pcril

[pcril]

status: closed — @wrvtchedhearts

It’s the smoke that gets to him first. How acrid it is in both smell and taste as it floods every sense available. Through the nose and mouth to kindle the lungs, burns the eyes to bring forth tears, seeps past the pores of his skin to stain sinew and bone.. 

He can’t breathe like this. No, keep low. Even if it makes him look a fool to rush half crouched and puts a strain on his legs. Better that then half dead from too much smoke inhalation.

Pierce has his jacket off but draping around one arm where most of the hungering flames are present. Rotted as his core may be, he still does his best to try and help others. Herd the ones without experience in a raging inferno. All while he tries his damn best to keep familiar echoes of panic at bay.

"Hey— wrong way! You're going the wrong way!" He shouts, straining the strength of his voice as he tries to prevent someone else from diving into the fire's depths.

#behrooz hakim najm — interaction . #pierce mullins — dialogue . #event — purge . #closed .

[pcril]

status: closed — @ofcruelheart

Unease crawls under her skin like ants swarming their injured nest. To be among so many influential figures makes her.. Sick, to put it bluntly. Perhaps it'd be easier to stomach if the morals behind this overarching interest aligned. Even then, it's one hell of a reach. She still can't get Somi's face out of her head. Rather, what looked like her sister.

How many of these participants are like her father? How many of them have no qualms in reconstructing the human soul into their vision?

It's enough for her to slither away. First from the most condensed area in the room. Then to a hallway that'll lead to a moment of reprieve. So she hopes. Yujin's nearly to the moderate safety of the replicant workshop when she picks up on another presence. Which is.. odd. She knows why she's here, but why would someone else be skulking around this far down?

"Hey— are you lost?"

#closed . #atlas cosmatos — interaction . #sae yujin — dialogue . #event — purge .

[pcril]

He walks these ravenous streets not in fear, no. There’s a certain ease about him. More so than any other day of the year. Marcellus walks in the shape of his own body once more. No longer a stranger and unfamiliar with the reenforced walls built among society. Every corner holds the worst of humanity — allows it to be seen in plain view.

How broken must he be to find reassurnace where there should be none?

The crunch of glass catches underfoot. He pauses. Shadow casted face turns to take in the familiar building; now disheveled and shattered into a shell of greed. Something just as sharp twists in the hollow spot of his chest. Digs deeper, still, as he approaches the half busted threshold.

“Indira?” It’s a shot in the dark, really, but the tinge of concern stays true. Besides, she owns the gallery he so adores. “Anyone—” That’s when he spots the two lumps amidst the floor. Still. Presumably lifeless. Fingers subtly brush over the hilt of a holstered gun, still hidden under the jacket he wears. “Alive here?”

`　　　CLOSED　　▸　　responder's choice ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎/‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ @pcril　.

her hands wrapped around the ankles of a dead man, dragging the still-slack carcass over the hardwood, leaving a broad streak of dark blood in its wake. overlaps its brother, the blood of the first body to be hauled up basement steps and laid to rest in plain view of the shattered glass windows. now, a pair — an exhibition. two men who entered her gallery and attempted to break into her barricaded basement office, who did, who earned precise, life-suffocating bullets shot directly into unsuspecting chests. veda screamed herself into a stiff sleep, shoulders tight to her ears, lungs heaving with quick, even breaths. a nervous kitten.

the mother, the all-at-once murderer, has dragged over three hundred pounds up the stairs. catches her breath crouched under the shadow of an interior wall, watching the daylight slip into the pale blue of threatening twilight. does not, cannot, reconcile what she's just done; can only hear, understand the cicada-reminiscent thrumming of survival. nothing else exists.

the crest of a shadow appears against the sidewalk, creeps larger, longer. indira picks up the gun, fingers curling tightly around the talon grip, and shrinks back further into the wall's negative space. shoulders dropping, gun aimed at the corner of the door as the figure realizes itself. she swallows her breath. she'll hide until they won't let her.

#indira — interaction . #marcellus meyer — dialogue . #event — purge . #// its perfect!!!

[pcril]

Doesn't take much for him to be moving again. Then again, it never does. Seiko goes to sit with the grace of a bumbling donkey, yet manages to do so with care. He might be in need of immediate medical aid, but that never means he should be careless disrespectful about it.

"Um." The details are there. Just out of reach. Moth bitten and horrendously discolored. It's stirring up previous moments almost parallel to this one. A pounding head, barely capable of putting one and two together, but still alive and breathing. Hurt, but still present. Sort of. "Two people, um." He's swallowing thickly, trying to keep the churn of bile at bay. The body remembers what his mind cannot. Except it's pulling from back then. Bridging a long forgotten piece of his past back into place, but the edges are still raw. Remembering hurts so he's never tried, but now he is. Looking at his other hand ghost white, almost fearful that it, too, would need to be replaced.

at the short sure... yoshi hones in. without augmentations, he can smell the reek of the blood pouring from seiko's mangled hand. "holy fucking shit." he doesn't make eye contact when he utters the curses, slurs them at his gloves as he yanks them up to his wrists. "have a seat, good man, you are something close to permanently ruined up the sewers with that." he juts his chin towards the leather chair, one of his hand-me-downs from his apartment. literally just a recliner. this is where he slaps all of his human clients, the bloodstains tattling as to just how much there are.

he drops his other tools into the sterile alcohol-water and sniffs, shoving at the eye patch concealing his left scarred eye so that it stops tickling his cheekbone. "tell me what happened, who did it, whatever the fuck else." when he turns around, he has his tweezers. but they are long, and thin, and sharp. "the more details, the better."

#adachi hideyoshi — interaction . #seiko nishikido — dialogue . #tw dismemberment #// ?? alluding to it idk he's about to panic

[pcril]

"Oh, how sweet, but you're one busy woman and I respect that. I'm just happy that you carved out some time for little ol' me." One of the drinks is placed before Liena. She's not expecting it to be taken, really, but still brought it as a friendly gesture. "Everything's going as planned, and I appreciate you asking about burn out. Not a lot of people do." And she means it. Means it in a way comparable to the depth of a shallow pond — internally. There's still an ease to the cheeriness she upholds. Even if some part of her doubts the check in being fully genuine.

Liena didn't have enough hours in a day to keep track of her various employees. She tried her best to remember the names of the opera workers and the Jade Tribe members, but every so often, she'd spot an unfamiliar face. That momentarily slip of control grated on her, so now, she was using the time to catch up with one of her associates, VERE CALDER.

She smiled a bit as she listened to Vere's joke. Liena wasn't much for comedy--- she preferred dramas or emotional productions over crude humor. Still, it was refreshing to see an associate speak so light-heartedly at her. ❝I miss all of my associates. Sometimes I envy my capos because they get to be more hands-on with you all.❞ The words weren't a lie, but Liena wouldn't sacrifice her current role just for a glimpse of comradery. ❝I just wanted to check in on how your assignments are going. I want to make sure my associates and soldiers aren't feeling overwhelmed or burnt out.❞

#liena chen — interaction . #vere calder — dialogue .

[pcril]

Peanut butter blossoms. She plucks one from the top and gives a small indifferent hum. Dark eyes shift unto Ha-Jun only to confess, “I’m allergic to nuts.” Then Yujin takes a sizable bite without hesitation. Still with a blank expression and no sign of stopping before she swallows. “Not really, they just make my stomach ache. More of an intolerance.” Still shouldn’t be eating them, but that never stopped those plagued with lactose intolerance from consuming dairy ( herself included ). Honestly, she still would’ve eaten it even if deathly allergic. Not many people gift her things — especially more than once.

“It’s good, though. Not too sweet.”

he's far too cheery for a measly little monthly check - up. he knows there's a time limit but he never remembers and more it's the furthest thought away. he just enjoys her company and he's never shy to express it. he adores all of his friends and yujin was no different. still, just as she eyes the plastic in his hands, he sets it his lap to pull open the lid and — " it's something new i wanted to try: peanut butter blossoms! " just like it shows, little chocolate kisses are perched on top of sugar cookies ( rather beautifully, too ). he made sure it involve presentation and everything. whilst leaning forward, he perks up with a smile that never fades. " c'mon, try it. it's goo~d. " he sure does not hesitate to sing the last part.

#ha jun byun — interaction . #sae yujin — dialogue .

[pcril]

The cigarette still hangs there, oh-so precariously balanced between the press of thinned lips. It's only fair, he supposes though somewhat begrudgingly. "Right." Terse as he replies, Marcellus stays true to his word. More theatrics are made to stabilize the balance between brown bags, still lit lighter, and now his own pack.. And he succeeds. A single stick protrudes higher than the rest somehow. This time without anymore ingredients road bound.

"Need a light? Or is it also going to cost another cig?"

MILK . EGGS . JACK DANIELS . VASELINE . the woman checked her mental list a few more times as she stepped out of her car ; using her free hand to feel for the pistol that was strapped around her thigh first before checking around . gotta be a red eye wandering around somewhere ready to blow her to kingdom come . . . STAY ready & you don't have to GET ready . but there was a scene not too far from her that prompted pilar to lean back against her vehicle ; a tilt of her head . was this guy trying to light a cigarette whilst holding a ton of groceries ? seems accurate . once the items began to drop , the hotel owner made her way to him ; a tsk of her tongue as she bent down quickly to grab the item — a sassy flick of the wrist at him . " gonna cost you one cigarette . & a 3 musketeers bar . "

#pilar estevez — interaction . #marcellus meyer — dialogue .

[pcril]

What a swanky place. A small, fleeting observation before being promptly discarded. Then he's met with a new face, but one with potential to memorize if the impromptu visit isn't met with hellfire and venom.

Not everyone welcomes a detective on their doorstep. And honestly? He can't blame them.

But it seems like this one does. And for that, Coen ambles his way in with a million watt grin. "Kane!" No subtly hidden here. Just an unmistakable boost of confidence like they've been friends for ages. "Happened to be in the neighborhood— thought I'd drop by and see how things've goin'."

when: 𝖠𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖲𝖳 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖢𝖧𝖠𝖮𝖲 | 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾 from: KANE, the almighty to: COEN, the scorned — ( @pcril )

through high ceilings and glass windows, the entirety of new york lies at his feet. lights flicker in the distance, cars move back and forth like flies, and while it's impossible to hear the roar of the city through the bulletproof, isolated glass, it's easy to see the way it pumps with energy. the city that never sleeps is a familiar sight; kane has grown up, and then grown old in this city, its skyscrapers, the highs, and the lows — it does not phase him much anymore. as such, one finger scrolls through the tablet, reading his emails, noteworthy news, and his itinerary for tomorrow. classical music plays as an afterthought through the surround speakers. he's interrupted by the quiet steps of the housekeeper, eyes meeting the man's without a word, a silent order to go on. 'you have a guest, sir', is not a string of words he expected to hear that day, but the name is one that he knows, so he allows them to accept the visitor, to get back to the reception that it is, indeed, fine to let him through. around five minutes later, the front door is opened by the housekeeper, and this time, there are two pairs of footsteps entering the living room. kane stands up, discards his tablet on the designer couch, and makes his way to the detective. the housekeeper bows and leaves without a second word. "coen." a greeting, over a carefully veiled curiosity. "what do i owe the pleasure?"

#kane iona — interaction . #coen hummel — dialogue . #event — purge .

