The Needle and the Damage Done|Tag: Lucy/FINISHED

[ROGER DAVIS]

Floating.

It was the easiest way to describe it without sounding completely out of it. His nerves had never been the best; he had always known this. But with Mimi detoxing, with everything that was going on, his body was left shaking on a permanent basis. Mimi's withdrawal was going smoother now, how that she was away from the danger zone and the more serious waters, and to that, Collins had told Roger to take a breather. The older man had given him a bag of pot, rolling papers, and told him to go take a walk. Go sit in the Square. Anything, because he was gonna drive himself insane if he stayed.

There were two pills left, and Mimi seemed to be getting better every day. She hadn't needed a pill since Roger had gotten them, but he had always had them just in case. He forced himself to think of it as a one-time thing. It was only once more, because Mimi was okay now. He just needed something to stop his brain. And it wasn't like it was heroin anyway. It was just a half a pill. Something to take the edge off.

He wasn't about to go fuck everything up again, not after Mimi had gotten clean. But Roger knew he could only take so much. So he had taken the pill, taken the needle, and left with the bag of pot to Tompkins Square.

He stopped in the alley, settling down against a dirty wall. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he pulled out the small metal bottle cap out of his pocket, putting drops of water into it.

It only took a second, with the lighter and the cotton, to fill up the syringe. It wasn't going to be earth-shattering, but it would calm his nerves. He wasn't sure if Mimi would understand, but she wouldn't know anyway. He tied off, flicking at his inner arm before he watched as the vein rose. The needle that had once been in Mimi's vein slid in easily, and he pushed it slowly down, watching as the blood shot up into the syringe, only to be flushed back into his system. It only took seconds before he felt the wave crash over him, and it truly took his breath away.

His head lolled back, eyes closed as he released the tie on his arm. A deep, long sigh escaped his lips as he let the release travel across his body. It wasn't the slamming rush of Heroin, but it served it's purpose. Roger knew it'd tamed in an hour, gone in six, but it worked.

For now. And then Mimi would be better, he told himself. And then he would be better.

A sound made his head turn slowly, and he wondered if a cop had found his way into the alleyway. He slipped the syringe under his boot, crushing it, though he wasn't sure if whoever was in the entrence to the alleyway hadn't seen his entire show.

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

No matter how many times Spider asked her, if you could classify threatening as asking, to play the role of the drug runner, there was always at least a sliver of fear present.

Fear of the police getting wind of her unlawful nightly activities and tossing her in prison, this time for a charge that would stick. Fear of encountering drug-addled junkies whose state of mind might coax them to capture her and seize all of the illicit goods that she was transporting. Fear of Spider’s unfavorable reaction to the junkie scenario actually transpiring. Fear of a drug deal going sour and her battered body washing up in the Hudson River. Fear was always accounted for, justifiably. If she was honest with herself, she would admit to fear being her sole puppeteer. Hypocritically, Kitty was not fond of being very truthful to herself, so that truth went disregarded.

Weaving her way in and out of alleyways and traipsing through the relatively lonely streets, her hand reached into her tote bag, feeling for the bags of heroin and breathing a sigh of relief at the contact. Spider’s manic face flitted into her mind, warning her of the repercussions of losing the drugs.

It had happened once before when a mugger had decided it wise to appropriate her belongings. Vaguely, a sharp pang of discomfort struck her ribs, much like Spider’s foot had. Once she had been done being brutally reprimanded and interrogated by Spider, he put word out on the street about her mugger. Kitty never knew what transpired, but a distinct feeling that things did not fare well for the mugger swept over her with intense force. Spider wasn’t one to let sleeping dogs lie.

It was with that thought and the remembrance of that particular situation that Kitty sped up her pace. She still had some time to kill before the meeting with Spider’s client, but considering her horrid luck, something would likely occur that would delay her if she decided to look for a diversion.

Spotting a patrol car surveying the area and headed in her direction, she turned into another alleyway with great haste. It was a stretch to assume that the cop would stop her and question her, considering that she wasn’t in her usual provocative attire. That would have nabbed some attention and right now, what she needed was to linger under the radar.

Delving deeper into the growing shadows of the poorly lit alleyway, she kept her gaze on the mouth of the alleyway, watching for the patrol car. Assuaged when it finally did pass without even the slightest stop, she breathed another sigh of relief. Understandably, police heightened her anxiety.

