#lawlessstart

[wrvtchedhearts]

OPEN STARTER - Veer Sivakumar ( snake den - the hermit ) @ empty bus stop

Veer was being inconspicuous, black hoodie, skinny jeans, beat-off vans, his hair fluffy and falling over his forehead. He was quiet as a mouse, moving through the world without leaving a single imprint, could've been a spy, if he didn't have such a big mouth. He'd been sitting at the bus stop for about ten minutes, staring out into the rain, the other person gave no sign that they'd noticed him.

They weren't so sure if they liked that, the silence would drive them mad. Sound, they loved sound. Even in their hide-outs now, they had a machine nearby, the wiring of its fans a reminder that they were alive.

"Did you know this bus stop was the direct inspiration for the famed bus episode of Spongebob?" they asked, smirking as they spoke. "One of the writers sat at this exact spot for three hours, then really had to pee, and as they returned, the bus drove off. Then they sat another four hours before another came. True story." Perfect bullshit. But hey, Spongebob had saved their life in prison, truly.

[lanexcopeland]

Where: The Bad Monkey

For: Open to anyone

The bass, no matter what kind of music you're playing, it just enhances the sound and makes everything sound more full. Generally loud music put Lane in a zone, one of comfort. The man didn't find peace in silence as it let his head roam with thoughts, of all the things he swallowed down most of the time. So tonight was no different. Finding nothing else to get into he found his way to the Bad Monkey. The drinks were cheap and the loudness was like it's own welcoming mat to the man's ears. He plopped down on one of the stools that surrounded the bar and ordered a pint with whatever beer was on tap. Lane wouldn't be caught dead drinking some fancy drink of something he could never pronounce or even worse extending his pinky while drinking wine. If that made him a trashy bastard then so be it. He had been called much more deranged things. However, he was enjoying his time until someone's shrill voice took supremacy. And that was saying something, over the blaring music that had the whole room shaking. Some random complaining how no one offered to take their jacket. Lane scoffed before commenting himself. "I think you're in the wrong place, don't let the door hit you on the way out. Wouldn't want to ruin that suit of yours. Looks expensive, though it still looks like shit." With the way Lane's own fingers glided over his pint was clear indication he was tempted with the idea of ruining what the other was wearing. Nothing like cheap beer to ward off people who didn't belong and he half the idea of just projecting the liquid at the person who he already deemed an idiot. Perhaps it was the pot calling the kettle black. As this bar was run by The Hanging Man Organization, a definite rival of where his own allegiance was plead towards. What was that saying - Don't go sticking your nose in the wrong places?

[bclletragedie]

LOCATION: ralph's boxing gym, late evening FOR: open! ( 2/5 )

𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐑. even if octavia had become used to the throws of her father's former livelihood -- allowed herself to take on his burdens and his side-hustles, when the end of the day came she relished in the thought that she would soon get to go home. it was perhaps the most human instinct that the woman otherwise viewed as a machine possessed. she picks up the sound of footsteps at the front of the gym with the keen hearing of a cat, eyes darting in the direction of the sound in a matter of seconds. as she emerges from her office, formerly her father's office, she soon assesses the individual in front of her with a raised eyebrow. they certainly don't appear to be a threat -- but octavia has certainly been wrong before. she'll stand her guard, while simultaneously making every effort to get them the hell out of here. much like the rest of society, she had dinner to eat and shows to watch.

" fuckin' christ.. someone forgot to lock the damn door. " octavia murmurs, emerging from the darkness. she had been halfway out the door at this point -- lights off, bags in hand. " we're closin' up shop, so make it quick. "

[pcril]

status: open — outside some grocery store idk

Hands full with an assortment of paper bags, Marcellus finds himself in the midst of a sporadic juggling act. All for the sake of a single smoke. Naturally, it would’ve made sense to put the bags down first. Yet the underlying itch for nicotine had eaten away most of his patience. And, well, he's always had a knack for making small things more complicated than need be.

