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Realistic or Modern π˜Έπ˜ͺ𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘒𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘢 𝘡𝘸π˜ͺ𝘴𝘡 𝘡𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯π˜ͺ𝘧𝘦 ?

mother of sorrows

mother of sorrows

π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘π‘’π‘™π‘ π‘–π‘£π‘’ π‘π‘œπ‘€π‘’π‘Ÿ π‘œπ‘“ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘€π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘š.
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β€œAnd then my eyes got used to the darkness
And everyone that I knew
Was lost and so long forgotten after you”

The city streets, although blunt in nature, could do very little to betray even the darkest of secrets. Why, to one he could be the friendly neighbour, a man so kind enough to lend a helping hand. But to another, he could mean their very demise, the devil behind their bad ending. This is his story- well, this was his story. For life, in all of its rapid unpredictability, truly does work in wondrous ways. One moment he found his fingers grazing the trigger and the next, he was staring straight at the wrong end of the barrel. Held by none other than the most incapable man of all. A truly terrifying experience should he say so himself, but an experience nonetheless… This is going to be one long story.

-
-
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EHEHEHEHE so basically this is going to be a hitman x civilian- turned partner/sidekick plot with me fellow bro mother of sorrows mother of sorrows you should check out their work- β€œShE’S rEaLly GoOD.” Hold up i wasn’t paid to say that, this ain’t no sponsorship
🀨


BUT ANYHOW, this is also gonna be hella yknow
πŸ³οΈβ€πŸŒˆ
so happy pride everyone
😌
πŸŽ‰


1x1 Plot.
 
i want u
6:25 pm / 5/26/21
Navigation
  • Suddenly you're ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my God you're alive and you're spectacular.
    #joseph campbell
    + INFO
    Luca Arcarya
    Cis Male
    Bisexual
    31
    Waiter
    Gujarati Indian
    + APPEARANCE
    Luca is, to put it kindly,
    not the foreperson for
    fashion.

    He dresses well enough
    for everyday life - hoodies, t-shirts, sweats, anything
    that makes him look like a museum worker. On
    a lazy day, he might be caught in some pjs and bunny slippers. Anything high brand or that might have an ounce of fashion rarely invades his closet, much to others' frustration.



Basics
Personality
Biography
Relations
Β© PASTA
 
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A.D.S.



Full Name




role.

A hitman without a heart... right?







































  • Requisite.







    Full Name

    Arthur De Silva






    Age

    30






    Gender

    Cis. male






    Sexuality

    Pansexual






    Occupation

    Hitman






    Role

    Gay gilf ~















    Visage.



    scroll




    Height

    6'2






    Hair colour

    Brunet






    Eye colour

    Blue





















β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 









scroll








The Hitman.



Arthur De Silva.













mood

Gay panic.











outfit

outfit











location

Mike's Kitchen.











interactions

Twink.











tags

tags here















"For fucks sake."

Location: Mikey’s Kitchen | Time: 21:45 - approximately 15 minutes before closing | subject: alive

…For now. For there Arthur sat, large figure brooding lonesomely as his coffee became disconcertingly cool, his neglectful presence being to blame. Why, he’d been sitting there for the past 60 minutes, crystalline eyes barely skimming over the ink-splattered texts that splayed before him. Brief thoughts of β€œ#FreeBritney” and problematic politicians consumed him, leaving him intrigued for a moment longer than natural. What could he say? His assignments could become incredibly dull from time to time-even for a mind as focused as his own. However, it was especially worse when his target bore the same mindless appearance as everyone else, and seemed to have acquired all of the bad habits expected of a 50 year old white male.

His name was Mr. Riddley. Now, he was a short little thing, a manlet if you must. With hair as present as Art’s former birth parents, pale skull having become reflective underneath the fluorescent lights. His panted knee bounced in a skittish manner, alluding to behaviours more unjustified than not. For he was a cheater, to both his wife and to the firm itself. Often spotted with women practically generations younger than himself, he was said to leave his tired wife and innocent child alone until the wee hours of the night. And to top it off? The dirty bastard was the kind to share countless stomach-churning embraces with his lovers, of which Art had witnessed. All of it. Tongue kissing and all. It was sick, he was sick. Though, his infidelity was not his only crime, for the man, who was one to brag about his riches, owed them a hefty sum of money. Rather ironic, isn’t it?

Art watched his target as if he were a predator waiting to pounce onto his prey, mad eyes deflecting every time the manlet peered over in his direction. And yet, to an everyday individual the brunet appeared as just some guy living within this elusive city- only, maybe a little more aloof. For, with him came an air of mystery, as if his stark silence was an invitation to learn more. It was not. He truly didn’t want to be figured out, not at a time like this at least. Raising a calloused hand, Art suddenly signalled over to the last remaining employee. What a sad sight that was- not the employee, no, he seemed to be a rather decent individual from their short exchange, but he also seemed unhappier than most. Welcome to the world of minimum wage, he thought. Mustering a weak smile, Art cleared his throat as the man approached.

