a rat. And his target was no rat, was he ?

Malo glanced back toward the chair, the drawn curtains, the dim light from a candle licking at the target's feet. Thomas. The name had been discarded in a foreign part of his brain. These people had no names, no faces, just wallets. His job was to force them to open it. Their wallet, their mouth. This one hadn't been easy to find, he would have thought it would take much longer for him to give him access to his bank accounts. He'd be disappointed the party's over if he didn't take great pride on wasting no time. "You should leave London for a while." Eternity, ideally.

He stands up and the man begs. There's mixed blood and spit dripping from his chin, tears on his cheeks. Malo remains expressionless, picking up the candle from beneath his soot covered feet. Stubborn motherfucker has blisters on his soles. "I booked you a ticket for Zagreb. Your plane leaves in 5 hours." That gave the guy enough time to burn his restraints off and fuck off. "Or you can stay here. I'll find you if you do."

[malo-le-squer]

"My way of protesting the established order is not chanting stupid slogans with a rhyme, for sure," he didn't precisely owe the other an explanation and he didn't have to justify himself. He knew what he was capable of but was also aware that most people disapproved that kind of behavior, this sort of defiance against a system they often found comforting or comfortable. "I'd do something graphic, that leaves a stain on people's minds as much as it does the pavement or the walls." He hung out with a couple street artists, some who glued their artwork all over the city, some who painted it, the former was quicker, idéal. Then there was showing up dressed as a horse rider, covered in blood, bringing horses, also covered in blood, along to the protest... He had ideas. "That's all you need to know."

"Oh you're a doctor ? You sure you don't want to go ask politicians what they're going to do about our public hospitals?" With a small, boyish grin, he turned his eyes away from the protest to look at the older man. "Me, I like contradictions. Nothing else," he liked them as much as he enjoyed keeping his life private. "Your evening sounds dreadful. You'd have a better time wining and dining me," he stated next, because that was true, and because he wanted to have a bit of fun too.

"It's a protest. I've seen people more worked up about fucking football. You don't get places with that sort of energy, is all I'm saying," though if you asked him, there were more urgent things to stop than horses on a track : the steady destruction of freedom and the trampling of human rights seemed more important to him than idiots losing money over an horse's performance.

Glancing over his shoulder at the guy talking to him, Malo raises his eyebrows. He definitely looks like someone who'd rather be elsewhere. Pity on the both of them, heh? "You could just take off your jacket. I'm sure you'd look just as nice without it," the younger man gazes through his fox mask at him, lips curling with amusement. "So why are you here, my dear unfortunate companion? Your wife dragged you here to take pictures ?" You know the sort : perfectly curated Instagram life, absolute train wreck behind closed doors.

[malo-le-squer]

His eyes bore the jadedness characteristic to his youth, it seemed. Malo would have called it experience. He looked at the way she had turned his way and his small smile seemed close enough to mockery then. Calm down, Annabelle, he thought. She wore a boar mask, he wore a fox one. The whole damn forest was in here though they had chosen different sorts of killers as their disguise. Brutal defensive force opposed to hungry cunning ruses. Only one of them hunted to feed themselves, hypothetically. He didn't know her but she had this predatory quality to her. It struck him in the way she chose to move, to step into his personal space with a smile that he found hungrier than he found it kind.

"So I know every little nook and corner, every crevice and hole," he confirmed flickering eyes observing her. "Why? Were you hoping for a tour of the premises?" Absolutely not, though he knew how to make one feel exclusive.

"Spoken like a cat owner," he smiled slowly and finished his near empty glass. He was all too familiar with those scents and the vinegar was one that made him sick to his stomach. "But you're being a tad dramatique," he spoke the last word in French as if this gave him magically the sort of palate for any sort of food. His father's language wasn't foreign at all to him, and with his old man being a pastry chef, he only had ever been exposed to properly cooked food. It was the one thing he could get posh about.

Not an old woman with crippling potential, but still, company was company, Yelena supposed.

