[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]By the time a message pings in Red's back pocket he's already halfway up the street. These were particularly lonely times, out here. Tangle wasn't unwelcoming, not in the slightest, but there were things back home that couldn't be found this far out of town - including the people he'd known his whole life. Therefore, spending a night barhopping across town and looking vaguely upset in every dark corner he could sniff out wasn't a foreign pastime, these days. He just had a lot to think about.
Red squints down at a too-bright screen and tries to tap out a response. He's already half-past drunk and his hands are too fucking big so the most he can really say is:
YEH A
- which is a miracle when he's using what is essentially a slab of beef to type on a tiny, cracked screen. He needs reading glasses, he thinks. Or two real hands - he could drive properly, then, and use his stupid phone. Having one flesh-hand and one stone-hand was immensely frustrating sometimes, especially when he wasn't using it to bend steel or tear the refrigerator door off its hinges because he opened it without calculating the perfect amount of force. Sometimes he wonders - not now, but sometimes - if it's another part of himself he could saw off and file down to a stump, too.
At this hour, one could blink from a distance and almost mistake him for human. Almost. When he isn't on the job he conceals as much of himself as possible: a massive overcoat obscures his figure and, if he tucks it away it just so, his tail as well. He wears combat boots because it makes more sense to wear than the modified leatherwork he was issued back at home. A sweatshirt under his coat, snug against his frame and hood pulled far over his head, covers the massive stumps of his horns that jut out from his temples. Tangle is used to him well enough, and there were others like him on the outskirts of town; he thinks of Beck's wandering soul, and the mutated animals that lived around the test site just out of town. But it was a busy place otherwise, supernatural and unnatural creatures aside, and he was tired of strangers' eyes following him down the road or gawking bystanders crossing the street when they saw him. Blending in wasn't easy, but he tried.
It's almost midnight, now, and the street corner on which the nightclub is situated is buzzing with activity. It's not the greatest place to hang - a little too upscale with just a little too much faux-sleaze, in his opinion - but Delilah wanted to meet here so he figures she's just in it for the sweet drinks and spritzers. (Not that those weren't fun on the right occasion.) There's a bouncer outside and Red wants to shove him in the alley dumpster on sight; he's too clean cut, too rude to the girls that are waiting for their friends and dates, and the look on his face when Red rolls past is one of unconcealed disgust. Red sneers, a show of blunted teeth.
It's an assault of light and movement that strikes him as soon as he enters the space. He's already too drunk for this, he thinks, and would rather settle out at some shitty dive in another town than waste his time here. (But he's doing it for Delilah. Maybe one day she'll hone her tastes.) Somebody knocks shoulders with him as he sidles around tables and groups of dancers, and for a moment he's seething - until the stranger sees his near-seven foot stature and shuffles off in a hurry. He considers telling Delilah that he couldn't come, just for the sake of scoping the place out from afar - but he barely makes it a few steps in before he spots the group, and he doubts his own presence has gone unnoticed.
"Delilah?" Eyes flit carefully across the crowd, seeking out familiar faces. It's just a few of them so far, Delilah, Aethel, and Alfred. In a vague gesture of kindness (really, he just doesn't feel like paying for fancy drinks) he picks up a pack of beer at the bar and tells them it's for a party. Hopefully nobody will like the taste of dry, shit beer and let him have it to himself - his tolerance was unreasonably high, considering he was something of a supernatural demon or whatever they wanted to label him, and it took a lot to knock him out. He tended to empty his pockets on this stuff at least once a week.
Not the king of gracefulness, he drops the pack on the table with a thud and leans to pull up a chair. "Hey. Brought beer."
Red squints down at a too-bright screen and tries to tap out a response. He's already half-past drunk and his hands are too fucking big so the most he can really say is:
YEH A
- which is a miracle when he's using what is essentially a slab of beef to type on a tiny, cracked screen. He needs reading glasses, he thinks. Or two real hands - he could drive properly, then, and use his stupid phone. Having one flesh-hand and one stone-hand was immensely frustrating sometimes, especially when he wasn't using it to bend steel or tear the refrigerator door off its hinges because he opened it without calculating the perfect amount of force. Sometimes he wonders - not now, but sometimes - if it's another part of himself he could saw off and file down to a stump, too.
At this hour, one could blink from a distance and almost mistake him for human. Almost. When he isn't on the job he conceals as much of himself as possible: a massive overcoat obscures his figure and, if he tucks it away it just so, his tail as well. He wears combat boots because it makes more sense to wear than the modified leatherwork he was issued back at home. A sweatshirt under his coat, snug against his frame and hood pulled far over his head, covers the massive stumps of his horns that jut out from his temples. Tangle is used to him well enough, and there were others like him on the outskirts of town; he thinks of Beck's wandering soul, and the mutated animals that lived around the test site just out of town. But it was a busy place otherwise, supernatural and unnatural creatures aside, and he was tired of strangers' eyes following him down the road or gawking bystanders crossing the street when they saw him. Blending in wasn't easy, but he tried.
It's almost midnight, now, and the street corner on which the nightclub is situated is buzzing with activity. It's not the greatest place to hang - a little too upscale with just a little too much faux-sleaze, in his opinion - but Delilah wanted to meet here so he figures she's just in it for the sweet drinks and spritzers. (Not that those weren't fun on the right occasion.) There's a bouncer outside and Red wants to shove him in the alley dumpster on sight; he's too clean cut, too rude to the girls that are waiting for their friends and dates, and the look on his face when Red rolls past is one of unconcealed disgust. Red sneers, a show of blunted teeth.
It's an assault of light and movement that strikes him as soon as he enters the space. He's already too drunk for this, he thinks, and would rather settle out at some shitty dive in another town than waste his time here. (But he's doing it for Delilah. Maybe one day she'll hone her tastes.) Somebody knocks shoulders with him as he sidles around tables and groups of dancers, and for a moment he's seething - until the stranger sees his near-seven foot stature and shuffles off in a hurry. He considers telling Delilah that he couldn't come, just for the sake of scoping the place out from afar - but he barely makes it a few steps in before he spots the group, and he doubts his own presence has gone unnoticed.
"Delilah?" Eyes flit carefully across the crowd, seeking out familiar faces. It's just a few of them so far, Delilah, Aethel, and Alfred. In a vague gesture of kindness (really, he just doesn't feel like paying for fancy drinks) he picks up a pack of beer at the bar and tells them it's for a party. Hopefully nobody will like the taste of dry, shit beer and let him have it to himself - his tolerance was unreasonably high, considering he was something of a supernatural demon or whatever they wanted to label him, and it took a lot to knock him out. He tended to empty his pockets on this stuff at least once a week.
Not the king of gracefulness, he drops the pack on the table with a thud and leans to pull up a chair. "Hey. Brought beer."
[div style="text-align:center;font-size:10pt;line-height:9pt;color:black;font-weight:bold;font-family:verdana;"]IF YOUR FORTRESS IS UNDER SIEGE,
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME