Futuristic the bitter aftertaste

[mon]

Life is not so merciful, but neither is Death.​

 

[Alurille]

M I T C H E L L

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Mitchell stood quietly in the back alley. The yawning shadows would normally be minatory, unsettling; but he simply faced the next person to die. Adumbration smoothly shielded the rough asphalt from the sunlight, though it didn't help much with the stinging, cold weather. Mitchell positioned himself in front of his victim. He examined him – he probably had a family, friends, and many other people that Mitchell didn't even know, but they would all have to die at some point. Mitchell looked on wordlessly as the shrapnel pierced the other man's chest. Some people tried to flee the scene, but he knew he couldn't let that happen.

Time seemed to become stagnant for a moment as the older man's footing was lost. A scud of dust capered across the ground. Mitchell sighed, and turned away to walk down the alley and back to a destination not so constant and somber. He could see the sky – shades of blue, and later, purple and orange, too. He could feel that something was off, though. Sometimes the world could err from how people wanted to view it, but this was something different. Lucarne windows watched the street below, but he could see no covered faces, no glinting eyes.

Mitchell tossed the gun he had used to end the man's life just minutes before, his eyes darting around apprehensively. He certainly wasn't worried... he couldn't be. He was Death, after all, and he could control what happened to whoever turned the corner, right?
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

tagging: mon
location: back alley

​

 

[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Most would say that it was foolishness that lead her there. 'Walking towards one's grave' were their exact words. Others claim that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Heads shook in pity and voices tutted in low. But truth is, Liv was exactly where she wanted to be: amidst the danger of it all.

Bullets whizzed through the air like streaks of silver, shattering glass and sowing panic. High up at the rooftops in the nearby distance, Liv Romaine watched with cold apathy. Tendrils of wispy ash curled through her lips, releasing chemicals into the warm night air. This part of the town was particularly susceptible to gang activity, with this case marking its third crime scene in the past five months. A new record, Liv would say, having no part in the action and yet knowing of it all the same.

Her past connections to the underworld was complex and deeply rooted, preventing her from fully escaping its shadowy grasp. At least, she thought with a sarcastic sneer, she wasn't being tortured like a lab rat. Her freedom, though limited, was appreciated.

Another puff of the rapidly burning cigarette dulled the buzzing in her mind. She counted silently up to four and then frowned. Four? She was certain she counted five.

She noted movement in the alleyway beneath her and caught note of the fifth, ready to aim fire at a wandering brunet. He would've made a poor, unsuspecting victim if Liv hadn't decided, "Hey, why not do a good deed once." She snuffed out her cigarette, breathing in one final mouthful before throwing her legs off the ledge, diving straight into the night.

Her fall had the bullet ricocheting off the alley walls instead of making home in the brunet's head. She heard a disgusting snap of bones being broken, both hers and the poor man she dropped on. A surge of pain shot up her spine when she tried to stand, quickly giving up.

Ah, yep. She broke her legs, she thought with laughable casualty. The pain was a bitch but seeing the surprise look on the brunet's expression made it all the worth.

"Don't mind me," she joked through grit teeth and hissed as she pulled herself off the man below her. The guy was dead. His neck had been snapped by her knee when she fell. She thought with comfort that at least he died quickly.

"I'm just dropping by."

location: back alley

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

Mitchell saw the woman as she fell. I mean, shit, she just defied injury. She hadn't even caterwauled, as he usually broke the legs of those he had to kill so that they wouldn't run away. He couldn't pinpoint what was off about the encounter, but her lengths of gypsum-like hair gave off a strong "opposite" feeling. He walked near the man she had killed, wondering what she was here to do. It didn't seem like her time to die, but maybe he had gleaned that feeling from the man before her. After all, if she was here to die, he certainly wasn't the one to deny her that.

The ground was stippled with fresh blood. He looked up to face Liv, intrigued by her apathy. She looked sure about her arrival here, in the back alley, because though many people stumbled across him, most assumed he was a mercenary and they didn't seem like they wanted to stay. Why would they, anyways? It was a squalid place, and the only other company there were the rats. He couldn't doubt the fact that he sort of appreciated other people that may have a similar job. It made it less grim.

