The border between night and day for most was imperceptible; there was one or there was the other. Nothing could precisely measure at what degree the sky would be deemed exactly in between, nor was it immediately recognisable when one span ended and the other began, because time was nothing more than a nasty human construct that happened to estimate peak adrenaline hours quite well. As it happened, when it came to counting the seconds for when he mustered up the strength to stretch his legs out of his carriage, when it would be unquestionably, thoroughly night - he didn't do maths that required more than his fingers, but - Rialto could be crowned king.

The vampire kicked open the door of his low-hanging Ferris wheel carriage with a BANG, still lying down, and swung his legs out of the door, right on the dot and yet entire form sloppy beyond utter imagination. Good spooky vampire. Fantastically composed, heartless vampire. Legend has it he has the capacity to hibernate for up to a week, and not in the same worrying way that summoned visits to Ezra's doorstep. His mouth opened so wide with his yawn there was an audible click as he dragged himself up to stand, hand braced on the side of icy metal, and in the middle of it he vaguely processed the building hum of ambient sound as others around the town rose in much the same manner, a distant crescendo of murmurs, buzzes, hums, a little voice resounding from - oh, he knew that one.

"I've had better," Rialto demurred, strolling up to the foot of the roller coaster and disagreeing just to disagree with one of the laziest, perhaps most awe-inspiringly irritating smiles of all time. Adding insult to injury was his not even bothering to raise his voice, dropping an elbow on Ezra's shoulder to hold his weight without a moment's hesitation. He had a knack for it. (You know, annoying people.) Years and years of training; at this point it was almost an art form. Rialto waved to catch Marko's attention, craning his neck up and running pleasantly disenchanted eyes up at the two figures. Pretty bird girl was there, too. "Get down here and give me a leg up, heathen."

© MADI

"If something's going to break, it's because the roller coaster smells betrayal." Rialto didn't even blink at Marko's casual disregard, returning his salute with all the gravity of a soldier trudging to the front lines and as though he hadn't sniped him with all his cynical verbal might. He wouldn't die upon climbing the roller coaster by himself, at least not on the head of his own ability to ascend its crooked slope. Rather, if he was going to die, it would probably because flip flops had bad friction, and the world laughed at people trying to climb broken roller coasters while wearing flip flops.

Oh, Cat and dramatic entrances. She probably didn't even mean to do it. That sly dog.

Rialto only rolled his head to appraise their favourite headhunter, elbow otherwise totally motionless on Ezra's shoulder; a perch nice and stiff, just ripe for hanging off. "Precisely," he agreed, "it's good target practise." Which, if Marko was the garnish to their supernatural salad, would end up being the opposite of pretty, because Marko being sniped by any means physical (allowing his own intangible snipery) would consequently be - as the mortals said - wack. His toppling off the roller coaster? Wack. The crumbling stones of his leadership as the town rioted in uncoordinated anarchy? Wack. Keeping Marko alive? Tight. As fuck.

He cupped his mouth to be better heard and fairly yodelled, "Large child, please alight from the roller coaster. If you want spare parts, I can dismantle my phone-sized toolbox, but it'll cost you."

© MADI