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

❁ takasugi ❁ ota prompts

[shikomizue]

❁ hotel ❁ night of day 4

[shikomizue]

☾ one ☽

[Dress well and bring enough Joy, and the Blessed Branches would entertain anyone for the night. Though, 'entertain' was perhaps too strong of a word. Diluted drinks, expensive thin silks, and empty chatter were all the establishment had to offer. Takasugi had been nursing his first drink for over an hour. If it was luke warm, maybe he'd taste some alcohol.

Raising the glass to his lips, Takasugi didn't need to taste it to know that wouldn't be the case. He downed the drink and stood, retreating outdoors for the flavor of tobacco.

Crisp night air bit the man's ears as he stepped outside, moving aside from the door before lighting his pipe. The embers glowed in the starless night, and the muttering of guards - something about a security check - occupied his attention.

Mistake him for staff, dislike the smell of his smoke, want some tobacco for yourself, or simply pass him by. If you're suspicious enough, he might just say something.]

☾ two ☽

[As he tapped his pipe on the nearest piece of decorative wall, the voices of the security guards raised. Shouted. He turned - they wouldn't notice - to see them run inside. Troublesome. He'd enter as well, only to be greeted with the initial gunshots that rang from an unplanned interference.

An unprecedented distraction.

Slipping through the retreating crowd, Takasugi leaned against the balcony to survey the commotion below. It surged, insurgents running up steps and gunning down those too slow to escape. With little attention paid to the growing body count, he discerned who in the crowd moved against the stream and moved to their aid.

Any nearby rebel would be dispatched with either a gunshot to each knee or a sword through their gut. If the attacker's cry of pain wasn't enough to get someone's attention, maybe the spray of blood would do the trick.] Exit is that way, you know. [He tilted his head towards the door.]

[selfsatisfy]

[For ease I think we can just say Koon and Midori split up to cover more ground. So! There certainly was a panic going on. It didn't hinder Midori though the screaming was a little tiresome. The public was always so excitable... Slipping through the crowd was easy. But some things...some things weren't. Namely Midori's age old foe: machines. Namely the elevator required a keycard to get to any higher floor and he wasn't in possession of it.

He was going to have to find it. It was probably on one of the three Company security chiefs, all marked out by the fact their suits were nicer than anyone else's. Because of course they were. Trust the company to go for style. Fashion choice aside the floor was flooded with mercenaries and...space pirates, he supposed. The plethora of skull tattoos kind of gave it away.

Hn... How to go about this...? The pained cry of a combatant drew his attention and he glanced over to see-- a man he didn't know armed and clearly knowledgable in said arms if the small pile of casualties Takasugi was accruing said anything. Great!

Midori approached waving friendly like; for all intents he could be asking for directions on a quaint street outside an equally quaint cafe and not in the middle of a bloodbath.]

Um... Um. Hi. [That was how he was going to start this, yes it was.] Could I trouble you for some help...? I'm a bit stuck.

[...Just because people were dying left and right was no reason to lose one's manners. Of course the two sawed off rifles strapped to Midori's back made it a bit questionable how much of his demeanor matched his purpose. He wasn't here for any fancy dinners, that seemed clear.]

[shikomizue]

[Among the bodies and soon-to-be corpses strewn around Takasugi were mercenaries, pirates, and company men alike. Some were fighting each other when he'd approached, and others thought the one-eyed man an easier target.

Some, even, were surely only protecting themselves or others. Takasugi didn't care to notice - except to keep himself away from ending any stalemates. He didn't intend to turn the tide of this battle.

Chaos always increased a death toll.

Takasugi turned his head slowly, pulling his sword from the chest of a man pinned to the wall, as he was addressed. The only question which arose from the sawed off rifles on Midori's back was 'Why isn't he using them?'

Some may have thought they were just for show, a threat given to keep conflict clear of one's path. But Takasugi settled on a different interpretation - one that consolidated the other's chipper tone with the scenery of corpses around them smoothly.

This fight was small, the bloodshed minimal, in this man's mind.

He was inclined to agree.] Aa? Looking for something? [Everyone here without a pink tint to their cheeks and joy lining their pockets was looking for something. Someone.]

[selfsatisfy]

Yes. You see... [He launched into as if a man wasn't just skewered in front of him. Enh. Things happened.] I'm trying to get to the upper floors. Can you help me work the elevator?

