[The Warehouse reminds of her home. The only home she'd ever really had, her own blood spilled across the concrete floors. Her own sweat and tears soaked into the brick. She'd lived an entire life there in the span of five years, fallen like a stone into hell, suffered for her earthly sins, and been resurrected again. A great fucking circle.
The difference, of course, was that the Warehouse was very much lacking in the smell of paint, instead had the faint tinge of gasoline from the carport underneath. It lacked the walls of photos, blank eyes in pale faces. It lacked Barbet, all the things about him from his clutter to his temper tantrums to his soap. She hasn't spent more than a few days away from him in three years--(and yet he could still question why she was so attached to him, could still pretend to be oblivious to what he'd robbed from her.) And maybe that's why she let Saya bring her to the warehouse, because she wasn't ready to be alone. Not that she was interested in admitting that, and would much rather blame it on the
( ... )
[ The Warehouse has something in common for the two of them -- perhaps more than one something. It reminds Carla of home and of her blood. It reminds Vic of being arrested and his blood. Four years in prison because he was caught in a warehouse full of hot items, four years in which he refused to give up the name of the man who he had been working for. Four years, and then he got out and ended up in another warehouse, watching Orange bleed out and then taking his razor and slashing a man's face -- only for Orange to try and make it so he wasn't the only stuck piggy on the playground.
He's not stupid. He knows he's probably dead back home, or will be if he ever goes back. If he was shot once for something like that, right in the chest, it's entirely possible that he'll be shot again. Fucking ratVic -- Mr. Blonde, as he continues to call himself -- has spent the last several days in the warehouse, the bullet gone from his chest and painkillers in his system. Saya had graciously offered to let him stay, though he has a feeling it's less
( ... )
[Carla had been told, upon her arrival in Saya's sleek black jaguar that there were only two roommates she needed to be aware of. One was a woman who lived on the second floor, who stocked the fridge but would probably not make an appearance due to a busy schedule. The other was the doctor that Carla had spoken to, the one who spoke French, Czech, and Latin, was a genius with a scalpel, but didn't want to see her in his ER. He apparently, had a room on the third floor. It had been Carla's intention to avoid both of them, for the time being, to cut out any unnecessary distractions to her end goal of leaving this place.
The man pacing the open floor does not look like a doctor to her. He isn't dressed like a doctor, he doesn't move like a doctor, and he isn't armed like a doctor. She pauses on the stairs to just watch for a moment, quietly eating down a rope of cherry twizzler. She'd swiped a whole pack from a convenience store on her way back here after her day of apartment hunting, and the crinkling wrapper is going to give her away
( ... )
[ He doesn't trust Saya, who moves like she doesn't know how her legs are meant to attach, who has an autopsy room in her warehouse, but he trusts her enough not to let cops in to go after him. He has no real control over whether or not she tells someone that he's been shot, but for now, he thinks he's probably more useful to her with his secret safe and in her debt. She'd gotten the blood stain out of the floor, gotten him up to her bed that first night (and he's not sure how she did either, his memories of that night hazy with pain and then with morphine, but he remembers thinking that something was Off), and since then there's been little interaction. He's kept to himself and to his perusals of the network, popping painkillers as needed and wishing for something stronger than water
( ... )
[Carla doesn't trust anyone, least of all women who aren't put off by her bedroom manners. Trust wasn't a necessary component to liking someone, and it never had been. The only person Carla has ever trusted is Barbet, and what she trusts him with is disappointment, selfishness, and pain. She certainly doesn't trust a man who wears a gun on himself at all times.
It is actually very tempting to carry on in French, just to fuck with him, but after she's nibbled down a bit more of her candy--(stress eating, she's wanted nothing but sugar since she got here)--she offers a lazy mocking sort of smile.]
[ He shifts, goes to lean against the wall. He's been doing well at hiding any pain the painkillers haven't dulled, blaming it on sleeping wrong if anyone asks (no one has). Blonde still has a lot of recovery to do, but so far so good.
She speaks English, though, and he's glad for that much. Otherwise she might follow him around yapping in his ear, and then he really would have to shoot her, and Saya would be pissed. ]
[Or maybe her bones just crack a bit more easily after two years among the dead, confined to two rooms with very little real exercise. What a pig, Blonde.]
No, I just wondered if that made you another one of her strays, or a visitor.
[She perks up at the sight of that damn bubblegum. Her eyes follow it in his hands, and then to his mouth and she leaves the stairs to wander a little closer.]
Maybe some of both.
[She wasn't staying long, but Saya had absolutely swept her up off the streets. And no, she was a very poor excuse for a little blonde princess. Tall for a woman with long black hair, ringed eyes and an aggressive gait, slouched clothes that hang off a frame just a bit too skinny.]
[Do that again, Blonde and she's going to reach out and pop it herself. However, yes, she would like that bubblegum, okay, and she lifts an eyebrow slightly.]
[It was a serious threat, Blonde, and her hand lifts, entirely unconcerned. Only then does she rummage into her package of twizzlers. A couple come out stuck together, but she's not quite so obsessive that she feels the need to pull them apart.]
[ There's a snort as she pops the bubble, and he draws the gum back into his mouth with his tongue. If he happens to get her finger too, well, that's just lucky for him, isn't it? He'll just offer that gum. ]
The difference, of course, was that the Warehouse was very much lacking in the smell of paint, instead had the faint tinge of gasoline from the carport underneath. It lacked the walls of photos, blank eyes in pale faces. It lacked Barbet, all the things about him from his clutter to his temper tantrums to his soap. She hasn't spent more than a few days away from him in three years--(and yet he could still question why she was so attached to him, could still pretend to be oblivious to what he'd robbed from her.) And maybe that's why she let Saya bring her to the warehouse, because she wasn't ready to be alone. Not that she was interested in admitting that, and would much rather blame it on the ( ... )
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He's not stupid. He knows he's probably dead back home, or will be if he ever goes back. If he was shot once for something like that, right in the chest, it's entirely possible that he'll be shot again. Fucking ratVic -- Mr. Blonde, as he continues to call himself -- has spent the last several days in the warehouse, the bullet gone from his chest and painkillers in his system. Saya had graciously offered to let him stay, though he has a feeling it's less ( ... )
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The man pacing the open floor does not look like a doctor to her. He isn't dressed like a doctor, he doesn't move like a doctor, and he isn't armed like a doctor. She pauses on the stairs to just watch for a moment, quietly eating down a rope of cherry twizzler. She'd swiped a whole pack from a convenience store on her way back here after her day of apartment hunting, and the crinkling wrapper is going to give her away ( ... )
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It is actually very tempting to carry on in French, just to fuck with him, but after she's nibbled down a bit more of her candy--(stress eating, she's wanted nothing but sugar since she got here)--she offers a lazy mocking sort of smile.]
You understood me just fine.
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[ He shifts, goes to lean against the wall. He's been doing well at hiding any pain the painkillers haven't dulled, blaming it on sleeping wrong if anyone asks (no one has). Blonde still has a lot of recovery to do, but so far so good.
She speaks English, though, and he's glad for that much. Otherwise she might follow him around yapping in his ear, and then he really would have to shoot her, and Saya would be pissed. ]
Doesn't mean I understood what.
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[Her voice is dry, her sarcasm more amused than impatient or bitter. She relaxes against the stair railing, back arching until it pops.]
I didn't know anyone else was here.
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Me neither. Does it matter?
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No, I just wondered if that made you another one of her strays, or a visitor.
[And maybe that mattered.]
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Not quite sure yet.
[ He reaches into a pocket, pulling out some bubblegum to pop into his mouth. ]
Which one are you? You ain't the little blonde princess, that's for sure.
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Maybe some of both.
[She wasn't staying long, but Saya had absolutely swept her up off the streets. And no, she was a very poor excuse for a little blonde princess. Tall for a woman with long black hair, ringed eyes and an aggressive gait, slouched clothes that hang off a frame just a bit too skinny.]
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Maybe we're in the same boat, then.
[ He blows a small bubble, letting it pop between his teeth. ]
You want a piece?
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Could trade you a twizzler for it.
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Sure.
[ In fact, he's blowing another bubble as he pulls another piece out of his pocket. ]
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