[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
( ... )
what the hell am i doing here;dignity_miseryDecember 29 2011, 17:20:00 UTC
[The apartment isn't anything she's ever really experienced before. She had grown up in an over-sized mansion, the kind you could wander around all day in and never comes across another member of the family if you really didn't want to, and she really hadn't wanted to. She had visited some rundown apartments with Isaac, low rent places that saw a long run of petty dealers moving in and out, breaking and busting, sometimes overflowing with cash, sometimes drooling to death on their own floor. Never a place anyone really lived, just a roof to collapse under at night, walls to keep the cops from peering inside. Cotnari and his high rise had been something else entirely, all clean wooden floors and enormous gleaming glass windows, looking down on the city like it was a toy. Everything in the place had been rented, would go back wherever it came from when he inevitably went travelling again
( ... )
what the hell am i doing here;blonderazorshivJanuary 1 2012, 04:08:15 UTC
[ Vic Vega didn't sleep well in prison.
Before prison, he'd slept like the dead, could stretch out and sleep for hours until his alarm went off or someone (usually Eddie or Vince) was banging on his door and yelling at him to get his lazy ass up. After the job went bad, though, after he was caught red-handed with no way out save selling out -- something he wouldn't do, both out of loyalty and because it would be fucking stupid to fuck over a man as powerful as Joe Cabot -- he'd been sent off to prison for four years. Prison had been hell, his own cage not so different than Carla's, though while she had mostly been tormented by herself, he had been tormented by others. He doesn't talk about what happened there, tries not to think about it, but there's a reason he hates cops as much as he does now (Nash wasn't his first, not at all, but he had never been quite so vicious about it) and a reason why alarms make any rational thought in his head go right out the window. In 1992, they don't have a lot of studies about how prison just fucks
( ... )
what the hell am i doing here;dignity_miseryJanuary 1 2012, 04:57:51 UTC
[She doesn't know what time it is, it wasn't something she had checked, she had just reached the point that her own restlessness was intolerable. A hazy state of mind, throat choked and heart aching. Sometimes, when Barbet had refused to come to bed, she had gone into the bathroom instead, locked herself in and laid in the bottom of the shower, warm water running over her. The white noise could help, but only sometimes. She preferred the sound of breath.
Carla looks up at Blonde quietly for a moment, arms crossed over her ribs. She unfolds them, reaching to settle a hand on the door, although she doesn't push on it.]
Early. [She looks away for a moment, glancing at a window like that might give her a better estimation, but it doesn't. Her eyes come back, uncertain about this.] Are you going to let me in?
what the hell am i doing here;blonderazorshivJanuary 1 2012, 05:14:44 UTC
[ "Early", she aays. Yeah, he'd figured that out. His own eyes flicker toward the window, but it doesn't tell him anything, either. He's not going to turn to see the clock. ]
Sure.
[ He has no idea what she wants, but he might as well. He's been sleeping mostly clothed, save for when he falls asleep after they've decided to fuck, and he pauses just long enough to scratch at the collar of his t-shirt before opening the door to let her in. ]
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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 ( ... )
Reply
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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Before prison, he'd slept like the dead, could stretch out and sleep for hours until his alarm went off or someone (usually Eddie or Vince) was banging on his door and yelling at him to get his lazy ass up. After the job went bad, though, after he was caught red-handed with no way out save selling out -- something he wouldn't do, both out of loyalty and because it would be fucking stupid to fuck over a man as powerful as Joe Cabot -- he'd been sent off to prison for four years. Prison had been hell, his own cage not so different than Carla's, though while she had mostly been tormented by herself, he had been tormented by others. He doesn't talk about what happened there, tries not to think about it, but there's a reason he hates cops as much as he does now (Nash wasn't his first, not at all, but he had never been quite so vicious about it) and a reason why alarms make any rational thought in his head go right out the window. In 1992, they don't have a lot of studies about how prison just fucks ( ... )
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Carla looks up at Blonde quietly for a moment, arms crossed over her ribs. She unfolds them, reaching to settle a hand on the door, although she doesn't push on it.]
Early. [She looks away for a moment, glancing at a window like that might give her a better estimation, but it doesn't. Her eyes come back, uncertain about this.] Are you going to let me in?
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Sure.
[ He has no idea what she wants, but he might as well. He's been sleeping mostly clothed, save for when he falls asleep after they've decided to fuck, and he pauses just long enough to scratch at the collar of his t-shirt before opening the door to let her in. ]
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[She got distracted; a man with a new motorcycle came in for a full overhaul and it consumed her for the past two weeks.]
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[ Creepy fucking lady who doesn't move right, but he likes her nonetheless. ]
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