izaralevine

[izaralevine]

Crank, crank — Iz is trying to speed up her movements beneath the car in order to give attention to her customer. Her back's firm against the wheelboard that has he easily rolling along the ground to replace the exhaust. She hadn't heard a car pull up, so the guy's probably just a walk-in with questions about something; potential client. Nobody was due to collect a vehicle today.

Kit can hear the coffee being poured. Good. Patient man.

That's something. And eventually, she kicks her foot along, gripping the wrench in her hand to peek her head out from under the car. She wants to be less rude and put a face to the voice.

"That's okay, you got one to bring in, what's —?" But Iz's words stammer off, her eyes capturing the man's features; his stature from the upside-down, sideways angle she's laying down to capture him with. She suddenly cannot breathe, her chest shallowing, fingers whitening around the wrench in her hand.

No, no — flashes of that day; a gunman, walking in and opening fire — just like this...

He's drinking her coffee.

And she's terrified. Panic floods her; a monster that's got its claws, and teeth buried inside her that has her freezing; hesitating. It's all the nightmares that her parents tormented her with. The spot on her shoulder; the rounded, jagged scar bleeds pain and anguish. Fuck, no, please. Her legs are numb, and her lip trembles. Desperately, she's scrambling to get out from under the car; it's clumsy movements — despite doing this a thousand times, she doesn't rush. Now, she has to — Away, away, get away, please God, get me away —

Despite the body count Mathias had, there had been some who were lucky enough escape with their life. Whether it was because of inexperience on his end, like this one, or because the person who paid him didn't want death. Either way they were all walking around, escapees of death waiting for the end he'd bring them.

He looked around the shop a bit, taking in his surroundings. It wasn't the best place for this, but he'd make do. It could be worse. He went over to the coffee pot and made himself a cup. The woman under the car was a very lucky one. Mathias had only really seen her face on a file he was given, and from a distance through a sight. Up close now, he could see the life in her eyes and the blood pumping through her body.

Blood to be spilled.

"Thanks! Sorry I'll be honest I'm not very knowledgeable in cars. I usually leave it to my dads to deal with".

#o: m.malkovich #anxiety tw #? #gun mention tw

[izaralevine]

"Ah." Izara lets the word drop out in a way that compiles all of moments she's been completely and utterly wayward. Politically correct. Of course, PC is everything now. The laugh that follows, is one of nerves — and screams fake — because it's very much: okay then. Cool, cool, cool. "You know your stuff."

Compliment, Iz thinks.

She'll never make the mistake of putting an question in amongst the prophets or the priests, again.

At least, the air softens in its discomfort when Izara manages to find a reason to make her smile genuine. They won't explain to each other the intricacies of... their specialities? It would save them both the headache. "Well, if they have any questions, my numbers on the invoice too." She clarifies, absently adding on in simple terms; for a simple thing: "If you could remind them to get their car checked a bit more often; the oil levels were dangerous, checked in any later, it might have been a fucking nightmare of an engine fail."

She can tell she's lost the mechanic - that's fine. It was a rambling mess, and she was simply thinking out loud - rather than an actual conversation. "Authoritarianism was just me being.." She lifts her fingers and crooks them in faux quotes. "Politically correct. People don't like hearing the big 'F' or 'N' in everyday life."

But she doesn't push, instead leaning over with a brighter smile. "Sorry, love, I've had more than a few philosophical conversations over the last few days. Rotting my brain out."

She takes the invoice, folds it and tucks it into her purse. "You know I have absolutely no idea what work you did for them, or what car." Lara laughs humorlessly. "If you explained, I'd probably just get the same look that's on your face right now." Teasing, but relenting that she's been.. a bit too much.

#o: l.rivkin

[izaralevine]

Izara's waving the canvas just out of Luis' grip whilst she mentally assess and criticises the fun piece; she's picking it apart, like she would any project she puts work into. They're still laughing, and it's endearing when she eventually concedes to turn the paper around so Lu can see: "I think we did great."

