Futuristic 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠

[mangomilk]

the wolf and the song

# the arsenal

# the cheshire cat

♡coded by uxie♡

​

DISCLAIMER:
the main idea of the world of Heartbeat City and The Change is from low fidelity . Since TheWaffleLord and I loved the vibe and our characters' connection in the group rp, we decided to keep it going! (:

 

[mangomilk]

quentin song

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  easy-going
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  all black, funky sunglasses
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  Prison > Golden Phoenix subway > City
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  Hardy > Amir > ?
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

The siren released its chastening war cry and the big gate plastered in grimy beige opened up. Prison was a shithole but he was a temporary visitor, for now. The lean young man dressed in black sat back on the bench and watched several inmates pass him, making eye contact with each of them. The first one was a tall white guy with long hair and a full beard. He had some tattoos on his face and the kinky breast hair sprouted from his overall. What the second one lacked in height, he compensated with width. He was in his 30s from what it looked like, ethnically ambiguous. The third time’s the charm. A black guy with bulky shoulders, maybe a few years older than himself. His name tag showed number 425, Hardy. He had a sly smile and freckles concentrated on his nose.

The guy approached him and sat down on the table without much hesitation. "You’re my visitor, huh?" The inmate crossed his arms and inspected the individual before him. A young asian man that gave the impression as if he just woke up from his hangover and barely made it here. He wasn’t wrong. "Seems quite like it," he lifted his shoulders and set his hands on the metallic table. They sat closer now.
"You don’t seem too funny for being called The Cheshire Cat."
- "Ever seen a cat that does what someone else wants it to?" They exchanged a moment of silence.
"Alright alright, stop the foreplay." Quentin raised his brows. "You’ve got my shit, man? I ran out a week ago and my clients in here are getting a lil antsy."
- "That depends on you, my friend. Is the transaction ready?"
"Yeah. I’m just waiting for confirmation."
- "I set someone up for you. A guard will bring this month’s ration tonight with the convenience delivery."
"That’s why I was supposed to register myself for tonight's shift…” At least he wasn’t a total bonehead. "Congrats, you figured it out.."

The conversation kept going, not for long when the siren signalized the visiting period had come to an end. "Was good seeing you." They got up and gave each other a friendly handclap. The guy furrowed his brows when the touch of the other didn’t feel like skin but a smooth surface. "She sends her regards. Have fun." He wore an ever so slight grin on his lips, he couldn’t contain himself. After all, that’s what he did best. Hardy hid the small plastic wrapper on the inside of his hand and made sure he kept it safe.

Despite the large conglomerates all over town, it was sunny. He put his funky sunglasses on and made his way back. The Cheshire Cat was the name he worked under. For the people that knew him, he was Quentin. For the people that liked him, he was Q and for those from the past he carried a name he hadn't heard for a long time.

He arrived in the part of town known as China Town. It was only that for about twenty years now the Chinese were not the largest group of the district anymore. Thailand was hit badly by the Change when cases first occurred which resulted in a flood of immigrants in many western countries. In Quentin’s mind, it all had positives, he loved the smell of freshly made Pad Thai and fragrant jasmine rice that fogged the sidewalk. He lived close by. The next subway station visible was next to a small marketplace where old ladies sold their home-made food. It was highly illegal, something about lack of hygiene and exhaust gas levels in the air, but Quentin didn’t really understand the problem, nor did he care.

Taking one of the several moving staircases to the subway, he checked his phone and put some loud music on. When thinking that two worlds clashed in China Town between tradition and futurism, the station of Golden Phoenix was a new galaxy. There were whole businesses, salons, restaurants and offices wedged in what space gave, some people even lived here. Quentin took a small chip from his pocket and opened a small locker with a phone inside. He banged his head to the music while texting the only number he’d ever be able to memorize.

<...>
<Completed>
<Waiting for command>

<Next: Warehouse; 3 days; 17:30>
<...>
<...>
<Noted>

He put the phone back in the locker and closed it. "What are you doing here?" A voice too close to his face asked him. Quentin exhaled a shocked squeal and gripped the chip closer. "What the fuck, Amir! How many times did I tell you to stop it!" The brown man lifted his broad shoulders. "It’s just fun to scare you. It’s so easy. They should change your name to Scaredy Cat honestly." Quentin removed his sunglasses and put his arm around Amir’s strong shoulders. "Now listen, Mr. Robot, you’re just deprived of my company. You always just sit in that run down internet cafe. Four weeks of not working together anymore and you already want me back, huh? Now what do you want?" Amir rolled his eyes and started walking towards the exit. "You were running late as always… I had my own errand to run and I saw you here, looking all cool with your sunglasses."
Quentin grinned and hummed in delight. They walked together for a while until Amir signalized they had to split ways here.

When Amir left, it was only late noon. His work day was already over and he got bored, which never resulted in especially bright ideas but exciting ones. Quentin followed the road for a while. Block after block he realized, it was a very busy time of the day. The aggressive sunlight made him put the sunglasses back on. People flooded the streets like ants in the tv screen. He pushed through the crowd of people and graced someone's hip gently. With him, he took a wallet. On the verge of the sidewalk waiting for the traffic light, he talked to a young blonde woman and complimented her golden bracelet. "I wanted to buy my girlfriend the same one." Lies.
"Oh I bet she’d love it just as much as I do! It’s so delicate and cute." The lights turned green. "Hope you'll have a good day!" he wished her as he pushed forward and unclipped her bracelet in the same motion. She didn’t notice the theft and Quentin kept going.

He was a magpie, the look of shiny things made his heart beat. He opened the wallet he snatched earlier and counted the cash in it. Twenty, twenty, ten, makes fifty. He examined the rest while walking and rolled his eyes 'cause he couldn’t find a credit card. After putting the cash in his pocket, he threw the wallet back on the sidewalk. The breeze blew through his hair gently and his eyes fell on a buff looking man. He had a prominent nose and a tough looking face due to some healing scars.

If it weren’t for the thick wallet showing just a little bit too much from the pocket of his pants, he would have passed on him. Quentin followed him behind a few people and slowly sneaked forward. The crowd thickened to his advantage. No one could really tell who was accidentally touching whom. As the next traffic light turned green, he pushed past the tall man and his sticky fingers carefully fiddled the wallet from his butt pocket. His face looked neutral but sly. He was already thinking about what to treat himself with.

seoul

Jaysen

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[TheWaffleLord]

vincent wolfe.

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  triumphant, wary, livid, agitated
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  born on concrete
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  valkyrie's kiss, out in the city, safehouse
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  titan, a bastard, ishaan, manasa
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

He knew the metallic taste on his tongue very well. The adrenaline coursing through his body was a euphoric fervor to his mind. Sweat and blood dripped from his face and onto the floor he stood on. All he could hear was the cacophonous roar of the crowd. Their frenzied cheers and bellowing calls rattled the cage that walled him in. He swiftly leaned to the side and felt a rush of air graze his cheek. He evaded both strikes that followed, then in return, he delivered a jab and a right cross that struck true. A spray of crimson left the opponent's mouth. The crowd became louder. They liked seeing more blood in the ring—and so did he.

