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[wolfiber]

fcxxes‌ :

and it is a curse, truly, to be a thing beautiful and star-coated. it has damned him since birth, twilight whispers. beauty is a terror, they say, and he has been nothing but both since the moonlight swathed him in silver some december long ago. if god has made man in His own image, what does that mean for this boy blood-drenched with something feral living in the in-betweens of his bones? what does that say of the god that we worship?

(that he is a hungry, greedy thing. that he needed a religion of himself to feel loved. girl calls him beautiful like a curse, and that is a word that could bring boy-gods to their knees)

“but of course. things made mine have always been lovely.” bodies, licked-clean carcasses. he leans into the touch, watches as she moves with steady hands with a grace of their own. smiles when she finishes, blood still dripping off lips.

“i do now, don’t i?” heads cant slightly, snowflakes falling off silver. “if you’d like a show, who am i to say no?” he hums softly, eyes gold-voided. “take your pick, dearest laurel. what poor soul should we have you make a coat out of their skin today?”

Smiles are delightful, ugly things in their faces, all torn skin and the lacing of too sharp teeth. She almost licks her lips as she watches his eyes sparkle, flicker and melt back to feral. Call him a religion and call her a priestess, weaving worship out of blood. 

“Indeed,” she murmurs, careful eye shown lazy over the fallen corpses. One is wearing a dark emerald cloak, some kind of suede, with beautiful silver buttons. Her eyes narrow and she sneers, turns to Soren. “I do believe a jewel such as yourself should stay in good company,” she muses. “Do you see the emerald lying there? Would be a shame to waste it, don’t you agree?”

She lounges back against the scrap metal piled behind them, and crosses her arms. The coat she had made dangles from her leather gloved fingers and she keeps her face carefully blank as she stares at Soren. And waits.

[wolfiber]

fcxxes:

DATE&TIME: february 14th, 4:00am LOCATION: outskirts of the starlight carnival TRIGGERS: implied death & gore STATUS: @wolfiber

does he remember how he got there?

answer: no, of course not. boy’s life has become a blur of awakening-reawakening, beds and basements and silk sheets and ropes; city gutters and bars in the morning and snowbanks under the moonlight should be perhaps one of the more favourable of the places hazy eyes have opened to.

question: does all this blood make it better or worse?

boy stumbles to his feet, unsure if the snow has rendered him numb or if bodies have always just been like this, wobbly steps away from the carnage left behind.

(and all that’s left is blood and bone, clothes half-torn off bodies in a way too familiar to him. boy spits out teeth that are not his own, lets tongue run over it and mull in the aftertaste before haphazardly pulling on coats of the now-deceased, not bothering for a shallow grave. learns that it is hardly of worth, after all these years. boy usually does not leave enough behind it anyways)

it does not take him long to stumble across a figure, one he reccognizes even in the snow, perhaps all the better in the moonlight as creatures of it they are. become.

“pretty laurel.” he drawls, words sliding over blood still in mouth. “‘ve you got a better-fitting coat for me? this one belonged t’someone bigger than me, i think - mm, well, not anymore, but that’s besides the point. he won’t be needing it anymore but ‘m still a little bit cold.”

She takes a half step backwards when red boys, covered in darkness and sin boys, claw and tongue boys step towards her. She has never even seen his cryptid, that silver footed silver tongued thing so fitting, and for a moment it is the most beautiful thing ever and she wants nothing more than to watch him, stardust, create chaos forever. But he turns back, bloody monster boy, and the first word to tumble out of her mouth becomes more of a curse than a compliment:

“Beautiful,” she whispers, and then draws herself up again, leans forward. “Nothing is better fitting than that which we take for ourselves, hm darling?” A finger against his cheek and she smiles, takes in the wildness still shivering across his frame. “This will do fine, let me simply tidy it up for you.”  Scissors cut the ends of black leather and a belt from a corpse creates a fitting coat, almost a cape around slender shoulders. She goes to hand it back to him, sees how he lounges easily even in this winter storm, and her eyes narrow.

“Before I give this back,” she says slowly, caressing the silver fox pelt around her neck. “Would you give me another show? You do look so stunning in silver and red.”

[wolfiber]

fairygcdmother:

DATE & TIME: February 13th, 12.00pm. LOCATION: the wilderness STATUS: closed @wolfiber

Around and around and around and around. Circles, in abstract, were pleasing shapes. They started and they began. They could be measured, scientific formulas applied to their structures. But in reality, there was danger in continuation, where going forward simply meant going backwards. Often, you drew the shape several times before you realised its consequences.