When she stares at her crosseyes, and her straggly lines of hair. There's a ache in her chest from where she's laughing harder; pee threatens to slip as she buckles forward on the floor, holding her stomach. "Oh my god," she's released the picture to Luis so now she's got two hands free to stop her laughter.

The eyebrows. His were bushy.

Her version of his were singular lines she drew on in forgetfulness.

"You're full of shit, Lu." She accuses, as she admires him taking up a new position, upside down, across the sofa with his reversed smile. Calming down the moment of immediate amusement, Izara gathers her breath back, stretching out on the carpet: "With all that blood rushing to your head, those French girls had their work cut out."

Luis couldn't stay still to save his life.

"Beautifully misunderstood, you mean." she teases, "Artists name their shit with shameless poetry." Or at least, some do; perception is everything, with art. Iz can't say more, without Luis learning she's a vandal. "What do we name yours?" she asks, plucking the picture up again, to see the little details Luis attempts to capture; it's sweet, really. Kit winks when she offers one: "Tried and tested?"

Luis wasn't even close to being a perfect model — restless, couldn't sit still for longer than seven seconds, couldn't shut his mouth for even less, always perched somewhere. The longer she stared at him with her serious face on and her eyes giving him that I'm trying to concentrade asshat look, the wider his grin became, stretching almost out of proportion.

Ten minutes was plenty — ten minutes was what Michelangelo probably had to draw a masterpiece, and although they were no Leonardo, this was supposed to be fun and not gallery worthy. Luis didn't even bother to look at the mess he's made — no artist could capture the way her curls framed her face or how bright her smile really was, and if he had to get deep about it he could list endless bits about her person that only a close friend would know, only a close friend wouldn't miss.

"Dude, come on — " he was ready to snatch the canvas right out of her hands.

How bad could it be? Brown eyes flickered to his own canvas, where a lopsided, crosseyed Izara stared at him.

Really fucking bad.

"Bullshit, that's a lie." he chuckled along. She wouldn't be able to fix this, even if she had eternity to do so. Luis picked up her drawing, yanked it right off her hand in one swift motion. A series of chuckle erupted from his throat, as he studied what looked like a South Park version of Luis.

He silenced himself with a drink; nearly chocking on the damn thing.

"The eyebrows are so me, Iz. You've done a beautiful job. You should do more — maybe draw me like Rose, draped on the couch — " Luis hopped onto the couch next, head hanging from the edge, "— just a few like that, and you'll be ready for your first solo gig — name it — " a beat. " — Beautiful and Misunderstood."

#o: l.carrasco

[izaralevine]

Izara's waving a finger through the air, as if she was tracing the endless lines of paint across the cavases; she's not close to the works, but her head is cocked, and she's invisible spray painting in the middle of the gallery hall. Ben's whispery, ghost-like voice is beside her, talking to the aether. She's humming, grinning.

When she can eventually twist her head to see the chicken stance that Ben's propped himself into, she chuckles. "I see it."

Izara hasn't noticed anyone else, really. Just her and Ben, and Jimmy in the painting who had been giving Benny some stink eye. She isn't sure who's won yet.

"You're the cook. If you say it's eggs, it must be. That's how it works." Definitely. "No use crying over dropped eggs, ain't that — it's that, hm? I like eggs, wait, you hate eggs." She's shaking her head, and the room is spinning. "Chefs eat everything; that's the law of chefs."

Her mouth opens, to continue, but —

They're onto the next one. Izara's hopping forward to catch up with him, Iz. Izzie. She's coming, she's coming. "Oh shit," she gasps, blinking as she stares at the cosmonaut of white on the canvas. Kit's in awe, gasping as she frantically grips Ben's top and pulls him closer; desperate and eager: "It's the most beautiful cheese I've ever seen."

@izaralevine | Setting: An art gallery | Local Time: 18:57

Ben blinks once. Twice. The painting he's staring at blinks back, and Ben raises his eyebrows in confusion. "Woah. Can you see that?" Taking a step closer to make sure he's not hallucinating, the man pushes his hands into his hips and just stares. The painting stares back, no more blinks, and it becomes an endless staring contest, until Ben gets bored and his eyes burn, so he turns back to follow Izara to the next painting. (Completely disregarding the elderly couple that has been staring at him weird for about thirty minutes.)