The rustling of someone’s movements and the apparent crushing of something startled her and focused her attention in front of her. The crumpled silhouette of a man was clearly visible, though distinct features were not. Wary of the stranger before her, she walked ahead, extremely cautious but not obviously so.

The smell that pervaded the alley was instantly recognizable. It seemed like one of her fears had bounded out from her mind the instant she thought it up.


(Just so there’s no confusion, I’m referring to her as Kitty because she doesn’t know her real name. Eventually, she’ll find out, but that is a whole ‘nother story yet to be plotted. )

[ROGER DAVIS]

((OOC: Sorry it's so short. Late.))

It was a girl. It wasn't Officer Martin with his smug, shit-eating grin and his holier-than-thou attitude. It wasn't Officer Gray with his racist views that because there were skinheads in Alphabet City, every while male was automatically against the black race. Thankfully, it wasn't either one of them, because right now, the feeling was spreading through his body like warm, calming waves, and he would have been unable to form any sort of witty sentences to reply back to them.

It wasn't the full on knock out hit like heroin was, where his eyes rolled back into his head and his body felt like a lead weight; it wasn't like that wonderful feeling, but his senses were a little dulled. His movements a little slower. He lifted a hand up to grab the edge of the dumpster he was sitting next to, and slowly lifted himself up to standing. The girl didn't look like anyone he knew, but that didn't mean anything. He knew a lot of people, but new people arrived in Alphabet City every day.

His tongue felt thick, and he lifted it to lick his dry lips. "Who are you?" It wasn't like he owned the town or the alley that he was currently in, but he was curious at her arrival. She looked at the alley as if she was expecting a cop to walk through at any moment. Was she a dealer? A whore? Was she a runner for the Man? It could have been any one of those things. Hell, with the way the City was, it could have been all of those things.

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

Of all the alleyways in all of New York, she simply had to turn into one that was occupied by a drug-user. She was fated with exceedingly miserable luck, it seemed. It might be wise of her in the near future to quit musing about the hazards of prostitution since it seemed that every time she did so, they would manifest almost right before her eyes. It was an uncanny and very unwelcome talent she appeared to possess.

The dingy alleyway was poorly lit, as evidenced by the pathetic excuses for lights that were mounted onto walls of crumbling brickwork, the lights’ dull humming made audible. It was a relatively quiet night, something that was a treat in and of itself. She might have stopped to enjoy it, but this night had something entirely different in mind for her.

Once she caught sight of the male figure, her hand instinctively pulled the bag full of incriminating goodies closer. Protecting the drugs she was transporting was priority number one. If she wished to avoid a heinous beating, she was obligated to put the poison that was drugs before herself. In fact, so instilled in her it was that her mind had tricked it into a nearly reflexive action. She was, for the most part, a reliable pet. Or so Spider used to bandy about, but she had been increasingly inattentive lately. The fading bruises on her arms could attest to that.

Trudging forward, deeper into the alleyway, she inwardly hoped that she would either go unnoticed or ignored. Taking only cautious steps and attempting to make the least amount of noise as possible, she continued. So very close to passing the predominantly shadowed figure, she tensed when she noticed, using her peripherals, the figure starting to relinquish his post beside the dumpster.

Still intent on pressing on without pause, she sighed almost in defeat when the man addressed her. So much for being ignored. A battle between her emotions and logic waged within her, logic eventually emerging victorious. Reacting by dictation of her emotions would have meant fully embracing the panic that was beginning to gnaw away at her and sprinting away into the night. That, however, could result in the revelation that she did have something that was valuable enough to cause her to run away and lead the stranger to chase after her to find out what it was exactly that she had. When someone was on drugs, you had to assume the worst in order to be prepared for it.

Since her logic, the very little that she possessed, won out, however, she remained firmly planted in her spot. Best to seem aloof and cavalier and not the least bit suspicious, though the image of purity that she meant to uphold might have been already tarnished by her apprehensive and expectant side-long glances at the mouth of the alleyway.

“Who are you?”

His inquiry dwelled in her mind for longer than it should have. Just who was she? As disconcerting as it was, even she did not know. Inwardly shooing away such nagging contemplative thoughts, she decided to respond with as much finesse as possible.

“I’m no one,” she stated, a steadiness in her voice that she was proud of. Even more depressing, though, was the truth behind that statement. “Just a figment of your imagination. You’re high, remember?”

Okay. Maybe her logic hadn’t triumphed after all.