That you were lost.

Stubbornly, Adelita had been loathe to admit that they were wandering around aimlessly for quite some time now, shivering instead underneath her (faux) fur coat. To admit such would be to surrender control, to allow a feeling of panic that had thus far been suspended. But, entranced by the pull of the wilderness, the bare trees and the pristine landscape, they had found themselves treading further and further into the unknown. By the time the beauty had been usurped by the bitter cold, it had been too late to turn back. They didn’t even know which way back was. 

Pulling her coat in tighter, she chanced a look at her companion. Wishing to conserve energy and heat, they had mostly remained silent. “I think,” she began, chancing one last look at the landscape - desperately hoping it would yield some clues - “we might be lost.”

Might be lost, indeed. It took only a few minutes of walking, Adelita’s constant chatter about the trees, the rocks, the snow, and Laurel had regretted letting that thread within her get dragged into the wilderness. She is not made for forests and winter storms, she is made for glowing cities and glass. But she had given in, yet again, to that incessant curiosity that seemed to drag her everywhere, so when Adelita fell silent and they simply watched the sun climb faster and faster over the mountains, she felt in some small way grateful. At least there was someone else here.

“I think you might be right,” Laurel replies, rewrapping her cashmere scarf tighter around her neck. Bright red dusted with snowmelt. She stops walking, holding still to try and regain bearings, or at the very least keep them from getting more lost. Darkness came fast during the winter, and if they did not find their way back soon, they would find themselves in severe trouble. 

But now there is something more pressing. They had only brought a little food, not intending to go far, and Laurel is already feeling the pain of hunger. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” She holds her hands closer under her (not faux) fur coat, and tries to hide a shiver. “What’s the plan?”

[wolfiber]

TIME: 3 pm, february 13

LOCATION: decrepit medical car at the Carnival

STATUS: closed for @malachileclair

The snow swirls, almost violent, but Laurel was careful to take her thickest furs when she left the train, silver sable and white fox, making her almost camouflaged in the blizzard. Only her dark hair, streaked with white by ice, stands stark against the swirling world around her. She steps into an old car, red paint stripped by ash and time, lets just a second of cold and wind accompany her before she slams the door shut. She stands a second, startling white framed by peeling wallpaper and moans of those in pain. She sees Malachi from across the room and smiles, a slow growing thing, and carefully picks her way towards him.

She takes no shame from the way she bends over the patients, inspecting. Her long fingers are hidden within her coat, but her eyes speak all the prying judgement they must. Most of those lying are not theirs, have been here many months, years even, but she does not care anyways. No point in factions when she belongs to neither. 

She finally reaches Malachi and she straightens up, looking down her nose at the limp boy, eyes empty and lost as he stares into middle distance, agony dulled to boredom. “Why bother, Malachi?” she asks, less spite than disdain in her voice. “They will die anyways, will they not?”

[wolfiber]

A COLD BLAZE MAKES THE PRETTIEST FLAMES:

i. smoke she is fascinated by these cryptids, feral and broken yet strangely prideful. what is it like, she wonders, to be so ruled by the monster in your chest? In need of some people to help Laurel explore what it means to be a cryptid, to understand, with the help of these monsters (willing or not) what it is to be half living, half spirit. (Malachi, Soren, ____)

ii. blaze stand aside, chaos on the day sainted for love, and glory in the way fire lights cheekbones. starlight indeed. what anger, it almost seems beautiful. how could she be in danger, when snowmelt seems so gentle? In need of some people to confront the seemingly inherent danger of life as a cryptid, especially under Metzger. Laurel has not been here long enough to understand, help her see your point of view: is this life worth it? (____,____,____)

iii. ash she is not made for running. she is not made for cold snow beneath light shoe soles, not for following shadows and not for moonlight between pine needles. she is not, but dark fur and claws are. is the stain of red upon perfectly clean snow worth it? I would really love to see Laurel turn into her werewolf form purposefully for the third time ever this event. Do you help her make the decision? Or do you react once she has? A wolf’s coat is warm in a blizzard, you know. (Adelita,____)

here’s where laurel’s at this event! i’m trying to limit threads simply so that i have more even action between my two charas, but if there’s something you really want to do and things are full, please hmu and we’ll see what’s up!

