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[ratsseau-blog]

Sleep had never been a friend to Lucien. It refused to come to him at night when he was a child, lying in his too-small bed staring at the crucifix mounted above his head leaving him to catch up-skirt glimpses of his supposed Lord and Savior in the last hours of his holy life. Twenty years later, Lucien and Sleep still had become no better acquainted. And he no longer had the private regions of a dying Jesus Christ to explore to keep him entertained.

Instead, he laid on his back on his unkept mattress, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the sun to rise. Until his last cigarette dwindled down to nothing, forcing him out into the open air of a sleepy Paris night. He didn’t bother pulling on the presentable costume of a suit and tie for a midnight run to a 24-hour store. Instead he wore baggy sweatpants with uncountable holes and a torn, stained t-shirt. This skin that more suited his character than the one he wore during the day.

He hadn’t expected to see familiar face. And yet, she was here. Speaking softly as he approached. Perhaps both had hoped to go unnoticed. But it was too late for that now. “You’re quite drunk,” he stated softly, stepping to her side. An urge to touch her shoulder was stifled by a need to not startle her. “We should get you home safely, yeah?”

date: august 5th time: 10:07pm location: outside the chaney hotel status: open

It was rather nasty of her and she knows it, but she had stayed seated in the little plush corner booth right up until the very minute the staff had come over and oh so gingerly – so as not to OFFEND, of course, by now the full time staff all knew she was dating the boss’ son – asked her to leave because they were closing up for the night, offered to walk her to her room or check her into one. She had very seriously considered it; not that it was a particularly LONG drive back to her place for the evening, but just something about that big, empty house tonight just seemed so daunting. Her feet ached, her back hurt, she couldn’t feel her calves, her throat was raw; really, all she wanted was a bubble bath, a face mask, and to take off her bra as soon as possible. Dress rehearsals were getting to her something AWFUL. They were her first of this caliber, and she didn’t know that she was truly prepared.

But for the moment, this little lightweight has had THREE glasses of rosé too many, and she’s leaning up against the facade of the hotel, heels in one hand and her head in the other. She feels someone approaching and, without opening eyes squeezed shut, she assures them, “No, I’m FINE, I’m not loitering, I’ll be gone in a minute, I just needed to catch my breath.”

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remybourque‌:

‘ monsieur lucius, ’  she concludes, confidently. the polite smile now a permanent fixture on her face, she wonders what to do from here. exiting situations was never her strong-suit, often admittedly resulting to rambling whenever she could to avoid an awkward silence. those were like hell to her.  ‘ yes, but could you imagine the obituary ? ’  remy gives off a breathy laugh,  ‘ mademoiselle remy bourque, only aged twenty-three, was tragically killed in a horrific traffic accident caused by the overcrowding of foreign tourists while she was on her way to work. oh what an embarrassing image it’ll paint of me — but at least maybe then something could be done about all of the tourists in the streets. ’  she suddenly glances over at him, warily,  ‘ i’m sorry, i hope that didn’t sound so morbid, a lady shouldn’t talk about her own death that way. ’

For a moment, Lucien thinks to correct her. His name teeters precariously just on the precipice of his tongue. It tastes like ancient copper and he hates the way it catches in this throat when he swallows it back. Decades of being refused his proper name made him protective of it. But some people--those, like Madam Bourque, who exist under his watch--simply do better to live in their ignorance.

Instead, he offers her a formal smile, dripping in all the politeness he can pull from within himself. “I prefer frank conversations, if I’m being honest,” he tells her. “A lady should speak of whatever she pleases. Why stifle something so, hm,” he pauses, choosing his next word meticulously, “inevitable? None of us are long for this world, yeah?” 

Lucien takes a step towards the young woman, glancing in the direction he assumes--or, rather, knows--she was traveling. “Perhaps we can put your death off for another day, Madam Bourque. You said you were on your way to work? I could escort you, if you’d like. I’m considerably larger than most American children.”