(OOC: No sleep in two days= Brain FAIL. Brain FAIL= Above post. -.- Apologies.)

[ROGER DAVIS]

((OOC: PFFFFFFT that was so not fail! That was awesome!))

I'm no one. Just a figment of your imagination. You're high, remember?

He didn't need reminding. He stepped, and his head spun, sending his hand out to grip the edge of the dumpster. Any other time, if he had been on something stronger, he would have been flat on his ass for at least a good hour. Here, he was just...floating. "I'm not that high." His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and he blinked before speaking. "I'm not hallucinating." he said, finding his voice once again, though it held another tone to it, one that was softer. Almost sad. "If I was hallucinating, you'd be a redhead and you'd be kissing me. You're not a redhead."

The words were true enough; the last time he had hallucinated, when he had been kicking heroin, he had only seen April. It had been both a wonderful experience when she kissed him, ran her hair across his cheek and face. Down his chest. Across his stomach. Her hair always lead to blood, though, being streaked across his stomach and arms. Anywhere her fire-red hair had touched was left red with blood. Only later did Roger find out from Mark that he had dug into his skin with his nails until he bled. Her screams had been Roger's own screams until his voice had blown out and he was left, scratchy and raw.

Maybe he didn't wish to be that high, but in a moment, he wished that everything could just go back to the start. Back to before Mimi got AIDS, before the first night he had slept with April without using a condom and before the first night they had shared needles because they didn't know any better. Before the innocence of youth got tarnished by the harsh blow of reality.

Roger felt himself blink and look at the girl standing at the mouth of the alley. She looked familiar, not as something he knew closely, but someone he saw every once in a while. Like how Mimi had been a dancer he had seen once at the Cat Scratch or on the street scoring anything she could.

He watched as her hands pulled something closer to her, and it made him wonder. Was she carrying? Was she getting ready to use? He wasn't sure if she'd be as wary as she was if she was using, though stranger things had happened. Her manner of dress made him wonder, as well. Then, it hit him. He had seen her out on the street when he used to go out late at night. He had watched her arm in arm with men.

"I may be high, but you seriously aren't making me believe that you're like, okay." His eyes felt heavy, and for a moment, all he wanted to do was sit and sleep. "...are you holding?"

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

Kitty, as she normally did, found herself pitying those whose lives were only enhanced by them immersing themselves completely in the drug lifestyle.

She had never been one to dabble in that area simply because that fear of addiction always stopped her from ever trying anything more extreme. Addiction was dangerous, in any form. That much she knew from observing others with addictions over the years and witnessing first-hand how their lives crumbled and fell to pieces while they preoccupied themselves with chasing that first high.

More often than not, that was exactly how pimps procured prostitutes. She knew because she’d sometimes be asked to convince the runaways and strays into selling their souls to enrich the livelihood of Spider. It was a shady business, but then again, every business had its fair share of underhandedness. Even with this candid truth in mind, Kitty still suffered through bouts of crippling guilt and nauseating shame at the thought of herself being somewhat guilty of those girls’ eventual downfall.

It was mostly drugs that Spider hooked them with, giving them just enough to keep them close at hand so that when the day came that they were dependent on his drugs, he would stop providing the drugs completely. It was cruelty in its most warped and hideous form. He would prey on their weaknesses, weaknesses that he had aided to implant and inevitably convince them that the only way to repay him for his supposed kindness and generosity was to sell themselves for him. It was a sickening sight, watching someone’s soul be crippled and destroyed right in front of their eyes, eyes that were full of desperation that manifested in their contract with the devil known as Spider.

Watching the stranger before her with a hooded expression, she couldn’t help but feel a sliver of sympathy for him. Drugs were dreadful puppeteers and with the way he was moving about, unable to stand erect without the aid of the edge of the dumpster, he was another victim to add to the amounting masses. However, he didn’t seem to be so strung out on whatever drug that he was on that he didn’t notice how defensive she’d gotten.

Listening to his schpiel about some red-headed woman, she very nearly made a comment that would’ve insinuated that for the right price, she could be his red-head desire, but she refrained once she thought it over. Tactless and downright flirty, she would have seemed.

Tensing at his blunt question, she tried to give off the impression that she had no idea what he meant. That turned out to pose an even greater problem when she had no skills to speak of that would successfully deceive him, despite his current state of mind. Even so, she admitted to nothing and no one. Her tone adopting an almost meek quality, she simply stared back at him, propping one hand on her hip, and said, “Holding? What exactly are you referring to, stranger?”