[wolfiber]

allthingsmusings:

Kitchen:

What is the character’s favourite food?: she’d say some shit like calamari but really it’s just good daal Are they good at cooking? How good/bad?: she’s actually pretty good, she sticks to simple stuff but she’s good at throwing together soups and stuff Do they leave the dishes out?: no but she does have tea mugs everywhere What kind of food is in their refrigerator?: eggplant, mushrooms, leftover curry, milk, creamer, half finished bottle of wine, box of peanut butter girl scout cookies hidden in the back, half a loaf of ciabatta, frozen raspberries Do they cook, eat out or get take-away/delivered food more?: she gets takeout sometimes but does really like to eat out when she can

Living Room:

How does the character spend weekends?: she loves her job so she still works on weekends a lot; caring for her plants, lounging in the bar making fun of people What kind of movies does the character watch?: film noir 100% unapologetically loves old bad thriller movies too like the blob What do they do with friends?: make fun of other people, drink wine and feel fancy, get manicures, go window shopping What’s their favorite pastime?: she really does love designing clothes.. also taking care of her plants What’s their favorite TV show/Film?: i think she loves sweeney todd

Bathroom:

How does the character prepare in the morning?: gets up early to do a face mask, a steam treatment, hand exfoliation, full face of makeup and hairdo Do they sing in the shower?: she hums but would deny it to her deathbed What kind of hair product/make-up do they use?: the most expensive she can afford How clean is this character?: extremely!! Does the character have thousands of shampoo/shower gel bottles by the shower, or do they use only the bare essentials?: she definitely is one of those people that has like... shampoo, hair mask, conditioner, oil, three different hair brushes, all sorts of nonsense and a two hour regimen for both her hair and face

Bedroom:

How do they sleep? (Position, sleeping habits, bedtime routines): satin sheets, glass of wine and bath before, record playing soft jazz, candles, she’s living her best life What are their pajamas like?: one hundred percent silk robe with lingerie underneath What do they dream about usually?: not much tbh? her gf sometimes, or wolves How neat/tidy are they?: very! but it’s still quite cluttered in her sleeper and office How affectionate are they?: quite, but only to certain people who she can get something out of for it

Attic:

What is the character afraid of?: her cryptid form tbh, consequences, bears How do they deal with bad memories?: she honestly doesn’t have that many so she kinda just... ignores them/pretends they don’t affect her What is this character’s role in a horror movie?: badass lady who throws someone to their death to protect herself How do they hide their secrets?: being very closed off, having none

♛ fill in about the muse.

[wolfiber]

minvlibi:

He blinks at her, expression blank, eyes flat—not uncomprehending, just uncaring. What does it matter if leather and silk are stained? Dyed a shade of red with far too natural sources? After all, is that not what their adoring audiences come to them for: an alternate kind of entertainment for a night, a facade of civility painted with undertones of something darker.

“Hmm, suppose it has a poetic edge to it,” he agrees easily enough, attention already turning elsewhere. The matter of costumes and glittering exoskeletons to be worn under the light does not concern him, given the nature of his Act. No point in dressing up, when he sheds his skin so often.

His gaze follows where her finger directs, landing on a still-writhing figure in black not two steps away from their position. ( Curious little creature. what do you suppose she’s trying to accomplish, imitating a dying worm at your feet? ) No matter, he’ll still gladly strip her of all she has.

The rings require some tugging to remove from her clenching fingers, but he manages without ripping anything else with them. For now that’s all he needs of her. Sapphires and diamonds cascade onto the counter, a small fortune left in a haphazard pile, only slightly tainted by the red of his hands.

The emerald, he holds onto.

“Hope you don’t mind,” nothing in his tone indicates he would Care if she did express anything of the contrary. “But I’m keeping this one. He likes green.”

He brings the rings to her, cascades wealth off his dirty fingertips, smiles wide and casual up at her. She holds back for a second, surveying, before allowing herself to touch the jewelry, caress beauty with greedy care. ��Well done,” she offers, nonchalant approval dangling from her lips the way she sets a newly acquired necklace to sit dangling from her chest. 

She watches as he considers the emerald, turns it this way and that until it glitters gold in the low light. She knew as soon as she demanded it that he would keep the green jewel, knew that the sharp, imperfect cut would catch his eye. “Not at all,” she murmurs, gently taking the ring anyways. She holds it up next to his face, tilts his chin up with a sharp fingernail to compare. There’s a flicker there that matches, that echoes perfectly between dark eyes and dark forest-gem. 

