Lord WyronVander stayed still, leaning against the wall of the street. No one else came out the fire exit. Everyone had either stayed in the bar, or bolted for the front doors. She had a moment to herself, to collect her thoughts. Staying at the Spit now would be pointless. Even if the BOD agent left, everyone would still be on edge. She was on edge. Any dealers would be finding business elsewhere. No one would risk buying, selling, or trading when a cop had just burst through the doors. Especially something like Lucid.
So where else could she go? Over the past weeks, any and all of her previous contacts had been dropping like flies. She had ran out of money, but she'd still had just enough of a reputation in the business to make a few deals. She'd promised to pay later. Promised double. Every time, a bridge was burned. Now, her previous dealers were impossible to get in contact with. She needed to find money, and she needed to find someone with lucid. Where? Avalon? Maybe. But it was near her apartment, a hell of a walk away. She could already feel the faint hints of a withdrawal headache lurking at the back of her mind. Werehouse was closer, and huge. Maybe she would find someone in there.
But if she didn't?
All at once, the hopelessness of it hit her. She had a fraction of a hit of lucid at her apartment. It wasn't enough, it wouldn't do anything. If she didn't restock her supply tonight, the withdrawal would be fatal. Vander wasn't ready to accept that yet. She was nineteen years old, she wasn't ready to die. "Hey!"
A voice called out, interrupting her train of thought. She looked up sharply, only realizing then that she had been staring intensely at the ground, an expression of quickly-growing anxiety on her face. Her gaze fell on a figure on the other side of the alleyway. How long had he been there? "If you're trying to make a statement by looking like me, you forgot to shave the other side of your head!"
Vander stared, open-mouthed, trying to figure out who it was. He couldn't have been more than ten feet away, but her vision was a grey-out. Nothing was sharp like it should be. She stood upright, having been leaning against the wall, and took a half step closer. Just enough for the figure to come into focus. White wifebeater, showing off a well-built body. Cigarette held between his teeth. And, as he had just pointed out, both sides of his head shaved short. The Spit's champion fighter, Darth. She raised a hand, subconsciously brushing the left side of her own head. The shaved half of her hair hadn't been cut in months, and was starting to grow shaggy. "I've had it cut for years," she stated, unsure of how else she was supposed to respond to his comment.
She frowned then, suddenly aware that she was in an otherwise-empty alleyway with a man who made a living off of knocking people unconscious. A perfect recipe for her night to go from bad to worse. "Sorry, I gotta be somewhere else," she said, already turning to walk away. It wasn't a lie. She needed to get to another club and find money and lucid. Werehouse would be her best bet.
So where else could she go? Over the past weeks, any and all of her previous contacts had been dropping like flies. She had ran out of money, but she'd still had just enough of a reputation in the business to make a few deals. She'd promised to pay later. Promised double. Every time, a bridge was burned. Now, her previous dealers were impossible to get in contact with. She needed to find money, and she needed to find someone with lucid. Where? Avalon? Maybe. But it was near her apartment, a hell of a walk away. She could already feel the faint hints of a withdrawal headache lurking at the back of her mind. Werehouse was closer, and huge. Maybe she would find someone in there.
But if she didn't?
All at once, the hopelessness of it hit her. She had a fraction of a hit of lucid at her apartment. It wasn't enough, it wouldn't do anything. If she didn't restock her supply tonight, the withdrawal would be fatal. Vander wasn't ready to accept that yet. She was nineteen years old, she wasn't ready to die. "Hey!"
A voice called out, interrupting her train of thought. She looked up sharply, only realizing then that she had been staring intensely at the ground, an expression of quickly-growing anxiety on her face. Her gaze fell on a figure on the other side of the alleyway. How long had he been there? "If you're trying to make a statement by looking like me, you forgot to shave the other side of your head!"
Vander stared, open-mouthed, trying to figure out who it was. He couldn't have been more than ten feet away, but her vision was a grey-out. Nothing was sharp like it should be. She stood upright, having been leaning against the wall, and took a half step closer. Just enough for the figure to come into focus. White wifebeater, showing off a well-built body. Cigarette held between his teeth. And, as he had just pointed out, both sides of his head shaved short. The Spit's champion fighter, Darth. She raised a hand, subconsciously brushing the left side of her own head. The shaved half of her hair hadn't been cut in months, and was starting to grow shaggy. "I've had it cut for years," she stated, unsure of how else she was supposed to respond to his comment.
She frowned then, suddenly aware that she was in an otherwise-empty alleyway with a man who made a living off of knocking people unconscious. A perfect recipe for her night to go from bad to worse. "Sorry, I gotta be somewhere else," she said, already turning to walk away. It wasn't a lie. She needed to get to another club and find money and lucid. Werehouse would be her best bet.