β€œGot any tu-β€œ he paused abruptly, blue eyes zeroing on his target as he scuttered over to the bathroom- his assumed safe haven. β€œHold that thought actually,” the hitman ordered, figure rising as he quickly collected himself and followed in a tired pursuit, gait dauntingly leisured. Now usually the seasoned killer would’ve waited a calculated four minutes or so- just enough time to avoid accusations, should those ever arise. But tonight he was impatient- and hungry, but more so impatient. Those cushioned booths could only do so much for a man’s backside.

~~~

Blood splattered across the bricked walls, like rain, they dusted his smooth visage, leaving him speckled. He smiled a menacing smile, launching another kick to the man’s ribs. β€œPlease! PLEASE!” The man sputtered, attempting to slither into safety with every heated blow. β€œI-I HAVE A WIFE AND-AND TWO KIDS.” He begged mercilessly, causing Art’s brows to furrow. Men, they truly were a tiring species, himself included of course. β€œOh, do you now?” He spoke tauntingly, figure coming to a wide-legged squat beside the struggling individual. β€œThe same wife you’ve cheated on? The same kids you’ve abandoned?” With every sentence the man’s fists recoiled, pounding the gentlemen deeper into the concrete as he made pathetic attempts to flee. A laugh rumbled from his lips and echoed into the cool night’s air, leaving behind faint glimmers of sadism. β€œYou know, guys like you truly are pathetic.” He began, rising in pure revulsion.

β€œI’m begging you I’ll do anything, anything! I’ll even-β€œ And there it was, the final promise before the fall. His bullets ricocheted off of the deserted alleyway, only to accompany several others merely blocks away. This wasn’t a very good area. Shoving his gun back into his holster, Artie sighed in relief. It was over now, he could finally grab something to eat and hit the hay. Though you may be wondering, how could someone eat after that? And I say, don’t worry about it sweethawt. For his mission was completed and things felt a little lighter after doing so…. For only a few seconds, at least.

For there he was, right behind him, holding a bag of rotten ingredients and wasted food. The air was thick. And Art? Well he stood completely dumbfounded, not expecting a slip up from a hitman as skilled as he. In fact he waited, hoping that the man’s lean figure was just a hungry mirage, that he truly was done for the day. Lest he was not. Not missing another beat, he rose his pistol, barrel aimed straight in between his eyes.

β€œDon’t. Say. A. Word.”


β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘
 
code by fudgecakez
sing for the damage we've done
luca arcarya

Night was creeping in on the city that never sleeps and as the form goes, everybody was awake.

Any person working for their bread or party-goer eager for a taste of life, anyways. The rest, climbing into their safe beds or weathering the storm in one of the dirty alleys, don't get to experience the wonders of New York after dark. Hordes of consumers burst into neon-lit bars as tired workers escaped out, reminiscent of a shift change; the last of the sun rays were long devoured by the glooming skyline, replaced with shy stars winking at the skyscrapers below. The rumbling of laughter, screaming, crying, whispering, dancing sizzled in the air like electricity, mixing with undertones of painfully human emotions. A desperate couple, trying to convince themselves the love is still there. A child clinging to his mother's shoulders, high-pitched laugher following. A man, dying alone and forgotten - he still clings to a bottle, even as the light fades.

Human hope is not too different from radio waves, a friend once said.

Both spread in waves from their source, unseen by the seeing eye. You'd scarcely notice them, even as they bounce off you and make your hair stand up on your arms. They would travel forever if they could - but as all things, both radio and hope will die off at one point. Quietly they might pass, and their song is quieter still - but it's there, valiantly fighting to be heard, and isn't there something so common in that? With radio waves, they might find a box to chatter out their message before unavoidably saying it's last. With hope, well.

His friend said that, if somebody out there somewhere hopes, their dream might find its way across the Earth. A person in Nowhere, America might hope so strongly that a person miles away could feel it. Like how somehow in an entirely different city might hear the news of a community days away.

As a kid, Luca would sit by his bedroom window, opening it just a tad. Stick his face out, eyes round and the breeze a gentle whisper, rustling trees as if in dance. He'd sit there, staring into the impossible, humming dark and hope.

'If there is anybody out there,' he'd think, the beat of his heart so terribly loud, 'somebody like me, then I'd want to meet. It doesn't have to be now.'

His thoughts, he imagined, would bounce away then, like ripples of a rock hitting water. Reaching towards space to the quiet moon. How long it would take to reach another person, he's not sure - at first, he panicked his neighbour would be the one to hear his hopes. Their neighbour, Mr. Lovitski, was a man of seventy that coughed loudly each morning and didn't like Luca much.

More carefully then, a bit alarmed his parents might wake up, he went on his tiptoes. His only confidant was a bright star, winking from it's place in the dark sky.

'I hope,' he almost sighed, leaning on his arm. 'There even is somebody like me.'

If the night heard him, it did not answer. Only the trees rustled in response, a fresh air of summer life drifting into his room. He closed his eyes then, and hope. Hope so desperately that he is not all alone in this world. That there is another soul out there, listening by their window - hoping as much as he is.

Maybe he should have hoped for a better job instead, looking back at. The adult Luca could use that a lot more in his present state.

''The lobster has acquired a knife. I repeat, the lobster is armed.''

Cody's voice rumbled through the walkie-talkie (they got them for this exact reason; in case they got separated in the building during a containment breach. The time Rosie gave the crabs potato peelers still haunts his dreams), sounding as ruffled as Luca felt. His friend was holding down the kitchen as Luca made his way around the storage room, hoping to catch the criminal on the run. Stacks of cans and semi-dusty shelves filled with unperishables enclosed him, the small lightbulb above flickering valiantly against the gloom. He fought off a sneeze as he kneeled to look below a rack, making sure to not get grime on his white shirt. He'd probably get executed via firing squad by his manager if he did.

''Are you sure it's not there?'' Luca demanded of the walki-talkie, getting back on his legs. A rustling of packaging made him startle, head swirling towards the source. A shamefully large breath of relief followed at finding it only a breeze. His nerves were on edge, as if the beast was about to drop from the ceiling to attack.

''Positive, man. Rosie had it last.'' Cody answered, his voice muffled by static. ''Check by the fridges?'''

With careful consideration, Luca made his way around the woobly shelves; the fridges, imprisoned on the right side by guards of pickles and canned tomatoes, stood there shyly. He was about to lean down to check if the lobster has found it's way there, when a scream from Cody made his throat clench up. He tore it off, heart beating in his ears - fear made his anxiety skyrocket, terrified it got to Cody first.

''Dude? You okay?'' He breathed, hand clenching around the phone.

''I thought I saw Clemmons. All good.''

Oh God.

Clemmons-rhymes-with-lemons is this lovely establishment's manager and the reason why Luca can't sleep at night. With painfully blonde hair, open wound red lipstick and a smile that reminds a bit too much of a shark to be wholly comfortable, Mrs. Clemmons only ever appears when it's time to collect the day's money. From what little conversation Luca had with her, she's not once got his last name right; or anybody's, for that matter. If she wasn't being passive aggressive over them taking breaks, she was asking people how they speak English so well. Luca didn't want to think about what she'd say if she found the lobster before him. WIth a grimace, Luca shifted through the boxes of pasta, praying he finds it soon.

He might have regretted this wish when he felt a pinch on his ankles.

''Ow, what the fu -''