[pcril]

It’s hardly comforting, but expected. Even when he's been doing good for some period of time, memories scarred with needle-sharp trauma flash hot from time to time. They still verge on visceral details, though not as strong as before. So Pierce supposes she’s right. Has to trust that she is just to prevent himself from steeping further in a full blown episode.

The heel of each hand presses against closed eyes for a long second. Forces himself to focus on his breathing in a slower, more orderly fashion. “Pierce Mullins.” Feels like there's still rocks in his mouth and dirt coating his tongue. At least the smoke's missing this time. Though just the sheer thought of it makes his skin prickle in the worst of ways.

The next breath in wavers ever so slightly, but he's not gulping down air. His ears aren't ringing and his vision doesn't swim as vigorously. Should be safe to walk again — so he hopes. Even chances a step and is relieved he doesn't falter. "Thanks, um. Lead the way."

A resolution of self to remain soft-hearted,     full of rivers and valleys    —   despite the war,    despite the death.     Violence had a habit of leeching itself to the people who had,   willingly or unwillingly,    experienced it deeply.      She had caved inwards when she had returned to this soil.     Spilled nothing from her failures and her decisions during her process of fighting back against the tide.     She kept a tight lid along her mind,    but occasionally she would feel it loosening.    Night terrors,   hand tremors,   and hallucinations every now and then would attack her.       It was a pattern,   of course,    and sometimes there was simply no preparation one could do for those approaching episodes.     Selena sees the warning signs and the dogs have their ears perked,     their faces trained on the panicked man.    She steps to the side of the walkway,    leash loose in her hands as Fang and Gemini both go to sniff and then sit beside the man.    They spent every day at her clinic,    they knew when they needed to be present   —    when they needed to be supportive.      She keeps her distance,   a few feet away,   brow-bone furrowed in concern.      His question felt like a blade scraping the edge of a wound.    Tender,   a suspended pain.      “That’s a very common response after a highly traumatic experience.    I can tell you that you’re not dreaming right now    [ … ]    this is all very real.”       Gently encouraging him,    drawing him away from that cliff of despair hopefully.    She clicks her tongue and the dogs return to her side,    not wanting to overwhelm him.       “I’m Selena.     I run a clinic for people like us.     It’s a few buildings down      [ … ]    let’s walk together.     You’re safe with me. I'll keep watch.”

#selena scott — interaction . #pierce mullins — dialogue .

[pcril]

There’s a joke in here somewhere. Bound to be when the ingredient keeps jumping ship. Again, all for a bloody cigarette. Though previous grocery runs have always teetered on the same results. Always with bags stuffed to the absolute brim. Always with a struggle to get it all in his car without it toppling over.

“Maybe I just like tomatoes.” Not a lick of humor lightens the response. It’s completely flat, deadpan, as if he really is speaking his truth. Then he takes a deep breath in, lets the cherry of his cigarette glow bright, and cracks the barest hint of a smile in the midst of smoke. “Or prepping a homestead.” Anything but a massive dinner between colleagues at the end of a work week.

Being a grown adult meant receiving grown adult money. However, spending that on grown adult things was not Margot’s speciality, in fact she stood in the car park trying to shove an inordinate amount of twizzlers into the small compartment on her motorbike. She’s grumbling to herself, using her elbows to fit them in and having little to no success as they spill back out like a disappointing waterfall of red forty. She could prepare and organise missions to take down anyone red eye asked but remembering a backpack for snacks was a step too far, apparently. 

Though, her own struggles are put on pause upon noticing what seems to be the mass escape of every tomato in New York City. “What in the fu-” Dark hues follow for a moment before her mind kicks into gear and grabs the incognito fruit. She’s cradling an armful before a distant voice even manages to ask for her. Spinning around too quickly, one more tomato takes a swan dive toward the concrete from Margot’s arms, and she winces.

“Dude you’re either preparing to throw these at some poor asshole in the stocks, which by the way, a couple hundred years too late ooooor- you’re hella low on vitamin C."

#margot emerson — interaction . #marcellus meyer — dialogue .

