Martin Starling
*He is not straying far from his home these days. Perhaps he is a LITTLE paranoid, but around this area, there is a curry restaurant he likes, and a soup kitchen he’s started volunteering in the early evenings at. It isn’t entirely selfless, but to balance his Karma. He’s been causing far too much death these days, and he had not been able to find the girl, let alone people of his kind. He’s even started protecting his mind while traveling outside. He didn’t know what Dominate meant, nor did he wish to find out. Far too wary. He walks down the road, looking back and forth at those there. Drug dealers. Thugs. Thieves. He was the predator here, however, and it took a bit to convince others of this.*
Kiana Knowles
There are predators, and there are prey. Sometimes, a single person can be both. Kiana is one of those. The Tenderloin is not a place for a pretty girl like Kiana, but she is here none the less. The best of the best grew up on streets like these, and she aims to be one of them – at least on the underground circuit. And since she grew up here, the ‘Loin is home, and she knows all the pitfalls thereof.
There’s a low fence made of stone that currently supports her weight. She’s sitting atop it, boots bouncing against the brick as she swings her legs a little. She’s got a wrapped sandwich of some sort that she’s chowing down on, and after a bite she wipes the sauce from her mouth with the back of her hand. Tattered jeans, a well worn hoodie, with the hood pulled up gives little suggestion to the face beneath…
She seems to not be paying attention. She is.
Martin Starling
*He is sharply paying attention to everything around him. Paranoid, almost. And almost difficult to ignore. He walks with his hands shoved into his pockets, backpack over his shoulder. He murmurs to himself, and he shakes his head in response. Some people talk to themselves, but he’s one of the special ones that responds. Normal things. A little change into a homeless man’s cup, and a shrug for the next one. And a girl on a stone fence.*
*Wait.*
*A girl on a stone fence?*
*He frowns, and he takes a few steps back, and he unashamedly stares at her, as if trying to factor her into his imagination. Is she actually there? A fabrication of his mind? He frowns, and stares, but says nothing.*
Kiana Knowles
He talks to himself, passes out coin, shrugs at another, and then stops and stares. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing, doesn’t seem to notice, though the observant would note that her spine stiffens, slightly, and the weight of her gaze settles on him through her lashes. She doesn’t lift her head, no – merely her gaze.
He stares and says nothing.
She takes another bite.
Martin Starling
*He turns his head, back and forth.* You… do you belong here?
*An odd choice of words, but he keeps his frown.*
Kiana Knowles
She arches a brow, slightly, at that, and simply watches him. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then licks the sauce off it. Her eyes are dark, from what he can see under the shadows of the hood. Full lips are sporting a healing cut, and there’s the ghost of a bruise on her cheekbone – all seen only in glimpses, in shadow, hints of hints of reality.
As for the question – she lifts a shoulder in a shrug in reply.
Martin Starling
*He frowns at that.* I do not know what that means. Perhaps you could clarify?
Kiana Knowles
That brow hitches a notch higher, as she stares at him, forgetting to chew for a moment. Then she snorts, and takes a final bite of her sandwich and crumples up the paper as she chews it, thoughtfully. She tosses the wrapping into a nearby bin, and then studies him again.
He asks for clarification. He gets none. In fact, he gets simply silence… after all, his question was odd to begin with.
Martin Starling
*His eyes narrow at that.* Insolence is not charming. *He doesn’t seem afraid of her, not in the slightest.* Are you real?
Pascal
[Stealth + Dexterity: I like embarrassing myself, okay?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 5, 9) ( fail )
Kiana Knowles
[hahahah]
Pascal
Paranoia has kept more people alive than it has led them to their deaths. Delusions, however, and the hallucinations that come along with it, those are what do it.
One could consider believing oneself to be the premiere predator in a location that is rife with shadows and things one does not understand is bordering on delusion, but they haven’t gotten that far yet.
Martin and the girl are having what could pass as a conversation, in that Martin is asking questions and the girl is offering silent responses, but he doesn’t seem to like that. There is a figure behind Martin, a ways down the street, and when he draws close enough, his shadow cuts a swatch across the sidewalk; his form blots out the ambient glow of a neon light.
He is about as stealthy as a mountain lion in a shopping mall. Particularly since, when he hears Martin’s question, he coughs out a laugh.
Kiana Knowles
Aw, and she was trying so hard to be charming. Wait, no. She was trying to enjoy her dinner. Not exactly the same thing, not at all.