Which is a line. And an egg. "I think what the artist wanted to say with this, is that he really likes eggs. Or they're a cook, and can't help but hate eggs. It's understandable. I hate eggs, too." Ben stares at the merely painted canvas and raises his eyebrows once again, to be able to read out it's title; "Jeopardy. What the fuck. That makes no sense."

This painting is left behind, too, when Ben's attention is caught by the next room the gallery offers; projecting moving art onto the wall, featured by various artists. "No way. Iz. Izzie. You gotta come see this." Ben tugs on her arm, pulling her with; "That's crazy cool."

#o: b.rousseau

[izaralevine]

Izara does say so. But, they'll keep this silence to each other; the suspicions of the truth bent, and they'll suspend their disbelief so they do not have an uncomfortable conversation right before they plan to drown themselves in liquor. What comes after... Kit doesn't know.

She doesn't want to know.

"That's good," she comments, distracted with picturing Lux's twins and at the very least, they were well. Izara refrains from personal opinion here; she does not give tired speeches about motherhood (she is not a mother, and she denies having one of her own) so everyone knows those words come out of her ass. But, you're allowed to get sick, Lux, you're human for god's sake. Instead, Iz offers her own stubborn concurrence: "Well, we're talking my method of medication; alcohol is the cure all."

When El held the door open, Kit blew her a playful kiss, and stepped inside. The place buzzed with life, games, and colourful boards scattered tables, various tokens and instructions littered each group. Some worker approaches the entrance to greet them as Izara walks in. Lux behind her, inquiring about a reservation.

Hopelessly, Izara looked back to Lux: "Whose name is it under?"

⏤ The blonde studied Izara silently while talking to her. ❛ If you say so. ❜ And walked with her, but decelerating her paces, so the other woman could catch up. Puzzles was a fun game, she heard about it, the place they're currently going, and was curious to know if it was fun as people commented.

❛ They are better. I got their medication, and I see some improvements. ❜ Thanks to Damien and his contacts, who arranged their medications, they are recovering well, and she would finally relax. ⏤ Grey-bluish hues met her gaze and gave her a warm smile. ❛ I know. ❜ She refers to taking a day off, something that she hardly does. Having her twins sick she had to take two days off.

❛ Mothers aren't allowed to get sick, Iz. So, we'll have cosmos today. Or wine. Or whatever have alcohol. ❜ She gets excited with the idea. Finally, it didn't take long to arrive at the local, it was in a bar and she opened the doors, holding it, waiting for Iz to get inside first.

#o: e.beaufort

[izaralevine]

LOCATION: Gentille Fille. TIME: 23:43 CLOSED FOR: @theyperform

"⏤You did not, Harls."

And there it sits, a cake. In all its glory. Izara's looking at them, a faux scorn ruffling her features, and her feathers. Because Harley's given her those too. A playful, dance they orchestrate that has her reminding them with a laugh: "My birthday was two months ago, what are you⏤ oh⏤?"

Something brushes against her leg, he knee knocks the underside of the booth table; the drinks atop it shake, and the cake skirts on the topside. Izara's quickly ducking her head beneath the marbling to see what ⏤ or who it is. Eyes fly back up to Hidalgo, shaking her head, despite laughter. They know exactly what they're doing. "You're always trouble ⏤ who put you up to this, Lu? Lux?."

#o: h.hidalgo

[izaralevine]

"Oh, nice." Izara has less issues with puzzles, than she does knowing it was her fault her work for the day is going to be delayed. It's all her fault, really. She should have written the dates down, and ⏤ well it doesn't matter now. "Me? Edgy ⏤ nah, I'm fine. I just lost track of time for a hot second, I'm totally okay, El. Really." Maybe, a tad out of breath, as she settles her entire body down from its mechanic mode and keeps pace with Beaufort. But, she's working up to getting into a puzzling mindset.

