07-31-2018, 04:36 AM
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The Cool Kids for the better part of at least a decade were no one less than the vicious tag team that toted umbrellas and cackled at the people they scored dates with via Cat's Tinder - burning, streaking a mile ahead of their more sedate counterpart (or Rialto's, going by face). Grins like a solid uppercut, like a bomb. Annoying, ear-ringing, blinding, positively painful. Radiant, you could've called them. A pair of fools that dipped out of their detached immortal stupor on weekends, looking for something modernly made, something interesting. Twenty years back, following what the other human and slightly less cool kids did, Alex had tried a mullet, and had woken up later with one of Rialto's knives held quite seriously to their neck. The back, of course. At the mullet.
Or the fun ones, you could've also called them. Not reckless in the same way - twin terrors only by the similar degree of discord they wreaked, but usually when they hit the town they split, paths perpendicular. Rialto himself wasn't a partier. Drinking and pretending it had an influence on him just so he could shout at people, very innocently rude, was fun maybe, but the risk wasn't, undead and surprisingly resilient to being stabbed he might be. He's an artist. Jots notes on the new customs, the fads, the colour he sees on the streets. It's always interesting to him how people are sometimes so alive (less literally), and the raggedy youth with a mistake for a haircut - then alive, yes literally - and a patched jacket caught his eye like movement before a big cat.
Nasty but sincere. A lost boy with too much of a swagger, steps large with the air that he could cross the whole world just by walking.
At the answer, Rialto stilled, then leaned in from Alex's side to sniff at Marko's head. The cuts were slow to bleed, but deep and those were indeed little chunks of gravel embedded in them. Further still the blood caking his collar was more assuredly not from someone they knew, including Marko himself. Huh. Never mind. If Marko wasn't, at present, a little too weak to live through the heart attacks Rialto regularly dealt without pause, Rialto would say something nasty like, you mind if I help myself to that blood, but Marko looked pitiful enough Rialto only gave a bit of his hair a light sympathetic tug.
The limp, warmly unfurling relief following their revelation that Marko, while knocked around, wasn't in a truly life-threatening situation, couldn't possibly show itself in any other way.
"Wrapping him up like a mummy will do the trick," he suggested. Benevolently. And now, appropriately more melodramatically, "Kid. You dummy. I know the Rock is swimming in muscle, and you kind of don't even want to fight back when he comes at you because he's such a good, buff guy, but still. How could you let him clothesline you so hard?" That was also him being nice. Pretending Marko had gone out in some way more valiant than off a cliff, even though if he'd actually been in a tussle there would be more blunt force trauma and less cuts unless the opponent was him and had thirty-six little knives. He could, alternatively, offer to beat up the actual rock - and he'll probably go look for it later to give it a few kicks - but in the meantime, he let Ezra slide in front of him.
Not to be left out, Rialto beckoned to Alex to join him, and pointed at Marko's shoes. Someone should get those off. There was some blood on them too, but Rialto wasn't low enough to want to lick those.
Or the fun ones, you could've also called them. Not reckless in the same way - twin terrors only by the similar degree of discord they wreaked, but usually when they hit the town they split, paths perpendicular. Rialto himself wasn't a partier. Drinking and pretending it had an influence on him just so he could shout at people, very innocently rude, was fun maybe, but the risk wasn't, undead and surprisingly resilient to being stabbed he might be. He's an artist. Jots notes on the new customs, the fads, the colour he sees on the streets. It's always interesting to him how people are sometimes so alive (less literally), and the raggedy youth with a mistake for a haircut - then alive, yes literally - and a patched jacket caught his eye like movement before a big cat.
Nasty but sincere. A lost boy with too much of a swagger, steps large with the air that he could cross the whole world just by walking.
At the answer, Rialto stilled, then leaned in from Alex's side to sniff at Marko's head. The cuts were slow to bleed, but deep and those were indeed little chunks of gravel embedded in them. Further still the blood caking his collar was more assuredly not from someone they knew, including Marko himself. Huh. Never mind. If Marko wasn't, at present, a little too weak to live through the heart attacks Rialto regularly dealt without pause, Rialto would say something nasty like, you mind if I help myself to that blood, but Marko looked pitiful enough Rialto only gave a bit of his hair a light sympathetic tug.
The limp, warmly unfurling relief following their revelation that Marko, while knocked around, wasn't in a truly life-threatening situation, couldn't possibly show itself in any other way.
"Wrapping him up like a mummy will do the trick," he suggested. Benevolently. And now, appropriately more melodramatically, "Kid. You dummy. I know the Rock is swimming in muscle, and you kind of don't even want to fight back when he comes at you because he's such a good, buff guy, but still. How could you let him clothesline you so hard?" That was also him being nice. Pretending Marko had gone out in some way more valiant than off a cliff, even though if he'd actually been in a tussle there would be more blunt force trauma and less cuts unless the opponent was him and had thirty-six little knives. He could, alternatively, offer to beat up the actual rock - and he'll probably go look for it later to give it a few kicks - but in the meantime, he let Ezra slide in front of him.
Not to be left out, Rialto beckoned to Alex to join him, and pointed at Marko's shoes. Someone should get those off. There was some blood on them too, but Rialto wasn't low enough to want to lick those.
© MADI
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