"Look," he said in a terse but civil tone, approaching Liv. "You don't want to be here. You linger around me, you die in about a month. I don't kill you, but you will die. I see people come around here like they've had sticks shoved up their asses, or they're too scared to go on a rollercoaster. But you don't seem lost. So, with all due respect – who are you?" It was a bit of a spin-off from his usual speech, but close enough to get the point across to Liv.

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Jumping off a four-story building was a bad idea.

With both her legs broken and ow, probably her lower spine as well, there wasn't much Liv could do except drag herself on her tummy to the wall, sitting there with her back against it. Just because she couldn't die didn't meant she couldn't feel pain. The consequences of her poorly made actions made home on her would-be delicate body.

But her actions, rash as they seem, were actually thought out in a way to save the poor sap's life. Sure, she could've warned him verbally but that would've resulted in the target shooting her as well, with little security that the brunet could avoid the second bullet. Doing this seemed to best option for optimal survival. Of course, dropping a heavy object would've been a lot easier, but there was nothing up on the roof.

The edges of her vision begin to blur; a false illusion of death. The pain was starting to black her out and if she was normal, she would've died.

"Honey, even if I want to move, there's really not much I can do now is there?" she replied hoarsely, her voice being choked by a metallic liquid rising at the back of her throat. A finger pointed down at her legs, one of them was bent awkwardly.

"Dying sounds amazing but it doesn't seem like I can die right now," Liv rambled, as colors began to blur into blinding streaks of pain and pain and more pain. Her eyelids were beginning to droop. It was actually rather impressive how long she could stay conscious this time. "If you're actually able to kill me that would... that would be great."

And just like that, the world dissolved to black.

location: back alley

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

Well, Mitchell was sure he'd just witnessed the bedlam and death of someone who was craving the end. If Liv wanted to die, she'd certainly come to the right place. Though she should be dead, he placed another magazine into the gun, just to give her what she wanted. Most deaths seemed commonplace to Mitchell, almost, because when he killed others, it was like a routine. One, after the other, after the other. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet tore through Liv's stomach. The vicious noise seemed almost eleemosynary now, likely hitting around the liver area, which would be a fatal shot if not for Liv's immortality. Mitchell walked forwards to her body and checked her pulse after waiting for a while. He was almost completely sure it would be stopped now that she'd been through two possible deaths.

But it wasn't.

It kept on going, so Mitchell examined the white scars – like precipices – that ran along her skin. Maybe she'd gotten into trouble before. Maybe that's why she wanted to die? Why was she still alive? Any moment now, her pulse would stop. It had to. He ran his hands through his russet hair, watching, waiting.

"Come on, come on, come on," said Mitchell. Oh, he was aware that Liv was unconscious. He was talking to himself. "I can't just wait." Mitchell told himself this, but he did. Every time he checked, her pulse just kept beating. He rested his rifle on his legs. Time was slower than ever, and he couldn't wait to fall asleep, like he at least tried to do every night. "This isn't working, she's practically immortal." Mitchell mumbled nervously.

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

So the way Life worked was simple. But scientifically, explaining how was conclusively impossible. While her body will suffer pain and injury like anyone else, all fatal injuries were capable of healing within an appropriate, given time. Liv being Life, meant that her cells generated new ones a lot quicker than the average human being. Damaged tissue was capable of mending within the day. If it took someone a month to heal, say a broken bone, Liv could probably do it in two weeks. Her abilities however, could not really be classified as total regeneration. From a human standpoint, one would say she was simply "lucky" for having a faster recovery speed than norm.

Granted that she was incapable of dying, the closest thing to it was sleep. In this case, she was passed out, momentarily spared from the excruciating agony of her decisions.