To Vincent, this was a high unlike anything a person could buy on the street. His eyes never left his opponent, who stepped heavily and watched him with intent. Titan was her name—the only name they called her by once she walked beneath Valkyrie's Kiss. It was no wonder why; her physique said it all. She was a burly, brown-skinned powerhouse of a woman who was taller than Vincent by a few inches. A long tattoo of a serpent wrapped around her bicep. She had wide shoulders, a short braided frohawk, and now recently: a busted lower lip and an eye that was swollen shut.

They were both bruised, bleeding, and determined. Vincent didn't care that he knew Titan personally, outside of he Ironhearted. He wanted to win and break her streak. He saw her fist flying toward him, but he wasn't quick enough, and it slammed across his chin. What should've been flesh felt like solid rock. Vincent's head jerked from the sheer force behind her punch. Flashing lights danced across his vision while those who looked on became a blur. Their features tore away from their skin and melded into one crazed and hungry amalgam. Somewhere, in the maw of that transient creature, he heard his sobriquet.

He staggered backward and careened, but remained on his feet. His movements changed. His balance was as wayward as a man whose consciousness was hanging by a thread. With a gleam in her eye, Titan lunged forward. He knew she would, and in doing so, she had fallen for his feint. She went for a wide sweeping arc with her fist, yet Vincent reeled back faster than she anticipated. Her strike missed by a hair's breadth. In the same motion, he spun with his elbow raised high behind him and drove it into Titan's blind spot—her swollen eye. It made impact, and suddenly, Titan's shoulders went slack. Her arms fell to her sides. She toppled over and the weight of her colossal, mighty form dropped to the mat with a resonating thud.

The crowd roared with a reignited hysteria. Anyone sitting down had leapt to their feet, taken aback by Vincent's deceptive ploy. Their zeal filled his heart with a discordant song he could feel in his core—the melody of the Ironhearted. It fueled his primal impulse. He bellowed a war cry that not even himself could hear over the clamoring, but that didn't stop him. Blood trickled past Vincent's mouthguard and down his chin as a wild smile spread across his face. He whooped, hollered, and ran a victory lap around the ring. Paramedics rushed in—four of which had to work in tandem to move Titan's unconscious body to a corner. Two others cleaned Vincent's wounds and checked him over for moderate injuries. A few minutes passed until they were able to resuscitate the six-foot-five woman. When she rose to her feet in a haze, a tan man wearing an earpiece made his way into the ring. Vincent joined him at the center and stood by his right; Titan stood by his left.

The man who stepped in was Marcello De Luca, who was only a few years older than Vincent. The others called him Chief because he was the emcee and overseer of the fight club. He could draw the attention of others simply by being the muscle-bound silver fox that he was. He kept his white beard trimmed and his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back with gel. He had dark eyes, a statuesque face, and a plethora of tattoos covering him from his neck to his waist. Marcello looked like a dutiful man who carried himself with stoic poise. On the outside, he was, but he enjoyed these thrills as much as Vincent. They were good friends.

Marcello grinned, adjusted the glasses on his nose, then clasped onto the fighters' wrists with both hands. The mic from his earpiece amplified his voice, making it ring out above the noise.
"Wow! What an upset! Ladies and gentlemen, our final winner by knockout—" he raised Vincent's fist high, "—The Arsenal!"

* * *​

The next day was sunny, cloudless, and warm. Vincent spent that morning recuperating in the comfort of his home. His body felt tender all over and his ribcage ached from Titan's heavy blows. His face sustained a few cuts over his old scars; across his left brow, under his eye, and on his cheekbone. There was a dark, purplish bruise along the corner of his mouth.
The rugged man was familiar with these post-fight injuries—used to it and its pain, even. Vincent's bones luckily weren't fractured or broken, so he could endure and recover much faster. All in all, he was very much satisfied. Fight night with the Ironhearted was always something he could look forward to. Not only did he defeat one of the champions, he won three hundred twenty-five dollars in cash from betting on himself.

But in the late afternoon, his wallet chain broke. He would've rather lounged inside with his dog, Bruce, but the sooner he had the chain replaced, the better. Wearing one made it impossible for pickpockets to steal his money. Vincent knew more than anyone how often that could happen, so he never left his apartment without one. He wasn't quite annoyed; running a simple errand wasn't anything to fuss about.
He patted Bruce's head then told him, "Hold down the fort while I'm gone, buddy."
The pit bull stared curiously as he held a hamburger toy in his mouth. He clamped his teeth down on it; it squeaked.
Vincent nodded with a grin. "That's right, you know the drill. I'll see you later."

He left the complex and strode to his Quicksilver, a sleek muscle car in gunmetal grey. It was the only flashy thing he owned, yet maintained it to optimal condition. His car became the embodiment of his self-respect over the years, and as such, he kept it clean. Chinatown was nearby, so its commercial district was more convenient than going downtown. Seeing no empty spaces next to the store he had in mind, he parked further down the shopping street. It was going to be a five-minute walk at the very least. Sunlight hit Vincent's eyes as he stepped out of his vehicle. He put on his baseball cap, tugged the brim low, and kept moving among throngs of pedestrians. He took note of the Golden Phoenix station as he walked by. Like a man on a mission, he remained cautious and vigilant. Not even the enticing aromas of fresh cuisine could distract him.

The intense nature of his visage made Vincent appear to have violence on his mind. He was watching—waiting—for someone to test their luck and regret it. The few who glanced at his wounded face had a startled look in their eyes and quickly averted their gaze. Others seemed curious by the clear scuffle he'd been in, but continued walking without a word. Vincent came to a crosswalk, where he stood idle with a group of strangers. While waiting for the pedestrian signal to change, he felt something subtle. Recognizable.

I fucking knew it.
The signal turned. The pickpocket took one step before Vincent's hand shot out and grabbed their wrist. He found it belonged to a slightly shorter, young Asian man no older than twenty-five. He dressed head to toe in all black. The bastard's face went from a sly facade to being stricken with panic. He still had the wallet in his ensnared hand. Vincent glared daggers at him, unblinking, and tightened his iron grip.
"I'd give that back if I were you." His deep voice came out like a growl through gritted teeth. He could sense the bastard's eyes nervously darting behind his cat-eyed sunglasses.

As he reached with his other hand to reclaim his wallet, the bastard thrusted his knee thrust into his groin. A sharp, flaring pain shot throughout his pelvic region. He shouted and lurched forward. He didn't fall to the ground, but his grip loosened, and it was enough for the bastard to wrench himself free. He went into a full sprint ahead, his shoes stamping against the striped asphalt. Vincent grunted angrily. There was a thundering storm in his dark eyes now.

He could still see the running figure amongst the crowd and bolted after him. He didn't care who he shoved out of the way or who cried profanities as he ran past. He'd rather cause a scene than let a random punk make off with his hard-earned money. Wind blasted Vincent's face and blew away the baseball cap from his head. His bruised ribcage sent pangs against his chest with every stride. It hurt to move this much and this fast, and admittedly, he wasn't at his best after last night. But he had too much fury to let the pickpocket go.

