[Perhaps luckily for Vicious, the Goblin doesn't catch that twitch, too busy struggling with...well, the conversation at large, really.
Not that he himself doesn't usually see the humor in the situation.
Restless, he grabs for a cigarette from his side table, lighting it against his fingertip and taking a long drag before continuing.]
I don't know. Maybe it just...dragged up old feelings. It was all very...fire and brimstone, what he was saying then. Being a Shade must have affected him more than it did me. Emotionally. Fuck, I don't know.
[Kronid leans back beside Vicious, his stormy gaze sliding over to regard the way he's holding the beads. The way the crucifix hangs in his hands.
Perhaps a bit subconsciously, he rubs at the matching burn on his chest. Something in his expression shifts by a degree or two, looking at that old cross. The cigarette burns between his slender, clawed fingers.]
Whatever it was, he figured out when I turned back into a Goblin that he could use my dream manipulation against me. To haunt me.
That dream is nearly the exact same one I've had every night since. I'd gotten good at ignoring it.
[immediately after he sends his last message, Jim writes out his letter, then leaves, putting on a cap and sunglasses. he takes a walk around the block, stopping at the pizza parlor for a slice - trying the human sausage topping out of curiosity (not bad, he thinks, and decides to add peppers and onions next time). He goes down to the rec room and fiddles around on its piano for half an hour, long enough for someone to feasibly take a cab, bus, or the subway to the 38-8, or even a modest walk by foot.
Then he walks back up toward Vicious' floor, taking his shoes off at the landing halfway between the fifth and sixth floors. He adjusts his gait to be heavier, shorter, and slips the letter beneath the door. Then he leaves down the steps, the same way he had come, and ducks under the shelter of the stairwell to put his shoes back on. Conveniently, he has an excuse to be on the fifth floor, and knocks on Dee's door, knowing full well she's at Paddy's]
Dee? H'lo, Ms. Reynolds? ... You t' home? I wanted to go over some ideas about Act Two ...
[it's just that scrawny little actor human. no one big enough to have made those footsteps, if Vicious cares to check. with a sigh of frustration, he heads back up to his own room. and waits. his handwriting is erratic, artistic, but legible...]
Vicious, What a good surprise to make your acquaintance on the network today! I believe we are going to, professionally, be a very smart match for one another. My business is still in its infancy, but depending upon how this first request is handled, you could do quite well.
Please go to Paddy's Bar this evening at 9 PM and keep your eyes on a Mr. Arvid Forsberg. He wears a brown leather vest and orders pale ale with a wedge of lemon, and tends to meet with a small group of morally questionable men. I wish to know what they are planning, and then I want you to tail the weakest of the lot when they are through. Observe him. His mannerisms, his habits, if he has family, how he dresses. Every single detail is important.
Forsberg himself is inconsequential. His criminal network is far less so. From them I intend to build a profile of the sort of criminal aptitude I will be contending with. I will pay you fifty solars an hour for this service. Enclosed is the first hour's pay for any expenses you may incur in the doing of the job. When you have finished, please send a detailed report to box 221 of the Bavan Post Office, and your payment will be left secured beneath the lid of the piano in the apartments' recreation room.
Happy haunting, S. Moran
P.S: Destroy this thoroughly when you've finished reading it. I should think I don't have to explain.
Edited (fuck shades can't burn things probably, sorry, LAST EDIT I SWEAR, go ahead now) Date: 2023-08-26 05:41 pm (UTC)
[Ah, just like he'd said. A prompt correspondence.
After rummaging about the apartment for a notepad and pen, he takes a few coded notes along the edge of the paper to memorize for later, rips the edge off and folds it into a thin square to slip in the fold of his tie.
The rest of the letter gets shredded by hand as a cooking pot floats from the cabinet to the stove, followed by a bottle of lighter fluid and a matchbook. Vicious dumps all the paper pieces into the pot, the bottle dumping out just enough fuel to start the fire once the match is lit. Thanks to Fog-God-given gift of telekinesis, he can take care of the more dangerous part from across the room, outside the range of the blaze's light. The contents of the pot burn for a few long seconds (surely long enough to turn the paper to ash...) before it floats up off the eye and over into the sink, the water cutting on with a hiss as smoke billows towards the ceiling. It's not that much, not even enough to set off any alarms, so he's going to consider this a job-- well, maybe not "well done", but at least done.
The shade moves to the window and slides it open to clear the air, deciding to take this opportunity to light himself a cigarette while the rest of the smoke clears out. He knows he's going to have to leave in a while to make it to this bar, but he's... got time. For now. A few hours. Plenty of time to put away anything suspicious before Spike comes home.]
[It would be nice if things ever really worked out the way Vicious wanted to. Unfortunately for him, the narrative has never been that kind to him, and we certainly aren't about to change that.