When she woke again, it was daytime. The sun beams which filtered through broken binds decided to glare perfectly into her eyes. She winced as she felt the dull ache in her lower body. It was numb, probably with a type of anesthetic, but what surprised her the most was that there was a new wound in her body, a bloody hole right through her stomach. An undoubtedly gorey sight if it was not bandaged.

"What the fuck," Liv cursed as she propped herself up with her elbows. A palm pressed down on her abdomen to check. She certainly did not remember receiving this when she fell.

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

Blood-covered gauze was on the ground, but Mitchell seemed to have been up all night, as his hair was a mess and he looked incredibly tired. He turned around to the sound of Liv's crass words. "You wanted me to kill you, so I tried," explained Mitchell. He nearly knocked over a biohazard container. He didn't even seem to notice that he'd nearly knocked it over, but he seemed dazed, though. "You... uh, had hemostasis, and I gave you a bit of levorphanol. I don't know what it does, but it's like... morphine. Except stronger," said Mitchell. He called out the last part so casually it was uncanny.

There were things strewn about the warehouse, some probably Mitchell's personal belongings. One could catch a bit of information about him here and there, but that wasn't something that a severely injured person would look at. Did Mitchell live there? The answer would remain unknown.

"Wish I could take you to some real professionals, but I've got no money. Hey, I mean, you aren't dead." Mitchell sat down in front of Liv. It did seem like he had a hard time keeping his eyes open. "Your leg is all fixed. Gonna take a while to heal, but it's coming along... pretty quick, actually. I was waiting for your pulse to stop. For hours. Been a few days, though, so..." he gave a scoffing, tired laugh without smiling. "How the fuck did you survive that?"

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Maybe it was because of the new hole in her body, or maybe it was the lack of a packet or two of nicotine in her system, Liv woke feeling rather irritated. Even more so when she's learned that her slip of tongue was what landed her in this mess; a paroxysm of rash decisions, both verbal and physical.

"I said I wanted to die, but I'm not dead and now I have this," she gestured at her stomach, sounding rather irascible. She had half-hoped this time it would've worked. She had felt weaker then but now that she was awake, the hope of that came as a shattering blow and she was angry to have deceived herself into wishful thinking.

In the least, she could appreciate the drugs given. At least she could still talk and sit up without feeling like she's been hit by a truck. Her toes wiggled from beneath the thin sheet used as a covering. Seems her legs really was fixed in right. The last time she had broken a bone, she had been overconfident in her abilities and ended up healing the damn thing wrongly. Now, if anyone were to look closely, they'd notice a strange additional jut in her ankle. The joint there had clawed.

"If you don't have money, you can compensate in other ways," Liv said, as though repeating lines from a play. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened, although, it was a first to hear someone brazenly admit their attempt to kill her, "You did this. You can pay with lodging and food until it heals then."

Which made for perfect timing. She had been homeless for a few days now. Her last apartment was broken into by a few fool-hardy thugs and the place was set on fire. The babe had just barely managed to escape, knowing that misfortune wasn't a mere coincidence. Not when it came to Liv.

"Do you have a smoke?" Liv asked, leaning back on her palms, "I suck at answering stupid questions without one. Uh, I was lucky. The guy broke my fall. It wasn't that serious. This is just a flesh wound, yada yada. Point is, I have a strong body," she answered, voice looping in sarcastic monotone, "Let's call it a miracle."

Her eyes skimmed over him, staring him straight in the eye. She looked bored of the conversation already.

"Yay," she said with all the enthusiasm of a 152 year old, "You aren't a murderer." A small fist waved in the air to congratulate him. If there was one thing to take from this, it was that Liv Romaine was an oddball.