Her whole body twisted, suddenly and in something akin to a horror picture. A violent little jump scare that she reveled in. She smiled at him, from below the curling tusks of her boar mask. The rest of her was graveyard still.

"Oh really?" Yelena said, suddenly interested, ignoring his opening statement entirely. "-so you know all the little, tiny hidey holes here?" Behind the mask, eyes dark and terrible, narrowed ever so slightly. Her smile remained the same though. Stretched and unnerving. She saddled a little closert to him "-you should show me sometime." Her voice lowered and she flashed him her teeth. A sort of grin.

"Bah-" Yelena waved her hand dismissively then, scoffing. "-it smells like vinegar and piss. How would it taste any different?"

[malo-le-squer]

"You spilled your wine," he deadpans. She doesn't seem happy to be here. This instantly makes her someone he wants to chat with. Who knows, maybe he won't die of boredom tonight after all. Eliza's god fucking knows where and he's not popular enough with most of the guests. Worst case scenario, she's a fucking bitch and he threatens to propose to her, as one should upon meeting someone instable and troublesome, or something. Don't ask him where he read that.

"Where would you suggest I get lost. I am unfortunate enough to know these grounds like the back of my hand," and yet, it's clear he shouldn't be here. Scoffing, Malo picks up a glass of wine from a waiter passing by, to have a taste. If Viktor picked it... It's actually not bad, but she must have her reasons to be upset, or picky. Whichever it is, he's happy to make her day better or worse. "You shouldn't always trust your nose. Tastes different than it smells."

Open! Location: Liddell Hippodrome

Yelena wasn't great at this sorta thing. At caring.

Crowds and music and flashy wealth never sat right with her. It was all a bit much. A bit too in her face. A bit too chastising. She thought back to the fucking disaster of an apartment she grew up in, how wires hung loose from the ceiling like big bright snakes. How they couldn't use the freezer because rats had built a nest in it. How Oksana hadn't bothered to fix any of it.

Yelena glanced across to the long tables over laden with food, lobster tails and caviar on silly little crackers, and thought explicitly, of burning the whole Hippodrome to the fucking ground.

She made a noise then, a deep grumble of disapproval in her throat and then, stalked away from her little vantage point over the main floor. She was handed a glass of wine by a waiter, and upon a closer inspecting sniff, Yelena decided it was no better than dog piss in a nice glass.

She promptly dumped it on the floor and wondered if she hung around long enough, would she see some snotty old-money bat slip, trip and crack a hip on it.

"Get lost-" Yelena said suddenly, aware of the presence at her side. She was still holding the empty glass, her grip tight around the slim stem. She didn't bother looking, didn't bother doing much other than stare at the puddle on the floor and pick absently at the scab on her eyebrow, a pretty little souvenir from her last gig.

[malo-le-squer]

"Now now, is this a way to talk for the highly esteemed Zoya Liddell?" He glanced at the blonde woman, a slow smile spreading obscenely over thin lips. Behind his mask, Malo felt just a bit more confident than he usually would, and he already had too much of it in a normal setting. Maybe this was the one thing he had inherited from the Le Squers. They might have removed him from the family, he still was one of them, bold, tenacious and cocky. Inevitable, he supposed, given he was half French. "Pray tell, why are you so invested in what might be up my arse?" He wasn't particularly shy on private subjects, but the Liddells, safe from Eliza, were usually safe from hearing about it. They were his boss, and you didn't talk about that shit with your boss, least you want to end up under the desk or in a utility closet with them.

"As made obvious by the ... Clothes on my back," far away from his usual uniform. Less Kurt Cobain and more Miles Kane tonight, he supposed. He didn't hate on the latter's style, not at all, but he did feel more at ease when lost in his oversized clothes. "You look like a goddess, as per usual," he wasn't being flirty there, only truthful. "You're bound to stay in everyone's mind," his comment came with a small smile, as though he felt sorry she had to deal with this. He crushed the end of his cigarette under his (shiver) loafer, and stuck his hand in his pocket. "Anyone in particular you want me to keep an eye on?" That would keep him busy, and he had a nice set of ears.

