paint it black / moonmade

[ANIMA B.]

[COLOR=#FF6666]TAKE WHAT YOU NEED FROM THE DEAD

It looks worse than it is, but that doesn't mean that it isn't bad. Annie notes that herself silently as she examines her face in the plain compact that she has stuffed in her jacket pocket. Her left eye is beginning to develop a black eye, dark blue bruising forming around the site of impact. Most of the time, she wouldn't allow herself to be caught off-guard, but she wasn't supposed to be doing anything shifty today. Since she'd come to Star City - she'd been such a good girl compared to her usual antics.

The past didn't want to let her go, as always, and hence she'd ended up getting into a fist-fight which turned into a knife-fight and left her with a particularly pronounced black eye due to being punched in the face before she could react and left her assailant with a knife in the shoulder. All in all, a day that went from okay to shit and hence, she finds herself at a bar with her phone blowing up with messages, chewing the inside of her mouth whilst she winces at several bits of information that she just... Does not wish to see.

She sighs, shoving her phone back in her pocket as she downs... Ah, she's lost track. She lets another long sigh, raising her hand for something that isn't a shot at this point. By her reckoning, guessing by the slight buzzing feeling that she has, that she's had enough to get her on the way to being drunk, but she's not quite there yet. Thankfully, her tolerance is high due to dealing with most of her issues by the way of drinking until they either sort themselves or she gets enough of a break to be able to sort them out.

"Yeah, can you get me a berry cider please, it's on my tab. Also, how many shots have I had? If it's less than 6, another shot of Jack, thanks."

© LEXASPERATED

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]Things are always busy at The Halfway House. Peak times and rush hours don't exist here. Assassins and felons don't exactly work from an Office. You won't see them creeping down the highway in a Ford, pissed off because they're late for their kid's soccer practice. They're either off spilling blood or cleaning up spilled blood, or they're here.

So Moon's always busy. It's the reason he took this job in the first place, 3 years ago. 16 year old Moon was a troubled kid with a troubled family and bruises that came up blue on his dark skin. This place was a temporary distraction 'till he got out of dodge. Problem was, dodge grew on him. So there he stood, running out of shot glasses and hopping the counter every 20 minutes to break up a fight, watching adulthood creep up on him like fungus.

Speaking of; some fucking woman wouldn't stop with the shots. Every 2 minutes he'd hear a tap on the counter and he'd turn, ready to tell her they were all out. But each time he'd see the lean muscle in her arms and the colors around her eye and he'd remind himself this wasn't how he wanted to die. Besides, they were closing up, soon. There was no chance she'd fit in ano-- 'another shot of Jack, thanks.'

"Where the fuck is it going?" he snaps, throwing his hands up in the air and rounding on her with a raised brow and an exasperated expression. "You slipping into the little girl's room and pouring that shit down the toilet? If you're still able to piece a sentence together, there's no fucking way you've downed every one of those." A part of him was impressed. Eight done, and she was looking for another one. Who was this chick? He sighs, grabs his rag to rub down the counter before pulling the bottle out from under the bar and placing it on the counter. "[i]Ninth.[/i] You're asking for your ninth shot. So what is it? A breakup or are you looking for Death by Jack?"

— TAGS

[ANIMA B.]

[align=center][div style="width: 540px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]"Why are you bothered? I've been tipping you." She grumbles, not bothering to look Moon in the eye in something that could be ascribed as embarrassment, but really, she's not ready to admit that she's drunk that much. Still, she offers a shrug in return, going far enough as to chuckle when he implies that really, she should be drunk. And honestly, she is drunk. That's the whole fucking point of this exercise, to end up so drunk that nothing else matters.

"Aw, thought it'd be lucky seven." She comments with an overplayed whine when he whips out the bottle. She mentally berates herself considering Jack isn't even good whiskey, the American shit is shit and the Scottish is quality - double malt whiskey is far better. "Also where do you think it's going? Did I spill it down my shirt when I wasn't looking? I'm actually buying for the guy who tried to smash my fucking teeth in, sending 'em to his hospital room." She sounds not angry, but more like a child throwing a tantrum, like she's sulking with Moon. And now she can almost hear Cailan telling to grow the fuck up.

Why is she drinking? There is a breakup, but again, that wasn't... Well, it was entirely her fault. Vincent Clemens was not here and his sister, the godamn sister of the man that she's avoiding because she fucked up left him for his own good is turning up. Thank her lucky stars that Valentina doesn't know who she is right? She loves it when a plan comes together.

"'M not broken up." Her sulky tone continues, "He's not broken up with me yet. I just... Think he should find someone else." She pauses, perhaps in a moment of self-realisation but is blessedly short-lived before she shakes her head and looks him dead in the eye. He looks... Pretty young considering, and it catches her off-guard, forcing her to stop again. Was she giving this kid a bad time? She didn't want to do that - she promised she was going to be good when she moved here...

She holds her hand up, digging in her pocket for her wallet and fishes out a 20 dollar note. "Here, take that for a cider and keep the rest for yourself, and put that godamn shit away. Don't even fucking like Jack."

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]There's a call from the door. Moon glances up while Anima whines to see the figure of Old Joe, the cleaner who usually locks up. He hasn't realized the time; people have spilled out, and he's been distracted cleaning shot glasses. "Closing up, Moon." says the man, one brow raised as he glances to Anima. Moon takes one glance at the woman's crumbling figure and waves him off, "Leave the keys there." he says. And it's with that that he pours his own fucking shot.

He listens to the woman as he hops up on the counter, dragging a hand down his tired face. She sounds like she needs to talk, and who's he to deny some further liver poisoning? "Least you didn't end up in this hospital room with him." he replies, her reference to some fight not taking him by surprise. In the Halfway House they don't talk about the weather; they talk about all the noses they've broken and skulls they've cracked. Hardcore.

He drains his shot and opens the bottle to pour another when she answers his question. He looks to her, knowing. So it was a break-up. Or, a soon to be one, at least. A frown graces his forehead when she speaks. She thinks he should find someone else. Moon's not typically one for heart-to-hearts, but this statement in particular has him hooked. The sides of his mouth droop slightly. "Yeah, no. I get it." says the boy, swirling the whiskey in his glass. He thinks of big, gorgeous eyes and flower-ridden dark hair. "Makes you wonder how good people end up with people like us, huh? Like Satan's using us as his studs to corrupt the rest."

He frowns so abruptly at the money she holds up that he's sure to give her whiplash. He doesn't let himself think about rent, or the loans he has to pay back, or the food he'll have to put on the table tomorrow. It's instinct, still hanging around from years spent struggling. But that's almost in the past now. The Halfway House pays him a steady wage of money and death threats; he's fine. "You think I'm some fuckin' pay-as-you-go broad? I'm flattered, but I don't have my lace panties with me tonight, so I'll have to pass." He waves her off, downs the next shot. "I'm not looking for any fuckin' money, man. The cash register's already locked up, anyway. Keep it. Buy some concealer for that black eye, maybe."

— TAGS