She blinks as he asks his follow up question, and tips her head, slightly. She crooks an arm in front of her, then with her other hand pinches her forearm, and then arches a brow. Seems she thinks she’s real.
Her gaze flicks to the man who walks up behind the questioner, and arches a brow, slightly as he laughs. She, however, still says nothing.
Martin Starling
*The laugh distracts him. WAS this a dream? HAD he been hallucinating again? He frowns, moving slowly, turning his head. Surrounded. If this WERE a dream, he would be armed. Was he armed? Just his knife. No sword. The nightmares were all the same, really. No blood-soaked sword in his hand. No madness, other than the normal.*
*Normal. Heh. He idly raises his hand to push at the burn-mark that was nicely healed over. A new scar, but it was still there, under the sleeve of his tee shirt. He frowns slightly as he sees the laughing man out of the corner of his eyes. Madness begets madness.*
Have you been following me?
Pascal
When they look his direction, Kiana and Martin will see a figure that is only familiar to one of them. At first glance, they see a tall young(-looking) man with unruly hair. He is wearing Converse sneakers, black jeans and a green sweater underneath a black blazer. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, and his dark eyes don’t blink.
Martin, having met him before, will note more than Kiana, perhaps, that he looks either sick or dying or both. Perhaps, combined with his outfit and the state of his hair, Kiana thinks ‘addict.’ His skin is ghastly in its pallor, the blood drained from his face so that his eyes appear bruised and almost hollow. As he draws closer, there is something almost animalistic about him; he prowls more than he traipses, and his nostrils flare, once, when the wind changes direction.
And then Martin asks his question, and Pascal suppresses a smirk.
“Well aren’t we full of ourselves tonight?” he asks, in a flat American accent that jars the ears because it isn’t natural. Drifting closer, he asks, “Why? Should I have been? What’re you up to?”
Kiana Knowles
The streets are full of those that look like Pascal – addicted to something, pale and slouchy and hallow… just as there are quite a few that could be said to look like Kiana… homeless, tattered, warn, sporting bruises and attitude. And even those like Martin, with his weird questions, and confusion. It’s a city, after all, and though everyone wishes they were unique, they are only in that they are like dozens of others too.
For her part, she remains quiet as Martin and Pascal speak. In fact, she’s yet to say a single word. She tucks her hands into the ‘roo pocket of her hoodie, and remains right where she is, listening.
Watching.
Martin Starling
*Pascal’s appearance makes him frown deeply. He arches an eyebrow.* Are you ill? *Now, NOW he sounds concerned. He’s not mad. He’s not. There are just dark circles under his eyes, using Mind to keep himself awake. Maybe three days was just too much, and avoiding the nightmares was only causing himself problems.*
You do not look well. At all. *Yes, he MIGHT be avoiding the question. He didn’t THINK he’d murdered. It was just, it was RIGHT, the blood on his hands right now, since he’d hit the shores of the US.* Perhaps you should get some rest.
Pascal
“Aha!” he says, without much volume or enthusiasm. The darkness devours whatever minute expression might have come across his face, and being as he possesses a subdued demeanor on the best of nights, all that is left is his tone.
It’s as though Martin has just answered his question by attempting to divert attention. There is nothing about Kiana that is drawing his own, save for the fact that she is just there, sitting and silent, and Martin seems to be intent upon questioning her.
Pascal comes as close as Martin will let him. The pallor is even more apparent this close. How he is up and walking when he looks like this is a mystery. Determination, or madness, or not having a choice. There are any manner of explanations. He is not the only person out on the streets who looks as though he belongs in a hospital or a morgue, but he does not reek of cigarette smoke or sweat or much of anything at all.
He’s just there, eying Martin up and down before leaning in to ask, his voice a murmur though not quiet enough for Kiana to miss if she is watching them, “What did you do, Martin?”
Pascal
[Empathy + Perception: Aura Perception, for the lulz.]
Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 2, 2, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 1 )
Pascal
[WOULD IT KILL YOU TO GET MORE THAN ONE SUCCESS YOU CREEPY FUCKING BASTARD]
Kiana Knowles
Well. No one said this night was going to include a show. She remains as she is, even her feet quit thumping against the stone wall she sits on, so that she can watch, and listen. It’s amazing what folks can find out simply by keeping quiet… so quiet that they forget your there. It’s a good survival technique… one she’s very, very good at.