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

Noticing how the present situation irritated Liv, Mitchell listened to what she had to say. He brushed a bit of reddish-brown hair aside. He tried to maintain eye contact with her. "Mhm, I have a smoke," he said with a lack of energy. Speaking with Liv wasn't verbatim anymore, it wasn't a script. Standing up, Mitchell walked over to a cabinet. He was singing something, and his voice was surprisingly nice, though it was too quiet to hear well. After a while, he walked back over to Liv with a full carton of smokes and... some soup. "Here." Mitchell took a smoke himself and lit it with a lighter. He placed the soup on a counter. Papaya-hued light splashed the inside of the warehouse, though it was getting gradually darker outside. Ad hoc, it seemed, much more than Mitchell was comfortable with. While other people were edacious and keen for change, Mitchell always only did one thing. "Not a murderer? I've killed more people than I know what to do with. People go batshit crazy when others kill, and all that, but it's just... it's inevitable."

"Death is inevitable. For most."

He took another long drag of his smoke, and looked away for a moment. "I mean – but what would I know about that?!" It was clear that his facade just dropped. His eyes had widened, and he looked down to supposedly occupy himself with adjusting the collar of his coat. Probably to someone in a better mood, it could be amusing, but to him, it just made him feel more antsy. He seemed almost like he was hungover.

He looked over at Liv. "If I'm going to compensate in lodging, you can at least tell me your name," he said. "My name is Mitchell." Mitchell wasn't trying to make small talk – he really wasn't in the mood, and a modicum of fear was creeping in, to be honest – but he had to know this woman's name.

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

The packet of cigarettes were received with a hum of appreciation. The familiar scent of tobacco filled her nostrils, curling in the back of her throat. She savored the cool, bitter taste, letting it sink into her teeth and gums before releasing it in a slow puff. In a single breath, she had managed to burn up almost half a stick. Being a chain smoker, this was nothing.

A brow raised at his careless statement and she waved the lit stick in his direction, "Such a selfish thing to say." Something flashed in her eyes. "People go to prison for that you know. Whether someone lives or dies, isn't something that should be decided by others."

A hypocritical statement, given how she had killed someone just a few days ago. She wondered what happened to the body.

His last words made her think. For most, he had said. She wondered if he was referring to her. His silence gave her time to study him. With the light dimming, the shadows deepened the scarred lines on his face, bringing out character that was both ghastly yet beautiful. A crown of light hung upon his auburn curls. The empyrean glow stopped one to peruse in quiet appreciation.

But Liv had never been a tacit person. She was perfectly incapable of putting thoughts into pleasant sounding words, so when she was finally caught staring, hazel melting into silver, her lips parted and the most poor choice of vocables tumbled from her mouth in the rudest possible way:

"What's wrong with your face?"

It took both of them by surprise, but Liv was better at hiding it. She grinned, her shoulders shrugging upwards.

"Liv," she answered, eyes closing as the nicotine began to hit, "It's a pleasure, Mitchell."

Her hand was held out to him. The stick of tobacco between her teeth, curled as she bit down. Its ashes fell in pinches.

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

As the air, like a chinook of tobacco scent, suffused the room, Mitchell wondered even more about Liv. He heard what she said, and agreed silently that no life should end by murder, but he didn't think she understood who he was just yet. "It's not something that can be decided in any situation," he said, thinking of the coevality in which another person may be on the brink of death. He looked around as if he were just reminded of something.

He took a pocket watch out of his coat and clicked it a few times. "Just a bit more for you, there... let your family say goodbye, at least," he muttered to... who? He mentioned the word 'family' tartly, maybe remembering something. "I'm busy." Mitchell placed the pocket watch back into the pouch of his coat.

He noticed, through the stillness, that she was... staring at him. At first he had just been looking off, wondering how the hell he was going to talk about death without revealing that he was, in fact, Death, although he had made it pretty obvious – to his mind, at least. But he caught her gaze for a moment, before she spoke.

Oh, so that was why she was staring?

"I don't think I'm the most popular person, do you?" joked Mitchell sarcastically, a wry grin on his face, though he definitely did not seem to find Liv's choice of words funny. Though he had seemed overtly embarrassed when he had initially caught her looking at him, he didn't take it as flattery right now. But it did draw his attention to her.

Her champagne-coloured hair, the way her pale blue eyes shimmered beneath an asperous veil, surrounded by a halo of smoke that made her seem enigmatic. It was breathtaking, like viewing a marble sculpture. Mitchell looked around. The orange light was almost completely gone.