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remybourque‌:

she looks back at the family, who had already moved on without another word or even apology. ‘ hmf, ’  she lets out, a pout forming on her mouth.  ‘ i guess what they say about americans is true — so rude. ’  remy finally turns back to the person she fell into, and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.  ‘ yes, well, sorry for that again. if it weren’t for you i think i would have been more than just a little late for work. ’  she goes into full dramatics now, thinking about the various scenarios.  she could have hit her head and lost her memory, or broken her ankle, or have been trampled by the crowd like mufasa did by the gazelles. shaking her head in the slightest, she smiles at the other,  ‘ thank you, monsieur… ’

“Lucien,” he answers without formality. He doesn’t offer her a hand to shake or a respectful bow of his head. His voice is low and cold, in a tone that borders on cruelty. Or so he’s been told. It pleases him that she doesn’t know her, despite the slowly growing folder with her name on it tucked away inside a filing cabinet in his apartment. His scribbled notes scrolled through his memory: Remy Bourque, a frequent fixture and employee of de Nuit. Not a cast or crew member, but personal assistant to the owner. Remy Bourque is a mere three degrees of separation from his own employer, not a top priority. But, someone worth keeping an eye on.

Lucien watches the girl as she rights herself, putting her hair back in proper order. His hand brushes against the front of his suit jacket as if to sweep away any dust she may have left behind. The motion, combined with his permanent sneer, leaves the impression that he’s been touched by something filthy. But he did his best to match her smile as he straightens his tie. “I’m sure ‘shoved into on coming traffic by an American child’ is a valid excuse for tardiness.”

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you’re just balls deep in bad decisions, aren’t you?

( – ask meme | prompts – ) OPEN

There was a hammer pounding hard on the inside of his skill as Lucien tried to comprehend what Malloy had just said. The other man rummaged around the room, shoving things into a duffel bag, slamming drawers closed as he went. The sheets had been pulled from the corners of the mattress the night before and they clung to his back when he tried to sit up. “What are you doing in here?” Lucien managed to ask. Words didn’t come easily through the fog of his hang over nor the desert that had taken over his mouth at some point during the night. He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands and opened them in time to see his shirt from the night before plucked out of the floor and flung in his face.

“Cleaning up your mess.” Every word Malloy’s stern brogue sent a painful pulse over Lucien’s body. His hand swept across the bed, an accusing finger pointing to the pale body that laid beside him. Long tangled brown hair hid the face from view but Lucien vaguely  remembered a square jaw and a devilish smile that had captivated him the night before. “This,” he hissed, “is why you don’t get your own room.”

Lucien nudged the man with his knee, wondering how he’d managed to sleep through Hurricane Malloy. He didn’t budge. “Up and at ‘em man. We’re being evicted.”

“Don’t bother,” Malloy growled, tossing something onto the foot of the hotel bed. “He’s done. So we gotta get outta here.” Lucien’s eyes landed on the needle. His hand brushed back a curtain of hair. His skin was cold, vomit spewed across the pillow in front of him.

“We can’t just leave him…” Lucien started to object, but the words stopped in his throat when he looked up to see the manic fire behind Malloy’s eyes, staring him down. Lucien’s shoulders slouched and, obediently, he pulled his shirt over his head.

[ratsseau-blog]

@remybourque​

DATE: august 2nd ; mid-morning LOCATION: streets of paris STATUS: open 

remy huffs down the road, tote bag dangling off her elbow. she’s already late for work  ( what else is new )  and the lingering crowds of the late summer tourists filling the streets is not helping her get to her morning schedules any more efficiently. dress rehearsals started yesterday and the pressure of her actually having to pay attention has been pressed by michel multiple times in the last week. as she’s brushing past a little american family, her foot gets caught on someone’s ankle and she tumbles forward into someone’s arms.  ‘ merde, ’ she hisses, pulling herself up and brushing her clothes off.  ‘ i am so sorry, that toddler came out of nowhere ! ’

His eyes narrowed as Lucien watched the incoming train wreck. And for just a brief instant, a very cruel, very malicious part of himself nearly took him over. What did he care if this girl fell flat on the sidewalk as she barreled towards him, completely out of control. Instead Lucien steps into her bath, arms shooting out with mechanical precision and swift reflexes taking over. It takes more strength than he’ll ever admit to remain upright.