[Things one just casually asked for mid-battle. And it was a very exciting battle-- but unfortunately... Midori moved the barest fraction to avoid the slash of a machete. Grabbing the wrist the weapon was attached to he flipped the owner, easily sending the pirate crashing to the floor. Nor was the assailant given a choice to decide how comfortable he found the position, Midori's boot coming down brutally on his unprotected head. A quick snap of the arm he still had hold of over Midori's knee and there was suddenly a lot of screaming going on. ...More than priorly anyway.]

I can give you some joy for your trouble... Grab you a drink? I'd appreciate it.

[Unfortunately Midori was working right now and Koon didn't care about the fun of bloodbaths. Bummer.]

[shikomizue]

[Did he look like he worked here?

Of course not.

Takasugi stifled a chuckle, shoulders slouching as he waited to answer for the screaming to curl and wither away.]

I believe the bartenders are all dead. [A side-mark for the pirates, to be sure, and many seemed to prefer the mission of stealing booze to finding a baby.]

Will you be needing a return trip, as well? [What goes up always goes down, unless the traveler had other means of exit.]

one!

[deceptions]

[ Koon's had enough attention for the week.

But he needs to finish this job, which means that he has to come to the hotel. It means he has to be dressed up, play the part, blend in with the crowd ( while still be prepared for anything. The life of a killjoy is difficult ).

None of this means that he needs to stay right in the middle of it all, all the time. He needs a break, a quick breather before he decides to strangle someone out of annoyance. Koon steps out of the hotel just as easily as he stepped in, eyes flashing in recognition. ]

Look who it is. [ Neutrality — it's not difficult to tell why someone like Takasugi would be here, right now. But they don't need that just yet, when all of this is currently a waiting game. So a simple greeting leaves Koon's lips, a sly smile waiting for the other. ]

[shikomizue]

[Takasugi's eye wandered over everyone who passed in, or out, of the hotel. He didn't linger, and he didn't make note to remember each flushed face or stern brow that passed the threshold.

A face he recognized, however, brought his hand to his pipe, fingers wrapping around the stem.] I see I've chosen the right hotel. [A gathering of people who regarded Leith in bitter taste in a venue that celebrated it was rather odd.

Unless there was something they wanted inside.]

[deceptions]

I could say the same. [ With each familiar face he sees, the more certain he becomes. Koon's not stupid, he understands the implications of Takasugi's arrival the moment he sees it; there's going to be a lot of resistance ( hah ) that keep him from getting that figurative gold star on this black warrant.

He won't worry about that just yet though, eyes moving from the pipe back to the man's face; a slow, easy smile graces his features. ] Good evening, Takasugi.

How have you been? [ He's normally not the one for chitchat, but he'll allow it this time. ]

[shikomizue]

[A conflict of interests didn't always mean a conflict of personalities, of taste - or distaste - for certain nuisances. Two guards passed by, their hands tense on their communicators.

Someone was beginning to make a move.

Just when a storm was brewing, adrenaline building as anticipation tipped into action - it was the perfect setting to keep idle chitchat from getting tiresome.]

Last I saw you, it was through two eyes. [A greeting returned as an answer to the basic question. He took a drag on his pipe, letting the smoke billow slowly from his lips.] Have you made yourself comfortable? [In escaping from the confines of nobility-]

[deceptions]

[ His eyes flicker away, for a moment, to the guards; their tense shoulders, the hurried steps they were taking. But then, he also knows Takasugi's noticed, too; his grin grows, while he sighs inwardly.

And here he was hoping this would be simpler. ] You're going to have to tell me what happened. [ The eye, he means — ] Some other time.

If "comfortable" means losing my citizenship and becoming a Killjoy, sure. Neutrality's nice. [ "Nice". ] You?

❁ eulogy ❁ night of day 6 or 7

[shikomizue]

[A bar lit only by the dim glow of gambling dens and the curtained windows of sexter rooms was Takasugi's destination. He ascended the two steps located to the side of the hallway and sat in one of it's stools, sliding his chip across the smooth surface of the table.

It was never sticky. Few chose to drink here, and fewer still even knew of it. Most were enthralled with the overwhelming din of bets flying across tables, the roar of the arena, and not-so nondescript noises from the sexter rooms. Most didn't come here to find a quiet place.

From his seat, those passing between any of the revelries through the darkened hallway were easily visible. He let most pass, his back turned and his pipe alight with a mix of tobacco and a dash of opium. His drinks were savored - Eulogy offered cheap swill and expensive finery with little in between.

With his chip's value, he could sip from the top shelf all night.

He'd even have enough to spare.