"Liv," she had said, introducing herself to him.

As the ashes from her smoke drizzled and waned until they met the floor of the warehouse, Mitchell shook her hand. "And a pleasure to meet you, too."

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Liv isn't the brightest bulb in the box, but with all her years of living, she certainly wasn't the dullest either. His nuances were caught on her fingertips and considered to be the ramblings of a madman. A handsome, rugged madman but a madman all the same. A generalization given his state of living and the way he worked a gun. The bullet wound had tore a vital organ in her body. If it weren't for her strange condition, Liv would've surely died.

Perhaps he was hitman, one of those rogue assassins picked up by the mafias. The babe had seen her fair share of them. Their occupation, though dirty, paid a hefty amount allowing them to live in mansions should they wished.

...but then, that didn't seem right either. Mitchell was living in a shabby, abandoned warehouse with no money for even her medical fees. If he's not a hired hand, then what is he?

The more she tried to figure him out, the more confused she got. Like faced with a paradox of questions, Liv decided the best way to tackle it was to simply not think too deeply on it. With another sigh, she emptied out her assumptions and suspicions, including the small stray thought that perhaps, just maybe, he could be...

"If you're talking to me, I don't have no family left," Liv said plainly, leaning over to fish out another cigarette from the box in his hands. Straining over made her hiss in pain, but the bite of tobacco provided more comfort than any dose of anesthesia.

His mumbling made her arc a brow. She wondered what brought that on. A minute ticked, then two, until finally Liv turned her head and asked bluntly, "So what's for dinner?"

There's a shadow of surprise in his eyes, as if he expected something of her, a look which made her all the more confused. Was there something on her face?

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

Mitchell realized she was sort of looking lost in thought. He took the bayonet off of his gun and polished it. He didn't want to impose, but he wanted to know the vein of her ideas, and really, what she was thinking about him this far. He welcomed a new thought with bittersweet fervour; what would he do before his new "job" had come about? No matter what he thought of it, he knew he could never act like how he did again.

Mitchell looked over to her as she hissed in pain, and placed the box near her. "Neither do I," he said. Again, he looked at the faint reflection of radiance off of the pocket watch in his coat. "But some people do, lucky bastards." Mitchell lit a new cigarette for himself, the flame kindling a new lambent source for the room in a moment.

He saw Liv raise an eyebrow. He wondered why she had done that. He surveyed the counter, eye catching the can of soup again. He tilted his head towards it and spoke. "Just some soup. I mean, it's alright to eat in your condition," he said, trying to mask the hospitable inkling in his voice. "It's crab, so I hope you like seafood." Mitchell opened the can.

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

The talk of family was a depressing subject to dwell on. Liv had lost hers a hundred-so years ago, though she has never attempted to find any of her relatives. Her siblings had been cruel enough to sell her off and watching them die from age was one thing she took comfort in seeing. It was a small price to pay for their sins, the kindest form of retribution.

Memories of which dissolved like the tendrils of smoke in the air. The promise of food made her salivate, but she could recall in vivid detail, the affects of eating seafood with a flesh wound. The last time she did, it had been shrimp instead of crab. It caused colored pus to leak from the raw edges of curling flesh and it itched more than it stung. The sight was gruesome to look at and her doctor had told her it was infected.

There was hesitance in her actions but beggars can't be choosers. Liv held out her hand for a serving, grumbling in discontent, "No qualms with seafood but my skin would argue otherwise. Do you have nothing else to eat?"

They barely knew each other and yet the babe was bold enough to ask. It was hard to tell if she was being over-confident or simply shameless. (It was both.)

"So what do you do, Mitch? Mitchell... Chel... Mit? Hm," Liv tested the nicknames aloud. Mitch seemed too generic for a nickname and Mitchell was a mouthful. Her mind wandered towards useless thoughts such as these, and in the end, she decided Mitch would have to do for now. "Maybe Scar," she muttered, more to herself than to the auburn-brunet.