“It does suit you nicely,” she says, letting teeth, fangs show. “And in any case, I much prefer these myself.” She lifts a nearly clear silver blue sapphire to her eyes, inspects it closely. Abundance for him. Discipline for her. Delightful. “Will you wear it as a ring, or would you like me to make it into something a little more...” She considers, for a moment. “Fitting?”

[wolfiber]

fire-birds:

Laurel sees her as a girl who emerges from a pattern—not a girl burning bright on her own. Perhaps she is not wrong to do so now, the way that Li Hua holds her arms around her body, making herself small, as if holding herself in place. In reality, her mind is elsewhere, running backwards through time, sifting through memories of easier days amidst the city glow that filters in through the bus windows.

(Before she recognized the hatred in their eyes, before she is left alone reeling, before her fire consumes tender raw flesh and decides it likes the taste even as the bile rises from her stomach.)

And so when Laurel sits next to her, settled in—perfectly in tact, perfectly in step—and addresses her, Li Hua is drawn back down into a world which she barely recognizes, a world in which she sits, clothes torn and blood splattered haphazardly across her skin and neckline, on this bus back to a hotel, booked out by a man who owned her, who bid her perform despite all the time knowing how the audience looked at them.

(When does confusion turn to anger? Does it solidify as lava does into igneous rock? Or does it simply stay, forever churning like the earth’s molten core?)

A startled noise, a mild gasp of air, “Oh.” Li Hua brushes her hair from her face, straightening her back slightly against the cushion of the bus seat in response. “I was just thinking about tonight. I didn’t expect any of that to happen—not those strangers, not Metzger bursting in at the end.”

Her voice trails off, in her mind the cool feel of glass against her palms, her body the ignition source for the flame that would devour that man’s body, boil skin and peel flesh off bone. A shadow burned into her thoughts—a sign of power that she held yet denied, limited to resurrection, to birth as if destruction didn’t come first.

Pattern or not, Li Hua does shine with a certain brightness that draws Laurel to her. This night, however, it is dimmed, folded in on itself and Laurel frowns, uncertain at the lack of luster she’s so used to. Confusion does not only turn to anger, sometimes it simply hardens into a shell that hold pinpricks of carefully crafted light, sharing only what is necessary, and taking in only what is wanted. 

She is surprised, a bit, by Li Hua’s own startle, but it manifests only in a curl of the lip, an eyebrow twitched sneer. You must learn to hide, little girl. Turn from the sun if it means you’ll glow brighter. She is pleased, however, by the way Li Hua straightens her spine, almost obedient. She looks out the window with a bare smile as she replies, brushes her hair away from her face. “Of course you didn’t expect it, dear, no one ever does. But surely you knew enough to anticipate some kind of... disruption? No?” Laurel settles in her seat as the bus starts to move, checks her fingernails against the moving neon lights. “Or are you just playing innocent,” she asks, turning her head slightly to eye Li Hua over long dark lashes. “Chaos can be beautiful, of course.”

[wolfiber]

“Yes, some of our clothes are from victims.”

[wolfiber]

vindictagloria:

Oh, Marcella always lets herself get spoiled it seemed. The insanity of Vegas was muted compared to Shanghai, but she was expecting much worse considering the weeks before arrival. It was too good to be true, all of this, but if the guards didn’t care that Laurel was dragging her out into the streets of Shanghai, then neither did Marcella. Let her roam the world, god only knew how little time she had left on it. 

“How could I not with that look?” She smirked, amused at Laurel’s wicked smile. Trust, as if that were possible. But it was for fun. Better to be drunk at a restaurant than near other cryptids, not that she wanted to lose herself tonight. No, it was too dangerous considering what happened before. “May I ask where and what this place is like? Am I dressed properly?” She grinned, knowing very well she was almost always overdressed for occasions like this.

Perhaps they should have been suspicious, with how easy it was to leave, but you must remember that Laurel does not have visible chains. Wild wolf, not tamed. She smiles just the smallest bit wider at Marcella’s half tease. It’s not trust on this end, not quite, but nevertheless an endless need for connection, for that wide eyed almost admiration. “Of course, darling, you will be perfectly fine,” she says as the door swings open. “We’re here!”

There’s something of a lobby, simply decorated, a man who checks their reservations without a second glance. Freedom, she doesn’t revel in, but this, this recognition of her stature, her power, this is revelry. She smiles easy at the man, half flirting, half showing off. She rests an easy hand on Marcella’s hip, and guides her into the small room that opens in front of them. Eight chairs arranged around an ebony table and they sit next to each other, luxury eked out of every inch of their exquisite surroundings. 