And there it was. Holding Luca's ankle hostage. Wielding a knife.

Luca swooped in, taking the escapee into his hands - careful to avoid the knife it was waving around with what he assumed is murderous intention.''Target acquired. Initiating de-arming.'' He wrestled it a bit for the knife, though it eventually gave in. It's beady little eyes screamed for revenge, he could tell. There was some primal evil in this beast. The threat finally neutralized, Luca padded back into the kitchen; Cody was already waiting, looking as if he was expecting death itself. The shorter man startled, looking down at the lobster with some suspicion. His cook's uniform was wrinkled beyond help, a clear display of exhaustion creeping up on him. Luca felt about the same; it's been a long day and an even longer evening. It's only 15 minutes till closing and some guests have shown no want of leaving. Luca dropped the lobster back where it belongs, in it's tank - it shook it's pinchers in what he assumed to be a rage. They really need to make Rosie stop letting it out.

''He's just sitting there. Menacingly.''

Luca followed Cody's gaze, settling on one of the lone patrons still insisting on sticking around; the tall guy that looks like he could throw both Cody and Luca out the window and not even break a sweat. He's been sticking with one newspaper and long gone cold coffe, but Luca didn't judge him too much for it. He's been about the most decent guest they've had so far tonight - he didn't hassle Luca too much, and he didn't complain. That made him good enough in Luca's eyes, considering the types he usually has to deal with. As if this infernal uniform he wears isn't bad enough; he looks like a bartender from the 1910s, about to do a little jig while he serves. If it were not for the absolute lack of respect people have for service workers, he'd think this is why people don't take him seriously. It's giving... oompa loompa meets Victorian aesthetic.

''I'll go check on him.'' Luca mumbled, giving the lobster one last nervous glance. Cody gave a small, tired nod at that, before disappearing into the depths of the kitchen once more. It was quiet, a welcome change from the bustle and chaos that reigned earlier in the morning. It reminded Luca so terribly of the fact his shift is about to be over; his shoulders already slumped with the heaviness of a whole day grinding down on him. He's been praying away the seconds till he can crash on his couch, inavoidably falling sleep with some or other book in his lap. Just as he stepped out from the counter, the man gestured him over - he still looked like he needed a good night's rest, just as Luca remembered him. The waiter walked over, a practiced, if slightly exhausted, smile tugged as his lips; though before the man could get his words out, his attention snapped elsewhere.

Maybe Luca should have noticed the darkness lurking in the other's eye. That his stance was a bit too practiced. That his eyes were stuck on another man, like a tiger watching a wounded gazelle.

He didn't, of course, but he should have.

Luca stood there awkwardly for a second more after he disappeared, unsure if he should do something - and hoping, desperately, that the man won't find this place too nice to leave so soon. He's not sure what he would do if the other doesn't want to leave. With a weary shrug, Luca stepped over polished floors and past slightly chipped oak cabinets, the chandeliers flickering uncertainly, as if not sure if to retire for the night. A few plastic plants guarded the corners, their leaves unnaturally shiny under the artificial light. Only a stray few customers held court in the black leather booths, apparently unaware of the impatient glances sent their way. If they did notice them, they took it as their right to ignore it.

The kitchen smelled vaguely of vinegar and disinfectant when Luca padded in, seeing Cody wipe down the counters with the solemnity of a man planned for execution. It was a familiar sight - for the years he's worked with this company, him and Cody and Rosie stuck together like fish out of the same water. It's definitively made working here much easier. They exchanged a knowing look, both hoping for a break. The man was about to wrestle his lighter out of his jacket pocket from where it was left by the lockers, when Cody's voice made him stop.

''Mind throwing out the trash, man? We can go smoke after I'm done, if you want.''

Oh, right. They sooner he gets that out, the better. Luca threw back a grin and a thumbs up, grabbing hold of the black bag. The small hallway leading to the backdoor was overstacked with brooms and dusters, a vacuum machine and posters of leering, scandily clad women. The posters looked as if they came with the building, their corners almost sticking into the wall. A small light stood sentry in the corner, making sure Luca didn't fall on his ass. Leaning a hip on the backdoor, he opened it with his side, the brightness of outside hitting his eyes. A repulsive stench attacked his nose, making him grimace - nothing like wet trash and vomit to wake you up. Wet trash and -

And.

Crimson, forcing it's way down his throat like gasoline, burning, the smell of -

Blood.

Luca choked.

For a second he wasn't sure what he was looking at, standing dumbly by the door with bag still in hand. But his brain was quick and panic even faster. The sight before him sparkled into realisation, making Luca stumble back a few steps.

A man. A guest, one he vaguely recognised from back in the restaurant.

Lying in his own blood. Standing over him, the taller man. Blood painted his cheek, eyes flashing.

Pointing a gun right at Luca.

The bag slipped from his grip, its contents painting the cement below. Frozen (is this how a mouse feels, staring into a cat's maw?), unmoving, hearts beating in his chest and brain scrambling for something to say, Luca bursted out;

''Dude. I'm literally about to go on my break.''

Oh. Oh, great. That's the best thing to say to a guy pointing a gun at you, yeah; his intelligence never ceases to amaze him. He's not sure what kind of expression he's making, but he doubts it's anything brave. Staring, open mouthed, hands shaking by his sides and looking very much like a rabbit about to run off when given the chance. About the only thing keeping him from doing so is, well, the murderous looking man and the gun. But also the fact that if he got shot by the end of his shift, Luca would be fuming.

''If you shot me, I swear I will haunt you. I don't get paid enough for this.''

The guest's dead eyes still stared at him, lightless and bloody; Luca's throat closed up the longer he stared, feeling sick to his stomach. And yet.

''Are you, like. Gonna get rid of him. And maybe please get the gun out of my face?'' He gave a grimace-smile, hands dripping with cold sweat; he ran them though his hair nervously, watching the man's every move. A man that just killed another in the back alley of a restaurant, and could kill Luca at any second if he so decided.

Why the fuck does it have to be me.

 


ARTHUR DE SILVA


MOOD: tired asf

OUTFIT: YAGA

MENTIONS: luca

INTERACTIONS: mother of sorrows mother of sorrows

TAGS: .V1LLAINISM._ .V1LLAINISM._


Beads of cold sweat trickled down his back, breath hitched, eyes zeroing in, trigger reeling and β€” boom! …. Is what he would’ve done had the waiter not fallen into an awkwardly long and equally distracting spiel. Arthur cocked a brow, weapon glaring in position as the stranger- by far the most unfortunate and unluckiest stranger he’d ever met- stood before him, hands trembling- and yet, addressing him with the manner and confidence of well, a man.
''If you shot me, I swear I will haunt you. I don't get paid enough for this.''
It was incredibly odd, this contradiction. His eyes- dark and stricken with terror, boldly countered the laissez-fair words in which he commanded. They gave away his unfazed facade almost immediately. Icy eyes traced over the man’s shaky frame- similar to that of a robot’s object recognition, silently scanning the subject before him. They appeared to land onto his quivering hands, the ones that’d dropped the putrid bag due to his own inaction. The hitman cursed at himself. Fuck. He should’ve taken the fat bastard out to the fields, the way he usually did with targets that needed to be β€œput to sleep.” And of course, the one time he’d decided to switch things up was the one time he’d ultimately failed. Completely and Unequivocally. It hurt.

''Are you, like. Gonna get rid of him. And maybe please get the gun out of my face?''

He talked too much. Usually the cold-blooded killer quite enjoyed the pathetic cries of his victims, but he was tired, hungry and discouraged. A triple- quadruple (can’t forget Mr. Ridley) homicide, truly. He pondered for a moment- two, debating a method to get the skittish stranger to can it. To kill? Or not to kill? That was the question. He eyed the shorter man, hints of conflict, of uncharacteristic reluctance settling atop a tired visage. Lowering the metallic gun, Artie straightened himself, clearing his throat as he discharged the threat once and for all. For now. What? He’d already had one body to take care of, why burden himself with another? Besides, the agency wouldn’t have to cover up the loss of an innocent life if he didn’t reap one in the first place.
β€œThat’s none of your business.” He mumbled, head cast down as he began stripping his calloused hands of the taut wrappings he wore. One could only assume that it had something to do with fingerprints and grip. Arthur was never quite revealing when it came to his eccentric process- if at all, really.

β€œBut if you tell anybody- anybody,” he stressed, blue eyes plastered onto umber browns, darkening with every syllable β€œ-I’ll come back here and finish the job- and get everyone else in there too.” He spoke, head tilting over to the rust encrusted door, secretly hoping that the man actually had someone he cared for waiting for him- that he wasn’t like himself. Or else the threat would be meaningless, would bear little weight. What was he gonna do? Punch him with an emoji? Releasing a tired sigh, Artie once again relocated his attention unto the lifeless ass that laid smack-dab in the middle of the alleyway. With his silhouette affectionately outlined by the moon, he began to hoist the corpse up, grunting with every struggle. Chunky bitch. β€œAy,” he called out to the waiter- whom surprisingly hadn’t moved from his spot despite having been set free. β€œNew proposition: I won’t kill you if you give me a hand with the bastard.” He offered, though bearing little to no other options. Voice hoarse, unquenched and sleepy, hardly above his regular, quiet murmur. He stared, unmoving.


ΒΊ ΒΊ code by ditto ΒΊ ΒΊ
 
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code by fudgecakez
sing for the damage we've done
luca arcarya
There have been times before this when Luca has brushed with death.

People die here. They get shoot in the street when they try to leave the wrong people. They disappear in the night, only to be found washed up in rivermud. They die, they get stones tied to their legs here. You do not live here for very long and not notice the closed off areas, the old blood stains on cement. His own nieghbourhood was no different. When he was just a boy he saw firsthand that life is a very fleeting thing - something a child thinks will never actually leave you.

A scream of a bullet - water washing away red - his friend falling, always falling -

Luca never reaches him in time.

Death is something he know; and he also knows he is very close to it this very second.

The high click of intelligence behind blue eyes was not that of any everyday thug spilling blood for men. Something about it set Luca's nerves on edge, all animal instincts on high alert. There was too much darkness, too much teeth in that gaze to make that mistake. He was terrifyingly, uncomfortably aware of their difference, the fact that Luca could do nothing to stop whatever would happen. The man had Luca's fate on a string, and Luca wasn't one to count on a stranger's mercy. He is a stranger with a stranger's whims. Try as he might to not seem like prey, to harden his voice and still his hands; he can tell that he is not being convincing, with the coldness of eyes zeroing in on the weakness. Rush of blood in his ears, the too-loud beating of his heart - still pumping blood, still bring life to him, though that could change at any second and ohmyGodhedidn'tputthegundownyet.

There was a moment, two, of when Luca's life was still up for debate. The tension under tight muscles, something in the other's shadowed face that looked like he wasn't sure about his next step - Luca didn't dare move, not even breathe -

''That’s none of your business.''

Blunt light reflected off the metal shine as the gun was put away, the customer-turned-killer still watching him closely - knowing better than to have his hopes up when there's a body still warm next to you, Luca didn't take the unsaid display to heart. Wrappings - for grip? Athletic purposes? - unfolded from phantom bloodied hands, along with some of the terrible atmosphere. There were no funeral bells to be rented for today, but Luca's luck never truly held. The - hitman? Serial killer? Murderer, he'll stick with murderer - man could change his mind at any second, if he's not thinking of doing so this very second.

Holy fucking shit.

'But if you tell anybody- anybody,' the tall man's wolf-sharp eyes left no room for argument, if Luca had one in the first place. 'I’ll come back here and finish the job- and get everyone else in there too.'

Luca choked.

Cody and Rose. They were still inside. He prayed to whatever diety was feeling kind today for neither of them to take a break outside at this very second. Luca nodded slowly, a shake to the gesture that couldn't be mistaken for anything but deep-struck fear. He could only hope it would be enough to convince a murderer than seems like he could kill a person with his bare hands.

It probably says something about him that his other thought was, 'if you do have to take us out, can you make sure Clemmons goes with?'

How ridiculous in the most alarming sense it is, to see the change in the other; from a snake looking to devour a rat, to a tired man of seemingly habitual exhaustion. The type of man Luca would pass on the street, thinking him a worker returning from a demanding shift and hoping to see his bed today yet. It was almost funny, how annoyed he seemed to be lifting up a - pale face, bloodless mouths, empty eyes - body, as if he couldn't be bothered. Funny, yes, if it were happening in a movie. Unreal, paid actors, fake blood mixed with paints. Luca could laugh himself sick from fear.

'Ay,' Luca started so badly he almost slipped right on his ass (and what a sight that would be, to not only be fearing for his life and then embarrassing himself right after. At that point, he'd ask the stranger to end his suffering), giving the worn out ghost of a man a wide-eyed look. 'New proposition: I won’t kill you if you give me a hand with the bastard.'

It was a question and yet not. Luca hesitated for a second, unsure - and yet what is there to do? ''Do I get paid extra?'' He said lamely, a joke he didn't find funny himself. But he couldn't stand there quietly, couldn't do this and not try to make this lighter. Under the man's stony gaze, Luca grabbed hold of the - dead - ex-customer (thanks for taking away their clientele, by the way, very thoughtful), putting in all the muscle he had to heave him up. Just what did they feed this guy? Luca wasn't very strong as a rule, but this was a test of will and want to live. It took a bit of work - mostly on the killer-man's part, altrough Luca thinks he did his best - to get the body covered in the dumpster, forever closed eyes hidden under rotting food and old paper.

A bit of blood stuck on Luca's hand. He stared at it.

''Uh,'' he started, looking back up awkwardly at the person that ended both a life and Luca's hopes for a nice break. He didn't know what to say, the words leaving him; but he can stand here for an eternity, if he wants. But the body is buried and so is this obligation. ''...Can I go now? My boss will kill me.''

Oop. Luca grimaced despite himself, the words ringing a bit too true. ''And we have a lobster that attacks people so, like. I have to go check on it.''

 


ARTHUR DE SILVA


MOOD: dying

OUTFIT: Gae

MENTIONS: luca

INTERACTIONS: mother of sorrows mother of sorrows

TAGS: .V1LLAINISM._ .V1LLAINISM._


β€œDo I get paid?”

It was no surprise that the hitman was often subjected to harsh criticism, and even less so when targeted at his impenetrable demeanour & stoic countenance, both mere acquaintances to an austere personality. But sometimes, even he himself detested him for it. β€˜C’mon Art, say something back,’ he’d often plead with himself, β€˜don’t make them think that you’re weird.’
For he often struggled in banter, whereas normal people would find themselves throwing their heads back in laughter- perhaps even responding in an equally witty rebuttal, Artie, as socially inept and stunted as he was, could offer little more than a sharp narrow to his eyes. Even if he did find the man’s words bizarre, his reactions unfortunately, could do very little to serve him socially. He was never quite good at making friends.
The rest of their unorthodox encounter went as expected- with this man- Luca, as he’d formerly introduced, nervously chatting his ears off and Artie responding with judgemental, almost formidable looks. For this unlikely accomplice, Luca, was a rather strange character, one that he wasn’t quite accustomed to in his own quiet little world. One that he would most likely avoid any other day quite frankly. And yet, he found himself rather enjoying in the man’s company. Perhaps it was a trauma bond, the kind that only comes when discharging a bloated corpse alongside a cold-blooded killer. Or perhaps, maybe just maybe, his lonesomeness was finally getting the better of him.

''...Can I go now? My boss will kill me…
And we have a lobster that attacks people so, like. I have to go check on it.''

Artie sighed, stifling a tired yawn. ’Yes’ he nodded wordlessly, eyelids feeling heavier with every passing moment. Finally, he was free. β€œTo freedom,” as quoted from the various authors of stan Twitter. The brunet stood watchfully, penetrative eyes never once leaving the man’s back, never once relinquishing his guard. It was a tiresome thing- his inability to trust, but in the end, it’s what kept him, and what would proceed to keep him both safe & secure. With a swift turn on his heel, Artie made his own departure from the scene, broad frame once again becoming a mere shadow of the night. Not heard, not seen and yet, omnipresent.

_______________

β€œWINGUARDIUM LEVIOSA BRUV, WOOSH WOOSHHHHHHH”

Why. Why was it always him that was destined to suffer. Had he done something? Had he accidentally insulted a wiccan and become cursed? A demon? Had his ancestors wronged someone? Although, given the pale complexion of his skin, he wouldn’t at all be surprised if they had. White people. β€œBRO ITS NOT LEVIOSA ITS LEVIOSUH LIKE THAT ED SHEERAN BEECH SAID…. PEW PEW.”
He could practically hear their nonsensical behaviour from down the street. Shane and Damjan, the two resident crackheads whom insisted upon amusing themselves by tormenting those desperately trying to get a good night’s rest. He knew because he was one of them. In fact, it seemed that the quieter he was, the more inclined they were to irritate him, like two little brothers. It was sick, they were sick. And so, while standing outside of the shabby, decrepit apartment building, Artie steeled himself, eyes screwed shut and head held back. Perhaps tonight would be different he hoped, perhaps they’d leave him alone once and for all. β€˜Please God- Jesus- Allah, whoever’s out there, please make them shut the fuck up.’ He quietly manifested, knowing deep down that the probability was dwelling amongst the negative percentiles.

However, just as the man was psyching himself up, Artie was met with yet another interruption. His hand shot up to lay against his holster, car door echoing a slam near his own. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched carefully as the foreign figure stepped into illumination, only for his heart to drop straight into the pit of his stomach. β€˜You’ve got to be kidding me.’ He wished he could run and hide, he truly did. But he was out in the open, ass perched against the front of his own black rover and silhouette crystal clear.
β€œWhat are you doing here? You following me?” Charming as always, the hitman began with his accusations, refusing to look the waiter in the eyes and instead, staring straight ahead. A little unsure, a little nervous. He really didn’t want to deal with them.


ΒΊ ΒΊ code by ditto ΒΊ ΒΊ
 
Last edited:
code by fudgecakez
sing for the damage we've done
luca arcarya
Was this truly all?

It seemed insane, how casually this ended. As if they had not just dragged a dead man to his make-shift grave and laid him to rest in trash and wet paper. As if Luca hasn't been close, very close to meeting the same end, all in the span of a few minutes. It had felt like an hour had passed with every shaky breath; but before Luca could settle his fast-beating heart, the other man has dismissed him with a jawn and nothing more. A gesture so nonchalant like this was a bother he deals with everyday, and not something that would scar a person for life. Cold eyes never left Luca's frame, something he was uncomfortably aware of as he stumbled back to the door, hands shaking over the handle.

And the blood stained man? Gone like he was never there, disappearing so fast it nearly made Luca question if this was only a fever dream. But no, the blood still stained his hands - bright red and dripping onto the cement below.

Oh, shit, he thought, half manic, that's going to be hell to clean up.

He never thought he'd be as glad as he was now to be back in the restaurant; the sigh that left his body was heavy, all the exhaustion of today hitting him full-force as the fear for his life began to dissipate. He ran a hand through his hair, mind still reeling from what he saw. Talk about ending the day on a high note.

Luca was thrown from his thoughts by the figure of Clemmons standing in the kitchen.

With lobster in one carefully manicured hand.

The tight-lipped smile on her smile told him everything he needed to know.

Oh, fuck -

***

''YOU WILL RUE THIS DAY! RUE IT!!''

You know. There is nothing like Bright View Apartments to really humble a man. The residents are enough to put the fear of God in even the most sceptical atheist.

Contrary to the name, there was nothing bright about the place and it certainly wasn't the view of a shitty parking lot. It was one of those old, cheap apartment buildings falling apart at the foundation, filled with crime and drugs - but it was cheap and in New York City, you can't be too picky when your budget is composed of spare change and good will. It was the best Luca could afford with his job and so he never complained.

...If he'll even have that job, that is. The prospect of a 'serious talk tomorrow' wasn't very promising.

With the weight of the world on his shoulders and a great need to sob into his pillow for at least half an hour, Luca stepped out of his sad-looking car. A lone light flickered overhead as he made his way towards the building, gait slumped. He could hear the yelling and improvised sound effects from over here; Damjan and Shane were at it again, obviously. This has been the third battle this week, with none of them coming up victorious. When will the violence end? The needless fighting? Luca closed his burning eyes, rubbing away some of the stress tears threatening to spill over.

'What are you doing here? You following me?'

Luca startled to attention, throat closing up at the familiar voice. There he was.

The man from the back-alley, looking almost phantom like in the dull lightning. Knife-sharp eyes staring at him, through him.

Luca stepped back, blood screaming in his ears. Did he end up deciding Luca wasn't worth the potential trouble?

Cold sweat pouring over him, eyes looking for an escape route, hands gripping his well-worn sweater he responded;

''I... live here?'' He blinked stupidly, unsure if that's the right answer. ''Uh. Did you follow me here?''

He doesn't want to think that's the reason why. He doesn't, because that would make this night so much worse. And his brain, oh so intelligent, decided that now is the time to show off it's comedy skills.

''You come here often?'' Goddamnit.

Above them, the senseless war continued.

''CAST THAT SPELL AGAIN AND I'LL THROW YOU AT THAT TWINK AND BIG BODY BITCH! I WILL NOT HESITATE!''

I. Damjan wasn't talking about them, was he?

 


ARTHUR DE SILVA


MOOD: dying

OUTFIT: Gae

MENTIONS: luca

INTERACTIONS: mother of sorrows mother of sorrows

TAGS: .V1LLAINISM._ .V1LLAINISM._


The amount of sheer willpower it’d taken not to scream at the top of his lungs at that very instant was unmatched. Almost overthrown had his lungs not been corroded with acidic exhaustion. Dissolving him bit by bit until all that was left were the mere ashes of the man he’d once been in the morning.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust as they say. And soon there’d be nothing left.

The man closed his eyes, chest raising with an inhale deeper than the Nile. Like a stern mother trying to give her child a second chance before reaching for a pair of hard-hitting chanclas. Only, the child was him. Cmon Art, keep it together. Needless to say, the war cries in the background were not helping. He opened his eyes, opaque blues leaning comfortably against the man’s own unravelling appearance. Had he been….crying?