And so she remains, watching, listening. Now she knows Martin’s name… perhaps she’ll find out why he’s so odd, too.
Stranger things have happened, after all…
Martin Starling
*Within arms’ reach is the closest he will let Pascal get to him. He frowns, wiping his left hand on his jeans, absently, as if thoughtful. He doesn’t forget about Kiara, much the opposite. He looks back to her, and then back to Pascal.* If you must know, it is not what I have done. It is what I have NOT done. What I have not had success in doing.
In locating the bald, tattoed man. He is a sinner, and must be found. *He frowns at his own words.* Ahh. Those are not my words. What … I meant to say was. He knows of the whereabouts of a missing person who is likely already dead, or mad to the point that it would be more of a mercy TO kill her. *Yes, THAT sounds more sane. Of course.*
Pascal
Realization comes across Pascal’s face like the dawning of the sun, though he does not recoil from it. His lips part, as though he’s about to speak, before Martin frowns at what it is he’s said and corrects himself. There is no fear at the warped nature of what it is the blond man says; Pascal does not stare or frown, and there is no sense of disbelief in the way he looks at him.
Silence sits there, a moment, and then he looks over to the woman on the wall. So far as he can tell, there is nothing about her that warrants further attention, other than the fact that she is looking at them. He looks at her, runs his tongue over a canine tooth, then lifts his eyebrows.
“Are you going to introduce us?” he asks Martin, canting his head toward the girl.
Kiana Knowles
That brow cocks upwards again, as Martin explains what he hasn’t done, what he’s failed at, and that it would be a mercy if he killed some ‘her’… interesting street conversation to be sure.
But then Pascal looks her way, and her expression clears, flattens as it were, so that she shows him nothing… nothing other than silence. Because she’s compltely unremarkable, right?
Riiiiiiiiiight.
Though, when he asks for introductions, the corner of her lips quirk upwards, just a touch. Amused.
Martin Starling
This… is my mute friend. She cannot speak, *he says with a small nod. Perhaps there is just a touch of a smile at the corner of his lips as well, almost copying it.* Should you like, I can make up a story about why she is, but I haven’t the time. Especially since I am uncertain why you are here, and why you look so sickly. And I rather dislike being uncertain.
Pascal
Pascal does not appear overly concerned as to whether Martin likes or dislikes being uncertain. He also does not appear as though he’s an overly large hurry to explain why it is he looks like he does, either, but when dealing with the paranoid, one has to be somewhat flexible.
“You’re uncertain?” he asks, his heavy brows lifting again, higher this time, as though this has amused him somehow. “Well, Martin, it’s probably because I’m sick. Being sick, I’m told, makes people look sickly, but I… well.” The attempt at a smile is apologetic, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not a physician.”
Kiana Knowles
His mute friend. There’s a smirk, brief, as she is introduced that way, even if she’s curious as to the story he would concoct to explain the way she hasn’t spoken to either of them yet. Or she just might be biding her time. There’s any number of reasons, really – but she doesn’t end the mystique by giving one.
No, she just watches, and listens.
Pascal is sick, and thus looks sickly, and Martin is uncertain, and she…is watchful. cautious.
Martin Starling
Hmm.. Well. Not a physician. That clarifies one thing you are not. Now there are only four thousand possibilities of what you COULD be. Your associate implied you to be a madman. Your appearance implies that you need to be with a doctor of some type.
*He furrows his eyebrows. The possibility does not have him pleased. He raises his right hand, and he starts to draw a circle with his finger on his left. He almost looks out of control of himself, but … he stops. He has no one to speak to. If he knows… sometimes… ignorance IS indeed bliss. He shoves his hands into his pockets. He will be himself for the evening.* If there is something I can do to assist, then. I know some small treatments should it be necessary, but most of my knowledge rests on sewing wounds shut.
Pascal
His associate implied. A curious expression comes across Pascal’s face. It’s a strange reaction, considering that many others, particularly those who are mad, become defensive or even angry when their sanity is hauled into question. It becomes not so strange when Pascal cuts Martin off around ‘Your appearance implies.’
“That’s quite a bit of implying,” he says, as though he’s making an observation about a painting and not about his reputation. “Which associate might that be?”
Kiana Knowles
They seem to have forgotten about her now – which, is very likely a good thing. Her gaze wanders, taking in the rest of the street, while always keeping them in her line of vision, carefully, making sure that she knows where they are, what they speak of.
Implying associates, it seems.
She is very still, and very. very. quiet.
