Realistic or Modern 𝙊𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣'𝙨 𝙍𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐭

[cavitea]

CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE

THE LETTERS

CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE

From all over the world criminals rot underneath the blinking lights of cities. Scourge of the Earth they pull strings and push fingers into places that were never theirs, wrapping bruised flesh and weary souls around precious objects like death to a pyre. They steal what they can and purge the world of the rest in a never-ending battle between order, law, and psyche.

Among the pitiful groups that form there are those that rise higher and higher yet, stretching those dangerous fingers towards the penultimate prizes of the world and the infamy that comes from snatching it. Once there was a time that group found power in companionship; comfortable, if not strained. A comradery shared only within those tasked with staring at the stars and never weighing themselves to the Earth. Over and over they chased again, hunting down the glories of old and galivanting through their years of youth until like their fingers stole: it vanished.

Gone, they had been. Gone, their friendship.

Until now.

Letters flap their wings over the globe, sailing in weathered parchment and a tell-tale mauve seal of a crane. A calling sign has been put out to all, lies spun in the web by the mistress looked upon as the mastermind of the greatest and latest scandals. A pinch of money here, a threat to blackmail there; she never really minded the repercussions. All you can tell is that you have been called again, summoned to a musky parlor in the heart of United States capitalism and the slimey politics criminals stare bleakly after. Your choice comes in that letter, and furthermore in the mystery behind why a woman like this calls to a finger like you.


TAGS: demonology triples .V1LLAINISM._ noxrequiem mother of sorrows arthur morgan. livingdead miyabi ravensunset .empathogen. blue-jay Wandering Owl

code by low fidelity.

 

[.empathogen.]

B R I T T

Dont go wasting your emotion! Don't go sharing your devotion!

all to me

the rookie

lay all your love on me!

ABBA

— david kust remix

mood: frustrated
location: Morely Parlor
interactions: none

scroll

This was an odd setting for him. As he walked the corridor lined with plush red carpeting, Britt counted on his two hands how many times he'd seen his Aunt Winnie. On one of those hands lay the "Big Boy" as he called it: a pink sapphire gilded onto a yellow-gold band. It was as intricate as it was gaudy. Britt had brought it, of course, because that was the only reason he could think of for his aunt, the great Winifred Potts-Caldwell, to take time out to see him. They were closer knit when he was younger, but Mother left and so did the last of Father's compassion. Years later Britt moved to the States as a teenager and they lost touch save for the funeral of Uncle Caldwell.

Okay, so he stole the ring there, but it wasn't out of spite or anything. At that point, he was addicted to the thrill of lifting things off people. Plus, that man was an old coot who only wanted to see pictures about the wars and drink. People used to steal from the dead all the time. Plus, the ring didn't belong to the man at all. That had to be what the meeting was about, it couldn't be that Aunty Winnie wanted him to participate in her "hobbies". That's what she used to call it when she would take Britt on one of her escapades.

Britt had finally arrived at the door of the loft. This was it. He sighed, ready to explain himself and get it over with. No need to let her know that his father had disowned him and moved back to Oxford with a new wife and baby. Or that, in the time it took to be disowned, he'd been thrown off his game and gotten locked up for trying to steal a Hermès right out of the store for his ex. A year and some change could really change a person. He wasn't aiming to go back now, even though his torrid love affair with Tony Capitzo--the 52-year-old mob boss with a life sentence--could be sparked back up. Britt couldn't help but bite his lip thinking of Tony, but he remembered where he was and calmed down. He reached for the door handle and pulled...only for it not to open. He jiggled the door handle and pulled...a lot. For a solid minute, actually, which made him frustrated even more than he already was. Pity, because there was a sign very close to the door that could have aided him on his conquest. It wasn't until he raised his foot to kick the door with his Osiris sneakers that a bellhop told him it was a push, not a pull.

Britt blinked twice, then put his foot down and dusted off his pants, opened that door, and let himself right in. His aunt was nowhere to be seen, but there was a tray of biscuits and a tea kettle in the living room. He took a seat on one of the ornate-looking chairs and poured himself a cup with both sugar and honey--like he did when he was a lad. Taking his cup and a biscuit, he dipped one in the other and began eating, not having had a decent cup of tea in a proper decade. He wondered how long he'd have to wait on a woman who didn't care much about the passing of time. He wondered if he was going to be the only person there at all.

© reveriee

 

[demonology]

click!

steady. . .

inga montoya

location

moley parlor

outfit

interactions

britt

tags

.empathogen.

itchy fingers.

Ashes permed her skin, making a palmistry linocut. She presses her hand against the hills and valleys of the paper towel square, peeling back in an oh-so similar manner. It reminds her of the first time, the only time, she’d ever been arrested. Her fingerprints, which were later burned off, were marked into booking at some humdrum office not too far from where Winnie had asked her to meet. The image, which she just burned and used to pepper her hands in silt, gloms and burnishes the way the paper’s corpse took her hand. It all burns, from the blisters on her palm to the image. It reverberates, the pain, and the knowledge that Winifred is dangling in front of her an impossibility: redemption. Yet, she does it in a form she knows Inga is addicted to: the feeling of life in her hands, both with the art in question and with her own adrenaline-addled heart.