“You’ll want to watch your step then, yeah?” he mutters as she pulls herself away from him. “I understand that toddlers usually have that particular talent.”

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shit said in streams/group chats.

continuously updated!

who hasn’t run up a tree and declared their love for satan?

there’s, like, seven levels of alien encounters.

i, for one, welcome our spooky demon overlords.

slap his ronald mcdonald ass!

the lord can suck my ass.

the voice says naps are for pussies.

let’s go take care of daddy.

if we don’t see assless chaps, i’m out.

dude, yeehaw.

i pee where i want.

my nipples are like diamonds.

cleansed … of skin?

he has an untrustworthy mouth.

it’s up all night to get fucky.

step one: hold child off cliff.

where’s your shoe, boy?

considering the ritual sacrifice, this man should be nowhere near children.

what happens when you cross a snake and a horse? snorse.

is that a friend? he’s shaped like a friend?

Keep reading

[ratsseau-blog]

The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt sentence starters

PART 10

“If I give you money, could you buy booze for me?” “Thank God I was out for my morning run to the gas station bathroom.” “Thirty’s when women start making lists of everything they haven’t done. ‘I’ve not gone to Africa yet!’ Girl, you are not going to Africa.” “To quote Virginia Slim, a skinny Southern drag queen I know: ‘You’ve come a long way, baby.’” “You are not real. This is a dream. You are not real.” “All you do is remind me of something I’ve been doing a good job of putting behind me.” “You know what? Tonight is more than just a party now.” “Tonight is the beginning of my new life.” “I know how sarcasm works!” “I love the shoes and the dress. I’m gonna look like one of those fancy ladies who hangs out under the bridge.” “Oh, well, you know high heels were invented by a man, because no woman ever invented anything.” “That’s boyfriend stuff. Boyfriends arrive early and do all the boring stuff, like getting ice, or this conversation.” “Hello, pretty monster.” “And the most erotic thing is, we haven’t seen each other’s faces.” “He’s not a stranger! I have real deep feelings for Torso. I also don’t know his name.” “I will handle the music. And it will all be from after the year Christina Aguilera started eating hotdogs.” “Nobody’s gonna wanna steal that hunk of crap.” “Yeah, okay, I’ll help you get it in. That’s what she said. “But how?” she continued.” “I’m having a heart attack.” “Oh, my God. Look at her color! And the smell!” “I did laundry and all my underwear is on the bed. Could you fold it for me?” “Could you bring some ice? It’s what boyfriends do, right?” “Can you at least play music that has words in it?” “The fuzz is back. Everybody, just chill out.” “Okay. That’s a fair hit but hurtful.” “I didn’t do it because I’m her boyfriend. Where would I even take her out on a date? Ice skating and then hot chocolate, and it starts to snow and we fall to the ground, and we make snow oxen? As if!” “Oh, no, I can’t talk about you with any of your amazing friends?! Ugh!” “He’s great at math and giving back rubs, and covering me with a blanket if I fall asleep. You’d like him.” “I had a corn chip in one hand and your phone in the other. Long story short, I think I got all the onion dip off the phone, but I think there’s still a few bite marks.” “I threw this party to celebrate me, and everyone’s making it about themselves.” “My whole life has been about what happened to you!” “Your stupid face was on my milk!” “I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin.” “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re ruining my birthday!” “How am I supposed to have a normal life if I can’t even have a normal birthday?” “Thirty’s tough for a woman. You’re still 17 years away from your sexual peak.” “Sounds like a fight. You better get out there so I can go through these coat pockets.” “You broke my heart when you made me go to the gym and I had a heart attack! Yes, I’m still mad about that.” “Okay, this is no scarier than when I tried Indian food. But this time, I’m gonna do it.” “The only thing I use my hands for is fixing another man’s tie as a power move.” I’ve been watching you, staring at her, all excited like a little boy who picked the lock on his daddy’s Jodhpur