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Back Alleys, running away!

” I was dreamin' when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray.”

The pliers were old and rusty, they tended to jam at the most inconvenient of times but they were all Marquis had on him at the moment. Crouched in the crawlspace above the bar, the blonde could feel the heavy bass line of the music vibrating through the ceiling. It made his hands shake, and this task take much longer than planned. Were one to glance at him, they’d mistake him for some sort of practical joker or vandal, hiding away and tinkering where he shouldn’t be. That Marquis, a slight, slender blonde of far less than average height, was actually a police officer was a thought that wouldn’t occur. His clothes failed to speak the part – undercover, he was in loose beige pants and a white tank-top – and the contraption he was fiddling with certainly didn’t fit into standard police protocol.

Still, it had to be done. A lopsided grin broke through onto Marquis’ face as he sat back on his heels, his work complete for now. Like on the way in, his crawl back out of the vents and back onto the street went without a hitch. He emerged into the nightlife of a back-alley, snow soaking through his clothes before he had the chance to right himself. He’d lost his jacket somewhere along the line but, as he jogged away from the pulsing building, the cold failed to make an impression. The adrenaline rush was better than any jacket.

BOOM.

”Tonight we’re gunna party like it’s nineteen-ninety nine.”

His walkman skipped. The blast was strong enough to knock its maker forward, stumbling, before he whipped back to watch the ensuring chaos with a maniacal grin. What was left of the unlicensed bar (and alleged brothel) was a mass of burning rubble, and from this distance Marquis couldn’t hear the people screaming. It was good, and this was just the first hit for the night. It was unorthodox, but with the way things were running in 1998, New York these days, annihilation was something the police were beginning to grow accustomed to. And Marquis was the expert in the unorthodox.

Downtown, getting jackets thrown at him.

While the flames arching towards the sky made a very pretty picture, it wasn’t one Marquis was going to stick around and watch. While he was on the police force, his devision wasn’t a particularly... public one, and when the normal ranks came in to quell the panic, it just wouldn’t do for him to be caught there. Explaining himself to other officers was always awkward, and he didn’t want anyone remembering his face. It just wasn’t good for ones health, especially when one didn’t know who the gangs had in their pay. That was the last thing he needed: some gang putting a hit on him.

With the flames to his back, the blonde jogged towards the spot he’d left his friend and partner, only a few hours before. Most would mistake him for a late-night health fanatic, running at this hour, and Marquis didn’t hurry. Mattie was never the most congenial when left out of things. It didn’t matter how often Marquis told him to just stay home, it was a solo mission, the other man insisted on hanging around until Marquis made his way back. It was pointless, but nothing Marquis said or did would stop him. The thought of just going home and leaving Mattie out in the snow did cross his mind once or twice, just to prove a point, but it never happened. Marquis just wasn’t that mean.

In fact, his trademark grin was slapped across his face as he jogged up to his partner, slowing down to a stop. While Mattie’s grin may have rendered another man terrified, it seemed to just slide off Marquis like oil on water. Even having a jacket thrust into his face didn’t seem to dampen his mood. He struggled with it a moment, having a few issues finding his way out of the mass of material, before he peeked out at the growling man.

”Blowin’ stuff up, mate. Cold make you forgetful, or somethin’?” He didn’t bother trying to give the jacket back: Mattie would just get even crankier.

-- -- --
"Back in this world of humankind
I think we've already lost our minds,"

His shoulders heaved with a great weight as he sighed.

Walter had to take off his oval spectacles for a moment and set them down on the table. He dragged a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, fingertips just brushing dark rings that had been developing around his crow's feet during the night. Getting roused in the middle of the night was not scheduled, so weariness wove itself in and out of each of his wrinkles today. The pounding in his temples was incessant, too, fluttering from one side to the next like a fly.

The news hadn't helped, either.

One of his bars, The Quincy Adams, had been blown to smithereens the night before, which Walter thought was downright rude. He frowned and took a second to glance down at the papers on his desk, arranged next to the placard with his name carved out in silver plating:

WALTER R. NICKELSON

Setting his glasses back delicately on his nose, Walter felt his chest sink at the zeroes on the pages. It would take a healthy sum to properly clear the area before rebuilding any sort of structure. His lips pressed themselves into a thin, disapproving line. Why, just yesterday, he was happily buying the stocks to some sort of strange, outlandish investment idea:

It seemed as though someone wanted to create a Walkman without the tapes. A CD player without the CDs. Seeing the potential in such an idea, Walter immediately bought up a discreet amount of shares in the company-- just enough to make a profit if things ended up well, and yet too small to take any lasting damage if it went under. He didn't approve of the name, though. What sort of sense does a product make when the first letter is lowercased?