…..Nevertheless, Art wasn’t the only one with bad luck, so it seemed.
In fact, it appeared that every time he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it just did. As if the night and the universe were having a cruel laugh at him; puppeting his fate before their very eyes, knotting his strings with every mishap. He was, at this very point in time, as dead as the corpse they’d just gotten rid of.
And yet he was still on alert. Begrudgingly so.

''I... live here?''

The brunet narrowed his eyes, bags illuminated under the whirring lamp up above. Only, he uncannily resembled Goob from that cartoon, instead of the hot, morally questionable killer that today’s mentally ill youth would swoon over.
Curse his pale skin.

β€œI
.hm.β€œ

He opened his mouth to speak, only to fall quiet seconds after. Well what was there to say even? He’d checked his rear view only about a bajillion times (more out of paranoia than actual need) and hadn’t caught an enemy tracker so this just had to be a not-so-funny coincidence right? God, he could only hope so. He didn’t know if he could handle another body tonight.
The man muttered something underneath his breath, something unintelligible but somehow reassuring.
He wasn’t following the waiter either. Why would he be?

Falling back into his comfortable silence, Artie reached into the breast of his coat pocket- retrieving a shiny box of unopened cigarettes. He offered one to Luca, seemingly ignoring the history book battle emanating from the building in front of him. It was only a matter of time until he’d pull out his gun out and shut them up, he just needed a break first.
But then.

''You come here often?''

Just why did he feel the need to talk at a time like this? Perhaps it was out of blatant anxiety but Art, as unappreciative of corny quips as he was, could do nothing more than give him a hollow stare. Just like Goob. β€œDon’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you.”
He spoke, addressing the great big elephant in the room as he lit his cigarette against the palm of his hand. Swiftly, like muscle memory.
There have been many a night where Artie would simply rest against the hood of his car, basking in the cool breeze, often alone.

''CAST THAT SPELL AGAIN AND I'LL THROW YOU AT THAT TWINK AND BIG BODY BITCH! I WILL NOT HESITATE!''

β€œ-EAT MY ASS
WINGUARDIUMLEVIOSA!- PEW PEW”

β€œNow them.
I just might.”

….

You wanna know the fastest way to clear a hallway? A weapon and a death stare.
Now this had to be about the umpteenth time that Artie had had his beloved pistol pointed at one of the numbskulls’ skulls and still they never learned. Never.
He often wondered why the landlord hadn’t evicted them yet but thinking back to the burglar incident… Maybe there was some use to them.
Last time he heard the poor son of a bitch still had the bite marks etched into his skin.

β€œGASP! dude bro look! he has A GUN!”


ΒΊ ΒΊ code by ditto ΒΊ ΒΊ
 
code by fudgecakez
sing for the damage we've done
luca arcarya
Optimism is a finicky friend; all to easily applied to other people and not so much to him. When it came talking face to face with a man that killed another, all of Luca's insistence that 'see, it's not so bad' ran away like a deserter from war and somehow - crazy, I know - he could not manage to convince it back.

It took all the meager pride he had in him to not jump when the exhausted looking man fixed him with a long-suffering stare, feeling very much like his banter was not welcomed. Cold sweat dripped down his neck.

''Sorry.'' Luca blurted, taking a step back like a deer testing when a tiger will pounce. ''I'll just -''

As if not even registering his words, the other reached into his breast pocket - a gun, oh God, wait can guns even fit in those, whatever, he probably pissed him off - and. Luca blinked in surprise and embarrassed relief when a slip of a cigarette was offered to him. The tall man seemed less interested in killing him than he was in taking a break, cold gaze settling elsewhere. There was no intent to tear off his head, which Luca prided himself on being able to tell from a mile away. Giving a thin, dumb smile, Luca took it with a shaking hand. A murmured 'thank you' and he fished out a cheap lighter, fire sparkling against the end.

Nicotine bit away at the anxiety like an alligator at flesh, giving a much needed distraction to put his hands to.

'Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you.'

Well. That's a relief. Trust a potential serial killer with your fate. Without anything to say to that, Luca watched with some synthetic calm - the curve of a spine, the depth of eyebags. A halo of artificial light.

''-EAT MY ASS
WINGUARDIUMLEVIOSA!- PEW PEW''

'Now them. I just might.'

A flash of a gun almost made Luca choke on the burning ciragette smoke, almost dropping it to the grimy cement below. It did not point towards his skull - but at Damjan and Shane, freezing like statues at the very real danger. They've been shot at so often it needs not counting and they've missed the bullets so often that it is by now a given. Damjan - the one who keeps harassing police officers - stuck out a finger at Shane in clear challenge. ''You. It's not over.'' Bursting into a spring, the man disppeared into the night - or the night into him, if metaphors so demand. ''YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME, BATMAN!'' His voice echoed across the small stairwell, a grim threat for the coming days.

A question popped up in Luca's head. One he is not sure he wants to hear the answer to.

Hands dropping to his side in creeping realisation, he stared at the quiet man with rising horror. Ash drifted off into the darkness, flickering in the looming beam of light.

''...Do you also live here?''

 


ARTHUR DE SILVA


MOOD: dying

OUTFIT: Gae

MENTIONS: luca

INTERACTIONS: mother of sorrows mother of sorrows

TAGS: .V1LLAINISM._ .V1LLAINISM._


There was a moment in his boyhood, a time where he often spent the hours fantasizing about becoming the next James Bond.
Jumping out of airplanes, scaling monuments and saving all of humanity- all the while standing dapperly untouched in a three piece suit. Often does he compare those dreams to where he is now currently. Threatening his neighbours. Neighbours that were actively LARPing the Harry Potter series in the foyer. Neighbours that once showed up at his doorstep dressed as Smurfs, submerged in blue body paint that encompassed nearly everything but their tongues. In fact, they’d asked him to help get their backs.

…Where did he go wrong?

It was a question that he often asked himself, an inquiry that seldom ceased to lurk within the shadows of his mind -and when in times like these- would often emerge into the light. ''YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME, BATMAN!''
The manchild’s voice reverberated through the halls, a lasting effect to a night well-spent he presumed, well, a night well-spent in their eyes. Good, at least someone was having fun these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his own.
Although perhaps his mistake was assuming that growth, that maturity was solely defined by misery. He often sees the way that for some, the fun never ends and for others, well, the fun never seems to begin. It was all just struggle, pain, struggle, pain. A vicious cycle that would only break for a few sparing moments before the gears turned once more.
That is what life feels like now.

Before the brunet could return his attention to the other obnoxiously loud hallway-dweller- the taller and lankier of the two- the man found that he’d somehow taken off without his notice. A crackhead running off into the dead Of the night. How convenient for him. Though Artie had just about enough impatient rage left in him to tear the imbecile a new one. Oh well, he’d get him next time. And so, with no further obstacles in sight, the man gently tucked his sore, tired weapon away. The poor thing had been used so much it was almost cruel at this point. And he, well he was finally, finally done. The hitman began to depart, fluorescent lights casting a worn silhouette.
''...Do you also live here?''
He paused in his tracks. Oh right, him. Peering through his peripherals, Artie offered the former unwilling accomplice the benefit of a goodbye, which was more than what he gave most.
With the light bouncing off the tip of his nose, he uttered a hollow, gruff
β€œNice to meet you, neighbour.”

