The Muse Of The Unimportant And His Straight Forward Fairy Princess

Joe's Pool Hall (Avg NPCs: 18)
More or less one huge room, two rows of pool tables stretch from the back of the
building. With a small dance area near the front, allowing for some dancing,
when the occassional sentimental song plays, but lets be honest. These guys are
abit too scruffy for that and its more often used as a fighting area. The bar
is made up of solid oak, and lined with black and red cushioned barstools made
of solid steel frames. Mesh chicken wire prevents anyone from getting over the
counter, though in all honesty, the bald biker behind it looks more like the
type who only needs to worry if guns are pulled. There are no bouncers but
there is a clearly displayed, and likely not the only one, emergency button that
reads "If this button gets pressed, the cops are on their way." With a friendly
atmosphere though most of the bikers and vets that populate this bar seem to
have enough respect not to get too out of hand with their fights inside. Next
to the door is a sign that reads, "I'm armed - The Managment" just below another
sign that reads, "Rules for Fighting - No foreign objects, no guns".

* Exits *
south - Santa Monica Boulevard

Sybine steps through the door into the poolhall, her shoulders set back and her head held high, taking a few long strides past the threshold. Waist length red hair topples around her shoulders in spiral curls, and seems in a lack of care or management. Her outfit is neatly pulled together from head to toe, aside from the fitted leather jacket she wears boasting the usual gang title on the back and the large, round smiley face pin against her chest. What appears to be a simple black tanktop is almost completely covered by her jacket, matched with a rather undersized black skirt that ends in a shredded fashion halfway down her thighs, and a pair of ankle-high dress boots with a rather precarious heel.

With his grey trenchcoat folded neatly over a borrowed chair, a handsome man dressed in grey slacks and a black, button-up dress shirt plays pool, the sleeves of his shirt unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. A grey tie fits snugly around his neck, completing the outfit. With a rather stoic, and detached, expression on his face, Elijah bends over, posing and getting ready with a poolstick to break.

Moving towards the bar, the redhead produces a slight metal jingle with her paces as the d-ring at her throat sways against the small spikes of metal that are embedded into the usual leather collar about her small throat. She takes a seat on one of the stools, straddling it briefly before she comes to a rest, obviously not accustomed to a skirt, or at least to a lady-like appearance. When she finally crosses her legs, her top foot bounces slightly either from nerves or habit, and she converses with the bartender briefly before a bottle of beer is set infront of her and she pays for it with a tangled wad of bills from her jacket pocket. As the glass bottle taps her lip ring for the first time, she manages a few small sips of it before swiveling her stool to the side to sweep her rather indifferent gaze about the shabby bar. As her eyes notice the vaguely familiar figure of Elijah, she leans to the side against the edge of the bar with her forearm flat against the surface, watching his game passively for the moment.

The attractive man pushes his poolstick forward, smashing the tip into the cueball, sending the little white thing rolling into the perfect triangle of colored spheres. The sound resounds through the poolhall as the break occurs, and Elijah leans back to survey the mess of colors, his features as stoic as ever. The grey tie around his neck pulls back, swishing through the air lightly as the man moves.

Sybine watches Elijah's movements with mild curiosity now, and as the cue ball slaps against the others with a resounding clamour, her eyes dart away from the man and to the top of the table to watch the interaction of the spheres with more noted interest. However, she takes another drink as the balls come to a stop against the table top, and she returns her pale green eyes to Elijah to trace his movements once more in a rather unabashed manner. Half of her drink is gone within the first few minutes, and she takes a pause from her staring to order another, obviously worried about being left with an empty bottle for too long. Another ball of paper is tossed against the counter to handle the payment of her drink, and she once more brings her attention back to the pool table, sliding her jacket from her shoulders to rest it on the stool to her right. The woman's shirt lacks a back, save for a few straps that hold it to her small frame, and even in the dim light the patterns and lines of excessive scar tissue and damaged skin are worn without a flinch of self-consciousness. Here and there the faded and broken lines of her tattoo work are visible, though it doesn't seem a things been done to fix the designs since whatever accident left her so scarred.

Elijah watches the break through his constantly displayed mask of stoicism, suddenly speaking without turning his eyes towards the woman he is addressing. "I'm terrible, I know." The man says, as it becomes obvious that he's been aware of Sybine's presence the entire time. He lines up another shot, bending over the side of the pool table, his grey tie hanging out in front of him. His black, blue and green tipped hair is up and spiked forward as usual, almost looking freshly wetted.