Martin Starling
*He pauses.* I meant no offense. At the restaurant, the… gentleman, who said something snottish about a restaurant that allowed cats. And … ahh… plastic chairs? Was he your bodyguard?
Pascal
In terms of how old Pascal is, describing an event that occurred a matter of weeks past is akin to asking him to clarify something that had happened a few minutes ago. Amusement comes to Pascal’s face again, and he cuts a glance over at Kiana again.
“My what?” he asks. “Bodyguard?”
He makes a sound that might have been a giggle if he’d put more breath into it. It’s still higher pitched than a chuckle, the air sneaking through his vocal cords unmoderated, and he rubs at the corner of his eye with the pad of a finger. It’s the first time his hand has come out of his pocket; he’s wearing knit fingerless gloves tonight.
“No. No, no. He’s, ah…”
There’s hesitation before he applies the proper word to it, and given that they’re in San Francisco, that Pascal looks the way he does, no one would blame either of them if they leapt to a conclusion he had not meant when he does. Granted, to those who know what they actually are, it’s hardly accurate.
“He’s a friend. The closest thing to a brother I’ve got. I remember you asking about this once already, and I believe I cleared up the matter of my insanity well enough.” He beats back another smirk. “You told me I don’t look the depressed type.”
Martin Starling
You do not look the depressed type. There IS more than one type of madness, after all. *He cants his head, and he starts to move back and forth, warily. It seems an odd sort of animalistic pacing, but it does keep Kiana in his eyes as well for the movement.* But. You do look ill. So is there anything I can do to assist?
Kiana Knowles
He stumbles when he tries to talk about his body guard, and that brow lifts again as she meets Pascal’s glance, briefly. She doesn’t look away he does, as he tries all he can do to ensure they don’t think he’s gay.
Or something.
She, of course doesn’t care either way. She’s just.. listening.
Gwen Guthrie
(hello, mind another? And location if you don’t?)
Martin Starling
((We’re all in the streets, and I don’t mind!))
Kiana Knowles
(come on in – and Kiana’s sitting silently on a random stone wall, the other two on the walk in front of her, being all weird n shit.)
Pascal
[Gwen you can take Kiana Pascal’s got dibs on Martin.]
Gwen Guthrie
(that works ;) )
Kiana Knowles
[Who says Gwen hasn’t already taken her…. heh.]
Pascal
[SCANDALOUS]
Pascal
Either Pascal is more aware of what Martin is or is not, or he’s simply out of his skull and attempting to bring the other man with him. He had preyed on Martin’s paranoia from the moment he stepped out of the shadows and into their consciousness, yet telling whether he actually knows Martin to be paranoid is another story.
The question comes up, and Pascal draws his lower lip between his teeth, looking uncertain for a moment. It’s a change in demeanor, nearly a ricochet, as though he wants to ask for help but doesn’t know how.
Then his gaze becomes shifty. He flicks a glance over to Kiana, then back to Martin, his expression imploring and doubtful. He says nothing, though he frowns. Without speaking, Martin may very well get the impression he has no idea how it is this guy thinks he can possibly assist.
Gwen Guthrie
This wasn’t the safe neighbourhood for a single young woman to be in, especially one as attractive as the one whose heels can be heard in the night air. She was tall, over 6′ with her knee length boots, wearing a pair of tight jeans, a tank top and a leather jacket over it. Her long dark hair was left free to fall in her back, make up enhancing her deep green eyes and full inviting red lips. Around her neck is a discreet silver chain with matching earring
It might come as a shock for those knowing her to see her dressed that way. But one doesn’t walk into Tenderloins dressed in a designer dress, with sparkling jewellery or driving one’s Mercedes.
She scans her surroundings, aware of shifty eyes watching her from darken alleys and now of two familiar presences. Well one was familiar, the other one, someone who’s supposed to call her shortly. She debate walking away for right now is the the image she likes to project around her kind but she had a feeling the Sheriff had noticed her.
So she closes the distance and stops near the small gathering “Evening Mister Pascal” She says the the man with a nod, then offers a small smile to Kiana “Hello, it’s nice to meet you again” Then her eyes falls on Marting “Evening Sir”
Martin Starling
*Use all of your senses, the voice in his head urgently pleads. But he ignores it, for once. He watches Pascal. He swallows, as if he has something stuck in his throat. Paranoia, of course, means one does NOT go into that dark alley with the stranger.*
My life is not for sale, *he says quietly.* This would be the only thing I cannot offer.