She wasn't looking for anyone in particular, but in her movement through the space, Zoya ended up alongside Malo and didn't seem to find him as offensive as some might. Even with his comment, she managed a slow loft of her brow, clearing her throat after a moment, reaching out to snag a drink off a passing tray and offering it to him, "You know... you would have a lot more fun if you relaxed and let go of whatever it is that crawled up inside you and died."

The comment was said without malice or venom and was merely a statement. Not a command, not a directive, not even a chastisement... just a soft comment. Zoya was here for the potential bougie clientele that she could use to further her own pursuits.

Oh, and family — right, she's here for family.

"Did they make you dress up?"

[malo-le-squer]

"I guess. Sounds and looks like a waste of time to me," but what did he know ? "You really think they're gonna end horse racing when it's a world wide spread activity?" At least the horses were treated like royalty around here.

"What?" He glanced down at his suit. It had the benefit of being a lot more comfortable than your regular suit, but he would have felt a lot more at ease in regular clothes. He felt as though he was wearing a costume, and the mask was the part he minded the least. "If you're itching to get me out of my suit, you can just ask Dara dear," he teases, sparing her an amused glance before he turns on his heels and offers his forearm to her. "We better get back to the hippodrome before Papa Liddell catches us here."

"Everyone's got to do something with their spare time," Dara remarked idly as she sidled up beside Malo, her eyes lingering on the scene outside. Signs and posters accompanied the impassioned chanting. If it wasn't one thing people were upset with, it was something else. There was simply no pleasing everyone. Though it was rather curious how this protest was happening today of all days. Turning away, she took a sip of her champagne. "Surely someone's called authorities to rid of them by now."

Finally looking at Malo, Dara chuckled to herself. "And you look like you're itching to get out of your suit already."

[malo-le-squer]

"It's a protest. I've seen people more worked up about fucking football. You don't get places with that sort of energy, is all I'm saying," though if you asked him, there were more urgent things to stop than horses on a track : the steady destruction of freedom and the trampling of human rights seemed more important to him than idiots losing money over an horse's performance.

Glancing over his shoulder at the guy talking to him, Malo raises his eyebrows. He definitely looks like someone who'd rather be elsewhere. Pity on the both of them, heh? "You could just take off your jacket. I'm sure you'd look just as nice without it," the younger man gazes through his fox mask at him, lips curling with amusement. "So why are you here, my dear unfortunate companion? Your wife dragged you here to take pictures ?" You know the sort : perfectly curated Instagram life, absolute train wreck behind closed doors.

"What's the matter? All I see is a well-managed crowd," Demir said. He wasn't a stranger to walking by protests outside the hospital and didn't feel a particular way about them. At the very least nothing was being thrown and no one managed to slip past the barriers.

"Although, I'd rather be wearing the jacket of the one in the front," Demir said while frowning at one of his lapels. He grew to hate suits a little less over the past couple of years, but he still felt like suits and these events were a waste of time. Why couldn't the hospital just call their donors rather than put on elaborate shows and accept invitations? It wasn't like anytime he walked up to a donor that they were expecting anything less than formal niceties before the conversation inevitably turned to numbers.

[malo-le-squer]

"Just call me boring, bitch," he reached out to nudge her side. "Stop thinking about the next mask you're gonna steal and pay attention to me," because how could that prospective be more interesting than his recollection of a boring job. "Could have been both, but I was talking about work here," with a sigh, he rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand.

"Point being, it was boring and I think he emptied his own child's education savings account to pay his debt. 1/10, would hire a Jolly Roger to end his life because he doesn't deserve better than that," an anti climatic death for a boring, terrible man.

Worst of all was perhaps the fact that he couldn't find any decent street food in the guy's neighborhood, though he kept that sad detail to himself. "If they were clever, they'd pretend to attend the event and then protest inside the hippodrome," but that meant being clever. Science-fiction then.