"It's really not so bad," the girl answers in a soft, almost sing-song voice, shrugging up one shoulder with a jerk. She doesn't seem a bit suprised with his start of conversation, or the least bit worried that she's speaking without being spoken to. "You keep yourr eyes on the table, at least. More than I'm fucking capable of. It's damned boring, if you ask me." As she speaks, as if to accentuate her explaination, her eyes move from Elijah to the room before coming back. She takes another mouthful of beer, turning the bottle nearly upside down as it rests between her thumb and forefinger before she sets it on the bartop, sliding it inward.

"It is, isn't it? Fucking dull." He says, throwing the stick down onto the table. He sighs, walking over to his grey trenchcoat, his head tilted down slightly, shadows creeping down over his perfect, pale features. "Couldn't think of anything better to do. My boy's not around tonight, it seems." He says, letting out another soft sigh as he shrugs the coat on, looking rather defeated.

Sybine takes up her new bottle, already prepared for her, and lets it rest against her knee as she follows him with her eyes as well as a light twist of her stool. "I feel ya," she notes after a moment, her voice only hinted with sympathy. One leg remains crossed over the other, but with his strike up of interaction her suspended foot ceases its bouncing for now, obviously welcoming the distraction. "Ain't that the fucking way, though?" she starts, before pausing to take a drink. "Spend so much time with someone, and you get a fucking second to yourself… And, what do you do? Get bloody lost. Weirdest thing I've ever seen, but, hey, I know how you feel."

Elijah nods his head slightly in response, stepping towards the bar as his stoic expression darkens, something akin to brooding slipping into his graceful posture. The grey trenchcoat around his body sways about him, the end bouncing against the backs of his legs as he takes his seat at the bar. "Trouble is, I don't /want/ to have a second to myself." He seems to sense the direction the conversation is going, his self-pity suddenly coming to an end as he settles down on his stool, his expression suddenly becoming a mask of fine features and stoicism, yet again. "You're friends with Carl, right?"

Pulling the glass bottle back from her lips only slightly, the girl's voice echos against it as she speaks. Replacing her rather indifferent demeanor with his question, though, she scowls childishly. "So, you don't want me to buy you a drink, then?" she asks, scanning up to meet his gaze as he seats himself near her. "I think 'friend' might be a little to… well, friendly word." The studder of her wit gathers around her eyes shifting away from him quickly, her own moment of reflection leaving her a bit less relaxed. "I know Papi well enough, if that's what you're asking, but I'm not at all sure why you'd even care." And with that said, she seems to allow her very thin figure to relax once more, returning her attention to him before she takes a short drink of her beer and sets it down on the counter.

"I suppose." He says, turning to meet her gaze with his cold, silver-green eyes. "Just one beer, though." He manages a tiny smile, though there's still an undercurrent of sadness to his handsome features. "Does he hurt you? You seem rather soft about the mention of him." Elijah asks, hardly ashamed or embarrassed at the blatancy of the question.

Sybine brings her hand up to motion for the bartender with a finger, and points to her beer before holding up two fingers to place her order. "Full time, I think," she answers in an easy tone, bringing her attention back to him. "But, soft is something I'm not, otherwise I'd let him fucking kill me by now, right?" She smiles in a disarming fashion, the tone and change of the conversation obviously not offending her senses. "I can tell you what's written on the butt of his shotgun from the bruises on my face sometimes," she contiunes in the same sing-song voice, letting it pass out of her pale lips as nearly a joke, though she shrugs up one shoulder carelessly. "Still not sure here why you'd be the least bit fucking concerned." She lets a thin eyebrow raise at this, but she dismisses it with another drink from her bottle as the two new ones are set down and she pushes one towards Elijah.

"He's conditioning you, of course." Elijah says, taking a sip of his beer, nothing changing in his stoic, yet sorrowful, features. "Going to turn you into a perfect law-hater. An anarchist, eh? In every sense of the word." The man says, taking another large gulp of beer. "Fuck, I haven't had one of these in so long. Devon made me kick the habit. He made me kick a lot of habits. God, I love him. My fucking savior, eh?" He says, taking another few gulps of beer before pushing the thing off to the side. "I'm not entirely concerned. It's just… a story. It's something to observe. Not to be impersonal, but fuck it, you don't need sympathy. You're not soft, are you?"