So, when he saw someone he knew, he'd lean towards the passage.] Yo. Want a drink? [For someone he didn't know, the seat next to him was always open. Otherwise, feel free to catch him in transit - walking to the exit as the alcohol settled in his head - though he'd keep himself from seeming it.]

night of day 6

[lotusmesenpai]

[Kanda had noticed the man earlier, back when he'd been looking for Kara. Now that his business with her was concluded, however, he'd stopped to grab a drink, watch the man as he tried to place him. He could feel the now familiar ache, see the illusion of lotus blossoms opening on the ground between them...

(How else would they get your joy, stupid cyclops?)

A childish voice, threaded with skepticism and suspicion, and in that moment, Kanda remembered. The night he'd lost everything... the last person that had treated him kindly was that man.

It took a long moment to smother the realization, to tamp down the shock of it, before he finally gets up and crosses the room to claim the stool beside the man. Tapping the bar twice, he indicates another round to the bartender before cutting the man with a bandaged head a sidelong glance.]

...Took me a while to figure out who you are, Cyclops. But I remember well enough, now.

[shikomizue]

[Kindly.

Takasugi's indulgence of a walking memory, one that bit him with every word, wasn't an act of kindness. His gaze was always fixed on the past - on the days where he ran through festival streets with his nose wrinkled at the beckoning vendors. When he saw that time in the eyes of another, he'd been swallowed before he could tear away.

Reeling back from memories that would only twist under his skin was only ever successful in isolation.

Otherwise, he was sure to approach.

Just as Kanda had.] Hmm? [If he recognized the boy, he gave no indication, instead only tilting his head with a hum and removing his pipe from his mouth to pack a new bowl.]

[lotusmesenpai]

[Kanda makes a faintly disgusted sound at the pipe before the bartender arrives with two half-filled glasses. One Kanda picks up, takes a slow, careful sip before he sets it back down.

It's not surprising to him that the man doesn't remember, not really, given how long ago it had been.

For Kanda, it had been a night burned into his memories and nightmares, but for this one-eyed stranger that still used bandages instead of eyepatches like a certain partner?

Probably a night long forgotten, and likely better that way.

Despite that, however, he props his cheek against his fist, a faint scowl lingering in place as he pushes the drink closer.]

Nothing. I just don't like debts, so take the fucking drink and I'm good.

[shikomizue]

[Of all things to be putt off by in this place, a pipe should have been low on the list. Though, with the deepness of the frown on the other's face, Takasugi supposed this man was simply frequently displeased.

It wasn't endearing, even if it was ever so dully familiar. Takasugi turned to the offered drink, considering it with raised eyebrows.]

You've got some honor, repaying a debt long forgotten. [A compliment given with tone, and a smirk, that was anything but lauding.

He let the glass sit between them as he lit his bowl, two plumes of smoke rising one immediately after the other from his mouth until only a small wisp twisted above the burning leaves within.

Fingers rested on the brim of the drink carefully, drawing it closer as if an afterthought.]

[lotusmesenpai]

[To be fair, everything about this place is offputting to Kanda.

At that quirk of a brow and words that sound nice but feel like a taunt, Kanda's own scowl deepens slightly as he frowns and leans back from that smoke a little.]

The fuck would I know about honor.

[Because, for him, he's never really considered any of his acts as 'honorable'. To him, they'd be closer to 'surviving' and 'hates the leverage that favors provide over oneself', but not something so lofty as acts of honor.

What would a false human, a tool for wars, know of something so very human as that?

But then the drink shifts closer and his scowl sifts into the hint of a satisfied smirk before he takes another long sip of his own glass. An easy resolution, now, and he can forget this ghost from a past long dead and buried...]

day 7!!

[nightchild]

[Itsuki doesn't often go down to Eulogy. One, because it's always a bother to have to prove how much of a vicious criminal he is (which never works out well, he just doesn't have an impressive rap sheet. once you've seen one drug dealer, you've seen them all.) and two, because he almost always ends up getting beat up?? or mugged?? Which just means he has to hire muscle to help keep his face bruise-free, which is just another expense that Itsuki can't bring himself to pay. (he's lazy).]

[But today's different. He's passed information along and heard events unfold, and another informant he knows is in Eulogy with no intention of straying into Old Town for him, so Itsuki makes his way to the criminal underground, hoping that fate would take it easy on him for once and not punch him in the FACE.]

[the bar's a good a place as any to figure out where in the hell his acquaintance is, so Itsuki slips on in, eyes peeled. this is why he doesn't do business with other lazy people!!! they never meet him on time?? there's a clear sense of irritation coming off of him, though it's interrupted when Takasugi leans on in and speaks up.]

I could seriously use one. [he's not surprised to see him here, shuffling on over to immediately join him.] Or two. Or ten. Are you paying?

[a lesser man would argue that Takasugi totally implied it, but Itsuki knows enough not to take favors for granted.]

ur writing is hilarious im sorry taka is allergic to comedy

[shikomizue]

[Being an info broker - and trying not to get punched in the face, at that - was a tiresome endeavor. Too much smiling in reply to sneers, splitting busted lips to grin politely in hopes of avoiding a chipped tooth.

To say that Takasugi respected Itsuki would be going too far, but he certainly took care to cultivate their relationship.

Mutual benefit did more to hold people together than warm feelings ever could.]

One. [He gestured to the bartender, who would fetch a drink for the newcomer.] Or two. [Takasugi turned, adjusting himself to sit more languidly in his stool as he faced the other.]

Unless you have an interesting conversation for me. [Then it'd all be on him, with a tip thrown in rather than a punch.]

SDJLFSD THANK U and omg it's fine... taka has better things to do, like be a disney villain

[nightchild]

[Itsuki runs a hand through his hair, muttering a brief but heartfelt thanks because as much as they aren't buddying up on the weekends or anything, he can appreciate the gesture.]

You know me. If it's something you want to know, then I'll make it interesting. [He might not be the best and most informative broker around, but he's delivered enough for a few people to rely on him. And when it came to Takasugi... Well, Itsuki's sure the guy wouldn't waste his time with someone he didn't think could deliver.]

I've heard things about the true leithians running around Old Town and of course, stuff on the surrogate. Which do you want to know?

lmao

[shikomizue]

[And Takasugi an appreciate the flow of information, unbridled by morals. If Itsuki had something like that, Takasugi wasn't aware of that - a sign of a good business partnership.]

Aaa, it's been busy. [Yet Itsuki had somehow avoided getting his face bruised up in the process of gathering the threads of events. Surprising.

He was interested already. Takasugi's eyebrows raised to show as much, a genuine gesture let slip purposefully.] The second, and then the first. [A small bit of information in exchange - namely, which Takasugi was more concerned with - involved in.

The bartender brought their drinks, and as a gesture of appreciation, Takasugi bid the man leave the bottle, pushing it towards the broker as their server departed.]

[riastraid]

[ Eulogy isn't exactly a Sunday retreat—the cost of entry practically guarantees it. It smells of smoke and sweat and blood, acid on musk on acid. But not everyone's here for a good time, and even a gloryhound like him can prefer the quiet corners of this place. A little contrary to his reputation, maybe, but that's the nice thing about taking off on his own—it's not like there's anyone to see.

Granted, this particular corner seems taken... by a guy with a whole lotta winnings on his hand.

It's hard to recognize someone he hasn't seen in a million or so years, not from the back of his head anyway. But he still slips into the seat next to him like he's had it on hold. ]

Hey, high roller—fancy buying a guy a drink?

[ Not that he's totally dry of joy, but it never hurts to be shameless enough to ask anyway. ]

[shikomizue]

[It was easier to recognize someone so ostentatious they wore their unique feature long enough that it became commonplace.

Blue hair wasn't exclusive to bored, home-schooled boys on playgrounds, but it certainly evoked the memory of one in particular.]

I would think a Leithan could afford their own hokk. [He spoke flatly, testing the potential for his assumption.

Of course, accusing anyone of being from such a dull, stifling place could win him a fight in a place made to boil blood and evaporate logic. Takasugi shifted, sliding his small, near-empty bottle of refined alcohol in front of the other.]

[riastraid]

[ The words don't seem to trigger any Anger or Ego regardless; he pauses, shares a look towards his company that's a half-second longer than what's maybe proper. Then he flags down the bartender with a slightly belated laugh. ]

Ah... You caught me. [ He doesn't order the Nicest Thing on the menu, but it's a step up from his usual swill. For two, of course. ] But if you're expecting a trust fund kid, you're gonna be disappointed.

[ While the next round of drinks gets prepped, Lancer takes a sip from the bottle—the quality speaks for itself. ]

You seem to be doin' plenty well for yourself, though.

[shikomizue]

[The only disappointment would if he'd run into a trust fund child. He's beyond his fill of self-important Leithans. Takasugi turns in his seat to better look at his new company. His appraisal lasts as long as the other's had, before he taps his fingers on the brim of the newest round.]

And you. [Takasugi echos the other's ease of reply with his own, a comment regarding affluence, to be sure, but also situation. He takes a sip of his drink, the quality less in taste and more in how smoothly it runs down his throat.] Even this place, with it's particular stench, is preferable to the stifling air on Leith.