*Gwen’s sudden appearance makes his head swivel. It seems he was distracted by the pale, sickly man. He frowns as the woman speaks to him. And he nods.* Evening to you, Lady. *His voice does change ever so slightly. Trapped in another era momentarily.*
Kiana Knowles
His gaze becomes shifty – and that just might be Kiana’s clue. Things tend to go sideways when people get nervous, and she is not about to have things go sideways here, without her instigating it for a reason. That reason is usually money, of course, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, she pulls her hands from the ‘roo pocket of her hoodie, and sets them on the wall by her hips, ready to push off and stand but something makes her pause…
something in the form of the woman who might back her into the Pits. She arches a brow, slightly, then dips her chin into a nod. A slight hello.
Pascal
“I’m not a killer, Martin,” he says, just as quietly. It sounds, a moment, like a confession, like something he ought to be ashamed of, yet it lacks the desperation of one who needs to be believed; his accent slips, somewhat; and then there’s Gwen.
She’s taller than him tonight, and the sight of her wearing jeans has him loosing that same gunshot-unexpected laugh, teeth flashing in the darkness. Despite the rest of him, which looks like a junkie, his teeth are clean.
“Gwen,” he greets her, and covers his mouth to smother further laughter.
Martin Starling
*It is an odd admission. One he can’t return. There is more blood than he could ever wash away. Swimming in the sea of blood. Trying to wade through it. A smirk on a man’s half-face, the other side crushed from where he’d smacked a fire extinguisher into it. Coldly.*
*He shakes his head.* That… is indeed a relief to hear. It would ruin my evening. *A small joke, it seems, though he is not smiling. His eyes remain on Gwen.* Then anything up to that, I can assist with. I have some talents. *Good LORD, he really should not speak like that in the streets of San Francisco.*
Gwen Guthrie
She tilts her head at Pascal with a brow raised “For some reason my appearance is a source of entertainment to you. Glad I can amuse you” She says in a even tone. Hard to say if she was kidding, offended or didn’t care. “I hope the night finds you well Sir. Who’s your…” plaything, she wanted to ask “friend?” She asks, eyes going again to the man observing her, looking at him for a moment.
Her gaze turns to the silent woman “Have you thought a little about my proposal?” She asks her, her smile widening a little.
Kiana Knowles
Gwen asks her a question, and Kiana lets her lips curl into a brief little lopsided grin. As if she had thought of anything else… not like she’s had backers beating down her door. The expression is enough to let gwen know the answer is yes – she’s thought about it – without saying a word.
Of course, there’s still the matter of her audition, too. She pushes the hood of her sweatshirt back a little, to show she’s all but healed up now, before she tugs it back down over her striking features. She really is a pretty one – she must not get hit too often.
Pascal
A Malkavian laughing at a Ventrue.
Stop the presses, this has never happened before.
In the scheme of things, regardless of how terrified people aware of his reputation are when he appears at their doorway or behind them without prior warning, Gwen is higher up on the food chain. Not by much, but enough for him to can his abundant amusement and attempt to behave himself. It’s just clothing, after all.
Hell, he’d wear Alice’s clothing if she weren’t a foot shorter and several dozen pounds lighter.
At any rate, she asks after his friend, and Pascal looks over at the blond man and says, in a stilted American accent she hasn’t heard before, “His name’s Martin.”
Their gazes go their separate ways, then, and Martin’s speech brings him back to the matter of what it is the younger man can do for him, if anything. Anything other than his life. Pascal, unblinking, cants his head to one side, and were not for that predacious air he’s projecting tonight, it might have been disarming. It’s the difference between a hyena and a puppy executing the same movement.
Sure, Pascal looks like a very sick puppy, but nobody would mistake him for one after speaking with him for a few minutes.
“These ‘talents,'” he says. “I’m assuming you’d prefer not to have an audience?”
Martin Starling
*He can’ t help but look back and forth between Pascal and Gwen, feeling as if he’s missed some sort of joke. He is rather predatory himself, quiet, looking back and forth, in the area of a more dangerous predator that he is uncertain of. And now, there are two of them.*
I do not mind having an audience or no. Standardly, if I do it properly, it cannot be noticed. Just a bit of… well. Minor hypnosis. First aid. Based on belief more than anything else. If it will help, that is.