“There’s twelve courses, but don’t worry, they’re small,” she explains as the waiter brings out the list of what they will be experiencing tonight. “Mmm, truffle lamb.” She turns to Marcella as they wait for the other guests to arrive. “It has been far too long since we had a decent meal, don’t you agree?”

[wolfiber]

TIME: february 4, 9:30 pm

LOCATION: streets of shanghai

STATUS: closed for @vindictagloria

Well manicured fingernails are an easy replacement for claws, in a pinch. She pins hers into Marcella as they leave the bar, directs her down the street with less force than necessary to really move her but more than enough to be felt. She had contacted a few old friends, ones who either hadn’t heard or didn’t care of her incident in the States. Favors and coercion brought her a booking at the hottest place in all of Shanghai, an experiential dining evening that she knew Marcella would, of all the people at the Menagerie, appreciate. 

“I’ve got dinner for us, darling,” she murmurs to Marcella, breathing in the city air, the lights and the movement and the brilliant delight of skyscrapers. She doesn’t feel freedom as sharply as the others, has the privilege of time and position saving her from the true bite of a cage. Or is it just that dogs are used to being on a short leash?

“You’re going to love it,” she says as they turn the corner and she steps down into a nondescript bunker entrance. “Trust me.” Fang smiles and glitter in her eyes. Blinding.

[wolfiber]

minvlibi:

DATE / TIME: 01/25, 1:00 AM LOCATION: Blackbird Bar STATUS: @wolfiber​

“What about this one?”

A mens wristwatch, beige edges Soft in the light, clatters onto the counter-top in front of Laurel. The leather straps might have been tan at a time, before a Cat with bloodied claws tugged it off its owner’s limp wrist minutes earlier.

There’s already a mini-bounty scattered between the two of them—handkerchiefs, rings, belt buckles, whatever little knick-knacks on the bodies of the Fallen that catch his eye. He picks them clean, and presents each one to his Queen. ( after all, what use does a Dead Man have for silver cufflinks? a Waste it would be, leaving it to rot with him. )

He twirls a fountain pen between red fingers, leaving tacky stains all over the polished black surface. “What do you plan on doing with all of this anyway? Hoard it for yourself? I can’t imagine.”

She picks up a nice ring, probably from a wedding, single diamond framed in two rubies, twirls it between deft, manicured fingertips. “It’s nice,” she says noncommittally, sparing an offhand glance at the watch the boy has brought to her. “Would be nicer if these things didn’t all have blood on them;” inspects a hair clip dripping with viscous red. It can probably be washed, she thinks, imagines it in the burning girl’s hair, imagines the cuff links sewn into the flying child’s chest. Maybe for him she’d leave the blood.

It is a waste, for dead men to hold onto their silver niceties, their earthly jewels of precious sentiment. It might be more of a waste, however, for them to have it, the way they hoard and pick over other people’s memories, no real consequences, no real care. Grow a life out of other people’s bones left behind, it’s easy to decorate using broken wedding bands.

“I’ll probably sell what I can,” she replies, considering a pleasant leather and silver wallet he’s brought her. “Others will be for costumes, because what better facade than that which has been taken by our own claws?” She looks past him at the room, all the beautiful chaos in red and gold and shattered glass. A nice painting, if that was still a thing she allowed herself. She pushes away thoughts of oils and paintbrushes and points languidly at a woman laying contorted on the ground. Her fingers are gilded in a few sparkling rings, emeralds and sapphires clear in a pool of blood. “Get those, will you?” she asks, rubs a spot of blood off her fingernail, waits.

[wolfiber]

TIME: january 5, 1:30 am

LOCATION: bus to hotel

STATUS: closed for @fire-birds

As she steps onto the bus, she drags a perfectly manicured finger over the terrible, once brightly colored but now distressingly dull, abandoned bowling alley carpet seat covers. A balanced sneer crawls across her face, pure disgust beautiful framed in lip gloss. She spots a tousled mess of black hair towards the middle of the bus and slinks over, flicks dust off her fingertips before gingerly sitting down.

“Absolutely horrendous fabric, isn’t it?” she asks, not bothering to indicate what she’s talking about. She sets her purse under her, fixes a misplaced hair in the mirror on her compact, and then turns to assess Li Hua, judgement already high on her lips. 

