Chapter 1

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week 1, Day 1 - Week 2, Day 1
Summary: Game launch prompts!
Restrictions/Warnings: Violence, blood, et cetera. For anything surpassing 'R' on a rating scale, please create your own log.
Notes: Please title your subject line in the following format -- Open / Closed | Date. OOC event information can be found here.

Quick Navigation
The Nine
The Company
Leith
True Leithians
Westies
Resistance
The RAC

The Nine

Hushed whispers and conversations behind sealed doors spread throughout Qresh, carrying with them rumor of the Lady Derrish's illness. Poisoned, some say, as they speak their quiet murmurs and the news travels like wildfire. It lights up the nobility with a new cause - there is no heir to the Derrish name. At least, none that is known. A surrogate mother carries the only Derrish child to be related by blood. She dwells on Leith, though her location is obscured to everyone who seeks her - both those who wish to help and those who would do harm. Some wish to procure the heir - whether following the warrant for his retrieval or hoping to gain favor with the Nine by gift or by blackmail. Some wish the heir dead, seeking to cause a power vacuum that could lead to a bloody war as families of the Nine scramble to gobble up Derrish land. All have backring that can be traced back to the nobility, each family pursuing their own agenda. 'False' heirs, those who claim to be related, or bastard children, either rise up in hopes of fortune or hide in fear of those who would stamp out the family name for good. On Leith there is said to be a hotel staffed by the most beautiful woman, run by a man who no one has ever seen. Only those with money or influence may stay the night at Blessed Branches, though anyone seeking fine wine and good company may occupy its lounge. Many come hoping to spend time with the hostesses, though the girls aren't known for taking bribes or slipping away for a 'good time'. It is here, in one of the premium guestrooms, that the surrogate heir and his mother are housed. The other women are unaware of her status - simply taking care of her as one of their own - and how much the owner knows is as difficult to pin down as he is. Any display of violence is sure to be noticed, as Company officials and RAC agents alike guard the building for significant pay. Getting in may be simple for some, but getting out is far more difficult. The mother's room is on the 10th story, with its few windows locked and curtains closed. As she approaches her delivery date, help comes and goes with frequency, but on no specific schedule. Criminals and RAC agents alike chatter in the streets of Westerley and Leith over just who, and where, this woman could be. Many assume she lodges with the surrogate clusters hidden on Westerley - heavily guarded by men and treacherous landscape alike. Others seek beyond the Quad, and some assume she's already dead. No matter the cause, no matter its difficulty, the rush to find the woman and unborn baby only grows. Some may consult information brokers, some may attempt to find their way into the genetic databases, some may rely on word of mouth, and some may lay in wait for others to do the sleuthing work before closing in on their target.

The Company

"We need to send a message," every Company employee receives the same directive, "Loud and clear." Rules are rules, and there is no room for disobedience - neither within nor outside of the Company. The citizens of Westerley have become more unruly than usual, taking out their frustrations with their lot in life on the Company and on society. Or so the directive says. It is for the good of the Company, and for those loyal citizens who keep their heads down and do their duty, to expunge the corrosive minds from society and extinguish the flames of a foolish rebellion. From prisoner guards to those selected to string criminals up for execution, to those who stand watch over the sizzling corpses (or soon to be corpses) belonging to symbols of the rebellion left out in the rain to die, to those in charge of door-to-door or man-to-man ID checks, every bit of available manpower in the Company is being used to secure the city. Some may begrudge their work, while others delight in the lax restriction on violence towards citizens. All should keep their heads down, lest they become yet another target for the efforts to 'increase security' in the city. A heatwave that brings with it Black Rain makes the job difficult and treacherous - stay out too long and you could get caught in a storm. Just the same as the local Westies, all of whom are more or less stranded in their homes - or the bars they passed out in the night before - everyone is scrimping by with whatever provisions remain. Only those Company officials lucky enough to live on Company property, a compound of barracks that provides middling levels of comfort, don't worry for their necessities. Travel through the tunnels may afford the few who know of their existence more mobility - the ability to help others, to stockpile what they need, or to make an impressive capture - but comes with its own dangers. From the culture that lives there to the increased presence of resistance groups making their safe-houses in the vast, winding network, some may decide that the potential dangers aren't worth the trip, and others may wish they had.