The droves of people on the street presented more and more obstacles as he continued to give chase. When at first it seemed Vincent was closing in on his quarry, there was always something that widened the distance. He turned a corner and collided into a person much larger than he was. He stumbled while barreling through, much to his own chagrin. Despite his high tolerance for pain, his stamina was bound to give out sooner than he'd hoped—and it eventually did. He scanned the crowd again, panting. At that moment, he realized he lost sight of him, and fumed. The bastard swiped three hundred twenty-five dollars in broad daylight and got away with it. Vincent spent his breath vehemently swearing into the air.

* * *​

Three days afterward, Vincent was still in a choleric mood. He had scowled, brooded, and cursed at every mental image of the pickpocket splurging on his cash. He didn't leave his ID and credit cards in his wallet in case someone were to steal it that day. Doing so prevented further damage from happening, but that didn't make him any less livid. It wasn't only about the money—it was about his pride.

He walked through the doors of his second home with the same glower on his face. This home was once a four-star establishment called Royal Court Hotel. The upper middle class found it respectable for all its comfort and amenities back then. Then the Change happened. Like many places, it became abandoned and underwent a stage of disrepair. That is, until the Silver Serpents converted it into another safehouse within their vast territory. Anyone whose intelligence was worth a damn knew that name. It belonged to the most notorious, powerful, and influential gang in Heartbeat City. Five and a half years ago, the boss welcomed Vincent in for his valuable services in dealing illegal arms. He'd been a loyal member of the Silver Serpents ever since.

There were handfuls of Silver Serpents walking through the lobby. Others lounged or chatted amongst themselves. He knew their faces, but not most of their names. One of them, named Ishaan, was alone and slouched in a chair as he read something from his phone. He was a scrawny Indian kid with haphazardly cut hair and shifty eyes that were often wide with alert. At twenty years old, he was the youngest member of the gang that Vincent met. He still looked boyish and weasel-faced, but he wasn't an amateur. Far from it, as one of the informants. He was like a shadow, gifted with the power of teleportation. Vincent caught Ishaan emerging from the walls before, stepping through as if it were air. Ishaan looked weary in this moment because he strained his body with the limits of his power again. Vincent didn't know him too well, but respected his work ethic. He glanced up from his phone's screen without moving his head.

"Vincent," Ishaan said. There was an ever-present rasp to his voice that grated on his ears. "Manasa is here. She said she wants to see you at the patio."
"Noted," he grunted. "Thanks."
They exchanged a nod, then Vincent shifted his path to the left. The patio was an octagonal outdoor area enclosed by the hotel's graffitied walls. Ivy had grown through the cracks in the stone floor and climbed up and around the rusted lattice awning. A fire pit sat beneath it, unlit and unattended. The sparse furnishings that replaced the old was for functionality instead of comfort. Remnants of the past still remained, and although very tattered, they were serviceable. It was almost evening—the sun was setting below the horizon. Vincent scanned the patio in search of Manasa. She had not yet arrived. Instead, he spotted someone else; a young Asian man who absentmindedly picked away at the ivy.

He had sand-colored skin and was a thin figure dressed in all black. The fringe of his curtain haircut fell across his flat eyebrows like long, black bristles. His face was punchable. He was too occupied to notice Vincent's looming, angry presence.
"You!" Before the pickpocket had a chance for instinct to kick in, Vincent was already behind him, and it was too late. He closed the pit of his elbow around the bastard's throat, locking it secure with his other arm behind his head. Vincent's bicep muscles bulged as he tightened the choke hold. He felt him struggle. The pickpocket was weak against the sudden and immense restraint against him. Vincent didn't stop to ponder the meaning of him being here—he was only seeing red.
"You stole from the wrong man, you piece of shit," he seethed into his ear.
"Now, now... That's no way to treat a new Silver Serpent, is it?"

Vincent froze. His muscles were no longer tense, though he still held the pickpocket in place. He looked up. The boss of the Silver Serpents herself stood across the way and stared at them with a half-smile. Manasa, the woman with everlasting life. Her dark eyes were clandestine in nature, spoke in silent commands, and gazed with scrutiny. She looked to be in her thirties, but was much older than she let on. No one even knew her real name; she was Manasa to everyone, even those not associated with the underworld. The long, wavy tresses that framed her square face reached her elbows and she often wore them down. Her tattoos were both Samoan and Indian in design—a tribute to her heritage.

If there had to be few words to describe Manasa it would be imposing, distinct, and cunning. She had a demeanor about her that exuded earned power. She was not an oppressive leader nor was she lax; she was maternal and ruthless when she needed to be. She rewarded those who did their hard work. She delivered punishments—personally—to those who dared to betray or deceive to her. He held tremendous respect for Manasa.

"Go on, Vincent," she said. "Give the boy some breathing room."
He let him go with a shove to his back. Vincent remained silent, letting her words stew in his mind. His jaw clenched, then he looked down at the pickpocket who coughed and gasped for breath. They locked eyes. Moments ago, there was a bloodthirsty gleam that flashed from under Vincent's brows. Now it was begrudgingly subdued to convey a single threat.

If you say a fucking word, I'll rip off your fingers.

Watch Me

Jaden

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mangomilk]

quentin song

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  stressed, exhausted, wild, antsy
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  oversized leather jacket, all black, combat boots
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  City > Red Kitty > Royal Court Hotel
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  ? > Mason > Manasa & Vincent
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

His hand felt light to the touch of the leather wallet. Like a feather in the wind he let it sway from the generous pockets of the brick-built man. The trained ease was a familiar feeling bound to be broken at some point.
A hot grip narrowed the freedom of his wrists as strong fingers held him in check. Busted, he thought and the color faded from his honey-dipped face while his supposed victim gained a deep red in his. The firm touch of the stranger sent electric shocks through Quentin’s body. He could sense the drilling anger when his gruff voice pronounced his first and last warning.

"I‘d give that back if I were you."

He had the kind of voice that made one shudder with fear, and in Quentin’s case - weakened his knees. When their eyes met, he panicked; trapped and caged, his blood pumped to his temples. The best thing to do was to give up and accept his penalty, let this incident be a lesson for the future ahead. Quentin happened to be a splendid rebel though and he had passed the point to surrender awestruck and repenting. First thought, best thought, he reminisced.

The crowd around them formed a never stopping flowing circle. Quentin didn’t give in to the man’s grasp, despite the opposing strength he couldn’t overtake.
He pressed his lips together and collected his bravery - after all, this was about to go horribly wrong and make him end up either dead near the curb or the like. His heart was in his throat and in the next second, Quentin yanked his right knee in the man‘s crotch area as hard as the space and the grip allowed him to. His opposite exhaled a grunt that made his little arm hair stand up. The man lowered his upper body and in that brief moment of robust neglect, Quentin slipped through his fingers. He pushed through the curtain of the crowd, leaving only the scent of summer salt and mischief to hold onto.

The people groaned and complained when he shoved and stumbled over their feet, rushing to gain distance. On the crossing, Quentin picked up his speed and sprinted through a corner as his breath turned husky and demanded more air. He was too terrified to look back, he didn’t want to know how close his pursuer was. The breeze made his sweaty hands feel cold but his body unfurled a hidden invincibility. A different district of the city began when Quentin disappeared in a dark alley. Only when he threw his back against the dirty wall, he realized how much his lungs hauled behind him, his legs trembled beneath him. Drops of sweat ran down his temples and he closed his eyes, then let out stressed laughter of a madman.
"Fuck," he whispered to himself and secured the object of desire in his pocket.