*What were YOU thinking? Really.*
Gwen Guthrie
A soft smile appears on the tall Ventrue’s lips when she hears the american accent coming out of Pascal. It seems she wasn’t the only one who like to change her “image” sometimes when not in another kindred’s company.
Kiana nods to her, telling her she had thought about her proposal and show her that she’s almost all healed up. She nods appreciatively “Well it seem that you’re ready for your audition Want to do it tonight my dear or another time?”
The full weight of her gaze falls on Martin when he talks about his talents. She studies him, as if reading him. Then she looks at Pascal with an eyebrow raised. If her instincts are true, this could be trouble…or some amazing find.
Kiana Knowles
She lifts her shoulders into a little shrug. Either is fine with her – she’s always spoiling for some action, after all, or she wouldn’t do what she does. She’d be lying if she said it was only for the money… she likes it, too.
She’s good either way, that much is clear. She relaxes slightly, and her feet finally start to swing again, thudthudding on the stone wall, as she continues to watch this fascinating little byplay about talents and audiences and who knows what else….
Pascal
If it will help.
Pascal looks doubtful.
See, this is fairly typical of young men who carry on through life with a swagger and a bravado that suggests that they consider themselves to be nigh unto demigods. It’s to cover up a seething sense of insecurity, most of the time, because they haven’t ever been loved or because they don’t think themselves Good Enough, because they were abused as children; there are countless reasons, and none of these things apply to Pascal because that is not who he is.
What he is, Martin hasn’t figured out yet, but Gwen knows. They are all of them simply pretending to be human after a certain point, and those of his clan tend to be better at pretending to be weak. Many of them simply are weak. This one, though, no one can figure out. All of them, at some point, crack and reveal their inner ailments, yet all people can gather from Pascal is that he’s eerie. He’s creepy. There’s something wrong with him, and the unease of being in his presence for a night, or ten thousand of them, is that he’s very good at concealing what, exactly, is his damage.
It’s enough to let the world see that he is damaged, which seems to be what he’s going for with Martin, now. Yes, he’s sick; yes, he needs help; yes, Martin can help him. But he appears embarrassed about it, as though he doesn’t want to confide in what it is he needs in front of a stranger.
He looks back to Kiana, then leans in to whisper something to Martin without breaching his space. Thumping bass from still-open bars, whispering of tires on asphalt, the din of a dozen conversations through open windows, drowns it out.
Martin Starling
*He doesn’t look away from Gwen, nor does he lower his head. He looks confident, but careful. He paces slowly, however, watching the others. Well. They are on HIS territory. At least close to it. He might not be the superior predator, but he is certainly efficient when it comes right down TO it.*
*His eyes remain on Gwen when Pascal speaks to him. Kiana might have a predatory edge to her, but it seems his mind has ruled her out as a predator. His eyes twitch, suddenly wary, at whatever words have been said to him. His eyes flick back to Pascal. His face is remarkably stoic.* Pity you, I might, but I hardly trust you. *Something, it seems, he is fearless to say among the group. And then he leans in as well, to lower his voice, his fist curling.*
Gwen Guthrie
She watches the two men for a moment, whispering to each other. Her eyes continue to study Martin for some time especially when his fists close. She wasn’t afraid for Pascal, the man was Sheriff after all and it meant he could handle just about anything. Garou, hunters, Magi…but one could always find more powerful than he or she is.
“Mister Pascal, if everything’s ok on your side, I’ll steal the young lady for a while. She and I have matter to discuss”
She then look at Kiana with a smile on her lips. “Seems like you’ll get you audition tonight”
Kiana Knowles
A matter to discuss indeed. She nods, slightly, and pushes with her hands against the stone by her hips, hopping off the wall gracefully, landing on her feet lightly. She then tucks her hands back into the ‘roo pocket of her hoodie, and looks up at Gwen with that same lopsided little grin.
She’s ready. Clearly.
A nod of her head suggests Gwen lead the way, and she falls into step with her, sparing the men only another glance while they whisper to each other. Weird ones, they are. Weird indeed.
Pascal
Behind them, the women are not so much forgotten as they are at the background of his cognizance. They’re still there, but he and Martin are ducked in close, whispering to each other as though they’re working out some sort of a deal. There is nothing inherently shady about two young men speaking on the sidewalk, but when one of them looks as though he ought to be panhandling or waiting outside of the methadone clinic and the other looks as though he hasn’t slept in days, it takes on a less than wholesome air.
