#ch. deacon farrow

[ghostspot]

open starter !!

     𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊. this is the seedy underbelly of new york dipped in satin, wrapped in leather, rolled in diamonds. shined and flossed so they glisten with the chandeliers. they are beautiful and they are brand-new, straight out of the factory where they manufacture vicious intents, and deacon needs to breathe air that isn’t contaminated with imported eau de toilette and corruption, so he slinks away to the back of the building where the grass is freshly painted and the flowers stuck-on. he walks a little further. the landscape is bigger than it looks from the outside and the farther he gets, the more he sees the cracks in its perfection -- caution tapes from unfinished construction, weeds growing in the balding ground, a small gazebo with holes in its roof and debris of its destruction scattered across its once ivory-white seats. deacon ducks under the tape, already with a joint and a lighter in his hand ( the vintage type, the one that still uses fuel ) and the flame it produces nearly melts the edge of his mask off. 

and he’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, zoning out at the invisible particles of his chosen nostalgia, when he hears the shuffling of footsteps against the untamed gravel. he coughs, his hand quickly working to part the cloud of smoke surrounding him. “hey, this is area is restricted,” he announces, doing his best impression of someone who holds a grain of authority. “party’s over there.” and with the joint still in his hand, points to the direction from which they came.

[ghostspot]

gwendolyn ( @aethyias​​ ) & deacon  the museum, early evening.

“QUICK, HIDE ME.” deacon grabs his sister by the shoulders, ducks behind her in a futile attempt to hide. there’s an exhibit opening from some eccentric installation artist who builds his pieces from scrapped computer parts. something about it being a social commentary on technology furthering the class divide… deacon barely read the blurb on the brochure. ironically, the place is crawling with well-dressed elite who, collectively, are worth more than all these museum pieces combined; the only divide between these people are the iron gates and spiked fencing that house their immense wealth. and donned in the only suit he owns, a dark grey two-piece that was a hand-me-down from lucien, deacon actually, surprisingly, looks like he belongs here. though what he’s doing hiding behind his five-foot-five sister is a mystery that should soon be solved. 

[ghostspot]

CLOSED STARTER FOR RAFIQ ACIMAN @prcdigl​​​ outside the old world casino, 10pm.

     𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 when the weather was actually decent in this broken city - it’s always too hot, too cold. too wet, too dry. sadly, public transportation hasn’t been reliable since people stopped using horses to get around and having a car barely makes a difference when you spend most of your time in heavy traffic, anyway.

but at least he doesn’t have to trudge through puddles; in new york city, when it rains, it pours, and though his car may be ancient, the heater thankfully still works. it’s nowhere near the kind of cars lucien collects in his own time, but it gets the job done - whether it’s driving for the other soldiers or simply staking out the casino.

truthfully, he’s forgotten what the man he’s supposed to watch for looks like. based on his unreliable memory alone, the only thing he remembers is the mention of a neon tattoo of a dragon ( a fat load of good that information does him when everyone’s all bundled up anyway ). but the man standing just under the canopy, the one in the nice suit, the one with the dark eyes, the one who appeals to a long-lost, still-yearning youth in deacon farrow -- he remembers him well.

he’s not supposed to move. not until he sees neon dragon man and can report back to jack or isabella but he has the feeling he’s lost him a long time ago. they’re gonna get pissed at him anyway, so he throws caution to the wind and fires up his engine and, from across the street, slowly drives under the warm lights. he stops just in front of the line of this night’s roulette losers ending the night early to wait for their valet-parked cars they can no longer pay for. and rafiq.

rolling the passenger window down, “need a ride?” he yells above the music blasting from his radio, offers him a warm smile. 

[ghostspot]

CLOSED STARTER FOR LUCIEN ( @lawlessgodss ) & DEACON evening, outside lucien’s office.