armoire.” “Your experiences are not universal!” “Party over! Get out! Everyone out of my house!” “What happened tonight? Your family upset you, your friends let you down. Two guys got into a fight over you. You made a scene in front of everyone. Now you’re crying, thinking about the passage of time. Girlfriend, you just had yourself an adult birthday party.” “I know what it’s like to have your childhood taken away, and I would not wish that on anyone.” “It sucks not getting to be a kid.” “I had such a lovely time at the king’s ball.” “Thank you for unfrogging me.” “This isn’t the Chinatown bus, you can’t choke someone who’s asleep!” “You are repressing some stuff and it is very unhealthy. For me! You need to talk to somebody.” “What if you take a lover and murder him in his sleep?” “I’m not taking a lover, that’s gross. And I’m not ready. I can’t even do a dream date right!” “There! That noise. The way you’re looking at me, like I’m a freak!” “It’s not my fault. People love hearing terrible details of news tragedies. One, it’s titillating like a horror movie. Two, they feel like a good person because they care about a stranger. Three, they feel safe that it did not happen to them.” “This affects me too, you know. I need my beauty sleep.” “It’s always something with that woman. The rent, the electric bill, the floor that I ruined when I fell asleep in her tub. How could I turn the faucet off? I was asleep!” “If you wanna get anywhere, you need to be blonde and white.” “Why does it matter where I’m from? It’s where I’m going that counts.” “I don’t really like talking about myself.” “Why are you so dressed up? In this neighborhood, dressed like that someone might think you got money.” “My floor is warped. All of my cats are piling up in one corner.” “If I had any money, I would give it to you. But I’m unemployed, and that gold tooth I tried to pawn turned out to be just a very yellow tooth.” “For your information, the reason I put this suit on is because I’m going to a funeral.” “I was just like you once. Yes, you’re shorter and have a much heavier step like a tired old man. But I remember what it’s like being all alone in New York.” “So, what’s your plan? I mean, you have maybe four years of that youthful glow left. After that, you’ll be stuck marrying a primary care physician or one of those off-brand Kennedys.” “Just relax and be yourself. Also, I’ve seen you eat, so don’t.” “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never put on make-up.” “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I slept with my twin brother’s wife. I told her I was him.” “We nearly froze to death. But we kept each other warm. Any way we could.” “I ate giraffe and I liked it.” “I’m dating a rich older man, and I’m lying to him about my birth control. Aren’t you happy for me? I’m actually succeeding here.” “The littering here makes me cry.” “You only care about yourself. You’ve forgotten everything we taught you.” “Some of the things you taught me were dumb. Like using the whole buffalo! Some parts just aren’t good, guys. For example, the poop.” “We wanted you to come back with us. That’s why we came all this way in the great iron eagle. I’m kidding. I know what planes are, I was in the Air Force.” “ Every time you open your mouth, I get one step closer to figuring out what your deal is. And then, this is all over.” “Once, I surrendered to what turned out to be a statue.” “Do you think going through something like that, a war or whatever, makes you a better person? Or deep down, does it make you bitter and angry?” “I choked my roommate in my sleep this morning. I didn’t tell him, but the other day, I woke up in the shower cleaning a knife. What had I done with it? Do I ever get to be normal again?” “I swore I’d take that secret to my grave, and I did! But then I clawed my way out and I still kept it!” “Gay Judas!” “How about you mind your own damn business? Women have secrets, okay? Who knows what __________ had to do to get here. Maybe she was a hooker.” “Your greatest accomplishment in life is pulling off that lipstick, which you have to let me borrow, it looks awesome.” “Now, take your spoiled ass upstairs and go to your rooms.” “This is bullying, you know? I’m being bullied, and I’m not even fat!” “White people, am I right?” “My date tried to kill me with a pine cone.”