(OOC: Thanks muchly! Dammit, though, that every time I’m posting for you, I’m always sleep-deprived and my writing suffers immensely. A curse, I tell you! -.- Nah, it’s just me being a total dunce and not falling asleep.)

[ROGER DAVIS]

She was pretty in a strange sort of way, though Roger wasn't sure why. She also looked like every other person, it seemed in Alphabet City; she looked...tired. Worn. Maybe that's what the East Village population was ending up as. A huddled mass of tired and worn people. Silently, Roger watched her, studying her through his fog as much as he could. His head was swimming, but he forced himself to focus on the woman across from him.

He noticed her tense, and he tilted his head slightly. She moved, propping her hand onto her hip as she spoke, asking him what he was talking about and calling him stranger.

"What do you think I'm talking about?" Roger asked, releasing his grip on the dumpster for a moment, though he held his hand near the edge just in case he felt the world spin underneath his feet once more. "You're not fooling anyone, honey. And I'm high." A small smile spread on his face, though he moved, grabbing onto the edge of the dumpster once more. "You're a runner, aren't you?" There was one point in his life that he would have loved to run into a runner, more so, a female runner. He would have easily tried to get into her pants, or at least get some of her drugs. He was always reminded about how...different he was now than he was back then. Back then, the drugs ruled his life...but yet, here he was. They were still affecting him.

"Don't worry. Whatever you have...well, I don't do drugs anymore." However, his current state made him retract his statement. "Heroin. I don't do heroin anymore." he felt his brows narrow. "What's your name?"

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

Well, that was a failed attempt at aloofness if she’d ever seen one. Apparently, her supposed finesse had suffered critically tonight. She knew that was a lie as well, though, considering that she really had no finesse to speak of. Kind of made her wonder how she managed to attract clientele in the first place, but that thought dissipated rather rapidly at the remembrance that her profession, under the tutelage of an admittedly skilled pimp, really only required sin-seeking customers.

Contrasting with her utter humiliation at not being able to deceive someone who was actually high, she was vaguely impressed with his display of functionality. That could either be interpreted as him being highly experienced in that whole drug lifestyle or the drug that he was currently on not being very effective. She would have guessed the latter and an almost self-satisfied smile crept onto her face at the fact that she would have been correct. Sometimes, times as rare as violence-free nights, she could be slightly perceptive. Of course, that miniature hint of perceptiveness would be overshadowed by her lack of tact.

He’d pegged her profession, at least part of it, with frightening accuracy. Well, perhaps not frightening accuracy considering that she’d been fairly obvious about it, but that was beside the point. Figuring that she’d been discovered and that there was no effective way of shying away from the situation now, she conceded defeat with an audible sigh.

“Runner and prostitute extraordinaire, at your service.” Implementing a sloppy curtsy for effect, she pondered the effect of such a statement to a drug addict and quickly recovered by hastily adding, “Well, not at your service exactly.”

One sheepish grin and an awkward throat clearing later, and Kitty found herself settling into a conversation with a total stranger. Moderately assuaged by his assurance that she had nothing to worry about, she almost felt the unease receding. That was until he revealed he didn’t do heroin anymore. What a cruel twist of fate that she happened to be carrying a bag full of that same drug. Thinking it best not to mention exactly what it was that she was transporting under the risk of stirring those old feelings from the stranger and his drug affair with heroin, she focused on answering his questions. Noting the way he swayed gently to-and-fro, she made sure to keep a generally safe distance.

“Name’s Kitty. Gonna give me yours? You know, a little quid pro quo?” A teasing undertone edging into her voice, she failingly tried to stifle a smile.





(OOC: Forgive lameness. I just finished typing this up at 6am while working on no sleep, no food, and after having churned out two other posts. Sorry for the delay, my dear. )

[ROGER DAVIS]

Runner and prostitute extraordinaire, at your service.

He tilted his head, as much as he could without feeling like he was going to fall over. When she stated she was at his service, Roger felt his eyebrow lift slowly. At one point in his life, not too long ago he would have taken her up on her offer; even if it wasn't an offer at all. He would have turned on the charm that Mark said oozed from his pores, he would have slid up to Lucy and whispered something into her ear, anything to make her come with him and make him come.