Her ramblings were strange and the second stick was nubbed out quicker than the first. "Are you a hitman or something?" she asked, gesturing at his firearm. Given his deadly aim, the hole which tore through her vital spot, Liv would be more surprised if he wasn't.

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

His eyes seemed harsh and vituperative for a moment as she seemed to decline, but Mitchell nodded. "Er, yes. Just... it's okay, okay, I'll have that." Mitchell looked at the crab soup, his neutral, almost confident tone giving into an incognizant one. He rose from where he was sitting and went around to the back again. "Chicken soup? I have too much soup. Okay... it's... good! Chicken's good," he mumbled to himself.

He walked back to where Liv was and sat down where he had been sitting before. He placed the chicken soup on the close to her so that she wouldn't have to strain to reach it. "Huh? Oh, just call me – just... call me whatever! You want, that is. I mean, not everything, of course..." Mitchell didn't catch her last comment.

He looked up after she inquired as she gave a jab at trying to guess his occupation. He looked over at where his firearm was lying obliquely on the wall. "Sure. Hitman, or... whatever you would call it, assassin, maybe." Mitchell had never had either of those words used to describe him – maybe others had thought it and had never said it, because he knew that they must've, but if the times willed it, he would use them, detrimental to his reputation or not.

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Relief was evident in her features and there wasn't an ounce of remorse shown in troubling him. She nodded in agreement to his mumbling, finding it somewhat amusing.

"Thank you," she said, taking the new bowl of soup gratefully. It's been three days since she's last ate, albeit Liv had yet to know that. She had guessed she's been knocked out for a few hours at most, but it seemed Death's powers were at work, delaying her sanative abilities. Regardless of which, the ashen babe was starved. She gulped down her food hungrily, only looking up from her bowl when he began to stutter.

That part made her grin and she snuffled a chortle at his awkwardness, "Okay, legally or illegally?" she asked, arching a brow. Her natural presumption would be towards the latter, but Liv was feeling particularly optimistic, wanting to give the male the benefit of doubt. He certainly didn't seem to carry the mad look of an assassin, but even if he had, Liv was fearless. She couldn't die, so what's the worst he could to her? Hurt her maybe, torture her? But the babe wasn't someone so easy to torment.

"You're brave for admitting. Aren't you afraid that I'll report you to the police or something?" Liv spoke reasonably, downing the rest of the contents in her bowl. There was a knock at the door, catching both their attention. From the look on Mitchell's face and the state of the warehouse, she assumed, this male didn't often have guests over.

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

As Liv ate, Mitchell felt a bit relieved, too, that she had an appetite. He tugged at his sleeves airily, or at least attempting to be, as she proceeded to catechize him for further answers. As she tittered again, he looked around. "Legally illegal," Mitchell deadpanned, pausing for a minute. "Illegal." He wondered why she would ask. It must have been clear, and he listened to what she had to say next. "No, it isn't brave, it's a terrible idea. And of course anyone would tell the police. But I don't think you'd want to do that." Mitchell gestured to the gunshot wound.

He was alerted by a knock at the door. "Just stay here, I'll go get it," he said. He walked over to the door. His hand was hovering over his gun, parked right up against the doorframe. One would have to wonder what type of guests he usually received. He opened the door, the brisk wind flushing in. A loud voice could be heard.

"Mitch, Mitch, son of a bitch! I got news over that someone survived," said a suave, charismatic voice. The outline of someone standing there, with shoulders large in breadth and hands on hips, could be seen.

"I won't say you're wrong, Dean, but –" Mitchell began, sounding exasperated already.

"So it's true!" the other voice said. "Did you get distracted or something? You really look distracted, your hair's all messy and you look like you've been up for days. Oh, and I really hope you won't mind if I come in."

Mitchell leaned up against the doorframe in a petty attempt to block Dean's view, and an even worse attempt to look calm. "I feel great. Why not just stay out here?" he asked.