Because Spike is not psychic and is quite unaware that Vicious might not want him back at a certain time, it just so happens that Spike gets home right at the wrong moment.
No sooner has Vicious lit his cigarette than the door opens. That all too familiar voice calls out;]
[He briefly considers self-defenestration but recalls pretty much immediately that they're on the sixth floor and he's afraid of heights. He could disappear, though. Float out the front door before he could get caught and questioned? It's not lying if he's not here.
Alas. He doesn't have time to consider any physical alternatives, so he just blurts out the first thing he thinks of.]
Toast. Went to shit.
[Taking a long and super casual drag on his cigarette.]
[Spike probably felt that gulp if not heard it outright.
This isn't fair, Vicious thinks, lips pursing in a pout, doing his best to pretend that he's definitely not enjoying this view or the precarious positioning of the nymph's hands.]
Ah. Well. That sounds awful.
[He glances elsewhere, but with those featureless white eyes of his, it's likely hard to tell.]
...You're sure you didn't just order your toast, er. Well done?
[Goddamnit why is he like this. On the one hand, this is such a nice angle to view him from...
On the other, he hates how Fearless always manages to corner him like this. He's pretty sure if anything is left over, it's just a pot and few ashes... they should have all gone down the drain though!
He hopes.]
Alright. By all means.
[Scoffs and crosses his legs, turning his attention to the window again. He has to look unbothered. He's totally unbothered!]
So, where were you really?
[Yeah let's put the spotlight on Fearless! He seems just as suspicious!]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
transilience
From:
no subject
Old habits die hard, don't they?]
...Who you were...before you became a vampire.
[There's the slightest tug at the corners of his mouth, and he fights the urge to laugh at the mental image of this man of all people being a priest.]
Fascinating. What about being a shade do you think brought him about again?
[He leans back against the headboard, beginning to twist and thread the wooden beads carefully in his hands.]
I imagine it has been an awfully long time.
From:
no subject
[Perhaps luckily for Vicious, the Goblin doesn't catch that twitch, too busy struggling with...well, the conversation at large, really.
Not that he himself doesn't usually see the humor in the situation.
Restless, he grabs for a cigarette from his side table, lighting it against his fingertip and taking a long drag before continuing.]
I don't know. Maybe it just...dragged up old feelings. It was all very...fire and brimstone, what he was saying then. Being a Shade must have affected him more than it did me. Emotionally. Fuck, I don't know.
[Kronid leans back beside Vicious, his stormy gaze sliding over to regard the way he's holding the beads. The way the crucifix hangs in his hands.
Perhaps a bit subconsciously, he rubs at the matching burn on his chest. Something in his expression shifts by a degree or two, looking at that old cross. The cigarette burns between his slender, clawed fingers.]
Whatever it was, he figured out when I turned back into a Goblin that he could use my dream manipulation against me. To haunt me.
That dream is nearly the exact same one I've had every night since. I'd gotten good at ignoring it.
[Liar.]
From:
Post-Network Convo
Then he walks back up toward Vicious' floor, taking his shoes off at the landing halfway between the fifth and sixth floors. He adjusts his gait to be heavier, shorter, and slips the letter beneath the door. Then he leaves down the steps, the same way he had come, and ducks under the shelter of the stairwell to put his shoes back on. Conveniently, he has an excuse to be on the fifth floor, and knocks on Dee's door, knowing full well she's at Paddy's]
Dee? H'lo, Ms. Reynolds? ... You t' home? I wanted to go over some ideas about Act Two ...
[it's just that scrawny little actor human. no one big enough to have made those footsteps, if Vicious cares to check. with a sigh of frustration, he heads back up to his own room. and waits. his handwriting is erratic, artistic, but legible...]
Vicious,
What a good surprise to make your acquaintance on the network today! I believe we are going to, professionally, be a very smart match for one another. My business is still in its infancy, but depending upon how this first request is handled, you could do quite well.
Please go to Paddy's Bar this evening at 9 PM and keep your eyes on a Mr. Arvid Forsberg. He wears a brown leather vest and orders pale ale with a wedge of lemon, and tends to meet with a small group of morally questionable men. I wish to know what they are planning, and then I want you to tail the weakest of the lot when they are through. Observe him. His mannerisms, his habits, if he has family, how he dresses. Every single detail is important.
Forsberg himself is inconsequential. His criminal network is far less so. From them I intend to build a profile of the sort of criminal aptitude I will be contending with. I will pay you fifty solars an hour for this service. Enclosed is the first hour's pay for any expenses you may incur in the doing of the job. When you have finished, please send a detailed report to box 221 of the Bavan Post Office, and your payment will be left secured beneath the lid of the piano in the apartments' recreation room.
Happy haunting,
S. Moran
P.S: Destroy this thoroughly when you've finished reading it. I should think I don't have to explain.