[ratsseau-blog]

name: lucien rousseau

age: twenty seven

gender and pronouns: trans male, he/his

loyalty: destler

occupation: museum tour guide

criminal occupation: emissary for the destler crime organization

faceclaim: lee soo hyuk

The ratcatcher. You don’t have much of a history beyond that title, bestowed on you many years ago by a man whose name you can’t remember. It was what you called yourself before your lips first formed around the name ‘Lucien;’ that one came later, it was something you chose for yourself, beautiful syllables made pure and clean and whole,, stolen from the people you passed on the street who didn’t deserve them. Somehow you became the city’s very unofficial exterminator, of sorts; people would call, leave notes, when there was a rat who needed to be dealt with. Someone disloyal, whether to their spouse, their career, their country, their own moral compass; it’s never mattered to you. The intentions of pests mean nothing to you, only the fact that their inferior way of life does not spread any further than it already has. And that’s where it begins, the start of your services. Finding our where the disloyalty of your target lies — let your more law-abiding counterparts decide where it stems from — and discerning how to eradicate it. Luckily for the sewer rats of this fair city, this does not always result in a death. No, sometimes the extermination is that of a position of power, of a relationship, or of a career. And of course, sometimes you are left with no other options than to take that which they hold most dear. It is, at the very least, a lesson well learned.

But, like any teacher, your work is most often done out of the goodness of your heart, out of a sense of duty and a desire to impart good onto future generations. Sadly, good deeds often don’t go unpunished, and you found yourself in and out of prison and often just barely scraping by, living in a single wide trailer wherever you could before you were chased away, forced to move to avoid suspicion. It was living like this that you were discovered, recruited, to do exactly what you had built your life upon doing but on a much larger scale, and perhaps in a more disingenuous way. Mafia. The word fell funny from your lips, hung thick in the air before falling hard, like concrete, to the dirt at your feet. It took some getting used to, but the promise of a more comfortable life was something to look forward to, and you were assured the core of your work wouldn’t be interfered with in anyway. You would only have to broaden the scope of your intelligence, and report it back instead of hoarding it all to yourself. It seemed easy enough, and so far it is. You’re certainly living on Easy Street, at the very least, and you intend to stay there as long as possible.

associates: antonin petrovic, fleur renard, gigi destler, gregory renard, kristos vallas, lea jammes, madalene giry, meg giry, sebastian renard, and xavier carmen

coworkers: cherry langley and enzo durand

interests: christine daae, dulce vilaro, edmond ledoux, jacqueline mifroid, joseph buquet, lisette sorelli, philippe chaney, remy bourque, rhys falcon, veronica perez, and zhu lau

ERIK DESTLER

To be disloyal to your employer would to be disloyal to everything you stand for, everything upon which you’ve built your life, and thus your very being, and yet you’ve never been able to quite figure Erik out. He’s the boss — literally. This organization, the foundation for the veritable empire rides on his shoulders, and he seems to be indifferent to it all, only taking part in minor, unimportant things which please him and shrugging the rest off to Madalene and Rahim and Kristos. It’s… odd, to say the least. He pays you, feeds you, clothes you, puts a roof over your head, all to find out information about both the people under his employ and those against whom he works, and yet you find yourself the most intrigued by him. Not that you’d ever start building a case against him, heaven forbid, but still. You almost wonder if this is truly where his heart is.