At one point in his life, he hadn't cared who he slept with, as long as he had gotten a number and a woman in his bed. It seemed like so long ago, and yet, in the same token, it seemed like yesterday that he was wildly sleeping around. Then again, he was sure that's what had lead him to the life he was in now. His addiction to the life, the addiction to the feeling of everything under the sun. That love, that addiction to life was the reason he was now standing with one foot in the grave.

Well, not at your service, exactly.

"Really, baby?" Roger asked, a slight smirk crossing his face, all though it was slightly twisted as her body came into focus. "What if I wanted you to be at my service?" He stepped from the dumpster, feeling at least comfortable enough to stand without falling.

When she spoke her name, Roger narrowed his brows slightly. "Kitty." He stated after a moment, as if tasting the word like a wine. "My name's Roger. Roger Davis."

He wanted to ask her why she was out here alone by herself. Alphabet City at night was not a place for girls to be walking around. Bad things happened at night. Sure, he had went out many nights, only to hear the moans and groans and sharp intakes of air as men got blowjobs and quickies in the back alleys. He remembered many times with April, before they had taken their habit back to the Loft, where they had dipped into a room only to see men with their pants around their ankles and women smoking cigarettes looking bored.

He wanted to ask her why she slept with men she didn't even know, but then again....Roger had done the same thing. In a way, he was just like her. Except he didn't sleep with anyone for money.

The drugs were mushing his thoughts all together, and he narrowed his brows to try to get his thoughts back in line. "If you're worried about me wanting to take your stash, I don't. My girlfriend's kicking heroin right now." And yet, he was out here trying to calm his nerves. How hypocritical and ironic.

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

It was wondrous how nights seemed to pan out for her, especially lately. She was not quite sure what invisible magnet she wore around her neck that created this almost gravitational pull that attracted trouble to her, but she’d like it removed as soon as possible. Please and thank you.

She had to admit that verily she did tend to cultivate notions of every inhabitant of the world somehow adamant about delivering to her agony and humiliation. It was second-nature, because of the actual nature of her profession. Profession. She also seemed to have a habit of referring to her nightly dealings as merely a profession. That was laughable, so inwardly, she laughed. Rather pointedly, to add. No matter how much effort she put into dressing up how she earned her living, at the end of the day, she was simply and eloquently put, a prostitute. She had sex with strangers, men with no names and no faces, who were merely shadows wafting back into obscurity once the deed was done. Sullied, she was. Prostitution had made sure of that.

Her experience as a prostitute had also made sure to harden her against those whose faces she deemed unfamiliar. They were foreign and as such, they were not to be trusted. Lie if you could, and lie often. Truth was never safe. Not with a stranger, anyway. That was her creed and that was what she lived by, semi-consciously shunning most hope for ever developing a personal connection with her. She assumed it was all the better, for both parties involved.

So, in light of this fact, it struck her as somewhat perplexing when he gave her his name. Surely, he could have just given her a false one and she had no way of knowing, but that was fairly mutual. If he had given her his true name, perhaps he wasn’t the threat she had initially envisioned. He was riding the high of some other drug, that much was evident, but something in the tone in which he spoke to her depicted some shred of honesty. Or maybe that was just what Kitty foolishly hoped for, but ever since her fateful meeting with Henry, of which her face still bore a few grazes veiled by makeup, her convictions about not letting her guard down were continually challenged. Perhaps, trust wasn’t such a dangerous concept to accept. Despite this new thought gradually rooting itself in her mind, she made it a point to not make it so obvious to her new acquaintance, Roger.

Responding to his earlier flirtations, she adopted a countenance of teasing indifference, false as it was, the inflection evident in her tone, “Any other night, Rog, and I’d tell you to show me the money, but tonight isn’t one of those nights.” Patting her bag for effect, she offered a slight smirk, leveling it with his.

His comment, likely uttered to reassure her of his lack of devious intent, worked in his favor. It wasn’t that he’d said he had no intent to steal from her. It was the comment about his girlfriend trying to free herself from her addiction to heroin that aided to set her mind somewhat at ease. Roger had revealed something personal. Playing off the significance of it, she teased, “That’s a good thing then. I wasn’t really in the mood to play ‘fisticuffs’ with a guy to protect my stash. Believe it or not, I get tired of kicking so much ass.”

That was easily one of the biggest lies she’d told.




(OOC: Again, sorry for the delay. Also, Jerry Maguire reference FTW! )

[ROGER DAVIS]

Any other night, Rog, and I'd tell you to show me the money, but tonight isn't one of those nights.