A small, triumphant grunt leaves him when he finally bests the challenge. Cigarette now stuck between the lips, he cranes his head towards the lighter. Tilt too far and some items fling themselves from crinkled paper bag confines onto the parking lot. “Shit.” Cigarette temporarily forgotten, he happens to see someone in his periphery.

“Could you get that, please?” Marcellus asks, still hunching at an awkward angle but polite despite how annoying this all was.

[bloodiedfields]

location: el anhelo

open to: anyone who would find themselves in the company of an escort

Dilan's home away from home had been nestled in this corner of Queens for years now and it was second nature to her. This line of work was something she had found out of desperation, but with El Anhelo, there was a sense of safeness and security that doing it on her own had never given her. Although she dreamed of bigger things of using her voice to sing sweet serenades, she fell into this: a commodity based on her outward appearance, just like her father had wanted all along. Now it was on her own terms. "You have nothing to worry about with me," she whispered softly, brushing their hair out of their face, "I won't tell a soul." El Anhelo offered its patrons a certain amount of secrecy and Dilan fell in line with the rules. No matter who it was. Even things that shocked and appalled her. The pill would surely kick in soon enough for her client and then the night would move forward from there.

[gildcdglory]

WHO: Jade Molina & Open WHERE: The Godfather

Solitude had been Jade's comfort from the moment they felt the first hint of abandonment. They watched as prospective parents rejected them, felt the impact of loss at their own hands, and even with their ties to the White Crocodiles, the words family still never slipped through their teeth. It seemed easier to shut themself off from the world before the world had a chance to do it first, but it was hard to be fully alone in a city as big as Manhattan.

Perhaps that's why they sometimes found themself hiding out at The Godfather. It was easy to go unnoticed when the allure of the jazz band drew everyone's attention. With the relaxing music and range of seating, Jade usually never had a problem tucking themself into a corner and enjoying their peace. Today, though, they noticed a presence near their end of the bar. Their hand traced the edge of their glass, a slight scowl on their lips as they commented,  ❝If you're going to hover over me, at least have the decency to buy me a drink.❞ 

[ofcruelheart]

level 3 of the faceless ship / open to anyone

What an exquisite tableau of authoritarian playthings this soiree has metamorphosed into—an exhibition not merely of cosmetic and leisure technologies, but a parade of surveillance and identification marvels, all bedecked on a pristine stage for collective admiration. It's enough to make anyone with precious little autonomy nauseous.

A collective gasp courses through the assembly as a weapon scanner pierces the ambient hum. Security personnel surge forth, and amidst the tumult, a man adjacent to Janus jostles him in an effort to escape. Janus grimaces as a swift-footed attendant brandishing a handkerchief arrives at his side in mere moments, just as security drags the stranger away with his heels digging into the floor.

"What kind of fool succumbs to the scrutiny of the most rudimentary scanner? Any idiot with a magnet could have sniffed him out," Janus pivots toward his companion with an air of mild inquiry, eyes unblinking behind his mask. "I didn't get any on you, did I?"

[cosmicgalaxies]

𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜: 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗

— ❝𝙅𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙❞, Bank stands on the icy sidewalk with only a light jacket to keep him warm. He rubs both arms to keep warm. There was enough vodka in his belly to keep him from freezing right away, but the impending chill was imminent. How much longer would he be out here, waiting? He tugs on his sleeve to reveal his watch. ❝Damn, they were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago...❞ Or was it twenty minutes from now? The numbers were swimming too much for Bank to see properly. When a car parks itself at the edge of the sidewalk, Bank squints his eyes and approaches. ❝Are you here with...uh...❞ His mind blanks on the name. When he requested for a driver, they'd sent him a confirmation message, which now slips Banks mind, and he fumbles to procure his phone from his pocket. ❝Just tell me, are you from the driving service?❞

[thmolineux]

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂 … 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽 *     ◟    :    𝗯𝗶𝗴 𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 .