GIGI DESTLER

She’s meant to be working at your side, but she’s much too tender-hearted to do much of anything. All she does is stand around all dewy and doe-eyed and stare incredulously on, as though she’s too appalled by the actions of those around her. It’s sickening, really, and for awhile you couldn’t for the life of you understand why she was even here to begin with. It was only once you saw her around that brother of hers that things began to make sense, and you gained some sliver of respect for her. She might be a deer in headlights without even a walnut of a brain rattling around in that skull of hers, but she’s more loyal than most people could ever dream of being. So you tolerate her, at the very least, and try and show her the ropes, take her under your wing. Perhaps she’s having none of it or perhaps she’s too kind to push you away, but you can only hope that eventually, slowly, she’ll begin to hear you, that your advice will bore through her eardrums and nestle happily in her moral compass, and something will take root.

RAHIM AHMADI

It was, surprisingly enough, Rahim and not Erik who found you. You’re one of the few, you suppose. One of the only not handpicked by the Phantom himself. You suppose you should feel slighted, but instead you’re more amused that Rahim is going around boasting himself as some sort of savior. He’s almost like Victor Frankenstein, you think; were it not for him, you would not exist as you do now. You would still be a nobody, living nowhere with nothing. A blip on a dust-covered map long forgotten in some ancient archive, left behind by pillagers and scavagers. You never would have amounted to anything, and certainly not the life you have now. And yet, in spite of his great discovery, his creation even, you find he can’t stand the sight of you. Shies away when you enter a room, curls his lip when you open your own mouth to speak. You almost can’t blame him. You’ve hardly had the chance to show it yet, but somehow he knows of the monster you are, the one you’ve always been. Only now you have a reason to be, and the thought of it thrills you. And you have Erik’s kindly Daroga to thank for it.

THIS CHARACTER HAS A SEMI-FLEXIBLE FACECLAIM AND IS TAKEN BY MASON

[ratsseau-blog]

[ratsseau-blog]

AN INFO POST

ABOUT THE PLAYER :

name: Mason pronouns: he/them age: 28 timezone: central

TRIGGERS :

Spiders

In this post: child abandonment and abuse, prison trauma, gender trauma.

ABOUT THE CHARACTER: 

FULL NAME : lucien rousseau CURRENT AGE : 27 GENDER AND PRONOUNS : trans male he/him LOYALTY : destler OCCUPATION : museum tour guide CRIMINAL OCCUPATION : destler emissary FACE CLAIM: Lee Soo Hyuk

INSIGHT :

Lucien’s childhood is little more than a blurred series of images that flash behind his eyelids while he sleeps at night. Home movies on deteriorated film, the sound coming distorted and unnerving to his ears. Surely he must have had parents at some point. He doesn’t remember the transient gamblers who brought him into this world. He doesn’t remember the deal they struck when they handed him over to a missionary couple, a man and woman who then left him in the care of an army of stern Irish nuns. He doesn’t remember their name for him, not that it matters. He chose his own name a long time ago.

What Lucien does remember is tarnished metal grating on the inside of a confession booth. He remembers that mildewed metallic smell that would forever remind him of broken skin and the thwack of a wooden ruler on the back of his hand. He remembers the clothes they made him wear, the bare handed spankings hen he refused. What Lucian remembers is the man with a beard of fire and a voice like hundred year old whiskey. Running away with the first person who promised him something better than the church’s promise of eternal damnation. He remembers stained sheets and peeling wallpaper that changed only in color in every cheap motel across Europe. What Lucien remembers is learning to listen, to gather. To aim, and to fire. He doesn’t remember the day he chose to be The Ratcatcher, but he will always remember the satisfaction at finally finding his calling.

Lucien is an odd combination of loyal and opportunistic. He is not a leader, instead, he is looking for someone to pull him into their inner circle. His services are easily bought with money. His loyalty, however, is only available to those who can offer him both purpose and protection. Ever observant, if it feels like Lucien is watching you, it’s because he is. Just because you’ve bought is loyalty and silence doesn’t mean you’ve squashed the natural curiosity and the compulsion to always have a back up plan. The life he has lead has taught him to always anticipate betrayal.