"It's cold," whined Dean. "Besides, what are you hiding?" He smirked.

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. "I'm not hiding anything. It's alright." He seemed a bit less nervous around Dean, and more forward.

"...It isn't just you, is it?"

"No, no, obviously it's just me," rebuked Mitchell, with a feigned quizzical look towards his friend. "I don't know what you mean. You must be homesick, coming all this way. Can't think right." From a nonplussed tone to a condescending one. However, his true reaction was still the former.

"A little hot under the collar there, buddy? No problem. I'll just let myself in then, like a good host would do." Dean shoved himself into the warehouse. He looked around, and eventually, as it was inevitable, saw Liv.

He chuckled, staring across the room at the babe with hair as blanched as a Melianthus honeybush.

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Talking to Mitchell was fun. His awkward reactions were amusing to say the least and it made Liv all the more confident in her teasing.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, setting the bowl down beside her. She ate quickly and let out a breathy sigh in content. "You shot me. If the police puts you behind bars for it, wouldn't it be a justice?" she thought a bit on her words, tapping the spoon against her lips. "Though, I suppose you're right. If the police catches you, I won't have a place to stay."

For someone who had a bullet shot through in her stomach, Liv was pretty nonchalant. Her attention perked towards the door and she strained her ears to catch pieces of their conversation.

"If you're a police officer, don't worry! I was totaaally not shot by an illegal assassin. A murderer in layman terms, though," she paused, muttering to herself, "I guess since I'm still alive, he's technically not counted as one yet." She had yelled from where she was, voice sarcastic and brimming with levity.

Her eyes twinkled with laughter as she grinned, greeting the newcomer with a carefree wave. "Hi~" she hummed before looking over at Mitchell. A finger was jabbed in the stranger's direction, "Who's this?"

location: some warehouse backroom

 

[Alurille]

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MITCHELL

lose interest in the world
it numbs you like novocaine

Mitchell mentally reviewed Liv's final statement. Not have a place to stay? Mitchell looked over at Dean to make sure that he wouldn't do anything plainly impetuous. Dean had been looking at Liv with a well-bred twinkle in his eye, as well. As he had noticed Mitchell looking over at him, he turned to him. "Illegal assassin!" he said with an animated laugh. "That's Mitchell, as you know, and he's doing his job. But you see, as again, he probably told you, it isn't just a job, he's just speedi--"

"No, I'm not doing anything. If he were a cop, anyways, I don't think he'd be all too helpful!" interjected Mitchell anxiously. "Anyways, Liv, this is Dean, he's my friend." He seemed to use the word 'friend' sparingly. "I've known him since, you name it, the dawn of time." Dean nudged Mitchell. "And Dean, this is Liv, she's my... um, survivor," he continued. Dean rested his elbow on the window. The view outside wasn't exactly vivid or nice, but he acted like he made the scene all the better.

"Oh, and Liv, you shouldn't act carefree around him," warned Mitchell coarsely. "It just encourages him."

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[mon]

Liv Romaine

life is fury and spite and the coldest eyes

Liv studied Dean with a lazy eye and sniggered at his exchange with Mitchell. From how they interacted, she assumed they were close.

"Temporary roommate," Liv corrected. To call someone their survivor was far too strange, "Or patient, depending on how well Mitch can treat me." She shifted her weight, just enough to have her legs hanging off the table? Bed? Whatever it was she laid on.

She looked amused to see another person point out Mitchell's abnormal "occupation" (if one could even call it that) with such casualty, leading her to naturally assume that Dean's career is illegal as well. Usually, killings that happen in mafia gangs are covered up by the leaders with power and wealth. Mitchell seemed to have neither of these things so perhaps he's associated with a gang? It was the only logical explanation she could think of.

"So what do you do Dean? How did you end up in cahoots with an illegal assassin?" Liv asked, ignoring Mitchell's warning, most probably to the brunet's dismay. After being alive for so long, there was much she was jaded to. Hardly anything was taken seriously by her.

location: some warehouse backroom