Leith

Every season brings a new batch of harvest workers—old, young, adventurous, desperate. But it doesn’t matter whether a worker has tended to the same hokk farm for ten years: when the limits of a work visa are reached, they must return to their planet of origin or face severe penalties. Sometimes, though, people slip through the cracks. Sometimes people change their genetic records altogether to make sure it happens. Whether it’s an individual who refuses to return to the cage of Westerley or a merchant willing to look the other way for off-the-books labor, visa law enforcement is critical to the Quad. Targets identified as “high risk”—those individuals who have a profile of criminal behavior or have given the Company reason to take a second look at their credentials in the past—are being routinely rounded up to ensure their genetic identities and visa information still coincide. Killjoys and Company enforcers are being deployed in equal measure to address this potential security concern in the days leading up to “harvest week”, the seasonal break where workers return home and a new batch of hopefuls arrives on Leith. For some, this can be a minor inconvenience, taking DNA samples and conversing with understandably irritable workers—for others, this could be a potentially fatal encounter and lead into Leith’s darker underbelly. For whatever reason a target has chosen to stay or change their identity, they have done so at great and calculated risk. They will fight without discrimination to stay hidden and maintain their secret--as, at times, will their employers. Maybe they've decided to pursue a more lucrative line of work, using Leith's fertile soils to grow illicit substances, or perhaps they've simply decided that their fate should be in their own hands, and not that of a visa agency. Either way, they won't go quietly.

True Leithians

Gunfire is lost under the sound of the rain. The pitter-patter of acidic water beats in tandem to Company rifles and shouts, the flash of grenades like fireflies in the distance. The Family Registry Bureau, well-guarded and set on the outskirts of Old Town, shakes and shudders with each successive boom, debris falling as the battle escalates. “For Leith!” A single voice rises above the commotion and for a moment, the night is still, the incessant rain seeming to take heed, as if the clouds themselves have paused to see what will unfold. The building collapses. Fire billows out in violent plumes, snaking through the twisted metal and broken glass. Survivors on both sides disperse like scattered marbles. By morning, the dead have been dissolved to bone by the rain, and Company enforcers are out to ensure that scavengers don’t take their pick of the remaining materials. Officials are tight-lipped about what, if anything, was taken during the attack, but word on the street spreads fast—there’s a man hunt and hundreds of genetic identities are up for grabs. Criminal activity in Eulogy sees an all-time spike as bartered goods come in, though not everyone in Eulogy or the criminal world takes kindly to stealing from their own. Nor do they care for the sudden attention drawn to their illicit little den, making it a hot bed of Killjoy and undercover Company activity. But Eulogy isn't the only place to see unwelcome guests. On and off Westerley, news of the attack spreads, and agents of each organization race to come out on top. Whether it’s a Killjoy tasked with locating the perpetrators, a True Leithian conspirator on the run, a Westie out for revenge and securing their future in the Seventh Generation accord, or a Company Enforcer on orders of execution off planet—everyone has someone’s number, and time is quickly running out for each of them.