Quentin roamed the streets for a while and entered ChinaTown soon on his way home but got held up by an older asian man.
"My delivery guys didn’t show up. Will you give me a hand, son?"
Quentin took a glance at the load of the packed truck filled with convenience store goodies.
– "Uh, sure."
The old man clapped his hands once. "Great. My wife will let you know where to put them." Quentin then took his jacket off, wrapped it around his waist and heaved a box from the dusty truck and carried it into the small store.
"Thank you, dear! You are a godsent!" the sweet lady chimed. It confused him that people still believed in that kind of nonsense. Her big smile let her eyes disappear and she hurried to open the boxes. She reminded him of his mother, the good parts about her.

The grandpa followed him with strained slow steps and one by one, each parcel emptied the vehicle more. After thirty minutes, Quentin let the last box sink on the ground and nodded. The dust particles flew up and coated their heads. The old man patted him on his shoulder; he received a gentle push.
"You smoke?"
"Yeah."
They went in front of the store and sat down on the stairs. Shielded from the evening sun from the chest up, the men sat in silence for a while. The old man had a wide and freshly shaven face. His wrinkles were pronounced and deep. Quentin was offered a cigarette and he accepted with a short bow. He put the cigarette between his lips and let the smell of tobacco serenade him before he lit it. The old man ignited the lighter and offered the blue flame to Quentin as he leaned in. His face turned orange and saturated as their hands formed a shield for the flame to find peace from the breeze. The lively smoke soon left his mouth again, enjoying the woozy sensation of the nicotine rush.

"If you need a job around here, let me know. We can always use a pair of honest hands." Quentin smiled and exhaled a deep cloud. "I have work for now. I will drop by again, though." He raised his body and rested the cigarette in his mouth while putting his jacket on. "Wait-!" The voice sang from inside. Her apron flew around and her feet didn’t quite lift from the ground, more so she was sliding over the floor.
"Please take this," she said. He looked at the bags filled with packaged dishes and a big batch of rambutan. The plastic bag formed drops of water, the vegetables must have been fresh.
"You should eat well." The words let his heart sink a few feet. Quentin accepted the bags and lowered his gaze but could not say another word before he left. His mouth was sealed and his throat swollen.

His apartment door screeched when he entered. It had a bunch of cracks and would only shut when he pressed against it with all his weight. The draught embraced his ankles with its frosty hands and Quentin let his jacket clunk on the ground before he threw his body on the bed. His home consisted of thirty square meters. He had two windows next to his bed which were a sublime asset for a smoke. His bed was low and the mattress was thick and inviting, showered with several pillows and blankets. It was always too messy for a one-room-apartment but Quentin couldn’t detach himself from all the useless things he owned. A few plants hung from the ceiling with their leaves droopy, lacking moisture and care.

Quentin then pulled the forbidden goods from his pickpocketing and spread them in front of him. He had made fifty bucks today and a shiny golden bracelet he’ll drop at the jeweler tomorrow. He guessed it could be worth another 150 bucks at least. He eyed the leather wallet for a while as if afraid to touch it. It had a few scratches but was still very much intact. A dollar bill peaked out which seduced him enough to open the whole thing. "Huh..," he huffed. There was barely anything in there. Quentin scanned each small pocket and gap. This guy didn’t keep any credit cards nor IDs in the wallet. Not one bit of personal information, which Quentin found questionable. As if this man was being very careful today and still someone snatched his stuff. Too bad... To Quentin’s great relief, he found cash in the big pocket…lots of cash. His tongue stuck out while he was counting the cash carefully and laid the bills in the greatest order in front of him. Three hundred twenty-five dollars. His big smile wouldn’t wear off as he threw the money in the air and enjoyed the view of it sinking down on him in a fountain of stolen wealth.

• • •​

The bracelet was valuated by a jeweler in ChinaTown the next day. Quentin was a reliable customer to Mrs. Hoang and he brought small treasures for her shop every now and then. Last week it had been an antique silver ring that sat neatly behind the glass showcase now. The perks of their little symbiosis were that no questions were asked. Before he knew it, Mrs. Hoang had handed him two hundred fifteen dollars and then resumed organizing her shop. Before the day had ended, he smothered himself with new shirts, a coat and other goodies he couldn’t just leave without. He had a few bucks left for a big meal, he was feeling like Sashimi lately.

By the time he finished his ungodly shopping spree, people got off of work and the streets filled up. The stars in the sky were not visible. The tall buildings over his head let him feel like a small child and left little space for the sky to broaden in his eyes. Polluted dust laid in the air as a veil and shimmered like fog through the many neon impressions in each corner. Somewhere there'd always be a flickering sign that said OPEN, no matter how late; as a result Heartbeat City was never dark, but often all the more lonely. The stimuli of sounds and colors, smells and lights were a beautiful irritation there was no escape from. Even in the outskirts, the veil clutched the city with raw claws. The way of fast-paced life and consumerism was a disease everyone loved that carried it.

In an old air-raid shelter, the beats thumped through Quentin’s feet. The Red Kitty was a queer-friendly techno club that welcomed visitors of the whole world. Quentin wore heart-shaped sunglasses and moved to the techno beats with a handsome stranger. His brown curls jumped when he moved. The stranger whose name was either Jason or Mason, or something that got lost between the beats, pulled Quentin closer and presented a set of two pills. After a quick exchange of words ear to ear, he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. The stranger then proceeded to plant the substance on his tongue and took one himself.

Soon, Quentin wanted to hug the whole world.

He couldn’t tell how much time he spent in the underground club but the sky was still dark when he got in a car with Mason and ended up in an apartment all across town. He didn’t sleep much that night, if at all. The sun hadn't begun its shift yet and the men sat in bed, stripped to the bone, naked in more than one meaning. They exchanged raw secrets that had never left their lips before, one at the time. Maybe it was easier to let truths overflow when the listener was soon to become a blurred out portrait.

Quentin rose from the bed, gave Mason a long and abundant stretch to observe and let his clothes slide back on his sore body. Then he kissed him goodbye.
"Wait, what’s your name again?"
– "Quentin. Yours?"
"Ben."

• • •​

A handful of days went by and Quentin had a hard time remembering how he had spent his time. The only thing that throttled his messy and unpredictable calendar was the reminder on his phone. “RCH. 17.00.” The screen hurt his eyes. He was early today for a change and counted the shards of glass on the ground of the octagonal courtyard. He was present at the boss' invitation and command, the fear too grand to miss, the curiosity too painful to bear.
Quentin had a guess about this meeting. He was an official member of the Silver Serpents for seven - no, eight weeks by tomorrow, The Serpents worked in teams of two and his 'instructor' had other construction sites to attend to, hence the assumption laid close, he was going to be given a partner.

The leather jacket pronounced his shoulders and covered the rim of his black pants. His black boots reached higher than his ankles and echoed a dull sound on the cracked tiles. The terrace was spacious. He could imagine what it was like in the past - the perfect layout for dining in the remaining day-light, with live music and buffet. With graffitied walls and some furniture all over the place it appeared rather run-down now.

Quentin scanned the aged brick walls that lost a few parts over time from The Change. A waterfall of Ivy tendrils flowed from two walls and painted the yard in shades of temporary peace. He plucked a few leaves from the wall to kill time. While he did, thoughts of the nice things Mason- Ben did to him last night came to his mind and he revisited how it made him feel. Ben's apartment was nicer than his, hence he allowed himself to snavel his silver cutlery before he left.

"You!" The sound belonged to a man. Quentin didn’t look right away but when he did he was too late to take flight this time. A wicked arm like a shovel grabbed him and deprived him of air. His hands clawed the man’s arm as his feet hovered over the ground. His vocal chords failed to vibrate against the muzzle of the arm against his throat.
"You stole from the wrong man, you piece of shit," the man threatened and Quentin’s eyes fluttered when it hit him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought. "No...Please," he burbled but couldn't push more words out. He was a dead man but didn’t accept his destiny of being choked and skull-crushed just yet. His skin turned red and he tried to gain contact to the ground while his palms stemmed against the thick arm in a sad attempt.

"Now, now... That's no way to treat a new Silver Serpent, is it?" Her voice was a deadly lullaby. His mind grew hazy and his legs floundered against the man’s tall frame like a fish on the surface. Black dots clouded his vision and he felt numb. He couldn’t make out Manasa’s words but whatever she said made him drop on the tiles. She seemed to have bewitched his personal grim reaper to not end him just yet.

What followed next was a temperamental coughing fit that overtook him as the veins stood out from the irritated skin of his throat. "Ahhhh..," he moaned when air filled his lungs. He rolled to the side and shored up his hands on the ground while he sat on his butt. Quentin’s eyes traveled to the man, if it wasn't for the safety of Manasa's eyes, he would've gulped in terror. The same violence used, Quentin found in the glare that stabbed him.

"I gathered the two of you for some news." Manasa now stepped forward and pulled their eyes on her. She radiated an urge to conform without ever using many words.
"Settle your open business another time, or rather, you should put it aside," she exchanged a warning look with Vincent and crossed her arms. They displayed her dark skin and a fading tattoo of a snake from her wrist to her elbow. The snake’s parted tongue sat right on where her wrist ended and her palm began – an example of her power and status.
"Quentin is fairly new. He has lots to learn still," she explained and tapped Quentin's shoulder with firm validation. "Vincent is one of my most experienced. You might catch our members referring to him by another name, I'll let you find out though...I am sure your abilities will compliment each other," she began and wore a gleeful half-smile on her face. Manasa turned a strand of her long brown hair in her fingers. "That’s why I team you up as partners with immediate effect."

Quentin had calmed himself down by the time Manasa declared her will. Despite being unsure about this man as a working partner when he was almost crushed to dust by him mere seconds ago, he was also excited. Quentin’s eyes sparkled and his lips curled to a toothy smile. "Surprise~," he half whispered to his new partner from below. His grin was an insult, the flare in his face an open invitation for a good punch.
The edges of the stranger's face were rough and didn’t appear pleased the way his nose formed offended wrinkles.
"Boss... I don't understand," he pointed out.
"What am I supposed to do? How does my job involve him?" Quentin pulled himself from the ground and brushed off the dirt.
Manasa sighed and rolled back her dark iris. "If you can’t see him as your partner yet, consider Quentin your protege for now." And with that she deemed that part of the conversation was over. Instead, she handed the two men new phones. Her long nails were dipped in a ruby shade, sharp and cared for, they glimmered in the evening light.
"You will perform a job after nightfall." Manasa returned to business and informed them about the parameters to follow. They were to steal a car and deliver it to the buyer across the harbor. "Ishaan reported, he saw the car this morning at the address saved in the phones. Handover is at 10.00. pm, flawless and punctual. Do not let me down." She nodded at Vincent. "Off you go," the words sounded sweeter than before.

When she left them, Quentin pursed his lips and eyed the phone. He turned towards the man made of bricks and stretched out his hands in unexpected courtesy. "I’m Quentin, Song. Song like your favorite song. Mine's probably SuperFly by Sugar & Spice! What's yours?" He didn't get an instant reply. "You’re quite strong, I could tell...you must fight well!”

seoul

Jaysen

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[TheWaffleLord]

vincent wolfe.

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  baffled, annoyed / wide-awake
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  born on concrete
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  safehouse, out in the city
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  manasa, quentin, nadine, pursuers
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

"I gathered the two of you for some news," Manasa said. Their attention shifted back to her. "Settle your open business another time, or rather, you should put it aside." Her muted smile fell and sharpened into a cautioning scowl at Vincent. She folded her arms and, without another word, told him not to act out of line.
He straightened his back and clasped his hands in front of his body while the pickpocket sat on the floor. Despite his smoldering fury, Vincent didn't spare a second glance at him. He focused on Manasa as she continued to speak and step calmly around the space.

Her word was law to the Silver Serpents. That is why he believed her in earnest when she told them, "That’s why I team you up as partners with immediate effect."
Vincent's reaction was subtle—suppressed. There was a slight furrow to his brow and his trigger finger twitched. Out of all the people in Heartbeat City, it had to be the punk who stole from him three days ago.
The pickpocket, named Quentin, was obnoxiously delighted by the news. He gloated by looking up at Vincent with a smug smile on his face. "Surprise~" he whispered in a singsong tone. It took incredible restraint not to snap his neck for that smile.
He turned to Manasa again and modulated his voice, but he sounded restrained and bemused. "Boss... I don't understand. What am I supposed to do? How does my job involve him?"

She rolled her eyes, growing impatient of questions. "If you can’t see him as your partner yet, consider Quentin your protégé for now." That's all she needed to say to end the subject and change it to the next. Quentin stood to his feet again and dusted himself off.
As stubborn as Vincent was, he could adapt. This was no different than having dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. He could scrape it off onto the concrete, over and over, but it would still be there. That was the extent of what Quentin was going to be; a stain. An inconvenience. Vincent had a job to do and that was more important for now. He knew he was going to collect his dues.

Manasa gave both of them a burner phone and informed them about the plan and when to execute it. It was a seemingly easy task of car theft and delivery of the stolen vehicle.
"Do not let me down," Manasa finished. He was confident that that wouldn't happen, but it was still wise to prepare for anything. "Off you go." She made a shooing gesture with her hand, flashing her red, perfectly manicured stiletto nails. She left the unlikely pair where they stood. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor dwindled into silence.

The new guy had the nerve to extend his hand, as if a formal introduction was going to smooth everything over. Vincent huffed, ignoring it.
"I’m Quentin, Song. Song like your favorite song. Mine's probably SuperFly by Sugar & Spice! What's yours?" The lack of a response didn't deter him from prattling on. "You’re quite strong, I could tell...you must fight well!”
His intense, piercing gaze cut through the air and into Quentin's flinching eyes. "Let me make myself absolutely fucking clear; I don't care who you are and I'm not here to be your buddy. You have one week to repay my three-hundred fifty in cash. If not, I'll just be taking your cut until it amounts to my loss. In fact, you should give me the money in your wallet right now."