[pcril]

It’s familiar, that. In more ways than one, he’s seen the same destruction dealt by others. By his own very hands. Pierce knows that he, too, is capable of such devastation and it scares him. Deep down, it’s always scared him. Even when such rage can be deemed necessary— he always comes out of it shaking. Struck cold with a certain kind of numbness that inly drives that fear even further.

So he avoids it when able.

Doesn’t let himself be influenced by proximity. Especially with one as capable as Xiang. Pierce knows he’d be called for if necessary, but things hardly ever get that bad with him. And this time is no different.

He looks over at the exit and almost winces at the clatter of metal. Almost, but doesn’t. Just as he almost accepts a smoke, but shakes his head instead. “Gave it up a while ago,” he says with a polite yet passive shrug, “but you know what I haven’t shaken off? That Sichuan cuisine.”

from: XIANG, the demon to: PIERCE, the basilisk — ( @pcril )

there is blood on xiang's knuckles, his sleeves, specks of red over his pressed white shirt. the suit is hardly clean either, but the color has darkened instead, somewhat concealing the stains that are all over the fabric. it is just another day, so to speak. xiang's hand wrapped around the steel bat goes slack as he takes a step away from the carnage. it was teamwork at first, pierce had been inside at the beginning, but once it was clear that xiang was in one of those moods, he had stepped out to give the enforcer the space to do what he did best. the demon would argue it was nothing personal, but lately with the danger that is looming over the terrors, xiang's methods have been more violent than usual, which is alarming to those both familiar and unfamiliar with his " ways of working ". this time, he had started with his fists — his favorite, before finishing off almost half an hour later with the bat he had found at the den of a small organization, one stupid enough to have decided it would be a good idea to challenge them. as xiang finally steps outside the janky building, he throws the bat outside the door, blood splattering in its wake. i'll need to get this dry cleaned, he laments briefly as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his pack of marlboros. "want one?" one stick between his lips, he holds out the pack to pierce. "where do you want to eat?" the light of the zippo flashes briefly on their features before it's closed with a flick. he takes a long drag of his cigarette, before exhaling, smoke swirling around them. "i'm famished."

#xiang 'sean' liu — interaction . #pierce mullins — dialogue .

[pcril]

Straight to the point, of course. He wouldn't expect any different from Xiang, but curiosity does pique like a spark to dry tinder. "A few, yes," he responds in turn, pleasant-like. Though the thought of being truly alone is near laughable. There are eyes and ears everywhere within the premise, but Seojun still leads them into his office where seclusion can be granted if need be.

"Everything alright?" Ideally, a bit of small talk would come first — it has been some time since they've spoken. But business first. There's no sense in delaying whatever news brings the like of Xiang to his lobby.

entering the borderline hotel makes xiang uncharacteristically nervous. of course, it's hidden underneath a well-trained mask, but he is aware of his surroundings more than usual as he walks to the reception desk. he isn't sure if it's because of the nature of the hotel, that it's supposed to be a neutral space and the enforcer is anything but — or maybe it's because of how he survived on the kindness of a stranger all those years ago. virginia would have a field day with all of this, xiang's sure — he's glad she's not here. when seojun enters his line of sight, his eyes snap to the man, and he greets him with a nod. "do you have a moment?" he starts, looking at the concierge for a second too long before looking back at him. "alone, if possible."

#xiang 'sean' liu — interaction . #jiseok seojun — dialogue .

[pcril]

No matter the caliber, change is always difficult. Though Seiko’s always found a sort of comfort in moving between cities at a moment’s notice, to fully uproot himself from his homeland was.. Difficult. More so than he could’ve ever expected. But he survived. Adapted to the difference in lifestyle and cultures — even if bouts of miscommunication still catch him at times. Even started to warm up to the very ilk that had contractually trapped him. No, he doesn’t think about how a golden cage is still a cage. 