Sybine smirks softly as he finishes, looking quite bemused with his little speech. "Nothing Papi can do to me is going to give me habits any worse than I had before he decided he wanted to fuck with me. Anyways," she corrects him after a drink of her beer, "It isn't Papi that's teaching me a fucking thing, otherwise I'd probably be dead in a dumpster somewhere. Groveling leaves bruises on my knees still, yknow?" She chuckles a bit to herself, pushing a hand up through her hair to shake it back away from her face with a quick side to side movement of her fingers. "If you were concerned, I'd probably just call you a pussy. Better this way for both of us."

Elijah stares at the counter top, hands propped up against the bar, fingers curling around the beer. With the way the man sits, it becomes clear that this is a practiced pose, his most comfortable and familiar, a loser at a bar. "I can be a bit of a pussy, sometimes. Though, I'm starting to root it out." He says, reaching into a pocket of his trenchcoat, pulling out a pack of cigarettes before quickly lighting one and situating it between his lips. He resumes the bar-pose after this, silver-green eyes still staring at the bartop in deep contemplation. "I'm starting to realize that nobody gives a fuck. Everyone's a murderous douchebag. There's only one person I know that I trust and care for. It's a… rather bleak outlook, to be honest."

"You… are probably the single most interesting morose person I've ever met…" Sybine hesitates after a short chuckle. Her eyes flicker towards the movement of his hand going into his pocket, and her shoulders tense only slightly before he pulls out his cigarettes, which in turn cues her to do the same. She withdraws a beaten looking pack of cigarettes and taps one out against the edge of the bar before setting it between her lips to light it. Just before she strikes the lighter she notes, "Elijah, right? I'm shit poor with names. Haven't even gotten all the boys' names down, yet." Lighting her cigarette now, she takes a slow drag and lets the smoke press from both her nose and her lips before taking another drink, finishing her second bottle to start on her third. "And, they give a fuck if you make them realize they don't have a fucking choice. Only so much you can rub in a person's face before they start giving a damned. But, as far as douchebags go, it's not all that bad. Human nature and otherwise to only give a shit about yourself. Takes some time to learn otherwise."

Elijah shrugs one shoulder, glancing up at the sight behind the bar for a moment, staring through the fog of smoke as though trying to see through his own emotional dilemma. "I'm not interesting. Just another fucking face in the crowd, right?" He says, throwing the pack onto the bartop, reaching up to take the cigarette away from his lips momentarily. "Yeah, Elijah. Elijah Day. Junkie extraordinaire. Addict of all things good and bad. Cesspool of discarded hopes and dreams. Poet of the cast away. Muse of the unimportant." He says, still staring through the haze in front of his oddly-colored eyes. "I feel fucking dandy, Sybine. I feel like killing someone. That is a /good/ mood, nowadays. Would you like to help me murder someone tonight?"

"If you think that little speech wasn't interesting, then you're a little fucking broken," she tells him, amusement still dripping from her voice as she turns her eyes to him in seeming appraisal. "I don't cut my wrists and cry myself to sleep like most of the girls you're probably used to, but if that suits you just fine, I think we're gonna get along." For the first time, Sybine laughs in an almost genuine fashion, using one hand to gather her long hair over one shoulder, unashamed of the dark bruises that rush along her throat under her collar. She takes a second to comb her fingers through the long red curls to tame them slightly before her attention comes back to Elijah in full form. "Meanwhile, I don't have an introduction that Steven King himself would have an orgasm over, but, we can paint this town red, blue, or purple, if you'd like."

Elijah nods his head dismissively, hardly heeding the woman's words. He ashes the cigarette in an ashtray, suddenly looking like a crack fiend as his mannerisms become sped-up and increasingly excited. "Good. Because I will need you to hold the fucker down while I lick his eyeballs." The attractive man stands, leaving his cigarette burning in the ashtray, cracking his neck to one side rather eerily while simultaneously adjusting his tie with both hands. "Let's fucking roll, my straight-forward fairy princess." He grabs his pack of cigarettes before walking towards the door, grey trenchcoat swaying around his thin body.