Any other year, Roger would have taken her up on his offer. Invited her back to the Loft like the many girls before April. The guys had once said that his bedroom had been a revolving door because Roger got bored easily. Well, the first 'serious' one (though looking back, two weeks of constant fucking hadn't been serious at all) had been quickly ended because, ironically, the girl had been caught by Roger doing blow in the bathroom. He hadn't always been a drug addict, at least not the hard drug slammer than he had been known for in the not-too-distant past. Sure, pot and alcohol had been a part of his life from age 15 on, but it had only been shortly after he had met April that he had started snorting cocaine and doing smack. But once, he had standards. Sure, he slept with every girl he saw, but drugs any harder than pot had no place in his life.

How the hell he managed to allow April to slide was beyond him. He had been blinded by love. "That's too bad." Roger said finally, watching her. "Maybe I'll take a raincheck on that."

When she spoke of being thankful that he wasn't willing to steal his stash, that she was getting tired of fighting off so many people, Roger felt a slow smile spread on his lips. It instantly reminded him of when he and Mimi had first talked outside the abandonded lot, when they had both been nervous smiles and folded arms and Mimi had asked him if he was a fighter. Held her fists up in a playful challenge to fight and Roger remembered shaking his head, nervous laughter escaping his lips. No, he had told her. He wasn't a fighter.

"You're lying."

The dark alleyway was sliced with light by a small ray of white light that, as he stepped to her, lit up her face. Sure, her face was covered by make-up, and yes, she was quite beautiful, but he could see the dark splotches on her face, hidden though still visible to the trained eye. April had sometimes come home with dark bruises and splotches around her eyes, and Roger had wanted to kill every single person who had touched her, and even though Roger didn't know the girl in front of him, he felt rage slightly boil up inside of him.

Quicker than he thought possible, his fingers grazed the small scuffs and bruises on her face, until he pulled back his hand, not wanting to startle her.

"Y'really shouldn't be out here at night, doin' what you're doin'."

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

“Well, don’t feel too bad if I’m not waiting with bated breath for you, Rog,” she remarked, a hint of a scoff evident in the joking of her tone. He had mentioned earlier that he had a girlfriend and yet he continued to make passes at Kitty, though she surmised that his flirtations weren’t as sincere as he let on. Being the somewhat surreptitious observer of human nature that she often was, Kitty could sometimes be able to discern the tell-tale signs of falsities and truths. Of course, truths were a sight more difficult to perceive and accept than falsities, but she liked to delude herself into thinking she could tell the difference between the two every now and again. It was with that bore in mind that she had long since reached the conclusion that Roger was just playing the role of the shameless flirt and that the notion of a rendezvous with him was really just a ruse.

That set her mind slightly at ease. It always helped if she met someone that didn’t have interests of a more provocative nature in mind for her. Granted, she had not met been acquainted with many people that could set her mind at ease in that manner. Only two familiar faces sprang to mind. The rest were faces of seething lust, slithering into her mind and body, coiling around her resolve and coaxing her into further anxiety. Already, Roger was miles ahead of those wretched faces.

That crooked smile that nestled itself onto his mouth after her feigned attempt at proving her resilience was a clear indicator that he’d sensed that she was lying outright. Well, that and the fact that he had just plainly called her out on it. It had been a half-hearted attempt at humor, considering that in no way, shape or form could Kitty ever be capable of actually clawing her way to victory in a fight. As made evident by the bruising and scrapes that tarnished her delicate facial features, she was fairly easy to force into submission.

“Again, any other night and I’d prove you so wrong,” she teased, a soft chuckle edging its way into her voice, completely rendering her statement false. Slowly, but surely, Kitty was starting to shrug herself into a more comfortable jesting state. How had her guard fallen that quickly? The blame lay on Henry’s still poignant impression in her mind.

However, as Roger stepped closer to her and brushed his fingers along her thinly veiled scrapes and bruises, that comfort swiftly came tumbling. She jerked her face away, almost as if his touch had produced a scalding sensation, and took a step backwards, adding distance between them. Distance was preferred than proximity. As had been the case with Henry, she shied away from tender touches and she supposed that Roger’s touch had been just that. Likely why it stung. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she brushed wisps of hair from her face and attempted to regain her collected composure, what little she possessed.

"Y'really shouldn't be out here at night, doin' what you're doin'."