But then she has seen the girl. Quivering, arms held tight around herself, Li Hua is nothing like the assured, familiarly confident person Laurel has gotten so used to, has chosen to, in her own small way, mentor. She frowns, some facade of concern bubbling up in the back of her mind. “Darling, what’s wrong?” she asks, putting the compact away again. “That posture does nothing for the lovely outfit you’ve put together.” She says nothing of the blood.

[wolfiber]

FLOWER MOON // DRAGON MOON | q.l.

[wolfiber]

knxwsbest:

DATE & TIME: february 6th, 5:00pm LOCATION: plaza 66, cartier  STATUS: closed for @wolfiber

“how does this look, dear rosebud?” 

she tilts her head slowly, lets light catch on the diamonds adorned around her neck, sparkling. there is an answer they all know, but it leaves ruby lips all the same for the mere satisfaction of hearing it out of the younger girl’s lips. a test. a reaffirmation. 

“choose what you wish, dear rosebud. i have men here and you have been working with metzger’s secondhand supplies for too long - truly, an insult for you to use such cheap things.” sol sighs, bird wings fluttering. sharp nails tap lightly on glass displays, pointing at diamonds and gold easily as she speaks, not sparing a second look at the attendants scrambling to meet her wordless order. 

“consider it a gift, my love. from me to you - we shall get all the silks for your designs later, but jade and silver will be for you alone. no other shall be able to wear it as lovely as you will. have you found one of your liking yet?” an arch of a perfect brow. “or perhaps more than just one?”

She waves her fingers at the shop clerk, revels in the familiarity of this. Of ordering, of empires of wealth spilling through her fingers, of quivering servant hands placing ever more things into her own. The best part, though, is the way Sol bares her neck, perfect curve displaying starlight collars. “It looks lovely, of course,” Laurel replies, inwardly lamenting that they had never worked together before this. What a muse indeed.

The man brings forth a lovely piece, yellow and red diamonds framing an exquisitely cut ruby. “But I think this would look even better.” She holds it up languidly, admires the way it sparkles with Sol’s skin. “Stunning,” she whispers. It is ever tempting, of course, to reach with greedy hands for her own neck, but she has an artist’s eye first and foremost, and this is the perfect canvas. Power is beautiful, don’t you know?

But of course something catches her eye for herself, because what is she if not framed in bouquets of narcissus? It’s a simple silver necklace, delicate metalwork spilling down to frame a sequence of perfectly smooth jade, darkest green of a storm swept sea. The center piece has red veins through it, a shot of blood in darkness. Eyelids close slowly in knowing expectation, smiles soft and barely sneering. “But this, of course–” she runs a finger down its length “–how could I pass it up?”

[wolfiber]

PLOTTING CALL:

please like this post and message me on discord if you want a thread with laurel! (please also see this post re: ceydran)

[wolfiber]

theimpxssible:

She tries to be subtle at adjusting herself so Laurel can see outside the door; then it’s shut closed, and it is only her and the wolf.

A bite of a bottom lip, a brush of her hands on her shirt. It feels odd, being here in the train when she was usually on the grounds during the show. It’s — too odd, too unnatural, and oh, Marci would smirk at her while Nadia would sneer, both for completely different reasons.

So before Laurel’s gaze could become infused with judgement, she took another breath, offered a small smile. “I’ll be the first to admit I’m not privy to anything of huge importance, but there is certainly talk about how to fortify us within here for longer than than the night. How this could be a worthy stand of sorts. But the noise from that audience is rising, and I’m not sure what anyone is really prepared for.”

Laurel sighs loudly, putting her things aside as she gets up, stretching slow and languidly. As per usual, the rebels are nothing more than an inconvenience, and if Metzger is the same as he has been that last few times, he won’t see it any different either. Laurel walks over to the record player to switch the side, musing over the list of songs before placing the needle down.

She turns to Jessica, body curved in a graceful carelessness. “Longer than the night? Are they really prepared for that or is this another haphazard attempt at looking organized that will dissolve as soon as Metzger threatens force?” She looks down as her cat Aster approaches, curling himself around her legs. She meets Jessica’s eyes again, trying to gauge her response to the barely disguised jab at the rebels.

“Speaking of Metzger,” she continues, picking up Aster and running her fingers through his fur. “What’s he done? Stratum drops, I expect.” An empty threat for one who never commits to anything, who remains one step to the side of any tragedy and enjoys her own reflection in the pools of blood left behind.