the crowd is milling, splitting in fits and starts around the entrance. it's too packed to move; too early to make a run for it. hands in tux pockets, itching for a lighter, wishing he'd taken the elevator when he was asked to, teddy sits at the bar.

he's waiting. for? fuck-all in particular, really. things have a way of turning up.

so, waiting. he's stuck, in fact; hemmed in next to someone that could be anyone. the mask betrays nothing. felt and silken, it shutters the lines of them to the world. soft? hard? no. it could be anyone. we covered this part. a civilian. brass. low-end brass, at that.

even worse? they could be ugly. great. just bloody mint. this mask bullshit just knocked down both networking and hooking up off the possibility list. teddy pushes to stand a little higher. even knowing it's a dead-end, he finds himself burning to strike up a chat. just because. he clears his throat a bit. he even hunkers down, really, actually scoots out of his chair just to catch their eyes. no fire wasted, right? he's here. they're here. he might as well figure out if they're friend or canon fodder.

with a sigh, and just a swish of a smile, his hand comes down to tap on the bar mat between them. ‶listen. I can't even see your face and I somehow just know you're glowering.″ he tucks his chin; holds back from winking, but just barely. the edge of the better part of wisdom. ‶like, chill. people are going to think you owe them money.″ his smile turns up. ‶do you? owe them money, that is.″

[wrvtchedhearts]

OPEN STARTER #lawlessstart LOCATION: godfather house of blues

Zakir contented himself with music any day or evening he wasn't otherwise engaged: when he wasn't doing shows, recording in his home studio, giving his attention to Anchali, or performing his duties for Dead Hand. The latter taking up the most of his time despite how he had no interest in pursuing a life of crime, it was merely a means to an end: a stepping stone to his eventual career. It was a necessary one, an opportunity he could neither ignore nor take for granted.

He was nursing a mocktail he'd randomly picked off the menu and had clapped his hands together for the last act to have grazed the stage, before the room returned to a more relaxed atmosphere.

Seeing someone looking for a spot to take a seat in the packed place - yet still the conversations were all hushed - he gestured his hands to the two empty chairs at his table. "Yaar, plenty of space here, please take a seat, I'll happily share my space, inshallah."

[vi0lens]

🗧* ⭒   ᣟᣟ    𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑    :    ANYONE    

wit   was   accustomed   to   a   certain   amount   of   pain   after   his   fights.   not   even   pain   in   the   physical   sense.   it   was   all   around   just   a   pain   in   the   ass.   still,   he's   never   had   to   dodge   security   to   clean   his   own   wounds, breathing through his teeth like a rapid dog.

there   was   a   nasty   gash   just   above   his   eyebrow,   the   blow   he   was   paid   to   let   land.   pain   in   the   ass.   but   he   got   around   the   johnny   bravo   looking   idiot   that   was   there   to   ensure   he   followed   the   rules,   and   just   about   made   it   into   the   supply   closet   without   ripping   the   mask   that   dug   into   his   injury   clean   off.   

and   it   did   dig.   the   brass   plating   probably   gave   him   a   whole   load   of   infections   that   he   was   struggling   to   clean   with   the   alcohol   he   found— not rubbing alcohol, mind you, just straight house vodka.   he   would   need   to   stitch   it,   and   that   would   definitely   be     (     ʸᵒᵘ ᵍᵘᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ⁱᵗ    )     a   pain   in   the   ass. so much so he nearly didn't notice the door creak open.

[ash-blythee]

Location: Gravity Nightclub Status: Open

It's not the first time Val's been lost - and it won't be the last. Even with the red-tipped cane, even with knowing the nightclub by now like the back of their hand... there's always something to distract. And suddenly he's feeling a wall and groaning. "Am I walkin' towards the bathrooms again? Shit." His Irish lilt is heavy on his tongue, a drink in one ringed hand and long curls tied back into a messy bun. Most noticeable, however, are light and listless eyes that don't seem to focus on any one thing. The music is loud which doesn't help matters. But they hear some kind of voice, which indicates a person who can help. "Ey, ey, love, I'll buy you ye're next round if y'tell me where the fuck I am. Please? Is it that weird bathroom hallway? I always end up there for some reason."