~~~

β€œAnd you’re positive you didn’t leave any witnesses?”

β€œYes boss”

Artie lied. It was not often that he lied, not to a man of his kinship. Harry grimaced. He lied but the truth laid right in front of him, whirring away as it snitched treacherously. Silly boy, naive thing. Didn’t he know that there were eyes everywhere? Hadn’t he taught him well?
Certainly he knew better.

Aged digits drummed against the wooden desk, the receiver cracklwith the countenance of an uncomfortable ambiance. Of faux, tight-lipped exchanges. He was never the affectionate kind, in fact his affections showed elsewhere, in protecting his great novice, some would even call him his son. And if that meant keeping him from the world, from this mere server, this Luca Arcarya, then so be it.
After all, dead men tell no tales.

β€œGood. I’ll see you in the morning… Son.”


ΒΊ ΒΊ code by ditto ΒΊ ΒΊ
 
code by fudgecakez
sing for the damage we've done
luca arcarya
''You're hired.''

Luca blinked. Then blinked again. Squinted just for good measure, as if his senses were tricking him. ''I'm sorry,'' He said slowly, giving the other man a look like he's about to jump and say 'just kidding!' ''Did you say something? I don't think I heard right -''

''I said,'' How one man can look like a knife, Luca doesn't know; but this man somehow manages it, all sharp lines and a harshly cut mop of blond hair. The suit is no darker than the furrowed gaze looking back at him; black on black on black. ''You're hired.''

Luca's arm drop - the resume in his shaking hand falters sadly. ''But, you didn't even see -'' He blabbers on nervously, fixing the edge of his best suit jacket (which is saying something - with his meagre savings and shittier wages, all he could afford were hands-me-downs from the nicer part of town.) The clothes he wore didn't shine quite nearly as much as the marble on the ground, but it was about the only semi-decent thing in his warderobe.

A wave of an elegant hand cut him off before he could finish. ''You said you know somebody here, right?''

The black-haired man blinked, wiped an anxious hand on his pant leg. ''Uh, yea - yes. Louis Henderford.'' His luck Cody always seemed to have a cousin here or there stashed away, and more than willing to introduce them to Luca. His friend saved him more times than he can count.

''Then that's it.'' A smile, barely there - Luca might have missed it if he blinked. Then, a huff as the other man reached a hand over the table. ''Welcome to the company.''

Luca paused, a moment of this is it passing by. A heartbeat or two, near deafening in his ears as Luca took it, the man's hand firm in his.

''I'm Milo. Ask for me tomorrow.''

---​

If there was a diety out there looking after people such as he, then it must have finally decided to pay Luca his due; getting hired so fast after being fired, and at a well-established trading firm with pay that made Luca pinch himself when he first heard it is a blessing people would kill for in New York. And really, Luca still doesn't quite believe it either - that he works at a building with marble flooring and statues judging every corner. That he has his own office, with his own chair and own table and gets paid for being a secretary. Sure, not the most glamorous work, but much better than what he was used to as a waiter. The people here are nice, genuinely so, even if ever so busy - and he gets an actual break and health benefits.

All that for the price of much less dignity than he had to sacrifice at the restaurant.

'Get us coffee,' and he does.

'Carry my bag for me,' and he does.

'Carry this entire box up three floors and put it in the archive' and well.

He does.

The box is heavy in his grasps, overfilled with papers and manila envelopes that threatened to fall of - Luca eyed their precarious position, stopping to fix it every so often. Carrying a mountain built from paper is hard enough; even more so when you can't even see past it. But not one to complain, Luca simply let out the deepest sigh of today and turned a corner -

or had tried to.

Something solid - an impact - Luca cursing.

Papers flying into the air like doves, scattering over the floor. A second of realisation for his brain to say 'oh, shit' before his legs gave up and he landed on the ground with an oomph.

''Oh, God.'' His mouth blabbered before his mind caught up on the pain in his back, scrambling on his knees with all the speed of somebody too aware of their own nervousness. Reaching for the papers like a drowning man grasping at land, he dares a look up, face flushed with embarrassment. ''I'm. So sorry. I didn't see -''

He didn't get to finish.