"I'd kiss your brother's ass. He's good looking. Old, but good looking." Of course he only said that because he knew she'd react strongly to the suggestion. "Though I think he's not a huge fan of me. Talk about lacking taste."

“Wait is this your hook up from the other night or the guy from a job?” Eliza’s only half paying attention, scanning the crowd for her next target – there’s a golden mask on some drunken man that will look far better on her. But Malo is here now, and offers far more fun than vaguely fantasizing about theft, so she focuses back in on her friend. “Oh that’s what it was? I thought they were pissed they couldn’t get in. What are they protesting this time? Has Vikkie been committing atrocities or is it the horses?”

“Both, maybe, but the masses will take any excuse to kiss my brother’s ass for a little taste of Liddell favor.”

[malo-le-squer]

"Fair enough. I could be anywhere else but here," except Papa had invited them, and you didn't turn down your boss' invitation, even when you were a complete twat like yours truly. "So here we are, watching horses run around and wearing stupid clothes that cost more than most people's yearly rent," he glanced over his shoulder. People were roaring with outrage in the bleachers behind. Surely the favored horse hadn't done as well as expected. Or something. He didn't really know enough about these things. Eliza had attempted educating him on the matter somewhere around 4am at a party, right when people were contemplating either going to sleep or waiting til morning to go get some breakfast and a shit load of coffee. "Nah, they're just the sort of people that brings their kids to protests, like they're subversive enough for cops to bat an eye at them," speaking of, there's a bunch of them around. He's seen a few uniforms. That's to be expected with the sorta important schmucks they have here tonight. "Caught a glimpse of the fat cats yet?"

Babysitter had been a fine title when Sefa had been a plucky 15-year-old shadowing his Jabberwock-loyal father and doing what he could to get in the Liddells good graces, usually watching the crimson siblings while atrocities were being planned and executed. However, 30 years later as Viktor's right hand, he's still making the rounds to do a headcount and make sure no ones getting themselves into trouble yet and he can feel himself unable to escape it. It's not his fault that he's old, tired, and works with fucking children. Hopefully today they could hold it together.

"... And? You're not wrong, but there must be a better way to spend your time than glaring at people already trying to bring the mood down." Sefa just sighs, moving behind Malo to watch the protest himself over his shoulder for a moment then looking down with a raised eyebrow. "They even barely look like they belive what theyre saying, probably just paid to stand there and give us bad press.

[malo-le-squer]

Closed starter for Eliza @elizade-vil Rosalina Julietta Carolina Liddell

"It was a bit boring honestly. Guy pretended to put on a tough act for a rough 0.3 seconds," you could hardly say that Malo had a terrifying presence, even if that was something he used to his advantage. Most did not expect it.

He sighed, flopping onto his back on the cushiony chairs they had set up for the important guests. He hadn't paid to be up here, and as such, he thought that should have earned him ten more seats than the idiots who did. "You've seen the protest in the front? The anguish." And by this, he meant, the absolute cringe.

"People really get so excited about horses or they're just here to lose money and get drunk?"

[malo-le-squer]

"I thought you liked my incisiveness," or maybe that was just Eliza. Not that you could ever confuse one Liddell for another. There was papa Viktor, mid life crisis Max, phantom of the Opera Niko, and his favorite, Miss Elizavetha Caterina Beatrizia Paloma Liddell. "What do they think they're gonna change with their cute little slogans? Fuck all."

Eyes turned toward them again and what else could he do but smile. He could have glared, but that was like admitting he felt threatened by their gaze. Absolutely not.

"I came up with several. He didn't even reply to any of them." Instead he had sent one of his goons in a tailored suit. He had to give it to Mr the monarch, he knew how to annoy Malo.

Perhaps this was why he had bothered showing up at all, or... "Your sister's here."