[gildcdglory]

WHO: Juliana León & open WHERE: Underground fighting ring

Juliana hadn't realized just how big the city was. She was used to a small town where she could walk from one end to the other and still get back in time for dinner. This place, on the other hand, left her feeling like a deer in headlights. It didn't help that she was headed to a new place in the middle of the night, knowing exactly zero people who could guide her to the right place to go. No, surely that wasn't a recipe for disaster, right?

She was supposed to be headed to a book club meeting, but the poor girl had misread the address. Instead of showing up to a late-night lounge, she wound up stumbling her way through the dark and entering a world she had never seen before. Wide eyes examined the fighters as they moved around the ring, and her focus blurred with the loud screams of the audience. It took her several minutes to orient herself, but once she did, she managed to latch onto the person next to her and tug their sleeve gently. ❝Sorry, is this part of the book club? I know we're reading War and Peace, but I didn't think they'd take the title so literally.❞

[ofcruelheart]

level 4 on the faceless ship / open to everyone

A tilt of the scales has never presented itself in a more savage spectacle, and Azusa has never preferred it any other way. She watches the fighting within the ring with rapt candor, dark eyes fixated and wide behind her mask of seafoam and Mikimoto pearls—pools of ink hungering for the merest smattering of crimson. A victor emerges, his fist defiantly thrust into the air, yet disappointingly, he selects another adversary from the distant right flank of the benches.

"Well," she sighs with an air of exasperated finality, her grasp tight on a handful of her silver dress as she rises and descends the tiers. A fleeting glance through one of the windows captures her attention, and she swallows wistfully. "Since this round proved a bust, pray, how many glasses would it take for you to take dip in the ocean alongside me?"

A smirk. Tepid and taunting, not unlike the deceptive allure of a placid current. "Or not. They probably have someone waiting with a fucking net on the side." She shrugs, the sinuous slope of her shoulders lifting. "Besides. You can't win me a drone or whatever else they call prizes sopping wet. What kind of message would that send to our governmental overlords?"

[bclletragedie]

LOCATION: godfather house of blues. FOR: open! ( 0/5 )

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀'𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 synonymous with that of the godfather in the years she has sung there -- so much so, one might think she lived within the walls. it is where she comes alive, ignited by the praise and adoration she receives. it is what keeps her coming back, taking paychecks from lux with an extended hand and flexed palm. twas another such night of revelry as she entered the main floor -- her set completed for the evening. while some may have said that mixing work with play never brought piece to anyone, veronica believed herself to be the exception to the rule. what could be more pleasant than being able to kick her feet up with an espresso martini dangling between her fingertips, only to benefit financially.

" how good of you to come. " veronica begins, speaking to the person next to her with her usual air of confidence. a finger is held up to catch the bartender's attention, who does nothing more than nod. he knows how she likes it. " here for the show or the liquor? it's quite alright if it's the latter. "

[uuninsane]

for . . . [ open ] / event starter, hour 01 .

she can't help herself.  the anecdotal smirk on her lips that smells like liquor and regret, rich and sweet flame. like the aggravated vacancy in her gaze, as though she had browbeat her worries elsewhere for the night so forcefully there was hardly a thought left in the aftermath.

showing up late half drunk to the party? a strategy of narrative genius.

“hey,” it comes out froglike so she clears it with a soft throaty sound and then steps closer before retreading her attempt, “hey. can i borrow you?” intercepts any answer to his question by chuckling and stumbling a dissertation, “i was drunk earlier — drinking.” she just outright corrects and admits, “but now i’m just bored.” she shrugs, and maintains her smile, a prettier thing than she's normally capable of, "want to dance?" out goes her palm in offering.