A quiet grunt of thanks loosens from the throat as their meal arrives. This time he isn’t presented with a plethora of mottled skin or swollen injuries. Well, visible ones, at least. He still moves to favor his right side but is practiced enough to keep it subtle. Doesn’t even wince when his hands are placed together, scratched palms in. Seiko receives his portion the same as always before going to break and rub the wooden chopsticks together. Now that does sting. 

“Things been alright?”

CLOSED STARTER FOR @pcril ft. Seiko location NOODLE BAR

When Zakir had first made his way to New York City, he’d been sixteen, technically too young to be doing any solo-travelling, but his uncle had managed to set him up. He’d gotten lucky, had received help from several people, and at least could start his life there without too much of an uphill battle. But still, being a fresh-off-the-boat immigrant had been hard, despite being fluent in English, he had a thick accent, he hated the food, and the people were different from what he was used to. Luckily, there were plenty of people like him, who needed another person in their life to rant with.

Seiko was the reason Zakir had learnt Japanese, why he was fluent at it. But where Zakir had gotten his big break, managed to buy his own apartment, start his career, almost swim in money, his friend had not. He never worried much about it, even when there were times. As if apologising, Zakir would buy him dinner.

He put the two steaming bowls of noodles on the table and handed Seiko his drink. “Dig in, Yaar,” he said, his dark sunglasses on his nose, wearing clothes that looked expensive - even if they weren’t - with a gold chain around his neck and a bandana around his forehead. He looked like a rapper, he even exuberated the arrogance needed.

#zakir sethupathi — interaction . #seiko nishikido — dialogue .

[pcril]

Leaving with an excess of one thing happens far too frequently for him to find it strange. Ever since he's gotten a foothold within the Hanging Man, biweekly get togethers keep reoccurring in his flat. Even if there's not too an abundance of space to spare, they make it work somehow.

"Now why would I do that?" Tone still dry as bone, a lilting slowness softens the edges. Makes it less patronizing and more to play along with the idea. "Spaghetti, ravioli, lasagna, pasta alla Norma— anything with Bolognese, really."

"not at all." navya said. the world was already cruel enough even if he didn't really need her help part of her knew that maybe a good deed would help along the way. "so, what's with all the crushed tomatoes?" she asked peeping his the bag as she grabbed it from him, "big fan of spaghetti?" she giggled, "or do you plan on covering someone's car in these?"

#navya edevane — interaction . #marcellus meyer — dialogue .

[pcril]

Business doesn't carry the air beneath her wings to this particular perch this time. It's more so curiosity, an opportunity missed as the sought out person of interest just left the premise. Oh well, there's always the week's end to catch up on any morsel of news. So, she's left to wander. Figure out where the next course of action should be before a voice calls her attention.

"Me? Oh— sure. Though I should warn you I'm not versed in this sort of thing." She speaks with the usual cheeriness, already in the process of placing her purse and sunglasses on the floor. "How can I help?"

strands   of   champagne   escape   high   ponytail,   hand   pushes   them   behind   ear   as   she   curses   —   ballet   bun   would   be   better   but   barbara   hates   how   they   look   on   her.   so   what   that   she   is   vain,   entire   life   ballerina   was   known   to   be   the   pretty   one.   cranium   move   toward   studio   door   at   the   sound   of   footsteps,   optics   studying   stranger   coming   closer.   "   think   you   can   help   me   stretch   ?   "   she   questions,   marriage   made   her   limbs   less   flexible,   at   least   in   the   dancing   kind   of   way.

[   💌   starter   for   @pcril   at   new   york   ballet   company   ]

#barbara van rensselaer — interaction . #vere calder — dialogue .

[pcril]

People of all walks of life have found shelter on these neutral grounds. From the purposely nameless to the most reputable worldwide — certain standards are expected to be upheld at all times. They all act as the hotel's pulse, hardly ceasing as the flow of business. And Seojun works tirelessly to orchestrate perfection wherever able.