There's booze right? There better be.

And she's so damn relieved when Elizabeth brings the topic back to herself. "I hope they're feeling better, and you're not pushing yourself today ⏤ " maybe this is an opportunity, "⏤ you know, you can take a day off and chill, that's allowed. You're as bad as I am," the work, that is. Never stopping. Although, Izara cannot really afford to.

She didn't budget for today, either. But that'll be next weeks problem.

Kit chirps up ⏤ investing herself in being a half decent friend again: "You're not getting sick? Nothing that half a dozen cosmos can't solve, yeah?"

⏤ "Okay, cool, I'll only need five." She frowned at this response. She forgot their girls' meeting today, didn't she? Anyway, fresh air was a need. She picked her mint bubblegum, and a pocket mirror to double-check on her looks. The Aussie wore a pink dress she made for herself. It was so good not to need to wear the heavy makeup that she uses at the club. It seems like a beautiful day.

She was chewing her bubblegum, and popping it, until Iz voice brought her back to reality. And then another frown for the excitement. Elizabeth didn't know she enjoyed puzzles that much. ❛ No. It's puzzles and brain teasers, a game at the bar. I never played it. But hold on... ⏤ ❜ She squinted her gaze at Izara. ❛ Are you ok? 'Cuz you seem a bit over edgy today. ❜ In reality, everyone seems over-edgy lately.

❛ There's nothing news. My toddlers got sick and I played the nurse the whole time. I hadn't caught up on my sleep so, funsies, funsies.❜ And dealt with assholes at work, but then again this isn't anything news. ❛ My father traveled so it was more work for me when they got sick. ❜ She says sardonically.

#o: e.beaufort

[izaralevine]

Izara warms — flushes even at the compliment. Because she's ever concerned that Yenna might imagine her as a stray she's taking care of off the street (and maybe, she really is), but knowing Yen for a while now, the barrier of trust and doubt gets a little weaker around the mechanic and she's pleasantly enjoying calling the chef a friend.

"You flatter me, and I adore you." Iz announces — glad the filter for inappropriate language works, at least, sometimes. When Yenna leaves, she's still gawking at the queenly air the chef exudes. That, and perhaps looking around to see the fancy world that Iz rarely visits. Chairs scrap on the floor behind her, and it's a clear sign someone's leaving.

Izara is mannered enough not to turn and smile as they exit. But she does, absently sip the wine on her table that has the name she cannot pronounce.

Yenna returns when Izara gets to the bottom of the crystal.

And there's some fucking masterpiece of art and construction on her plate; something she appreciates. An artistic flair that has Izara's mouth forming a red wine stained grin — eyes flicker up to Yenna, and Kit's laughing at the phrase. Shifting in her chair, playfully:

"Maybe I already have." and she picks up the newly polished spoon. Izara lowers her voice somewhat, this time to wink at Yenna: "But fuck, I'm not turning down a round two."

Slowly, Yenna lets her heel slide down her foot, before folding her legs over each other again, as if they'd never left their original position. Her fingers find a stain on the table cloth, and she furrows her eyebrows, making a mental note to get it replaced and cleaned by tomorrow.

A donation box? Yenna does donate, but in silence and secret. She doesn't like the idea of doing it just for the public eye, so she leaves that question unanswered and forgotten, discarded somewhere into the color coordinated folders in the back of her mind.

"Babe.", the blonde laughs, hand grazing the woman's shoulder as she stands up from her seat, "You're my favorite." The chef takes her plate, careful not to drop a fork or a knife, or even a spoon, and excuses herself with a quick bow of her head. She's studied etiquette down to it's core, and for Izara, she makes no exception.

It takes fifteen minutes for the chef to return with a desert, Dulce de leche, as she's promised, paired with vanilla and walnut ice cream, topped with something gold and sparkly and carefully crafted chocolate leaves. It looks more like art than it looks like food. Yenna places it in front of her guest, moves to sit down on her original place and leans back into the cushion of the chair.

