Mordecai
the traitorous queen
So, in a completely unusual twist of events, before Turin even had time to respond to any type of conversation whatsoever, a young woman was shoved through the door by two brutes of men. In all of his days, he doubted he had ever seen so many brightly dyed heads of hair in one room before, but yet again, the young woman had the most unusual hair colour. Purple, this time, with signs of her roots growing out from lack of care. In fact, there wasn’t an inch on her that looked particularly well put-together. Young, yes, but she had clearly seen better days and didn’t seem thrilled to be in their presence. She was comely, underneath the grimace and the panicked look that widened her eyes so they were round like dimes. Whatever, he couldn’t be bothered with speculating her problems when he had more than a fair share of his own.
Another followed her in, demanding to know what exactly was happening in the exact same tone everyone else had spoken in, but Turin’s interest had waned and he glanced away, searching the crowd like a not quite hungry cat to a mouse. In truth, he had sort of receded back into the depths of the room where he could watch away from the mass conglomerating in the center of the room.
His mind began to reel and wander, listening to the dripping in the sink and finding it rather comforting for once. Drip. Dripdrip. Drip. It reminded him of the comfort he found in the small space of his apartment, the building he had cursed only hours prior and was now desperate to get out of this hot, dark, dank little room filled with people who had no concern for his well-being. They were not friends. They all looked like confused, pug-nosed little brats, except for that one man—the one with the pocket scars in his face—who couldn’t tell their ass from a hole in the ground. Turin could not be bothered with any of them and just as he considered a quick move for the door, it swung open… again.
In stepped a young woman with handsome red hair who strolled in with a sense of cool bravado. She didn’t even have to open her mouth, and at once, Turin’s keen eyed honed in on her: she knew. Perhaps it was her knowing expression or the way she scolded the chunks of beef that had hauled that one chick in like she was last weeks’ leftovers (she kind of looked like it to, if he were being honest, but he held his tongue). The redheaded woman greeted them with a brisk informalness in her tone, welcoming them to the room and inviting them to ask questions. Yea. Turin had one: what the fuck, lady?. Again, he physically bit down on his tongue to prevent the words from lurching out.
More followed, two specifically, trickling into the room: one with a bold and flirtatious take on the situation, and the other with a sheepish expression, like a child who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar past his bedtime. Deciding to gamble with the coquettish man and the redheaded woman, Turin oriented himself so he was intruding rather rudely on their conversation, but he had to be to work in twelve…. ten hours and at this rate, he hadn’t gotten a word of useful information out of anyone else.
“Oh hey, I know you,” he pointed to the man who had politely introduced himself to the redhead, narrowing his eyes as he studied the man’s profile, “You’re William, you own that music bar—the jazz one, yes?” Turin, a music aficionado himself, had made an appearance there once or twice. “What in devil’s name are you doing here?”
Realizing he had truncated their conversation, his warm eyes, like pools of hot chocolate steeped in milk, flicked to the young woman who had invited them to ask questions-- "Sorry."
