Really. I would have those concepts would be mutually exclusive.
( but he'll go there anyway. the emptiness of the front feels especially overbearing, somehow. maybe there's just too much space to stay on top of. maybe it's the neon without the music. maybe it's the fact the place feels like it was barely inhabited even before the place went dystopian. maybe it's the wall of booze, or the HILARIOUSLY on the nose wedding ring in the lost and found. maybe it's some combination of all of it. who knows! the point being, it was getting to him.
the dressing room probably won't be much better, but at this point anything sounds better than hellish, otherworldly neon. )
Nice of you to assume I didn't get axed. ( no, YOU'RE avoiding the question! )
( that's kind of a gentle way of putting all of RCPD was annihilated when Raccoon City was wiped off the map, and being coopted forcefully into federal work. but technically, it's classified, and to be honest, he's not dying to talk about it. )
( no idea if he's taking the bait, really. not that it's really bait: leon's already hooked, at least enough to keep coming back, and she doesn't even have to tip his chin with a pink fingernail or leave her panties behind in his room to prove it. it's that do-good nature of his, maybe, or his need to look out for someone relatively helpless; with a badge or without, he's far better with a gun than she is, after all, and it takes a good shot to take down some of the monsters lurking around building corners and abandoned alleyways. bullets are a commodity that will eventually run out. better to start in with a metal pipe than a pistol, but she won't critique his methods.
a familiar place, or so her thoughts say. a familiar entrance, that she shoulders through, a ratty convenience store bag hanging from one hand, a few holes punched in it near the top, as though it's seen just as much of the city as she has. up through the back entrance to the door that leads to the dressing rooms--a door that she stays behind, at first, leaving it shut.
rather than open it, she puts her back to it, shoulders against the glass; her smile lifts, falters, drops again as she lilts behind her. )
Are you properly cuffed, or are you still back here?
( the silence--or lack of it--will give her an answer; she's not sure which one will be the more disappointing. after all, true to her word, she's back with supplies: including, in fact, a package of those stupid little drink umbrellas, something hard-earned from one of the shattered convenience stores down the road.
whether he answers or not, she's opening the door anyway. hopefully, it's without monsters, too. )
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( but he'll go there anyway. the emptiness of the front feels especially overbearing, somehow. maybe there's just too much space to stay on top of. maybe it's the neon without the music. maybe it's the fact the place feels like it was barely inhabited even before the place went dystopian. maybe it's the wall of booze, or the HILARIOUSLY on the nose wedding ring in the lost and found. maybe it's some combination of all of it. who knows! the point being, it was getting to him.
the dressing room probably won't be much better, but at this point anything sounds better than hellish, otherworldly neon. )
Nice of you to assume I didn't get axed. ( no, YOU'RE avoiding the question! )
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i don't care either way. work is work, play is play.
so it's not going to change how i think of you.
( no, it probably will, but easier to encourage this way. )
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( that's kind of a gentle way of putting all of RCPD was annihilated when Raccoon City was wiped off the map, and being coopted forcefully into federal work. but technically, it's classified, and to be honest, he's not dying to talk about it. )
Not sure I was cut out for it anyway.
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( he's joking. ...mostly joking. )
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( HINT HINT BABE WHERE YOU AT ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ rattles the bars of his strip club dressing room cage )
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( and wouldn't that be a change? he's never gotten to be the damsel* before! )
* only because he is completely unaware of the multitude of times ada saved his dumb ass
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a familiar place, or so her thoughts say. a familiar entrance, that she shoulders through, a ratty convenience store bag hanging from one hand, a few holes punched in it near the top, as though it's seen just as much of the city as she has. up through the back entrance to the door that leads to the dressing rooms--a door that she stays behind, at first, leaving it shut.
rather than open it, she puts her back to it, shoulders against the glass; her smile lifts, falters, drops again as she lilts behind her. )
Are you properly cuffed, or are you still back here?
( the silence--or lack of it--will give her an answer; she's not sure which one will be the more disappointing. after all, true to her word, she's back with supplies: including, in fact, a package of those stupid little drink umbrellas, something hard-earned from one of the shattered convenience stores down the road.
whether he answers or not, she's opening the door anyway. hopefully, it's without monsters, too. )