Westies

The heat hangs over Westerley like a blanket laid down over a fever, suffocating and addling. Sign posts flicker erratically between Company propaganda and storm advisory warnings. Old Town’s streets, normally buzzing and bursting with life, are like a ghost town. The few stragglers that remain move like worms, slowly and carefully, their bodies bowed over the carts they push as if the sun has melted away their will to walk. In the square of the town, a group of well-clad Company men and women hurriedly work, bolting modern day stocks into the concrete. Prisoners, red jumpsuits and heads covered in black shrouds, are roughly shuffled between the soldiers as they’re chained and bound to the stakes. Only once they’re secured are they allowed to see the light of day—for the first and last time in years. The squadron commander, a stalwart woman, takes up the intercom on her truck, her voice booming through each sign post in Old Town when she speaks. “Westerlens, for high treason and threats to the public good, these prisoners are hereby brought to this place of execution where they shall be exposed to the elements until dead. By order of the Company, serving the Quad.” Seconds later, the sirens start. The soldiers finish their work with haste and pile into their vehicle. The sky, moments before overbearingly bright, disappears under inky shadow, bruised green and red as violent clouds spread out like reaching fingers. The storm rolls in without mercy or pause, enveloping the light of the day by visible inches. Acidic rainfall begins to pelt down, not lightly, not drifting, but in a hard, unrelenting stream. Anyone caught within it has but hours to survive, and moments to escape disfiguring injury. The storms will rage for three days with few breaks in between. But the environment is hardly the only, or even the worst, thing Westies have to worry about.

Resistance

The rebellion suffered a crushing blow. Of course, rebellions in Old Town are used to that--but with key leaders gone, Resistance members are scattered like grains of sand across glass, rolling further and further apart. Some individuals seek to take the power vacuum as their own chance at power, but they're met with staunch rebuttal, splitting this already fragile organization into smaller and smaller cells. Under the cover of the acidic storms, the remaining members of the Resistance take to the undercity, whispering into the ears of the discontent and angry. Follow the branch that's extended to you, they say, and you'll find a new place to grow roots. And so those roots do grow, down walls, on pieces of passed paper, across the hands of those who harbor dissent. It's a symbol, a living, growing map, of a new haven. Innocuous to those who don't know what it means, symbolic and religious, but to those who seek out its meaning? They'll delve to the very deepest parts of the undercity, a place manned only by those wearing the yellow and gold of the Scarbacks. There, a secure military bunker is hidden beneath the layers of Old Town, lost to all but the original blueprints of the city. Its concrete walls hold the barest bones of supplies, but there's potential, a skeleton upon which the rebellion can build its strength and muster the will to stand again. Finding the bunker, though arduous, isn't the hardest part. Getting in? That will take connections, charisma. Trust. The Resistance is in awful short supply of that last right about now.

The RAC

The RAC, as ever, maintains its neutrality and follows its singular mandate: the warrant is all. But that isn't to say that there can't be a little fun in the process--between serving out warrants issued on behalf of the other factions and singular individuals, the top teams within the Quad will receive a special directive. Black Warrant For all teams, whether temporarily formed for the sake of pursuit or permanently aligned, this presents a unique opportunity to compete against their fellow RAC agents. All manner of subterfuge is encouraged, although directly attacking your fellow Killjoys will receive at least one bad review on social networking apps. But while killing your competition isn't allowed, making their life impossibly difficult and taking the prize for yourself? That's the very definition of the game. This is a competitive warrant, open to all Killjoy teams with a level 4 agent or higher. Your task is simple in description but far from it in nature: find and secure an heir for Land Derrish before your opponents. The catch (there's always a catch, isn't there?) -- you'll be fighting off more than your compatriot Killjoys. Criminals and mercenaries will be gunning for the same targets, and there's a mountain of bureaucracy standing in your way to figuring out who is a legitimate heir, if one exists at all. Your time is short* and your competition is fierce. May the best team win. *Week 1, Day 2 - Week 1, Day 5

Comments

[brickinthewall]

[She chuckles shortly at his eyebrow waggle. Yeah, that's probably why he's a bartender.

The elevator music kind of irritates Hanna. They only thing that really put her mind at ease was playing an instrument. That's in short supply, sadly.

She stays quiet for a while, mulling over the day's events, what she already knew, what she hopes to find, so on. The coffee's drained by now, and she nurses the alcohol.]

You need better music.

[She finally says at length as she starts to rummage for a card.]

[nightchild]

That's what I'm here for.