The hall was already insufferable with chatter and bodies clamoring about. If not for his mask obscuring half of his face, someone would have made some sort of smarmy remark about his attitude. As it stood, he managed to use a few select people as a social shield. One of those people was Malo until Malo decided to comment on the crowd. A few eyes glanced towards them.

Nikolai stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and fixed Malo with a stare. "What exactly is pathetic to you? The protesters or the more self-important of our guests?" Nikolai asked, eyes shifting in the direction of a few government officials with their security surrounding them. "You know, I know why I have to be here, but you couldn't have came up with an excuse?"

[malo-le-squer]

[malo-le-squer]

Where: The Hippodrome's hall. When : 6pm

He'd rather be out there with the protestors. It's a bit too quiet, and those sorts of events are the perfect opportunity to cause mayhem, or push inebriated, chaotic or more revolted members of the mob into crossing the line. It usually doesn't take much, and he adores that sort of energy, to see a switch being flicked within a person, from docile to freed.

"Fucking pathetic," he finally comments. Because they aren't doing shit other than yelling cheesy slogans they must be oh-so-proud of (like a middle schooler who managed to put a pun in his science presentation). How fucking comical. When has comedy ever changed shit. Fucking clowns. Hands stuck in his pockets, he glares at the crowd, disgusted. It doesn't help that he's forced to dress up on those sorts of events. He's fine in graphic worn out tee-shirts and old jeans, but then he would not fit in.

[malo-le-squer]

Full name | Aliases: Malo Philippe Maurice Le Squer | Jack of Swords Gender | Sexual orientation: Cis man | Bisexual Date of birth | Age: April 11 | 28 Place of birth: London, Richmond Current residence: A (small) flat not too far from work, top floor of the building Occupation | Affiliation: Debt collector | The Jabberwocks Relationship status: Single.

POSITIVE: tenacious, observant, quick thinking, imaginative, incisive, levelheaded NEGATIVE:  cruel, aggressive, reserved, impulsive, volatile, obsessive, blunt, tenacious

➵ Harry (44), Lucas (38) Clémentine Le Squer (34) : Siblings, WC ➵ Philippe Le Squer : Father, pastry chef @The Connaught ➵ Kate Le Squer (née Mac Allister) : Mother, reception manager @The Connaught

They lived in Richmond and they both worked in the same palace, a play in Mayfair where the rich, the famous, the influential people of this world would come and go, spending without care someone's yearly salary in a week, or an afternoon. Some aspects of their job were rewarding. They were esteemed by their employer, but you never knew when a customer would make a demand that was so capricious you spent the afternoon working on it.

You couldn't be patient with everyone, there came a time where you snapped. They snapped quite often at their youngest child, who had the misfortune of not wanting to follow the path they had traced for him. By the time he reached high school, his older brother was working at HSBC, Lucas had just signed a contract with a law firm, and his sister was on her way to become someone in the world of cooking. As for Malo, he didn't give a shit about his future or their aspirations and by the time he reached majority, he had already a series of misdemeanors on his record : vandalism, trespassing, intimidation, physical violence ... Needless to say he didn't finish high school with his classmates, but in juvenile detention. That's where he was first acquainted with the Jabberwocks.

Out of spite, he wanted to show his parents that he could do so much better than them without following their stupid fucking path. He didn't need their help, and he didn't care if people got hurt. People always got hurt, they just were too stupid to notice it until it was too late, or worse yet, they thought they were weak, inapt, useless, just because they couldn't keep up, just because their back caved in under the pressure. What kind of fucking system would condemn fishing food out of supermarket trash yet decide it was legal to install anti homeless spikes, as if they were pigeons you didn't want shitting on your window sill. What kind of society valued money more than it did their fucking people?

And they all happily bowed their neck with the hope of getting a bit of that sweet money in return. They made him sick.

The Liddells might have been just as despicable as the rest of them, they offered him a way to show his parents how well he was doing, for the low low price of his soul. He'd never been religious. It was fine. And he liked it.

[malo-le-squer]

He looks like he's on a catwalk. 🎥