"Nikkel, please bring Bacio in for a conference ASAP," he muttered into the speaker on the side of his desk. "And, and bring me another cup of tea."

Jaye usually didn’t bother with such frivolous things like the newspaper. He was, frankly, better than all that depressing nonsense. He had housekeepers (or maids, as Jaye referred to them, though technically that was illegal) to tell him things that were relevant to him. Which was why he promptly spit coffee in the face of his poor, dear Rosie when she told him The Quincy Ale burned down.

“You’re kidding.” Jaye spluttered.

“No, sir.” Rosie looked unimpressed. He and Damien had been fighting for that thing for... for… He didn’t know how long! But it was important. Jaye didn’t know all that much about location, but gods he knew it was important if Damien had been after it. Well! If it was burned down, it was a perfect opportunity to do a little talking and see if they could tip the favour in their direction! Oh, just wait until Damien knew. Jaye tossed a Kleenex at Rosie’s face in a spur of generosity, then nearly hopped over the breakfast table to dash to the car garage barely waiting for a ‘thank you, sir’.

It felt like a Porsche day. He happily clicked the door shut to the elegant purple beast and gently revved up the engine. “Easy, Bertha.” Jaye muttered, almost giggling. “We’re gunna go meet Damien, okay?”

The car reared out of the carpark in response, blasting it’s way past an angry ticket booth dude and out onto the concrete jungle. Whew. Air. Good, wholesome smog infested air. Jaye peered in his rearview mirror momentarily to check and see if the light purple touch up he’d added for eyeshadow matched the car’s colour. He had been in a rush, after all. Oh well. It’d have to work. Jaye slammed on the breaks and nearly forced the entire lane into their graves when he stopped in front of Jesse’s office building. But Jesse wasn't there, so technically right now it was Jaye's. Well. And Damien's. But he didn't count. Some pedestrian looked like he was going to yell at him for parking in the middle of the street, but Jaye just got out and tossed him the keys with a wink. “Park it somewhere nice, okay? Or I’ll kill your family. Have a lovely day~!”

Valet was everywhere if you knew what to do. Jaye smiled and burst in through the lobby doors. “Where’s Damien?” He asked everyone in the lobby. “I have a surprise for him! Oh, you there, send lunch up to the ninth floor. Make it something Italian, okay? Okay, thanks~!”

Ping! And with a stylish swish, Jaye literally pirouetted into the elevator.

Osi is a winnar! : D
Walter's Office: Sitting in your chair
________________________________________ _ _ _


Many would say Bacio was a poor choice as heir to the Nickelson Incorporated. Everything about her screamed danger: the crazed grin that painted her face, her trademark swagger and even her delicately manicured nails. Against the heavy woodwork and plush carpets of Walter’s office, the woman seemed roughly hewn, primitive and vastly unqualified to ever be sitting in that desk. What lurked behind Bacio’s hooligan facade, however, was a dangerous intelligence that. An intelligence that was dead set on hunting down what she wanted and getting it, by whatever means necessary. Body-counts meant nothing to the albino, only that they weren’t caught. It hadn’t happened yet, evident in that she stood there today, hand on hip and waiting for her boss to acknowledge her.

”Bit hard to ignore a building blowing up.” Was her insightful comment. Bacio collapsed into one of the armchairs in the office, yet to simply say collapse would be to understate the gesture. It was less of a fall and more of a crumple: One second she was on her feet, the next in the chair, one leg swung over the arm and her head tipped back in thought. There was a complete lack of feminine grace in the woman, and she tapped her foot to some unknown rhythm, her coffee-cup balanced precariously on one knee.

”Blowing a joint up’s a little too crass for the cops.” The ceiling was extremely insightful. There was a new crack forming in the left-hand corner, she noticed as she ran her tongue over a particularly sharp tooth. Her response hadn’t been immediate, and when she began speaking again the words came slowly, as though she were still winding up for the day. ”But it doesn’t smell of anyone else, is the problem. Way too deliberate and flashy.”

Her coffee was luke-warm now, but the albino took a long swig of it before smacking her lips, and glancing at her employer. ”So that’d probably mean someone out there’s sick of hiding his head up his a** and is trying to make a statement. I’d say it doesn’t matter who the ******** is, at this point. We rebuild, have some sob-story interview with whatever news station will take it, and while it looks like we’re licking our own balls we send out sniffers to find out who we need to ******** up.”

Full of female charm, was Bacio. ”Unless you had something else planed, ‘course.”

_ _ _ ________________________________________

> [ Bacio Argento ] <
”I don’t play your rules, I make my own.”