[If he's gonna be anyone's favorite anything, he can totally accept that. Anyway, he likes how Jack isn't the sort to lecture him about his various extremely petty sins, it makes business with him much easier. (Though he's also aware that Jack's in no position to be lecturing anyone about SINS considering the reputation he has).]

I've got three for ya. [INSERT THEIR REAL NAMES HERE of 3 low-level thug punks... 4give me christy] Pretty good, huh? They don't look like anyone important, but that's two more than what anyone else's probably got.

[maybe??] Joy's fine, but info's even better. If it's good, then I might let you pass on the joy.

[brickinthewall]

[Hanna, on the other hand, has the audacity to never listen. Unless you're a 6 foot something guy by the name of Travis Halo, chances are, she's never going to give a shit to even try.

She backs off, with a wild grin, a little bloody along the edges of her lips. The mess is half hers, which is almost impressive.]

My targets, my cut.

[For good measure, she's just going to knee the absolute shit out of one of the few that made the mistake of standing too close to her. Just to piss off miss authority figure.]

Now I'm done.

[valr]

[One of the remaining men looks like he's weighing up whether it's worth ignoring Kara to take another swing at Hanna, so she grabs him by the collar and yanks him back.]

This is why no one likes Killjoys.

[She's assuming that's what Hanna means by targets.]

All of take it to the cage or take it outside.

[brickinthewall]

Just living up to what they think of us!

[Hanna stares down the one that's been pulled back.]

You're next, asshole.

[All he does is spit in her general direction, for the sake of his own neck, for the woman that's holding him by the collar.

Hanna's green eyes blaze furiously, her hostility thinly restrained.]

They're not going outside, they're going with me. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, whatever's your flavor of excuse.

[His nose should be broken and he should be unconscious, so she thinks. Fucking pain in the ass, that one.]

[valr]

[There's a roll of her eyes somewhere in there, but Kara keeps her grip and gaze steady. If the little audience they've gathered is bothering her, she doesn't show it.]

Show me the warrant. It's policy.

[Whether that's true or not isn't the point, the point is that people come to Eulogy to get away from the long arm of the law, so if a Killjoy can just wander in and drag them off, it isn't good business.

So Kara has to make a show of being difficult.]

[brickinthewall]

[She barely misses a beat, the roar of adrenaline, the clarity of trained violence kicking in. When the man falls forward, Hanna grabs his shoulders and delivers one hell of a knee to the gut. The wind is knocked out so ferociously he can't even muster the air to scream.

One kidney shot and one teeth-clattering punch to the head later, he's out cold on the floor.

By the time she looks up, she realizes a circle had formed around her. Her left hand shakes uncontrollably.]

Round's on me!

[The bar yells in unison after her announcement. She makes to sit on a bar stool, foot resting on the man's back. She tried to not show her hand by clenching it right, tried to not show the effects of nonstop violence in dizziness and nausea. When did she last eat? Sleep?

As her eyes scan the bar, she sees him. The pretty boy, the one she tried hit and run, the one who she can't seem to fucking figure out where she's seen him before. It wasn't deja vu, it was... something.]

[brickinthewall]

[It's a long, long five seconds before Hanna starts to shuffle through her oversized jacket.]

I'm cashing in, not raiding a house.

[Which is to say, this is bullshit.

Even if only one of the five people involved was a target... the rest? Collateral damage, informants, the barest of threads in the grand mystery of murder, who could say?

Hanna holds up the warrant. Her accent becomes comically Southern when she speaks.]

Daddy don't like it when boys get too rough with girls.

[So it's only fair that she beat up the man who did a number on too many people, right? Karmic laws or whatever.]

it's good! hanna can get her ass handed and they can call it a draw?

[brickinthewall]

[Look at that: right in her lap are the mom and her squirt to be. Lucy's on the ready, a Diamond's loaded up. She pulls back the string when she hears the escort.

