Chase the Morning (Victor) (Casual)

[anna]

The city never slept.

And certainly not at night. If anything, it slowed to a sluggish crawl sometime in the afternoon, and started back up as soon as the sun went down. That was when all the slimy little children of the night crept forth from their hiding places to chase the morning. Azelma hadn't, she realised as she pulled her shirt over her head, slept in her own home all week. Hardly any surprise there. Any old floor felt more homey than home anyway. At least then the only thing you had to worry about was getting raped.

Well, that, and having your pot stolen. But Zel was lucky tonight.

Azelma slinked into an alley and lit the joint, and watched people. People were so interesting, the living, breathing, sweating, dancing, heaving kaleidescope that made the city sparkle and night and shine by day. And plenty of them would go by tonight.

[JACK THE RIPPER]

The biting chill in the air hadn't left Jack, even with it being the summertime. There was something about his blood rage that made him cold, as if his innards were freezing over, and the only thing that could warm him was taking a new life.

Winter was always the worst time; it was when he was born, and in that bleak and sudden death of his mother's happiness there sprung a hatred borne from ice. Her ice had worked its way onto him- now, Victor was not so much jaded as frozen. His subconscious had a deep yearning to be human, no matter how much he limited himself, and the only way to do that was to thaw.

But just before winter was when he needed it, to store up enough warmth to ignore the frost and keep going. He rarely killed in the spring, and rarer still in the summer, but there was something about this summer that left him shivering. He wasn't satisfied. For once, he had not killed enough to satisfy himself. And it wasn't a chore, warming himself, not this time- he had been planning something inconspicuous as always that had blown up in his face after that first taste.

This year winter had followed him, and in much more than just bloodlust, but physically, too. A raging cold had taken hold of him for the past week, the sore throat rendering his voice rustier and making him sniffle every two minutes. He hated being sick; Victor was very sensitive when it came to what he thought made him vulnerable, and being sick made him feel like he was at the mercy of nature. Even being at the mercy of a force much larger than himself upset him deeply. It didn't help the cold in the slightest to hold back from his work. In fact, getting his mind off of his pathetic state was a very good thing for him, and so he persisted on with his night walks.

He was in not an unfamiliar part of the Bronx, but one of his less frequented. See, he knew every square inch of the worthless neighborhood, but that didn't satisfy him; ever the perfectionist, he had to be able to walk a route in his sleep before he felt confidant that he could take it. His form was inconspicuous--just his hat and his coat, hands stuffed into his pockets, his head down--but just beyond the shadows that were cast, his eyes flickered back and forth, studying his path with the careful, loving analysis of an artist.

It wasn't long before his keen sense of smell alerted him to the fact that someone was nearby, and that they were smoking pot. Not too unusual, sure, but he couldn't help but let his natural curiosity take over him as he carefully slid to the mouth of the alleyway, looking over his shoulder to see. It was a young woman, leaning against one of the walls--it was almost as if he could smell the shame on her from where he was. With a very quiet shuffle, he leaned against the wall nearest to where he had been standing, squinting at her.

"You oughtta put that out." A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He was doing her a favor, suggesting that. Anyone within a few buildings could deduce what she was doing.

((If you wanna do the Parnassee thing, go ahead. XD His voice is affected by the cold, so. Whatever.))

[anna]

Azelma jumped.

Which really, that's not all that weird. When creeps come up behind you, rasping away, telling you to put out the joint but oh I've only had the one today please can't a girl get her smokes in-- it's sort of terrifying. She leaned against the wall, collecting her nerves as quickly as she could manage. Hair? Same as always, stringy and smelling of unkown smoke- check. Face? It's a lipstick night, girls, with eyeliner- check. Shoes? Let's not joke. Red trainers worn beyond belief. Clothes? Skirt cut too darn short. Dirty shirt, too big, worn off Superman logo, awesome. So awesome, that she had in fact worn it three days straight.

That makes it a lucky shirt.

Very lucky indeed, if Montparnasse had shown up. Few things were off though, the voice- bit harsh. Cold, maybe? It was also too dark to tell out his features properly. The streetlamp had hari-kari'd hours ago.

In defiance, she took a long, long hit on the joint, and smiled at her new company. Or old company, as one might say. "What's gotten into you, 'Parnasse? Y'scared we're gonna get caught?" She nudged his arm with a lightly balled fist. "Want some?"