Efficient and meticulous are the best ways to describe the way Lucian works and the way he lives. Jobs are done promptly, evidence eliminated methodically, reports filed immediately. He has more than earned the reputation that brought him to the Destlers’ radar. There is an obsessive quality to the minimalism he practices. The inside of his home is nearly bare. The only things Lucien owns in excess are files, containing an endless collection of secrets, and books, an interest he picked up in prison and one that had helped him develop a profession that involves a little less blood than his primary source of income.

Lucien is a man of few words. He prefers listening and observing over actually participating in conversation. He has a gaze that can border on disturbing for those who catch him focused in their direction. He can be a difficult man to get to know, but he is not without his social and sexual proclivities. If you catch him on a good day, he can carry a witty conversation with an ease that most would not expect. If you can strike up a conversation about art or history, you will find a man shockingly in his element. And while he is a man who is difficult to get intellectually and emotionally close to, there is nothing easier than getting physically close to him. Lucien’s social interests are driven largely by by physical desire and sexual curiosity. There is very little he won’t be willing to try in that department.

HEADCANONS :

Lucien has obsessive compulsive disorder. This doesn’t manifest itself in a fear of germs or necessity to be clean—he is not a particularly clean person. But he does become easily overwhelmed by clutter. He is prone to throwing things away if he cannot find a place for them. The minimalism of his life is driven by neuroses rather than conscious choice.

Lucien has the faint remnants of an Irish accent. Because he is a man who rarely speaks, this can catch people off guard when they hear him speak for the first time. Generally, he makes an effort to hide it, keeping his voice neutral and level. But it has been known to seep through despite his best efforts.

Lucian’s only real interest, aside from his work, is art. It is an interest he picked up in prison, where there was little else for him to do than to flip through the pages of the three art books available in the prison library. Part of the appeal for him of working for the Destlers was the opportunity to work for the museum. Art books, histories, and memoirs are the only things he truly owns in excess. The walls of his home are lined with stacks of books. Later, he developed a lesser interest in general history and biographies. He almost never reads fiction.

INTERVIEW :

QUESTION ONE :

What was your childhood like?

Sitting straight in his chair, Lucien shifts his posture. Resting his right ankle over his left knee. The hem of his slacks rise above his ankle and he resists the urge to tug it back into place. The suit—more expensive than anything Lucien had ever owned—felt alien against his skin. But he supposed it made sense to look the part. His eyes, wide and vacant, settled on a shadow in the corner of the room. “Unremarkable,” he said simply. It was a lie he told so easily he could almost believe himself. Almost. If not for the hands resting on the leather arms of his chair, baring the long straight scars that marked all of his childhood sins. “I was the only adopted child of two very devout Catholics. Naturally, I was a happily spoiled child.”

QUESTION TWO :

Where is your favorite place in Paris?

“I don’t get out much,” Lucien answered honestly. His words were measured, refusing to allow the brogue that bubbled behind his teeth betray him. He would not be made to look foolish by those atrocious sounds. “My work keeps me very busy.” He drummed his fingers against the rich leather, wondering what he was meant to add in order to keep this conversation moving. “I work for the Lake. I suppose that might be my favorite place.”

QUESTION THREE :

What would you say is your purpose in life? If not something permanent or long-lasting, what is it at the moment?

“I don’t have a purpose.” Lucien’s eyes shifted back into focus, piercing in a way that he knew left people quite unnerved. “None of us do. The lie of self-fulfillment is meant to keep everyone moving along with their lives. It’s quite a relieve to accept that purpose is a myth.” His answer was morbid, he knew. But it was a rare opportunity to be presented with a moment to be honest without betraying himself and others. Catholics believed in purpose. And the lessons the nuns tried to beat into him never did quite stick.

EVERYTHING ELSE :

I made a Pinterest board: https://pin.it/awsemzfhqxu4rq