Her eyes go wide at the sight of the rifle. Sawed off. Short range? She doesn't want to find out. She already has too many bullet wounds, and one more isn't what she's looking for quite yet.

The instant she hears the gun go off, she drops to her knees. It's a narrow miss. Her shoulder is burning from being grazed by the bullet. Nothing she could look at right now. She just uses the pain to keep herself focused.

She doesn't have time to grab her dead lead sticks, and her hands are full anyway. Next best option?

The arrow comes free from its notch. In her right hand, it becomes a makeshift shank. and she's rushing him to stab his knee.

Vaguely, she thinks is probably one of her stupider ideas, but then again, she'd always been the tank of her crew. Smarts are for days when you feel like playing it safe. Not today.]

he's more than happy to throw heavy things at lancer any time, don't worry

[tirejacked]

[There'd been a time, before Jason had signed up with the RAC, when he had to dodge these sort of things on a more consistent basis. His arrival onto the Quad hadn't been on very official terms the first several times. If there are procedures for off-worlders to gain legitimancy, he hadn't much bothered. So he'd gotten pretty good at this.

Nowadays he has a perfectly legitimate reason not to carry citizenship, but he still prefers to keep himself out of red tape if he can help it. Call it habit. No one likes getting tied up when they've got places to go and people to see. And antagonizing the Company Enforcers is only fun when you've got nothing better to do with your time.

Lancer's voice (and his particular nickname) ring out too-loud in the narrow space. His hackles pick up, but it doesn't show beyond a tic in his jaw and a tilt of his head, hands kept neatly in his pockets. He doesn't stop,but he spins on a heel to face Lancer while he walks—and to get a better look at the mouth of the alley, in case they're being followed because some bright blue assholes can't keep their mouths shut. Dryly—]

Well, you know how I feel about crowds.

[That probably includes you, by the way.]

worst or best (worst.)

[tirejacked]

[He can feel that look before he even has to drop the spyglass down and see it. He takes his time handing it back over, pausing to spin it between his hands instead of offering it back right away. He even sits back against the brickwork like he's making himself comfortable.]

Sure you don't.

[But if you want to play dumb, that's fine. It's all reading between the lines, anyway—Jason's out of the loop on the matter of what top secret movements that may be happening under the tunnels and what they might mean. Never got far enough for a proper induction, even back when he was a little closer to the presumed players. But he knows enough to make the kind of guesses that mean ruffling Damian's feathers out of curiosity.

Finally holding the spyglass out in the air between them—]

Sounds like you ought to pick some better jobs.

[Someone taking advantage of your work ethic? Or is it something else.]

[inksplashes]

[ Idles hands and the devil's workshop, all that. Anything that's truly important is put away or encoded in a language known only to his clan, but Lavi makes a cautious note of this newfound traveler's curiosity, tinging his bemusement with a healthy dose of paranoia.

(Well, an added supplement, really. He has plenty of paranoia as is.)

He'll have to ask Noah to run a gentle but firm electrical current to those doors deemed off-limits, he suspects, but he delays that order just now, chuckling to Crow's assessment of just how 'not bad' the other killjoy might be.

Lavi is fairly sure Kanda would shoot the other man for breathing like a Nine, so it doesn't really matter whether or not he's one to get into petty arguments. Yu's temper is as impressive as it is terrifying. ]

That would be awesome, thanks. Since we're on a nickname basis, I'd make you clean it up.

[ Is that a threat? Is he being friendly? It's difficult to tell with this one when everything he says is with the same smile and laugh, but he's dutifully leading Crowley through the line of the ship, past several rooms he doesn't offer any explanation for--a med bay, a mess area, a training area, and finally to the crew quarters, two doors down from the cockpit itself.

There are no furnishings, nothing interesting about the room--bunk beds that are likely too short for someone of Crowley's height, but Lavi certainly isn't sharing his personal quarters. They're not that close. ]

Well. Here we are. I'll be in the cockpit if you need me, there's food down thataway, and ...