Quentin hesitated, but must've figured out what would happen otherwise and conceded. The measly wad of cash wasn't unwelcome. Fifty dollars is better than nothing.
"Am I being mugged?!"
Vincent said, "Nah. Consider this the pain-in-my-ass tax," and stashed it into his own wallet.
"Give it back then! I need to pay rent so—"
"And?" he glowered. "What're you gonna do about it?"
At that, Quentin faltered. "I—uh it‘s fine you know. I‘ll manage…"
"Yeah, I thought so. Now walk in front; we're leaving." He wasn't going to give him the chance to steal again.

On their way out, a broad-shouldered woman with a healing black eye noticed Vincent in the hall. Her sheer size was unmistakable. It was Titan, or rather, Nadine now that they weren't beneath Valkyrie's Kiss. She'd been with the Silver Serpents four months longer than Vincent. She stood by an open window while she held an e-cigarette to her lips. She breathed out an ephemeral, aromatic cloud into the air and mustered a crooked smile at him.

"Hey, you sonuvabitch." Her voice had a Louisianan drawl to it. "Still hurtin'?"
"Not as much as you over losing your streak," he replied.
She chuckled dryly. "Touché, but payback is comin'. Just you wait." Nadine didn't fully know what he was capable of. Her eyes lowered onto Quentin, as if she noticed him standing there for the first time. She quirked her brow, gave him a long look of incredulity, then addressed Vincent again. “He looks new. Who's the pretty boy?”
”No one important. Got a job to do, so I'll see you around." He didn't let Quentin get a word in before urging him along. They left Nadine to her solitude.

As per the plan, there was a vehicle waiting outside for them. Vincent unlocked it, settled into the driver's seat, and activated the manual mode. He didn't favor the self-driving technology much—so little, in fact, that his own car didn't have such a function. He liked having the control to exceed the speed limit whenever he wanted. Not only that, but the steering wheel beneath his hand was a subtle comfort he couldn't explain. He knew exactly how to get to their destination by memory and drove away from the Royal Court Hotel.

Quentin reached for the radio, but Vincent smacked his hand away. "Don't," he warned.
A moment passed before the new guy spoke his mind. "Can we extend that deadline for your money? You seem like a decent guy."
Bullshit.
"I have a lot going on for me lately."
As if he caught a foul stench, Vincent shriveled his nose. "Shut. Up." His rigid, slow enunciation of the two words seemed to be the only way Quentin could understand. He listened and, somehow, remained quiet for the rest of the ride.

The midnight blue coupe they had to deliver for the job was on a narrow and empty street. It was a brand-new Mirage, a popular model from France, with tinted windows and custom rims. The night spared them of any onlookers in this neglected area of the city. Within a few inconspicuous seconds, Vincent opened the car without sounding the alarm. At this point, it was second nature to him. They didn't waste time getting into the vehicle. He claimed the driver's seat once again and pulled away from the street.

A few minutes later, Vincent noticed a particular hatchback one too many times in the rear view mirror. He made a right turn four times to drive in an intentional circle and affirm his suspicion. He frowned, still spotting the same car in the distance.
"Someone's following us. They're in a black hatchback," he said.
His senses sharpened the more he eased his foot onto the accelerator. He entered the closest freeway entrance. Vincent's skin prickled into goosebumps and the hairs on his arms stood on end. He wasn't nervous; he felt electric. This nuisance caused complications, but some part of him still felt invigorated by it. A tenacious, competent pursuer could make any job dangerous. Thrilling. Vincent looked calm on the surface, but beneath, he harbored a new zeal. He knew what to do.

"You sure?"
But then he remembered; he was still here.
"Yeah, I'm sure—" From his peripheral, he saw Quentin leaning his head out the open window to see their pursuers. "—Are you stupid?!" Without glancing away from the road, he hooked him by his jacket and swiftly yanked him back inside. "You could've just used the side view mirror or looked past your fucking seat to notice," he grumbled.
"Calm down, alright? We can lose them if you speed through the next tunnel and pass a few cars."
The warning glare from Vincent was scathing. He said, "No shit. What do you think I'm already doing?"

He wasn't driving anywhere in particular anymore. He had to throw them off their tail before going near the delivery point. The freeway was busier than where they had been, and the tunnel ahead offered them favorable chances to escape. As soon as they entered it, Vincent stepped on the gas a little more. The constant hum from the Mirage's engine became an emphatic roar. Several other vehicles were coming from the opposite end and traveling alongside them.

He had a dexterous handling of the car and an excellent sense of timing as he started to weave through the lanes. The Mirage was like an arrow released from the nocking point of a bow, streaking across the road. It was a dark blur under the passing lights of the tunnel. He was too focused to notice Quentin turning on the radio. Loud, uptempo rock music reverberated through the speakers. He whooped with delight; it grated on Vincent's nerves. He grunted, frustrated at his frivolity.

Dumbass. There was no point fighting over the radio at the moment. He could only affix his priorities where it mattered. He passed every car with ease, and then they were out of the tunnel. He didn't see their pursuer in the rear view mirror. He took the first exit ramp out of the freeway, reached a four-way intersection, and turned left. With the buildings giving them cover, it appeared they were safe. Vincent remained leery although his adrenaline wanted him to maintain the high speed. He refrained from doing the latter.

About two minutes later, Quentin raised his voice to speak over the music. He said, "Uh...Vincent..."
From one glance, he already knew, and gripped the steering wheel. "What?" he growled.
"They got us."
"I can see that—" A pale, feminine frame from the hatchback was leaning out of the passenger side window and aiming a pistol at them. He slammed on the accelerator, and the tires squealed while he swerved into the next street. The piercing sound of an unmistakeable gunshot rang through. The bullet narrowly missed them. Vincent couldn't tell who the woman was, nor did he feel compelled to know. Fighting back was always the appealing option.

"You know how to shoot a gun?" Another bullet cut through the air, but Vincent didn't flinch.
Quentin's eyes widened and his brows tented with a semblance of worry. Even if he wanted to disguise it, the hesitation in his voice was already a sign of weakness. "I've held a gun before... You better have one for me. Manasa said my aim is a bit sloppy."
Vincent scowled. "Are you kidding me? You should have your own!" Mediocre aim was somewhat excusable, but in this line of work, not carrying a firearm at all was a liability. He clicked his tongue and pulled out the gun he had under his belt. It was a matte black Kimber Warrior, loaded with seven .45 caliber rounds per magazine. He didn't trust Quentin to make each one count for something, but he didn't have a choice either.

"Safety's on," he said as he handed the Kimber Warrior to him. "Make yourself useful."
Quentin appeared to fumble with it at first. Hearing another shot from behind them made him move faster. He turned the safety off, and with the gun in hand, leaned out of the window and began firing at the black hatchback. The music was kicking up. The guttural guitar paired with the energetic pulse of the drums and distorted vocals filled his ears. At least, it would've, if not for the gunfire. Amid the raucous volley, Vincent heard one of the bullets puncture the trunk of the Mirage. Three more landed somewhere on the car while he was speeding.
Dammit! Whoever was shooting from the hatchback had better aim than Quentin. He wasn't surprised.