The old couple is gone, and the other guests are far enough for Yenna to say -- "If this doesn't make you cream the table, then I'm not sure what else will."

#o: y.rebeck

[izaralevine]

She's laying on a soft mat beneath a Chevy. It's jacked up on top of her, because the single elevator already has a Ford strapped on it. She's opted for the classic method of risk, as to save the effort of moving the cars around like a game of tetris. She does like the game though, but not for one exhaust repair.

A wrench cranks on a pipe, and she's reaching into the kit at her waist for some pliers. There's gear scattered around her in a haphazard pattern, and she's got a spanner between her teeth as it is. At this point, she's gotten sick a dozen times from knowing the taste of oil, but she never learns.

There's feet visible from beneath the car, the orange jack is by her feet, and she turns her head — smiling around the metal in her mouth as she reaches to pluck it out. "Sorry —" she can't see more than a pair of shoes, and pants where the angled car blocks her sights — but he doesn't sound like a regular. "Yeah — I mean, I'm not under here because I enjoy rust, man," It's meant to be a joke; of course she works there. Then, she wiggles, giving attention to the exhaust she's planning to replace. "Gimme like, a few, would you? I'll be right out. There's fresh coffee on the side, help yourself."

@izaralevine

One of the first tasks he had been entrusted with was tying up loose ends. Mathias had never questioned it when a gun was put in his hand and an address was given. It was the start of his life as a hitman so he didn't see any problem with it. He failed to mention that he was shit with guns at the time, preferring knives. It had become apparent when the time came and he ended up shooting the target in the shoulder and not lethally like he thought. He had ran away from the scene before he could see the end result.

Flash forward to the present, ten years later, Mathias was not expecting to see the face of his first target walking around. It was shocking to say the least, but he figured it was the result of his inexperience. Now he never knew why she had to be killed that night, nor did he even know anything about her. The desire to fix his mistake began to bubble up inside of him as he walked towards the car shop.

Putting on the kindest face he could muster he waved, "Hi sorry do you work here?"

#o: m.malkovich

[izaralevine]

"Doesn't hurt, right?" Izara shrugged — echoing her own thoughts on the subject. Yenna might not have been so hindered by the worries that Levine had in regards to paying rent each month. The mechanic only had to look around, to know that. Yenna however, has only ever been cool, and kind in any case. Those customers she'd sent here, they helped both of them out. Two birds, one stone.

Izara's laugh is stifled at the expressions as she filters her language, and when Yenna's heel digs into the top of Izara's boot, she nearly chokes on a potato. She's not about to mess up one of the best meals she gets all week, so she recomposes.

Whilst amused, the continued apology is sent Rebeck's way in the form of a sheepish smile.

"That'd be awesome too, you have a donation box or something on the way out or —?" Was that not classy enough for this place? Yenna felt like an exec that made calls for half her day, delegating orders just the same as she would moving money around banks.

Izara could never.

"Whatever you've got spare — if any, Yen. It's your place, you can give your other patrons some attention too," Kit means it politely, not because she didn't want Yenna to keep conversation with her. It was preferred, actually. It meant she didn't get nearly as many disapproving eyes for how she truly did not belong here.

Kit finishes the last bites on her plate, gently pushing it forwards; cutlery neatly lined in the centre (she's seen another table do it, so now it feels necessary) and she's free to lean forward and tease Yenna: "But I do love the VIP treatment."

"Are you trying to get me to make more money?", Yenna grins, taking a sip of her pineapple juice -- she's ditched the wine for today, because god, she's drank a lot of wine in the last few weeks, and maybe it's time to stop. "No, I appreciate it." As her restaurant grew bigger and bigger, she's allowed herself to make Friday to Sunday Chef's nights, and then Tuesday's, and special occasions. Izara's food is always her's.