From:
[Action for Spike, same night]
After rummaging about the apartment for a notepad and pen, he takes a few coded notes along the edge of the paper to memorize for later, rips the edge off and folds it into a thin square to slip in the fold of his tie.
The rest of the letter gets shredded by hand as a cooking pot floats from the cabinet to the stove, followed by a bottle of lighter fluid and a matchbook. Vicious dumps all the paper pieces into the pot, the bottle dumping out just enough fuel to start the fire once the match is lit. Thanks to Fog-God-given gift of telekinesis, he can take care of the more dangerous part from across the room, outside the range of the blaze's light. The contents of the pot burn for a few long seconds (surely long enough to turn the paper to ash...) before it floats up off the eye and over into the sink, the water cutting on with a hiss as smoke billows towards the ceiling. It's not that much, not even enough to set off any alarms, so he's going to consider this a job-- well, maybe not "well done", but at least done.
The shade moves to the window and slides it open to clear the air, deciding to take this opportunity to light himself a cigarette while the rest of the smoke clears out. He knows he's going to have to leave in a while to make it to this bar, but he's... got time. For now. A few hours. Plenty of time to put away anything suspicious before Spike comes home.]
From:
no subject
Because Spike is not psychic and is quite unaware that Vicious might not want him back at a certain time, it just so happens that Spike gets home right at the wrong moment.
No sooner has Vicious lit his cigarette than the door opens. That all too familiar voice calls out;]
Hey. You in here?
[and then, immediately;]
What's burning?
From:
no subject
Alas. He doesn't have time to consider any physical alternatives, so he just blurts out the first thing he thinks of.]
Toast. Went to shit.
[Taking a long and super casual drag on his cigarette.]
Where've you been?
From:
no subject
[He hangs up his keys, walking in quite casually, starting to take off his belt immediately.]
Found a cheap restaurant I haven't been to before. Tried their special.
It's called, "Vicious is a Bad Liar".
From:
no subject
Wow. Was it any good?
From:
no subject
Nah. Didn't taste as described on the menu.
From:
no subject
[Tilting his head back and to the side, leering over his shoulder.]
What did it taste like?
[Slooowly sliding the belt off his shoulder to loop it in his free hand.]
From:
no subject
Like bullshit, and whatever else you're burning in here.
From:
no subject
This isn't fair, Vicious thinks, lips pursing in a pout, doing his best to pretend that he's definitely not enjoying this view or the precarious positioning of the nymph's hands.]
Ah. Well. That sounds awful.
[He glances elsewhere, but with those featureless white eyes of his, it's likely hard to tell.]
...You're sure you didn't just order your toast, er. Well done?
From:
no subject
But that's okay. He's very purposely patting Vicious's cheek, too.]
Why's the window open?
From:
no subject
I'm... smoking? [The quirk of a brow adding that unspoken "Obviously."]
Why would I leave the window closed? We always open it when we smoke.
From:
no subject
[He reaches over to take Vicious's wrist, lifting it so he can take a drag off the same cigarette. Health be damned.
He then starts to lean away, toward the window, to blow out the smoke.]
Guess I'll just check the kitchen, then.
Make sure nothing's still burning.
From:
no subject
On the other, he hates how Fearless always manages to corner him like this. He's pretty sure if anything is left over, it's just a pot and few ashes... they should have all gone down the drain though!
He hopes.]
Alright. By all means.
[Scoffs and crosses his legs, turning his attention to the window again. He has to look unbothered. He's totally unbothered!]
So, where were you really?
[Yeah let's put the spotlight on Fearless! He seems just as suspicious!]
From:
no subject
[Sauntering over to the kitchen, Spike adds;]
Y'know the horses around here have hands?
From:
no subject
Horses don't have hands. Centaurs have hands. Satyrs, perhaps, if they're horses, but not horses.
From:
no subject
Kelpies. They can be horses.
And they can have hands.
Worst thing I've ever seen.
From:
no subject
Right. And... did you see one of these before or after you nodded off on a public bench?
[Is this another giant crab situation?]
From:
no subject
[Spike takes the time to inspect that pot, and the sink. There's something suspicious here...]
Turned into a teenage girl.
Can't figure out why they're the only ones who ever wanna fight me.
From:
no subject
You're really getting too old for that, you know.
[Passing a super casual glance back to see if he's looking. And ugh, he is.]
"Can't figure it out"? Teenage girls have all sorts of pent up rage. Surely you remember that much.
From:
no subject
Why'd'they all gotta take it out on me?
From:
no subject
[Trying so hard not to react to what he's found... let's just turn back towards the window again. Nothing to see here. So not bothered.]
And I mean, this time you did technically ask for it.
From:
no subject
[Don't mind him sauntering over with that little cauldron to put it on the smoking table in front of Vicious.]
You usually make toast in a pot?