Sybine slowly slips back off of her stool in the same un-lady-like manner, her skirt riding up enough for one of her hands to come down to straighten it. As she comes to her feet, she lets her cigarette rest between her lips, tosses another few bills against the bartop, and snatches up her jacket with one hand before pivoting on her heel to follow. After a half-step, she pivots again to grab her beer bottle from the counter, making her way towards the door with it to her lips as though she didn't want to waste the liquid courage before stepping out with Elijah. She takes a few jogging steps to catch up to him, hooking one finger into the loop at the neckline of her jacket before swinging it over one shoulder casually with her cigarette balancing now between the first to fingers of the same hand. "Only if I can do it with my foot on their throat," she responds in an odd fashion, though the words flow from her lips as natural as a hello, and a chesire grin replaces her simple amusement. As she reaches the door, she tosses the empty bottle directly onto the floor with a crack and a soft roll of the glass without a single glance at it.

Elijah steps out into the crisp night air, sliding a second cigarette between his lips, lighting it quite quickly as he stands up on his heels, smiling maniacally before blowing smoke into thee face of a passerby. "Fucking grand. I'm feeling. Grand. Smiles and giggles and people and imbeciles. It's time to work. This is a hobby." Despite the seemingly random, and insane, choice of words, Elijah steps into the flow of pedestrians, back into the river of sheep and time and momentary sanity. "Let's join the flock and choose one lucky motherfucker to liberate."

Sybine comes to Elijah's side with a few easy paces, her spike-heeled boots tapping a bit less quickly as she catches up to him. "You're a little fucking irratic and I think I'm falling hard," she tells him with a soft chuckle, though the casual aire of her voice betrays the exageration and the serious undertone of exactly what they were planning to do. She tosses her cigarette to the side quickly, and her eyes don't follow it for a second as she releases it with a flick of her fingers, and woe is anyone in the way. The gentle sway of her hips leaves her close to drunken state easy to notice, but she manages her slight weight with the graceful steps of a practiced binge drinker. Letting her side rest nearly against his as they move, Sybine steps easily about each passing person, her eyes scanning the crowd ahead of them as she keeps pace with him, her eyes only here and there turning to bring his figure into focus out of the corner of her vision.

Santa Monica Boulevard
When one thinks of the Los Angeles club scene, they think the strip, otherwise
known as Santa Monica Boulevard a club scene rivaled only by Malibu itself.
People constantly line the side walk from all walks of life trying to get into
or walking to their favorite club or hot spot. Paparazzi roam the crowds in
packs, hoping for their next money making photo of a celebrity nip slip, or
panty (or pantiless) shot. One can catch someone of almost any race, creed, or
sense of fashion if they walk far enough and long enough along this street.
Spanning from east to west the strip provides entertainment for almost anyone.

* Exits *
north - The Gulag [Avg NPCs: 60]
east - Santa Monica Boulevard
south - …
west - Santa Monica Blvd & North Fairfax Ave

Elijah continues to rush along through the crowd, face tightening as he sucks on the cigarette, every movement of his body exaggerated and dramatic. "Aaaah, why thank you. But my heart belongs to another." He says, silver-green eyes beginning to scan the faces of all passersby, looking for a suitable candidate. "Imagine. We're like the fucking UFO dropping out of the sky to ruin the farmer's day. The motherfucker doesn't even expect it. I love the initial fear in their eyes." He says, his own narrowing as he zones in on a face, a downtrodden fellow standing next to an alleyway. "That one." he says, all humor falling from his features, the cold mask of stoicism sweeping over his attractive face, though this seems to be a rather genuine show of cold indifference. "You're with me now, Sybine. Prepare yourself." His hand shoots out, rubbing up the victim's chest in an erotic manner as Elijah leans in, kissing the man on the lips as he pushes him into an alleyway, sliding a hand into his trenchcoat at the same moment.

Though the whole discord of speech, lecture, and action, Sybine's grin doesn't fall from her lips as she paces a foot or so behind Elijah now, following him easily into the mouth of the alley. "Oh, I'm not at all interested in your pretty face, or your penis," she tells him with a soft sigh, her spring-green eyes taking in each detail about the two men, the situation not seeming to throw her off balance even the least bit. "I'm quite taken as it is. That doesn't at all mean I can't enjoy the show," she notes with a soft scolding in her voice, closing her distance between the two men with careful steps. She leans against the brick wall of the alley just next to the man under Elijah's grasp, her inner arm wrapping around her midsection while the other hangs loosely at her side. All of her outward amusement slips from her features as the scene unfolds, and only a wild curiosity and excitement fills her eyes as the rest of her features slacken into unreadable indifference. "You're with me now, Elijah," she adds after a moment, her voice in a slight mock of his previous statement, and though her expression doesn't show it, it's obviously she's enjoying the game, "I'm not so easy to scare off."