Arching a sculpted brow at him, she played off the actual thoughtfulness of his statement, opting to let that interesting new development simmer for a later revisit once she’d found a safer place to lament in. “Ditto there, Roger,” she leveled, her tone still tinted with that familiar teasing, but also sharpened somewhat from before.


(OOC: FAIL, delivered as promised. )

[ROGER DAVIS]

Well, don't feel too bad if I'm not waiting on bated breath for you, Rog.

"You're missin' out. I've been told I'm an awesome fuck." Then again, that had been years ago, when his blood and body fluids hadn't been a danger, when he had slept with girls like Kitty and hadn't thought a second thought over it. But now, the only person he slept with was Mimi, out of more attraction than actual force, though Roger knew that if, god forbid, anything ever happened again between he and Mimi, his choices for a relationship or even a simpathy screw would be very, very limited.

But he knew that he loved Mimi. He had loved her, even obsessed about her in Santa Fe, even though he wanted to forget her. He had even tried to hook up with someone, anyone at one point, just to try to forget about her, but she had always creeped into his mind. Just like she was doing now, and for a brief moment, Roger almost thought of abandoning the woman and going back home. But Collins had told him to take a few hours for himself. He'd watch Mimi.

He barely heard her next words through a fog, his bloodstream kicking around the crushed pill for another wave of nerve-numbing pleasure, however, her sudden jerk from him and his hand snapped him out for a brief moment. He blinked, almost in slight shock and confusion, before he moved, holding the hand up in the air before he slowly let it fall his side.

Instantly, he realised that he had done something, and even though her tone was hinted with some of the teasing, it was sharper than before. He felt his brows narrow deeply as he brought a hand slowly to his forehead. "I-I should go. I need to--" he made a move to step, but suddenly felt even more lightheaded than before, and nearly stumbled, though he caught himself against the brick wall of the building. It was then, through the fog, that he heard the shrill of his beeper.

He never remembered to take his pills, hence the beeper, but he hadn't remembered to put them in his jacket pocket. He hadn't thought he'd be out for that long. A few hours, here or there, wouldn't hurt him. Hell, he figured almost bitterly, nothing could really hurt him. When you had a death sentence, everything else looked...less harmful.

"Look, I'm sorry for...assuming." Roger said, fingers slowly fumbling for his beeper to silence the sound. "You should get that shit to...whomever you're running it too. They're probably waiting. I'd hate to know that you got hurt on account of me." The beeper wasn't shutting off, or maybe it was because his fingers weren't working as well as they normally did.

"Fuck."

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

There it was, just as she had anticipated. The impending awkwardness that surfaced due to her depleted social skills with people. Or at least social skills that beckoned forth intimacy of any kind. Granted, she could have just simply shrugged off the gesture as merely puppeteered by his high and nothing more, but she’d felt something dissimilar. Likely due to the fact that no one but Spider had administered a tender touch like he just had, regardless of whether or not Spider meant it. More often than not, it was a ploy. A deceptive distraction that she fell for nearly every time. She’d be damned if she fell for it here, especially if she had any say in the matter.

Roger mumbled something about him leaving because he needed to do something, but with the rapidity with which his legs were failing him, she doubted he could make it to the mouth of the alleyway let alone back home, wherever that was. Whatever drug he was on, it had swathed his mind in a sort of worrisome haze and had rendered the rest of him practically useless. It was evident in his steps, or rather stumbles. She wouldn’t have been so troubled by this display of vulnerability if it hadn’t been for a recent reawakening of her sentimental side brought about by the entrance of another man into her life. Verily, it was an unsettling notion to ponder that Henry could have had such a significant effect on her, so she shooed thoughts of him away in favor of the presence of Roger.

A distinct sound pierced the calm of the alleyway, it ricocheting about the walls and resonating within Roger’s slightly panicked eyes. A shrill beeping, his unsteady fingers fumbling to shut it off, his comments regarding his supposed guilt if she was punished for not delivering the drugs on time. At first, confusion seized her and caused her to stare perplexedly at him, almost as if she were pondering an imponderable. It wasn’t until she reevaluated her interaction with him and his state of being paired with the familiar beeper that the tumblers clicked into place.

Once the realization struck, her collected composure seemed to falter considerably. That beeping was more familiar than she cared for. Remarkably, Kitty was not one of the amassing unfortunate souls who were afflicted by that fatal illness. That was not to say that she hadn’t been plagued by at least a few sexually transmitted diseases, but none too serious and all had been temporary. Occupational hazards, she lamented.