Izara is a feral animal for food, and Yenna is a businesswoman. The moment the elderly woman on the table next to them turns around to give a stern look at the choice of words, Yenna motions to a waiter, and a kitchen favor is brought in in a second. Still, the choice of words earns a snort, and a gentle stab with her heel beneath the table. "I don't need tips. I'd rather have them give the money to a charity, or anything." Yenna's waiters and waitresses are good, perfect, and they each get their tips to keep, anyway.

"Do you want Dulce de leche with ice cream?", she asks, "Or something special?" The chef gives a wink, before thinking of options -- "I can hop in the kitchen. Dulce would be ready."

#o: y.rebeck

[izaralevine]

Izara hugs her jacket closer, the stagnant pause has her temperature cooling. Axel shifting in the contours of the buildings tells her that he's still so good at walking away. In this case, running away like she'd always been something he never wanted to know. He hides deeper between the protective shadows the streetlamps cast across the concrete.

It'd been too long — he'd made a choice. And whatever he'd gone desperately retreating to, she didn't want to know anything about it. Are you happy, Ax? It weighed on her, putting heavier hooks inside her heart, puncturing her arteries until they spilled out all over her insides. She's choking — struggling to breathe.

Her chest rises and falls shakily where she stands. Iz tries to paly it off as the cold; the wind causing goosebumps to rise on her arms.

This isn't a nightmare. But it could have been; memories of a man emptying lead all over the shop, leaving bigger, less repairable holes and wounds that had nothing on Axel's bloodied hands.

He'd ripped her apart, and now he still believed he could lie to her, and have her worry about all the red slicking his face, and hands.

Is he one of the monsters that her parents had warned her about as a child? The ones who look like man, but behave like —

"You've made it mine by letting me see you." How did he expect her to just walk by a bloodied figuration; a hollow shell of something she once knew perhaps. But whilst he'd become a phantom that haunted her, she still cared. Even if the idea killed her. "Can we go inside somewhere, I'm just down in Harlem." a beat, because she hadn't entirely meant to make it an open offer. "Let me dress those at the shop, then you can run off again, it's fine."

Still a liar then? Axel flinched at her words. She was right, of course. She had always been right. He was a liar. He'd lied to her years ago, throughout their whole relationship. And then after. He had told himself that it was to keep her safe. That it was for the best. And in his mind, he'd believed it.

But now...

Fuck. Seeing her made guilt flood through his veins and regret press into his chest. Axel should have ended things before he fell in love with her. He should have saved the both of them from that kind of hurt. But he'd been selfish and her love... Well, he'd felt nothing like it. Not from his dad, nor his mom. Not from his friends.

And he hadn't felt it since.

"Iz..." Axel's voice cracked as he took a step away from her -- further into the shadows. This is a bad idea. I need to stay away from her. But his chest ached as the need to be close to her amplified, once more. "It's not your concern." It was a weak argument. "It's not that bad." A few cuts and bruises, a possible dislocated nose. Nothing he couldn't handle himself. And the last thing he wanted to do was tell her that he had been in a fight on purpose. "I'm... I'll be okay."

#o: a.reyes

[izaralevine]

Down goes the hammer, out comes the bolt. Izara's aware the clock is ticking, and Eliza's behind her mentally counting the seconds she's delaying.

"Okay, cool, I'll only need five." Maybe, probably. Shit. She wipes her hands on her overalls, and dashes past the car, stumbling. There's panic, and then there's worried panic. Of all the friends to forget she was meeting for a girls day — she picks El, and she's awfully sorry for it.

Beaufort waiting outside, means that Kit's got less pressure staring at her as she rapidly strips and changes in the garage, all-in-one is tossed to the workbench, shoes kicked off — undergarments she cannot make any less sweaty, are rearranged.

She does everything she can to make herself presentable in the five singular minutes she promises.

It's close, she knows, as she wrangles the keys out of her kit. It's being laced through the belt loops of her jeans whilst she wedges the keys in to lock up the garage; the mechanical whir of the shutter coming down to close for the day is long, and endless.

Whirrr.

It stretches out those seconds for far longer than Iz desires, there's a smile she's trying to make look reassuring. She's praying the shutter does not pick today to jam.