In this commercial district, there were more vehicles in the way. A few crashed into each other from the chaos they were leaving in their wake while other cars got damaged in the crossfire. Vincent saw an opening. He veered into a backstreet at the last second—a tight space in comparison but an easy getaway. It led to a main street in which he chose the path that didn't meet their pursuers'. He slowed down to feign inconspicuousness, and just like that, it seemed they were in the clear again. Vincent turned off the radio.
Quentin sat back down in his seat, breathing heavily. His hair, now tousled and wild from the wind, almost made him look deranged in his stupefaction.

Vincent raised his brow at him. "Manasa was right," he remarked, "your aim is sloppy."
"HAH?!" Quentin shouted. His ears were undoubtedly ringing. Not wanting to repeat himself, he shook his head. There was only a few minutes of peace until that same black hatchback reappeared from behind.
Again?! he thought.
When the pale-faced woman fired a shot at them, the impact cracked the rear windshield. The glass was bulletproof, but Vincent knew it wouldn't hold forever. He swore under his breath. Getting caught once was a fluke; a second time was ridiculous. It was too strange to call it bad luck and it wasn't from a fault in his driving either. Something was off.

Then it clicked in his mind. He experienced this before. "Goddammit, they've bugged the car! Look for it instead of wasting my ammo!"

Cellophane

King Glizzard & The Lizard Wizard

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mangomilk]

quentin song

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  annoyed & aggravated
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  oversized leather jacket, all black, combat boots
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  Royal Court Hotel > Car > Old Port
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  Vincent
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

"Let me make myself absolutely fucking clear; I don't care who you are and I'm not here to be your buddy." Oh wow, he doesn’t give a fuck. And he doesn’t need friends, that’s cool.

“You have one week to repay my three-hundred fifty in cash. If not, I'll just be taking your cut until it amounts to my loss. In fact, you should give me the money in your wallet right now." – Perhaps not ideal as Quentin held on to a highly addictive personality when it came to buying stuff. When eyes only glowed when there was a store window that did so as well. The kind of pleasure that no one else could give him but the view of a tag of price and brand and then cutting it, taking it out of a store in a rustling bag. It often resulted in his wallet gasping for cash, fearing a vile death of famine.

Quentin paused, frowned. His chest flared up: “Am I being mugged?!” The sharp glance that cut through the air and punctured his eyes, made him pause. Hesitation inflamed his palms but as his fingers freed themselves, they groped around the pockets of his jacket. His wallet popped on the ground – fake leather – and Quentin went through the humbling experience of crouching to retrieve it. The folded piece consisted of a greased up ID – a fake –, a fifty dollar bill – not a fake –, a condom with strawberry taste – hopefully not a fake – and a heart-shaped pill from his last venerator in the club.

His hands collected sweat and oiled up the fifty dollar bill before it was presented in an unwilling manner like that of a sulking child.
"Good. Consider this the pain-in-my-ass tax."
His eyes widened as his mind grasped the meaning of the term ‘tax’. Quentin didn’t know much about taxes. In fact, he didn’t pay any but in his simplified understanding of it, it meant tax equals no take back as well as total debt hasn’t decreased. Watching the big bear of a man stash the bill in his own wallet, he objected in sheer panic: “What?! Give it back then! I need it to pay rent so—" (he wouldn’t)–
"And? What're you gonna do about it?"
His mouth opened, imitating movements of talk but no talk sound came out. He wished he could do something about it. Vincent. The name sounded too profound like some smart wiry man from 18th century Europe who rotted away in some abandoned library. Quentin refused to let “Vincent” live in his head, he needed something less humanizing…like Hot Brute Criminal.

The imposing height of Hot Brute Criminal towered over him and it was enough to make him stutter. "I—uh it‘s fine you know. I‘ll manage…"
"Yeah, I thought so.” – Always has to have the last word too.
Quentin was sent to walk ahead. A visible cloud of knots formed over his head. His steps were reinforced with brewing irritation, so that he didn’t register the black woman with massive arms and funky hair puffing her cigarette by the window.

The heavy steps of Hot Brute Criminal paused behind him as he struck up conversation with the woman. Quentin peeked over his shoulder and circled back to the two of them, like a black cat taking a stroll and stretching big and long before it would create a loaf of itself. It was boring hearing them talk, something about streaks and paypacks (sounds like a visit at the hair salon). But Quentin had heard enough of paybacks just now and so he ignored the rest of their words until:
“Who's the pretty boy?” His attention shifted, sensing a compliment, even if not meant as one. His eyes sparkled galaxies almost like when buying something, but for a mere moment only–
”No one important. Got a job to do, so I'll see you around."
"I-," he started when he was waved off and shooed away. While walking ahead, he turned his head to look at the woman whose name he didn't catch.

“She seemed nice!” Quentin said to himself but loud enough for his new partner to hear. And he wondered if he’d see her around some time. The woman seemed interesting to talk to after all.

A wonderful dark blue Coupe waited for them, expensive, chic and incredibly fast. Quentin got in on the passenger’s side. He couldn’t bear the constant silence, even a few moments in this thick air were too long. He reached for the radio button after he fastened his seatbelt. “Don’t,” Hot Brute Criminal said and gave his hand a good whack. He pursed his lips, rubbed his hands over his pants and then decided to clear his slate, considering they got off on the wrong foot.

"Can we extend that deadline for your money? You seem like a decent guy…,” he lied, “I have a lot going on for me lately."
– "Shut. Up." Oh wow, and he’s damn rude too!

Quentin scoffed, gave up and instead looked outside the window. The more he thought about his new partner, the more he disliked him. He suspected he would give him hell, make his life hard from this point on. But you had to be greedy and go for a guy like him to pickpocket, he cursed himself in thoughts.
He eyed the silver rings on his fingers that he stole last week. He was supposed to sell them off for more than they were worth but had liked them so much on himself, he decided to keep them. Quentin, whose eyes were shiny as those of magpies, glittered over everything that looked worthy of awe and wealth. So much that he thought, if he was to wear bracelets and watches and rings, he too was worthy of it all. How feebleminded and in vain… the rings he wore left green stains on his fingers.

His head leaned against his side of the car door and he started watching neon street lights zoom by as he grew a bit tired. He counted five gas stations against eight late night bars with casinos..
Hot Brute Criminal whacked him from his thoughts as he spoke about followers behind them. “You sure?” He took a peek out the window to check but was quickly yanked back in his seat, now wide awake. After being scolded for his obvious look, he said: "Calm down, alright? We can lose them if you speed through the next tunnel and pass a few cars."
It was like none of his words could ever be right. Whatever he’d say would aggravate, violate and Quentin felt his tongue sharpen. His words had been his only weapon and only defense but nothing was in his favor tonight. The engine roared and he caught himself brushing the sides of his hands on the seat from the picking up speed; electrifying and his breath couldn’t keep up for a moment; he loathed and loved it. The way Hot Brute Criminal was handling this car, struck him with awe and thinking: I wish I could do this too.