     THERE’S NOTHING INHERENTLY SUSPICIOUS about a guy waiting outside the office of a new york senator for close to two hours, coming and going to the same spot with various snacks and pretends to find something interesting in his phone just to look busy. it’s new york city, after all, and for all anyone knows, he could be fifteen different people. even when harold the driver comes by in the heavily tinted range rover, he does not bat an eyelash when he sees deacon just... standing there. because he is always just standing there. wherever there may be a place to stand. just waiting, always, to be given orders, for the busy people to finish, to do something. maybe he and harold the driver are a lot alike that way.

finally, just the man he’s looking for. lucien strides through the doors, looking like a million dollars as always, and when deacon - looking like a wet rag - jogs up to him with an obscenely loud ‘LUCIEN!’ the entourage who sees his brother to his car grabs him by the shoulder and all but lifts him by the collar of his shirt. he shows his hands, surrendering to the alphas, “yo, yo, easy! this is bespoke jcrew,” and he grins devilishly.

[ghostspot]

JAMESON ( @jimjamfar ), GWENDOLYN ( @aethyias ), LUCIEN ( @lawlessgodss​ ), AND DEACON. sunday dinner.

     FOR BETTER OR WORSE, tradition holds a special place in the farrow household. they come and go, of course, adapting to the ever-changing circumstances, but if there is one thing for certain, it’s that it is imperative for the children of luther farrow to stick together. this generation of brood is the only thing left to keep the name alive, and whether deacon likes it or not, family dinner on sundays requires his participation for that to happen. 

he’s late - marginally, though they’d already been given a stern lecture about punctuality by their eldest the week prior - and comes stumbling in with a slurpee cup from 7-eleven.

“hello, family!” his greeting bellows across the living room, no doubt announcing his presence to his siblings. it accompanies a shit-eating grin and an overeager flailing of the arms when he finally reaches the dining room. his drink is haphazardly placed among the collection of expensive wine glasses and silverware on the table and he takes his place - the farthest away from the head of the table - pulling his chair in with an obnoxious scrape. “so, what did i miss?” he begins, and starts pouring the contents of his frozen grape fanta-flavored drink into a wine glass.

[ghostspot]

STARTER FOR GIANNA ( @rclics​​ ) & DEACON 1am, gianna is chasing a criminal when they get away and runs into deacon.

“ALRIGHT, MAN. HAVE A GOOD ONE.” the subdued echoes of a discreet handshake bounces off the walls of the dingy alleyway and soon, deacon finds himself alone. he shakes his wrist, the sleeve of his jacket pulled back to reveal an old sports watch whose batteries badly need replacing as it glows a faint green, revealing the time. there’s probably someone still up to open the gate for him, otherwise he can just find somewhere to crash. maybe michelangelo will offer his couch. androids don’t sleep, do they? then how do they dream of electric sheep? he huffs at the thought. this is how he spends his free time, simply amusing himself.

he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights a stick, deciding to stall for a few minutes when a figure zooms past him, nearly putting out his smoke. curious - and a little annoyed - he peers out into the street where they’ve completely disappeared. he blinks into the now empty space. ghosts aren’t real.

and speaking of ghosts, it’s a few moments later when the sound of heavy boots pounding into the concrete draws his attention behind him. and when he sees the person they belong to, his first instinct is immediately to run. she’s too close to make a proper break for it, though, and so his second instinct is to speak.

“i didn’t do anything, what the fuck!” throwing his hands up before gianna could even speak. how quickly this one crumbles.

[ghostspot]

claire ( @stoneinc​​ ) & deacon. the fundraising gala, at the garden or somewhere outside. 

     “𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐎, 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓.” deacon nods at the two large men with muscles appearing to rip through their prescribed coat-and-tie uniform for the night. he didn’t think claire would leave her six-foot-something bodyguards behind to attend a party -- especially to attend a party -- and because of this, he’s treated to the ludicrous image of two beefcakes wearing tiny black masks in a comical attempt to blend in. deacon does little to hide his amusement. “you hamburglars gonna let me through?” and behind a pink-and-silver plated mask adorned with glitters he’d hastily picked up from party city, he steels his gaze towards their boss and he does a little bow. “madame.”