[ Finish this sentence?

#bye redhead felicia ]

y for why this

[tirejacked]

[Does Jason regret not actually shooting Keith when he first broke into the wrong apartment in a fit of well intentioned enthusiasm? Verdict is still out, probably. Does he regret listening to his shounen ravings and allowing him to buddy up for this little side trip? Maybe a little. Stakeouts in public places are less conspicuous with company, but it also means they're stuck with more quality time than either of their stellar sets of people skills have really prepared them for.

Case in point, they're settled at a table in the corner of the bar to watch the door. (Not the best vantage point, because that one was already taken by some other set of paranoid shady assholes. Figures.) With Keith frowning down at his drink and Jason frowning over at the door over the rim of his own (umbrellaless) glass.

Without looking back at his erstwhile partner—]

Not really. Looks like the bartender's really taken a shine to you.

[Congrats, but he's not here to be your wingman, bud. But if he's talking about the wait and not the garish garnishes, he nods toward the door—]

I can't say revolutionaries are always renowned for being punctual, but running late isn't usually a good sign. Might have gotten spooked.

[And what a waste of time that would be.]

[gyouten]

Not half bad, huh? Well, at least one of us knows what they're doing.

[Finally, he cracks a slight smile. Their mission is a grim one that will win them no rewards, no glory... but it must be done, and she understands that as well as he does. The captured revolutionaries have fought bravely, and they deserve that little comfort can be given to them in their final hours.]

...Shall we get moving, then? There's not much time. I've collected all the supplies I could find... you can take the newer things. The rain won't bother me too much.

[gyouten]

A-Akemi!? How do you know that name!?

[He shifts to a two-handed grip on his sword, not that it will do much good against two men armed with guns. It does, however, hide the shaking in his hands. No one on this moon should know that name...

It's been over a decade, but Ginshu still remembers being strapped to an exam table with that doctor - if he could even be called a doctor after violating the most sacred oaths of the profession - leaning over him, unnaturally red hair cascading down into his face like a rain of blood. He'd taken Ginshu apart physically and psychologically, crossing the line between science and sadism and back again with the casual indifference of a child... or a madman.

Ginshu struggles to speak, momentarily forgetting about his Leithian charges who are scrambling to make their escape during the confusion.]

Who are you, and how do you know that name? I killed Akemi Urushibara...

[He'd been dismissed as an experimental failure, one more insignificant step towards Urushibara's ultimate goal of transforming humanity... and that had been the doctor's fatal mistake. But by the time Ginshu escaped, it was already too late.]

I killed him over ten years ago!

[tirejacked]

[Very insincerely—]

You should be, I have a pretty delicate constitution.

[Can't you tell. Maybe if you hadn't gone straight for the bad dog routine he would have offered you some ice, Scott. Looks like the world will never know, now. On the plus side that black eye will make him look pretty tough for a while until it heals. You're welcome!]

You know what they say, whatever doesn't kill you. [This would have a much more ironic twist to it, if things were different.] Maybe you'll keep on your toes the next time.

[tirejacked]

[Whatever, he's the baddest of people, you don't know. A real down and dirty desperado. A cold blooded motherfucker who'll give you a cup of salt instead of sugar. Very dangerous.

He doesn't expect Koon to update him on the situation flat-out, but it's interesting enough to find him nosing around here. Keeping tabs on the changing climate of the Quad is as much professional priority as it is investigative reflex. He'll tell himself it isn't his problem, that he's not in this for grand attempts of revolution or retribution on some planet he'll skip for good in few months. When he's ready. (But here he is, anyway.)

He sharpens up just a little at the sound of footsteps, the figures moving through the shadows. Of course. While Jason is indeed expecting company, it's not from that direction, in these numbers, or for another half an hour or so. He doesn't hop down from his perch right away, but one of his hands drifts up toward his belt and his weapons.

As always, he'll have to be a disappointment.]

