isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost, Ilde Decima and Ivan.
What: An invitation accepted.
Where: Gutters.
When: Now.

On the surface, time is dictated by the sun, a given constant. Down here, it's a subjective measuring of wound watches and the steady, relentless tick of digital numbers, but it can also be measured by the amount of people flowing through the underground passageways that stem into Gutters.

Otherwise, the lighting doesn't care. The shadows are thick where there isn't that piercing sheen of artificial light staining the concrete walls, iron bars and steel pipes, and that's just the corridor, currently playing host to the nightlife ducking down underground. The space itself is as impervious to the logical progression of time as the people it caters to, permeated with the scent of the underground, water and earth, with cigarette smoke, with copper and salt. Music aches through the floor, a heavy bass, and security isn't particularly overt, but certainly present - that isn't counting the guy at the door handing off the money people give to get in.

This isn't really the best place to do a lot of thinking.

But it is Deacon Frost's natural habitat regardless, for all that he doesn't feed here, doesn't dance much, doesn't strike up meaningful conversation a hell of a lot. He's moving out of the backrooms and into the larger space, doing up the sleeves of his shirt with his CiD gripped in one hand, and going about his evening. Eventually, he's going to need some fresh air.

Comments

[fuckin_thirsty]

His tongue swipes over his own teeth in contemplation of this concept, but not exactly hesitation; Deacon takes the card with a thin smile, turning it over between two fingers to catch the name and number written there. Cold blue attention switches back to Ivan, that smile becoming a little more crooked, scarred eyebrow raising.

"I'll try hard," he promises, sliding the card into a pocket inside his jacket. "You know where to find me. Obviously."

[rhinemaid]

"If something more proactive than going to ground interests you, then you should call," she shrugs, tucking one foot behind the opposite ankle and letting her gaze move vaguely towards where that shriek occurred moments before; it doesn't stir her.

[deservesadaisy]

Ivan's fingers rested lightly at the small of Ilde's back. "I'm going to be on the move, but I'll answer my CiD."

[fuckin_thirsty]

"I'm hoping you're getting a better sense of my style by now than that, sweetness," Deacon says, presumably to Ilde, but really, who's counting, as the next part is to Ivan with; "I got your number dialed in."

And back to fairy with; "Don't get eaten on your way out." It's not actually unfriendly, somehow. Frank advice and flippant enough to imply Deacon doesn't think she will, a flash of fang in his smile.

[rhinemaid]

Her quick, sharp smile is a confirmation- if not, she wouldn't have given him the card. (Remy will get a call in the morning, just to let him know how it went, that she lived and that Deacon has his name and number.) The eyeroll, on the other hand, probably has more to do with the continued patronizing nicknames. They don't bother her, but she does feel obliged not to take him very seriously whenever she can get away with it. Sonja's a good influence.

"I wouldn't worry," she says, lightly. "Cruorvores have this bad habit of forgetting you're not the only kind of predator."