Whirrr. A deep breath.

Slam. The keys are tugged out.

"Awesome, let's go — I'm excited!" Too much, Iz tones it down (now she's acting like she knew all along): "So these escape things have themes, right? Did you see what you picked — are the girls meeting us there?"

Instantly forgets to have said first (she's a terrible friend) — "And, how've you been, what's new with you?"

⏤ Elizabeth was glad to have some girls' moments with her friends. She frowned at seeing Iz working. She thought she'd be ready by now… Unless she forgot about their meeting?! ⏤ ❛ Well, I can see that… ❜ The Aussie didn't like to stay too long inside any mechanic's shop. It brings her memories… That she would rather not think. She wasn't buying her words, but she wouldn't remark it either. ❛ Mhmm, I did. It's 20 minutes left. ❜ She warned her.

This task did not seem to end anytime soon… Whatever is it she is doing with cars. Flipping her long, silk platinum hair with the back of her right hand. ⏤ ❛ Okay. ❜ She thinks for a moment or two… ❛ I'll wait for you outside if you don't mind. ❜ The Aussie warns her as she makes her way out to wait for Iz outside, meanwhile, she picks up her phone and checks on TikTok, some cute animal videos.

#o: e.beaufort

[izaralevine]

LOCATION: The Resol. TIME: 19:54 CLOSED FOR: @yeniens

"I sent a couple of clients here the other day —" A pause, to stab another one of Yenna's perfectly, perfect tomatoes. Izara's a feral animal, in a porcelain realm: "—they didn't wanna wait forty-five, so I suggested your spot in the meantime."

Yenna's food is heavenly. It beats Kit's packet ramen, and grease burgers cooked on the back of someone's truck. She's taken her overalls off, and she's in a tee, and jeans. Grease monkeys aren't the clientele here, that — she knows. But Yenna's never seemed to mind.

The tab seems to be a little cheaper too than the menu prices, thank fuck.

"They came back — and hell, they were so much nicer, hope they tipped you well. Seemed like you gave them something special —" Iz wiggles her brows playfully at her friend. She's kidding... sort of. "— I mean, I get it. I might cream on the table too," There's a sudden hush from an adjacent table at her flowery language — and Izara's recalling where she is. She points a fork at Rebeck, with an apologetic, but wry grin: "Foods awesome, Yenna. As always. Bangin'. Is my point."

#o: y.rebeck

[izaralevine]

No, you're not a creep.

But she can't take back her words, when he'd left broken needles in her heart. So small, that they'd fail to show up on a medical exam. It's a phantom pain that never really goes away. You left, so he didn't get to play the fool if they had to cross paths in the city.

She'd escaped the fear when she'd travelled; burnt through her savings, until she could no longer take a day of work without falling into the red.

"As you should." she agrees, among a great many other things. But Izara's concern rose as he shifted in the shadows; a stand-in, where someone she used to know once was.

Iz.

You don't get to do that. "Still a liar, then?" It's forged of hurt, and aged bitterness — she cannot walk away knowing that he's wiping away blood, like she would wipe away motor oil. "Show me." she sighs, swallowing down the idea that she's stepping closer, asking about his welfare: "—Did you get in a scuff up? How bad is it?"

"Oh, so I'm a creep now?" Axel asked as he tilted his head to the side, watching her closely. He supposed he deserved that and anything else she wanted to throw his way. But it wasn't as if he had been following her. They'd just, unfortunately, ran into each other even though there were thousands of people that frequented there. "I'll add it to the growing list of things that I am."

Though, if she truely felt that he was as creep, Axel expected that she would have left already. Instead of pointing out that he needed help. He shook his head. "No. I don't." He lifted the sleeve of his jacket to his face, wiping away the fresh blood that was still seeping from his wound.

Then, it registered that she hadn't called him Axel. But Ax. "There's no need to worry about me, Iz. I'm as fit at a fiddle." He offered her a smile, though he wasn't sure how much of it she could see in the darkness.

