[IC] Streets red with blood.

[Fallen Muse]

The sound of police sirens flared in the distance, followed by the hum of a helicopter, it’s spotlight moving slowly across the ground several neighborhoods away in what was likely a foot chase. Maria sat on the roof, stretched out on a lawn chair she had placed up there a few weeks ago. Her fingers tapped across the face of her cellphone as she watched the action in the distance. It had been one hell of a day, running back and forth between houses, selling a pound of green they had obtained earlier in the week. An ounce, one ounce was all that was left of that pound, and Maria had rolled a joint from that ounce, the sweet, acrid scent of marijuana drifting down from the top of the house as she burned hot embers on the end of the roll, and let the smoke billow out of her nose and down her chest.

Turning her head slightly, she looked to see if Deacon’s car had pulled in yet, but it hadn’t, which only disappointed her. She watched her brother, and several other members of Blue Street sitting down below around a card table, each drinking a beer as they laughed, and pointed at the helicopter in the distance. Maria just rolled her eyes, and posted a picture on facebook of her from earlier that day, standing over a sleeping guy with a gun pointed at his head while she flipped off the camera. She hadn’t killed the fellow, just taken a fun picture with him in the park while he had been passed out.

[Heat]

A dark blue low-rider rode through the streets, the convertible roof was down and the sounds of hip hop music could be heard loudly coming out of the stereo. The driver, a heavily tattooed man had one hand on the wheel and the other over the side of the door. With each drum beat of the song his fingers tapped the exterior of the door. His hair was slicked back, sunglasses over his eyes, a smirk on his face. Sirens sounded in the distance as a helicopter could be seen. Deacon Roberts gave it once look as he stopped at a red light. He still followed driving laws, it would be embarrassing to be arrested for running a red light.

As soon as the traffic light went green he pressed the gas hard, the engine revved and his car sped ahead. Heads turned in his direction at the action, many of them in the poor neighborhood recognizing Deacon Roberts as he drove back to his gang's hideout. He pulled into a parking spot, turned off the engine then yanked the shades off his head before he slid them into the glove compartment, right in front of some narcotics in clear baggies.

With a whistle, Deacon exited his car and walked leisurely towards the front of the building. His Blue Street underlings all stared at him as he approached, some smiling, others standing up. He walked right past them, all but acknowledging them with a simple wave. They weren't why he had come back to the hideout, the real beauty stood on the rooftop awaiting his return. His twisted flower, right hand gal. He'd been infatuated with her the moment he laid eyes upon her all those years ago. Had to have her, and he got her alright. No other man would even look at her the wrong way, she was his obsession and his her's.

Deacon stopped the whistling as he made his way to the top of the building. He approached her in the same stride as before, his shoes clicking against the concrete of the rooftop. He just stared at her as he walked, admiring every inch of her body, each tattoo he had made her get. He paused a few feet behind her, though he was certain Maria knew he was there.

"Oh honey, I'm home." He said, doing his best impression of a 1950's husband speaking to his housewife. Deacon extending his arms out as the words left his mouth.