Cold eyes. The splatter of blood. A gun, pointed right at his heart.

A face, impassive. The face of a killer.

Luca blanched. Felt sicker than he ever has in his life.

You have got to be fucking kidding him -

 


ARTHUR DE SILVA


MOOD: dying

OUTFIT: Gae

MENTIONS: luca

INTERACTIONS: mother of sorrows mother of sorrows

TAGS: .V1LLAINISM._ .V1LLAINISM._


There are a lot of things that Artie hates. Republicans, his neighbours, those people that kiss their dogs right on the mouth, that amongst other things. What he despises most however, the one common enemy that he can never seem to defeat despite its mountain of flaws, is the capitalist manifesto. It was Monday morning for Pete’s sake. 9 am on the dot. And there he was, trying his best to coax his quote on quote β€œcolleague” out of a dryer. Yes you read that right, a dryer.
Now for most people, when they think hitman
(or cold blooded murderer, whichever you prefer) often assume that they work in unison to their own schedule, as if by commission. But boy were they wrong. No instead, they had him come in each day, every morning, sometimes earlier than everyone else, all clad in work attire and a tie that he just couldn’t seem to get right. All for this?!

β€œMona please” he begged, once again wondering just how his life had come to this. Wondering what he’d done to deserve such a bizarre fate.

β€œNo!” Her childish retort bounced off of the metallic cave, resounding, further sending the man into a deep spiral.
He did not get paid enough for this.

β€œMona cmon I promise I’ll buy you something” Anything. Like a child he tried to reason with her, bribe her. First it was the candy, second it was the plushy and now this. When would it end?

β€œNo!”

With one hand gingerly massaging his temples, Artie released a shaky sigh. His eyes scrunched shut. Not now Art, keep it together. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, not here, not again, he was already on thin ice with HR after the gun incident. What? You pull a gun on Greg ONCE and suddenly you’re the bad guy? Wow, some world we live in.
But then again, one more warning and they’d accelerate it to the final boss, a professional death sentence in its own right. He shuddered at the thought.
Artie could picture it now: his overseer, his father giving him that piercing stare, pressing his fingers together and leaning back in his chair, he was the lion and Art was the gazelle, small and vulnerable, scared for what was to come.
Somehow he’d insult him without insulting him. Make him feel inadequate without doing so much to belittle him. To be honest he never quite knew just where he stood with the man, it was always puzzles with him. Puzzles that he oh so desperately wanted to solve.

β€œ-ARound the world a-round the wOR-LD”

Interrupting his thoughts, the blonde’s off-pitch singing had more or less sent him over the edge. Swiftly spinning on his heel, the hitman began his descent to the one and only person that could fix this. Milo. He was a bright man, younger, with an understanding to the Mona species that stretched far beyond Artie’s own. He reckoned that they’d get married one day.
But he was far too angry to think such romantic thoughts. Fuck this and fuck me. He cursed under his breath, muttering his annoyances left and right, body rigid, movements sharp, cutting-edge, like a robot’s.
Sure he could just page the man but he needed to get out of there, even if Mona did do this everyday. Sometimes, even murderers need breaks.

This would become evident in the latter scenes.

Because some way, somehow, the prized hitman, the stealth beast himself had failed to detect the paperwork meteor hailing straight toward him. The sound of struggling footsteps alone would’ve been signal enough but it was a Monday morning, 9 am, and he desperately needed a moment alone.
Rounding the corner, Artie’s voyage had been cut short. Too short.

It all happened so quickly.

A crash and then a thump- actually make that two thumps. If there were any inhibitions on his temper before, there sure as hell weren’t any now. He was about to hand this guy’s ass right back to him.
With papers decorating the carpet around them, Artie rose to a devious stand. Ominous, like a platform raising from the shadows to reveal a villain. He opened his mouth to speak, ready to go ham on this poor stranger at 9 am in the morning, fully prepared to make them his personal punching bag for a minute. But then he saw him. Him. The man from the night before, quaking like a shitting dog. The hitman was too stunned to speak.

Flabbergasted, the brunet stammered β€œI- Just what the hell are you doing here?” He cut straight to the point, ignoring the mess that surrounded them.

Was this what they meant by DΓ©jΓ  Vu? He could’ve sworn he’d asked the same question last time, only angrier. But this time it was strange, more awkward as they wore their little suits and paraded around like little business men, still quietly reeling from the harsh reality. His eyes flickered back up to meet the man’s gaze, as shocked as his own.
Without another word, Artie reached out a hand.
He’d been doing that a lot lately it seems, saving this man- this Luca from himself.

β€œNow answer the question.”


ΒΊ ΒΊ code by ditto ΒΊ ΒΊ
 
Last edited:
code by fudgecakez
sing for the damage we've done
luca arcarya

Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod -

this has to be a mistake. Some sort of sick joke that Luca isn't in on. A bad dream, maybe - he has a lot of those lately - or a mistake of the light, with how bright they are in here. Maybe he saw his face wrong; I mean, seeing a dead body and all, it haunts you, right? Luca blinks once. Twice. Thrice, just to make sure.

The man, murderer, stood right in front of him.

'Just what the hell are you doing here?'

No. No. Luca didn't answer, couldn't answer. Not with how bad his shoulders shook, blind fear written all over his face and hands scrambling over the polished floor. Fuck, this guy was tall. Was he this tall that night? Luca couldn't recall. He couldn't remember anything past the urge to runrunrun, even as his legs did anything but. Like some demon lording over a soul that's just fallen into hell or a beast towering, the man stood, a halo of cheap light around his dark hair.

Luca let out a small 'meep.' Great. Great, now this guy was going to think he's pathetic if he doesn't already. Luca's going to get a bad grade in being murdered, something that's very much a real fear.

And then - this is very important - the man reached out a hand.

(Luca didn't see the offered help. He only saw anger, and so he kicked.)

Just like his martial arts teacher said. Deep breaths and aim for the family jewels.

Luca aimed to do exactly that.

''Did you guys see Mona any - oh, fuck me.'' A flash of blond hair and an upside-down frown appeared in Luca's floor-framed sights, Milo looking as harrassed as he ever is. The man looked from Luca to the murderer looking to make him his new victim and back to Luca again, hands on his hips like a mom that isn't angry, just disappointed. Milo's dark circles somehow managed to grow blacker in the half an hour Luca hasn't seen him.

The blond man looked on at the scene; Artie scaring the newbie half to death (not that he has to try. Milo has told him before to try acting less like himself and maybe he wouldn't give people nightmares) and the newbie seemingly intent to kick Artie into never being able to start a family. He dragged a tired hand over his face. Took a big sight.

''I see you guys met?''

 
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