Martin pities him, and Pascal seems to swallow his pride enough to cope with this. That’s fair; that’s fine; there’s plenty about him that is worthy of pity, and Pascal nods, worrying his lower lip and ducking his head to take in whatever it is the man whispers to him.
And then Gwen speaks up, asking if everything is alright, and when Pascal turns around, that vulnerability he had drawn the curtain away to reveal is quickly shucked back into hiding. He stands up straighter, perks his brow to indicate that the sharply dressed woman has his attention. It’s clear that he is growing hungrier by the night, whether that’s by choice or by poor luck; she hasn’t asked if he’s alright, though he is looking particularly corpse-like tonight.
He plasters a close-lipped smile onto his face, and he waves her off with a gloved hand.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Go, go.”
Back to Martin, and he wavers between maintaining that ingrained confidence of his and disclosing what it is that troubles him. His brown eyes focus on a place over the other man’s shoulder as he listens to the footfalls of the women drawing away from them.
When he looks back at Martin, he draws in a purposeful breath and then blows it out again. With the air as cold as it is, the Euthanatos won’t notice how it isn’t warmed by his respiration. It’s a sigh, as though he’s preparing himself for some illumination as to what it is his problem is, but nothing happens then.
He starts walking.
Martin Starling
*He follows Pascal, then, with his fist clenched. He doesn’t look angry – he doesn’t look anything, really, that is. If Pascal should look back. Marty doesn’t seem to care about the cold either. His hands are not pocketed, and just one is clenched. And he does not wear a jacket. He is not thinking of the implications. The women do not quite catch his attention, despite the fact that everything feels wrong. He is going AGAINST Fate for once. To hell with it. Even an Agent of Fate needed a night off once in a while.*
*He is making sure they are clear. Only briefly, before he speaks again.* I was incorrect, *he murmurs.* You do not look sickly. You look as a hungered lion might.
Gwen Guthrie
She nods to Kiana and once Pascal tells her things were ok, she gives him one last look “All right, have a good evening Mister Pascal.You have my number, call me soon. I’d like to talk to you about something. Until then” She lower her chin slightly as a farewell
“Good night Sir” She tells Martin then return her attention on Kiana “All right darling, let’s go. I have the perfect place for your audition”
She starts to walk away, the clicking of her heels filling the air again. The sound always announcing her, as if she needed people to know she was here and that there was a wolf..well not a wolf..they would resent that, but something bad amongst them. After all, she could much worst than one of the Wolves, no?
Kiana Knowles
Kiana follows, her steps even and well matched to the taller woman’s, though near silent. She doesn’t scuff her feet along the cement, she isn’t sloppy with where she places her feet, she isn’t determined to make a sound as she moves.
in fact, it seems she is determined to do the opposite. After all, they can’t hit her first if they don’t know she’s coming…
She doesn’t stop Gwen from calling her ‘darling’ though a brief crease of her brow signals her displeasure for it – of course, she still has her hood up, so it is likely missed. After all, she wouldn’t really say anything about it (cough) – not with the amount of money Gwen is considering throwing her way… Hell, she could call her just about anything and she wouldn’t stop it. Not yet. Not until she’s in The Pits for good…
Pascal
Pascal projects what he thinks is going to work, for him, but as old as he is, there comes the difficulty of keeping with the times. They are not living in an age where aggression and pride are rewarded qualities. People are becoming more enlightened, and with it, more guarded. The concept of a pecking order has been lost on most young people, and it becomes even harder to uphold when two individuals from such discordant schools of thought come into contact.
He had not been lying, for once, when he stated that he is not a killer, and yet the man to whom he’s speaking is. Whether he is mindless in his executions or whether there is some purpose to it, he might want to find out some night, but a stark truism hits him in the chest once they’re away from the silence observation of the dark-haired girl: he looks as though he’s hungry.
The tall, thin man with the wild hair and the wild eyes does not take steeling breaths or appear to struggle with emotions that come about because of what it is that Martin says. Every night, he awakens with a hunger.
It’s just worse tonight.
If Martin is not so lost in his insomnia, in his quest, he might notice that as soon as they are beyond Kiana’s earshot, he drops the American accent entirely. This one is more natural, yet it’s also faded, as though he’s spent so much time shuttling between time zones that all he has to go on is the speech that he’s known the longest. His voice is not high, but it’s soft, and that becomes even more apparent when he stops speaking in the register necessary to achieve the façade he needs to sound American.
“Do you know why that is?” he asks.