His fingers reached for the radio again. The speakers seemed to broaden into blaring horns and Quentin moved with the music, let beats be expressed through hands and swings of heads. His head kicked the headrest when his partner sped through car lines with ease and drifted around curves like it was a pure joyride. “Woah, man. Teach me these, will ya?” While his partner did the necessary to free them from their pursuers, Quentin got to enjoy the exhilarating ride.

They seemed to be fine.
Until they were not.

His eyes traveled out the window, before he glanced at his side mirror again.
“Uh…Vincent…” Right, Vincent it was. “They got us.”
Before his eyes could attempt to meet the vehicle behind them again, a gunshot hauled through the mellow night air between them and Quentin flinched. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself before Vincent asked him about his experience or more so his ability to fire a gun. His jaw clenched and brows rose with uncertainty: "I've held a gun before... You better have one for me. Manasa said my aim is a bit sloppy."
He knew why he didn't own a gun. A gun needs proper training but who'd do that? He was just getting by by not putting himself in situations where he might need one (and would have to win too).

Quentin picked up the gun that was handed to him with both hands, held it in an alienating way. His hands were coated in sweat when fumbling with the safety switch. The next shot from their pursuers made him flinch but he was supposed to ‘make himself useful’. For Quentin it meant, potentially getting shot in the damn face and if it didn’t kill him he’d probably STILL have to pay back those 300 bucks to Vincent AND save up for facial plastic surgery he could never pay in a million years.
Quentin released his seat belt, pushed his knees in the passenger seat and leaned out the window. His body was in immense resistance to the wind in the tunnel and his eyes pressed almost shut. Winds blew through his hair and after the first shot and feeling the gun kick him back a bit, a switch turned in Quentin’s staircase of mind. He was telling himself he was having fun.

His arms stretched out. The bullets bit through the tunnel and performed a concert of deafening beats before Quentin could count one hit to his name. Quentin liked to mention how he was a lover first, a criminal second. The music from the car radio was muffled to his ears, instead a constant ringing intensified from one side to the other. And all the while Vincent maneuvered them through busy lanes and other cars, Quentin kept shooting until a sharp bullet swooshed by his cheekbone. A red line was left where the bullet scraped tanned skin.

Once Vincent had found a path to get lost between numerous cars and taking a few more turns, it seemed all too quiet very suddenly. He sat back down. Hairs stood up and eyes were filled with spacious void where this distinct tinnitus wouldn’t leave him alone. Vincent said something, he could barely make out the muffled tone beside him. “HAH?!” He was too loud but didn’t notice.
Quentin re-lived his tiny war flashback just now, the gunshot behind him made him look back, then at Vincent with slight panic and confusion.

"Goddammit, they've bugged the car! Look for it instead of wasting my ammo!"
“Bugged?!” He hated bugs. Oh. BUGGED. Quentin turned his head, let his palms brush over the car’s ceiling, fingered the sides of seats and stretched all the way to the back seat. “Where’s this damn thing…,” he muttered. “What if it’s in the trunk?” Still, he was scanning the legroom of the car to be sure, his head peaked in Vincent’s leg space but couldn’t see any anomalies. "If you wanna climb out and check, be my guest."

Seconds passed, then minutes of a illegal car delivery with conjoined race, bullets flying through the air like confetti and Quentin couldn't seem to find anything. Let alone the fact he didn't actually know what a bug would look like, what shape, how big and –
until, a small green ray of light shone against the back of Vincent’s pants. What the.. His brows furrowed and pushed his forehead against the seat to be able to look under the seat. He saw it peeking through the undersurface of Vincent’s seat, the big hairy spider he was looking for.
“It’s under your seat!” Quentin pushed his wrist under the seat from the side but couldn’t get far enough to reach. "You've gotta be fuckin' kiddi--" Quentin’s forehead bumped the side of Vincent’s leg when– "Hey! Move your face!"
“Can’t– I can’t reach!”

His fingers stretched longer than any day of pickpocketing. It didn’t help that Vincent parkoured streets like a flashy action movie with bad special effects and people flying through the screen with surprising tenseness in their bodies. Bodies actually flying and screaming left to right. And then– when Vincent hit the brakes and drifted past another family-sized van (or perhaps a creep car, you can never really know), Quentin’s balance dropped and physics or however this gravity push and pull thing worked, shoved his face nose deep in the big man’s lap. A gasp escaped his mouth, his breath fell hot against Vincent’s jeans. His fingertips brushed against the round wiretap as Quentin recognized this progress. "Sorry–,” he pressed out.

"What—fucking move, dumbass!" He tried that one already. Anger inhabited the car. And Quentin could no longer stand that apparently he was the reason for this anger to linger. "Oh for fucks sake, you try to fucking grab that thing then and switch with me, huh? Will you not complain for a few minutes?!" Quentin snapped.
But the man bit back – his mouth talked Quentin into a snare, hoped to choke and offend. "Oh, yeah, because you sure as hell can do anything I can do! Let me just switch seats while I'm speeding through here so we can crash! Hurry up and find another way, prick! I'm a little fuckin' busy!"

"Fuck you..," he cursed. So instead of following Vincent's demand...before things became physical in one way or another, Quentin ignored it and leaned his head back in his lap, where he could feel the wiretap getting reachable. He simply didn't care and seeing it as the quickest way to get rid of the bug, he stayed with this strategy.Quentin’s head emerged every now and then to the side to catch a breath while his left hand was deeply swallowed by the seat and he finally was able to wrap fingers around the bug and try to pull it off.

Perhaps it looked different to other passing cars to what he was attempting to do. A pity he’d be much more skillful at that then at his current job. Quentin’s spare hand shot up, pressed against the side of the seat to sink just a centimeter deeper and Click. The device came off. “Yes!” he gasped and the wiretap was a golden treasure in his palms. Quentin threw the bug out from the passenger window, where it would be discarded near the grimy road side.
“Try finding us now, suckers,” he mumbled to himself while trying to forget what he had done to his partner’s personal space. The young man leaned into the void and spectral street sign lights to not be met with the sternness of vile eyes next to him. Vincent mumbled something, it had a swear in it but Quentin only half heard, his ears still rang and so he pretended he hadn’t made it out at all.

It took them another thirty minutes to get back on course and arrive at their destination, the old port between run-down factories and industrial sites. It was dark and in this part of town, the advance of technology hadn't quite reached yet. Old warm light poles didn't do a great job at lighting the damaged road. Their speed reduced to a quarter as they rolled past the old toll lanes where men in laser sunglasses, held their hands up to stop them as well as guns They stopped. One head nodded, then the other imitated him and to Quentin it all looked a bit strange. They rolled further onto a bridge on a small ship that must have been a cruise once when waters were still used for recreational travels. At least in this part of town the water claimed its corpses with the reek it gave off.

Despite his casual sea sickness that Quentin never talked about, because what a loser reaction to feel sick from ‘flowy movements, can’t even sleep on a damn waterbed’, he held his composure. Harsh headlights flashed on the car, blinding their vision as they understood it sign enough to get out. He used his arm to shield his eyes as he got out, trying to make out people. Someone – close but not yet visible – dragged their words like claws on chalkboard...

“Snakes being late. What a bad, bad impression.”

seoul

Jaysen