Oh no, I think they're with you.

[snuggies]

[ You don't have to offer him ice, Jason.

He'll ask for it all on his own. ]

I'd rather just avoid you throwing wrenches at me altogether. [ It's too reminiscent of the time that Jackson had bound him and whipped rocks at him in an attempt to teach him to keep control of his more growly side even while under pressure.

Needless to say, that experiment hadn't gone too well.

For now, he fixes Jason with a displeased look. ]

So, you got an ice pack or something?

[tirejacked]

[How progressive.

Anyway, since Scott doesn't seem to be grasping the idea that this was, indeed, an accident, and since Jason is only mostly as much of an asshole as he looks, he doesn't actually blow this question off entirely. Circling around Scott to the front of the ship—]

Come on inside, Sparky, I'll see what I can do.

[About the ice thing. And the not-throwing-stuff-at-him thing as well, I guess. He knocks against the hull and a hatch opens to let them in. The ship is in low-power mode while he works on it, so the lights are dim and the systems are largely powered down.]

[valr]

[Smiles are a rare thing for Kara, but her expression softens just a little, becoming slightly less harsh, less wary. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.]

Can't wear that stuff, 'cept the goggles.

[Those, she'll take, slipping them over her head to hang around her neck.]

I heal quick anyway.

[She'd rather avoid getting her wings wet, in case it damages the wiring, but worst case scenario she pays some back alley technician to fix it up. The gear would just look stupid trying to fit over the invisible appendages, and more importantly, it would slow her down.]

[snuggies]

[ Scott's irritation simmers and disappears almost immediately, feeling the surprise of Jason actually responding positively, and even letting him inside his ship. The lack of light doesn't bother him, genetically enhanced eyes peering across the interior of the ship slowly and curiously.

He's never even been off Westerley before. And while this is no where close to leaving the moon behind, he could pretend that it was, if he wanted to. So he takes in the sights and smells, cataloguing them and wondering if there are traces of Leith or Qresh that he could pick up on. ]

You live on this ship?

[slotted]

[ leo looks around and makes sure that there's nobody else who could have heard takasugi speak to him before he approaches the man's table. he doesn't sit down just yet, and instead takes in takasugi's feature which aren't so obvious given the dim lights.

then he sighs and pulls a seat for himself. ]

Probably the first time someone's shown concern for me all day.

[ he shrugs and shifts in his seat, one arm folded and rested on the backrest of the chair. he definitely looks comfortable and cocky with the way he sits, but given that they've worked with each other for a while, takasugi would know that a confident leo is anything but the real him. ]

[slotted]

I can't change that, [ he looks up at one of the speakers in the cafe and laughs softly. it's more like a puff of breath than anything else, because showing an extravagant amount of emotion just isn't in him. ]

I'm stuck with it every day, you know.

[valr]

[The way Kara moves through a crowd might seem a little odd to anyone paying attention; she often turns to her side to slip past people, or sticks close to the walls, facing the crowd. Mostly, though, people recognize her as one of the security team and know that it serves them best to keep out of her way.

Usually, she moves with purpose, but she's being lazy about it now, as if there's no hurry in the world as she leads Kanda on a little trip through Eulogy.

Finally she stops in an abandoned corridor somewhere between one of the bars and the arena; it's a rarely used passage because there's a few gaps in the walls where sand blows in, but it serves the purpose. Leaning against the wall to wait, she lights a cigarette, figuring she's got at least a few seconds to herself before Kanda shows up.]

[valr]

[Kara can wait, she's got all the time in the world.

When Hanna produces the warrant, the guy in Kara's grip decides now is the time to play the "are you seriously letting a Killjoy take me out of Eulogy" which earns him a look.]

Ain't my job to keep your ass outta prison. Take it up with whoever let her in.

[But the warrant looks legit, so with a sigh, Kara shoves the guy roughly towards Hanna, assuming (based on the beat up men) that she can handle grabbing him.]

You know where the door is?