#o: a.reyes

[izaralevine]

Ask ; answered ❛ there’s no black or white, only gray. ❜ Continued from: HERE

Izara's flicking through the invoices on the workbench (no office in sight) looking for the stated name — dark fingerprint marks are catching the corner of the yellow-white sheets. An ear is listening out, and it might have been an accident to engage in a topic Izara's out of her depth with.

Eyes shift between the papers, and Lara, edged over the mechanic's worktop. God, I have no fucking idea what you're saying. "Right." Agree — disagree? "But — you don't think authoritarianism... is grey? You think it's black and white?" Rules and regulations, obey or disobey. At its core. Iz is muttering, torn between two things at once: "The last time someone wanted to put brackets on what they thought was right in regard to herding people, they called it something else."

Where the hell is that invoice?

Kit's forgotten the first name at this point, hoping that glancing the papers would stir the memory of what Lara's told her it is. She'd thought she'd left politics at the MET.

"Ah here," She slips the invoice out, and slides it to where Lara's resting. "Let me know if you have any questions," a beat, "— about the bill." Another beat, "— on the Corolla."

@lararivkin

#o: l.rivkin

[izaralevine]

LOCATION: Kit's Garage: Gaskit & Wheels, Bronx. TIME: 10:34 CLOSED FOR: @lluiscarrasco

Izara, text: Happy cheese ball day ☀️ is your hangover as shit as mine?

Terrible decisions, follow more terrible decisions. How the previous night ended is still foggy, but Iz knows she’s got a list at least twelve things long — across a trio of cars sitting in the garage as she sluggishly drags herself out in overalls to begin backing her first job of the day into the shop. Hangover or not — she’s got clients.

The guy who’d come by early to pick up yesterday’s mods had been the inspiration — or reminder — of National Cheese Ball Day. Dumping an industrial sized bag on her lap, as a way of stiffing the tip. So she’s got cheese balls, and just as many jobs to do.

Luis, text: Want me to bring coffee for the head?

Lifesaver, always. She places down a wrench on the workbench, and zips up the kit strapped to her waist. Izara presses the release on the hydraulic lift. It brings the car down on the empty space now she’s backed up the other one from storage. The hood of the car is first to open, eyes scan the engine bay to check the diagnostics aren’t any worse than the last time she looked at the heap.

It’s fucked. As they always are. But sometimes, she’d like to be treated to an easy, five minute fix.

She snaps into the working mindset easily; like a machine processing the workings of an issue, before reprogramming it to be more productive. Kit’s doing much the same, but with a screwdriver, oil, and she’s likely to need to weld at some point today.

Luis and his eagerness to help is ever an endearing quality about him. And she trusts him with about as much as sandpaper, and the wheel arch. He’s welcome to that part of the surface rust. She’ll get him his overalls too.

Drying mouth, that coffee can't come fast enough.

#o: l.carrasco

[izaralevine]

LOCATION: Gaskit & Wheels , Bronx TIME: 13:20 Closed for : @elizabeaufort

“Oh shit, El, hey,”

The woman’s snuck up behind her, heeled shoes had nothing on the sound of a hammer on a stubborn bolt. Iz has a welders guard tipped upwards atop her head, fresh oil pooling across her overalls.

It’s just then crossed her mind — fuck —

“I swear, I’m nearly done,” she isn’t — and it’s very clear she isn’t — “I just have to work on the carbonator… it’s a—“ huge fucking task “—quick one.”

I totally did not forget we had a girls date today.

“You booked us for that — the escape thing, right? The puzzles, and brain teasers? Shit, I’ll be quick, what time do we gotta get there for, E?”

There’s a clang where Izara’s still forcing the bolt the play ball. And she knows none of this is Eliza’s scene — hell, escape games aren’t hers either. But, adventurous hearts, aren’t afraid of new experiences.

She cannot disappoint Beaufort, her heart hurts to think about it. She lifts off her guard, and streaks black oil across her cheek in the process: “Gimme five, I’ll wrap it up.”

#o: e.beaufort