The usual rounds have gone without a hitch thus far. Hardly means he has the time to relax and not anticipate the unexpected, but it does lighten his overall mood. So more idle chatter is made. A check-in with new or familiar faces here, optional assistance to lend to a fellow staff member there.. Seojun barely parted with the manager of the section when his attention's grabbed again. This time in the form of sharp eyes and equally sharp features.

"Really? What gave it away?" He softens ever so slightly, just enough to come across as polite and amicable. "Its under a partnership, but yes— you'd be correct, miss..?"

                          @pcril

LOCATION: the boarderline hotel, the bar. FOR: jiseok seojun.

𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 the weight of the world was becoming too much for even her to bare, she knew better than to show her face in front of her people, both the hanging man and gravity alike. instead she found herself finding solace in the bottom of a glass of the boarderline's booze, having become all too familiar with the tile behind the counter, every inch of grout. it is here where she's come to terms with more than she ever had -- allowing herself to think freely without boundaries. the patrons didn't know her here, know that she was a force to be feared. it was a place she needed to stay grounded, despite never speaking it aloud.

she notices him from across the room, the kind of person she is ordinarily drawn to: shrouded in an air of darkness. rough around the edges, untouched by the mundane essence of normalcy. she doesn't anticipate his approach, for once in her life not keeping her guard up. and yet, she knows when to plaster on her sickeningly sweet smirk.

" i'm going to take one guess and say, you own the place. " she hums, crossing her legs as she's perched along the barstool. " no one has a glare like that and scans the room that much without some kind of ownership. "

#helene coppola — interaction . #jiseok seojun — dialogue .

[pcril]

Panic, in itself, is a simple thing. It’s a way of alerting, of a body’s own way to protect. Be it a response from immediate danger or long-term echoes of trauma – everyone experiences it. 

Some might curl their fists and gnash their teeth while others might sprint for the hills . 

Fight or flight.

A few might still in their tracks and a handful might roll over to pacify. 

Freeze or fawn.

He, himself, was of the fight variety. When presented with a particularly upsetting situation ( past or present ), his thoughts flicker off. His body reacts in it’s stead to hit and kick and punch and claw; all while feeling that spark of fear funnel into white hot rage. More often than not, the skin of his knuckles are ruined when he comes back to himself to retether rational control. And most recently, it'd been just that.

His hands still ache with the barest of movements, but the community soil needed to be disturbed and tilled. So he did it regardless. Doesn't stop until a familiar name pops up on his phone. And now they're here. Well, one's more present than the other, but he simply waits it out. Gives an understanding smile when Juilet comes back to the question prior.

"Just wondering how you've been's all." He doesn't mind talking to help fill the silence, but if she'd rather be heard then he'd be glad to listen too. “Where were you just now?”

                          @pcril

LOCATION: slow down cafe. FOR: pierce mullins.

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 storm within juliet, found beauty in it even -- pierce somehow always managed to bring her back down to earth. when the world felt too much, she looked for one of them. every day since the attack on the white crocodiles' supply had been hell for juliet, feeling as if she were walking through the very fabric of space and time. they needed to lay low, sure, but she was still riding the high of watching everything fall apart.

the old guard would soon die out. but for now things felt silent -- too silent. as if they were waiting for the other shoe to drop instead of seeing the vulnerability and exploiting it. she trusts niko deeper than she's ever trusted anyone -- and without her leadership, they wouldn't have gotten as far as they had in the first place. she is well aware that it's her own selfish desires calling to her.

" what was that? " she asks, doe eyes looking upward from her cup of coffee to meet his gaze. juliet has had a lot on her mind as of late: carmen, the terrors, adeline ( but she was always a consistency ), leaving her feeling a bit more dazed than usual. the woman offers a sheepish smile as she continues. " i'm sorry... it just feels like my mind is in a million different places. "

#juliet huang — interaction . #pierce mullins — dialogue .