Unfortunately, the AIDS terror loomed over those involved in the prostitution underground like an oppressive cloud. It wasn’t but a moment’s thought away and she had been witness to enough of her fellow prostitutes wither away because of it. Kitty knew the AZT beeper and the knowledge of this and Roger’s status stirred her niggling compassion. He was a tortured soul, just like she was. Maybe not in the same sense, but there was an intrinsic connection blossoming. How depressing that it took tragic similarities for her to harbor even a remote connection with someone else.

Sighing rather audibly and shaking her head dismally, she approached Roger and took the beeper into her hands rather briefly, only to shut it off for him. Once she’d done so, she returned the AZT beeper to him, mustering a gloomy smile.

“I’m sorry, Roger. I really am,” she offered, sincerity leaking into her tone and tenderness shining luminously from her eyes. His situation merited a shred of sympathy, one that she was sure he didn’t receive from those that judged so vehemently. It wasn’t in Kitty’s nature to judge. She was a firm believer that you had no place harping about the demons of others if you had some of your own demons plaguing you as well. To her dismay, she had her fair share.

Mulling over an idea so ridiculous she could hardly believe she’d conceived it at all, she concluded that she couldn’t very well do nothing. He needed help, though he seemed the prideful type that would never ask. Adopting a countenance that evoked pensiveness and her gaze seeming meditative, she finally asked, “Where are your pills?”

If he did not have them on his person, she would have to resort to her previous ridiculous idea that no doubt he would object to, if given the chance.



(Zombiefied RPer, a‘foot. )

[ROGER DAVIS]

I'm sorry, Roger. I really am.

He had heard it more times than he could count. I'm sorry, Roger. You're going to be okay, Roger. Things are going to get better, Roger.

He heard this so many times, it almost became like static noise, humming in the background whenever someone spoke. Sure, they were sorry. Sure they told him it was going to be okay...but they didn't really know. They could console him until the cows came home, but the truth was that no one really knew what little sorry did. The word sorry was thrown around so much that it hardly meant anything to him anymore.

But Roger didn't want her to think that he was a total dick, because really, he wasn't. Sure, he could hurt people with his words more than actual violence, but he didn't mean it, in the end. Her fingers moved to the waistband of his pants, and instead of a back-alley situation happening in the darkness, she took the beeper from him and shut it off. Her smile was echoed in the darkness, only peirced by the moonlight.

"Don't--" Roger started, blinking to try to clear the fog from his eyes and his brain. His voice almost sounded thick with the onset of tears that he tried to hide. "I'm tired of people pitying me." So strange, it was; he was in the middle of an alley, high and talking to a prositute about his life problems, yet he couldn't even talk to his own girlfriend when he wanted to. It was almost laughable if he hadn't been so messed up. "Don't tell me you're sorry. Because...because you don't know me, and you have to say you're sorry because that's what people do when people are dying. They say they're sorry. Because what else do you say to something you have no control over? Y'can't say a fucking thing."

Right. The whole 'not being a dick' thing was going real well.

Where are your pills?

Her voice broke the silence that had passed over the alley, and Roger felt himself swallow the lump in his throat. "At my apartment." He brought a hand up, brushing at his eyes slightly. "Please, don't--I just should go home. I'm a fuckin' hypocrite for bein' outhere. I--I mean, my girlfriend's detoxing." The word was said, Roger's voice almost breaking as he realised the situation he was facing in the alley.

His back hit the brick wall, and he felt it dig into the thin material of his shirt to hit his thin back. Sliding down, Roger landed on his butt against the wall. "Please." his voice was almost a whisper as he looked at her through glassy eyes. "Y'can't tell her." It didn't really occur to Roger that the woman in front of him would hve no idea who Mimi Marquez was, or that she was the centre of Roger's world. The fact that he'd die for her was something that he knew Kitty wouldn't know, but he knew, and it disgusted him. Why was he here?

"I just--I gotta go home." And then, he laughed , a slow sort of laugh. "I can't go home like this. My friends would crucify me. My girlfriend would disown me." he brought a hand up slow, pressing it against his face. "I just--There's a point, you know. Even for me, there's--there's a breaking point and I'm--" Roger brought up a hand, nearly pinching his thumb and forefinger together. "God, I'm so close. That close."