Elijah presses the unfortunate man against the wall of the dark alleyway, his lips still locked against the victim's, one hand rising to press against the man's neck and windpipe. He holds the victim's head back against the wall as he pulls back, tilting his head to one side. The handsome man pulls his other hand out of his trenchcoat, a shiny butcher's knife now in sight. "Smile for the camera. I want your juices, baby…" Elijah says in a disturbingly seductive voice, smiling eerily at the wide-eyed fellow.

Slowly pulling her shoulder back away from the wall, Sybine regains her weight and takes a step away from the brick she was leaning against seconds before. "That's easily the worst pick-up line I've heard since I got into LA," she tells Elijah in an extremely light voice, a slight smile returning to her lips as she speaks. Seeing that he obviously has the situation under control, the thin redhead takes a moment to light another cigarette from her jacket pocket and pull the fitted leather coat back around her shoulders, the thin smoke almost disapearing into the night air as it mingles against the curls that fall around her cheeks. After a few casual drags, Sybine steps towards Elijah again, the click of her pointed heels against the tar echoing against the back noise that ushers into the alley from the street. Her movements are foward as she stops just behind him, her heels adding only enough height to her petite frame to rest her chin on his left shoulder, the front of her body laying easily against his back. "Don't mind me," she whispers, though it's obvious as one arm wraps around his waist that she doesn't really care. Instead of resting against his stomach, her hand comes forward against the victim's torso, only managing to keep the man prone against the wall infront of Elijah.

Elijah actually doesn't seem to mind the woman helping him with his prize, his attention wholly focused on the task at hand. He presses even harder against the man's neck and windpipe, leaning in to plant a brutal kiss on the victim's lip, teeth actually beginning to bite down on the man's lower lip, just as his hand shoots forward, the blade of the butcher knife thrusting sickeningly into the man's stomach. "Scream for me." He says, his voice a harsh whisper as he moves his lips next to the man's ear, muttering random strings of curse words and disturbing comments as he continuously drives the butcher knife into the victim's body. The man only whimpers softly, his lungs punctured and destroyed by the blood-soaked knife. "Fuck yeah. Do you like being penetrated? It's a beautiful thing. Send me a fucking postcard from Hell. Lemme know how it is." Elijah leans back, taking the knife, and his hand, away from the victim's body, allowing the man to fall slack against the wall, a pool of blood forming around him.

Sybine turns her head to the side softly to take another drag of her cigarette, her eyes not leaving the man in Elijah's grasp for more than a second at a time. As the time of the knife breaks flesh, the petite girl takes a sharp breath, though her body tenses against the man holding the knife out of excitement and not fear, her warm pants of air brushing past Elijah's cheek. Her fingers slip away from the bleeding man's stomach and she rests her flat palm against Elijah's now casually, and as the exhales the smoke rises between them. "Feel better?" she whispers in a tone quite near to a pillow-voice, a light purr escaping her throat as her eyes follow the man's slip down the wall to the ground at their feet. Without averting her eyes from the artful wound that soaks the man's shirt with blood, Sybine raises her free hand languidly to rest her forearm on Elijah's other shoulder, offering the cigarette between her fingers with her flat palm downward.

Elijah nods his head, his body entirely still. The handsome man doesn't even bother to breathe as he takes the cigarette, staring at it for a moment before handing it back. "Feeling wonderful." He says, sliding the knife away back into his coat before turning around to face the woman, offering her a nod, his features entirely dark and stoic. "We should go. Split up and all that. I'll see you around." He winks once before turning towards the mouth of the alleyway, beginning to walk away.

Sybine allows her arm to slide languidly from around Elijah's waist as he turns, and she both offers and takes the cigarette back without barely a blink. "I'm already late, my dear bad influence. I only asked permission for a few drinks," she says as she steps out of the alleyway behind him, taking another drag of the cigarette before tossing it to the side in the same careless fashion as before. "And I hope so." She waits for little else in the way of goodbyes before stepping past him and moves eastward along the boulevard, offering only a little wave of her hand over her shoulder without looking back.

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