Inga sits resolutely, pressed into the backing of a brown-wooded bench that overlooks a fountain. She eyes the building across the street, despite facing a magnificent statue, of the type D.C. is known for. Anyone who knew her would expect her ogling the proud man instead of the underwhelming Parlor. She still has to make her choice. Her hand crunches into a fist, and one of her blisters pops. Hot liquid, almost milky, burns down her palm and washes away some of the letter. She begins to pick at it, briefly looking away from where the Vermillion Room lies. Skin trails to the cobblestone as she rises with a jolt. Suddenly, it occurs to Inga how futile it is to make a choice. She would not have shown up if she hadn't already resolved to see what Winifred could offer. More importantly, what use Inga could have to her.

She sees the vase in her mind's eye as the walks the steps to the Vermillion Room. As one foot steps in front of the other, she watches the shadow of her baseball cap and hears the murmur of her boots scuffing against the marbled floors. It was futile to think she had a choice, to think that her heart could ever run away from what it wants. She thinks of salvation, the kind she seeks in every lift, the kind she runs from when it takes the form of diapers and blonde fuzz, the kind she looks for under the beds at night. It is the same ego death she thinks will be reached through the lighter's flame as she burned Winnie's letter last night, just before the taxi honked outside. Having avoided opening the letter for over a week since receiving it, she had almost been later. In fact, it was a complete shock that she was so early. That might win her points with the Leader.

Finally, Inga reaches the door. She gives herself a moment, closing her eyes, and then pulling open the door. Stepping inside, her eyes widen at the sight of another person. "Shit," she murmurs. "Winnie's got you involved in this?"

Her cousin-in-law sat, shaved-headed and drinking a cup of tea. Baffled, yet not enough to cast outrage, Inga shakes her head, stomps over to give Britt a hug, saying, "It's been how long?" Cutting the hug short, she moves towards the food arranged, presumably for them to snack upon. "I didn't think you were out yet. How long has it been?"

morning elvis

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ravensunset]

click!

janice

keep driving

location

the Vermillion Room

interactions

Inga, Britt

per noctem in nihilo vehi

The engine of the car next to hers revs. The light goes green. Janice’s foot pushes, full force, against the gas pedal.

Winifred’s letter burns against her skin. It burns as she opens the envelope, as she reads the words. As her breath catches in her throat.

The day she leaves, Janice throws the letter into her fireplace. She doesn’t stay to watch it burn.

She drives. It’s a long drive– maybe that’s why she likes it. Winifred’s money is quickly blown through on travel food and fancy hotels instead of its intended plane tickets. Her car zips through down the road, needle pointing further and further, zips through the air, the wind in her hair as though she’s still growing. She’s not; She stops often, gets out, walks until she can sit again.

Asphalt burns under her tires. The car jolts into park. Janice hadn’t thought about following Winifred’s calling. She’d just done it, the way she always did. She’d like to say it’s about Winifred, about an old friendship, about some kind of connection, but it isn’t.

Janice doesn’t know what connection even is.

What she knows is the game. The rush of it, the burning. Blurred lights and smoke and the smell of gasoline. The weight of gold, the offset in balance. Janice knows leaving everything behind in the dust.

She doesn’t think about going. She just does.

Janice spends a moment studying her reflection in the wing mirror, pulling up grey hair with a clip and seeing if it makes her look any more presentable. It doesn’t. Strands of hair poke out of place, her wrinkles only highlighted. No amount of styling quite recaptures the charm she once had, and it’s been too long since she properly took care of that part of herself, since she needed it.

“With your brittle fucking bones,”

Janice murmurs under her breath. She hopes time has worn on Winifred at least as much as her.

A woman might once have entered the parlor, taking a look around. It would have been a nicer time for the place. She might have ignored the call of the Vermillion Room, opting to wander, engage in conversation. Drop a name, an event, a smile. She would have been sharp and quick and disappeared after the chat, no trace of her, and entered the room just a little late, laughing it off easily.

Instead, Morley Parlor looks downright unpleasant. The lighting is harsh and Janice is thoroughly unwelcome, unfitting. She doesn’t take time, she doesn’t have time to give. The door is a finish line.

Though one, she finds when she gets close enough, she already missed. Voices, footsteps inside, though words she can’t make out.

She summons a deep breath, and pulls the door open with all the force her arms muster, chin tilting up towards the ceiling, as though she was still someone to look at, worth the entrance.

Inga and Britt are already there.

Janice isn’t surprised, really. They hadn’t been what she was expecting, but she wasn’t expecting to have been summoned alone, either. What could she do? Janice’s skillset is only any good if there are others for it to help, and she’s never known Winifred to have simple plans.

“Ah,”

She says, mind pulling pieces together. Her, them.

“So she hasn’t found a new gang, has she?”

Janice doesn’t show them any mind as she steps in. Her skin crawls, itches, every bone says to run, a fire alarm rings, a stop sign zips right past. Never the same place twice, she says again and again, they’d broken up for a reason. She doesn’t show it. She plops down into an armchair instead, stretching one leg and resting a heel on the table as her back pushes against the old red plush.

song title

♡coded by uxie♡