💀 WHO: Booker DeWitt and Elizabeth DeWitt
💀 WHERE: Little Parasites Cafe, Little Hades, Hell
💀 WHEN: Early June
💀 WARNINGS: TBA
💀 SUMMARY: A family reunion.



It's been around about a year, Elizabeth reflects, that she's been down here in the sweltering heat. Long enough to carve out a small space for herself inside the city that has no qualms with chewing people up, and spitting them out; demon, angel, and limbo case alike. She's settled uneasily, created a structure and routine to her days, so that every single moment is not spent searching the millions of Little Hades' citizens for the one person she hopes will be here.

It isn't all bad, really. Elizabeth has friends (barely a plural) which is alien enough, considering she's had so few. She has a place to live, a job, and a small web of connections to help her keep eyes on the city. It would be a stretch to call Hell comfortable, but considering her experience, it isn't the worst place she could have spent her time. The days swim along in a fairly steady current; she does Community Service (like a large portion of the city, as it is favorable to torture), paints, and she spends time with Christine; she sings upon the stage of a small shifty cafe for a little extra cash. And when she's not doing any of that, she takes to her 'borrowed' mechanical stallion and combs the streets, hoping beyond hope that she'll finally find him.

But so far? No dice. The day starts like any other; a cigarette and a coffee accompany the quiet empty static that occasionally bursts from the busted shortwave radio on her table. She checks her messages, dresses for the ridiculous heat, and descends from her loft above the cafe at which she works. The bright red neon letters above the entrance declare the place 'Little Parasites' but the lights occasionally flicker, spelling instead 'Little Paris'. Tucked beside the brick and glass building is Elizabeth's ride, and a keen eye might spot a spattering of her paintings through the large glass walls, hung inside the cafe.

With the doors propped open, the suspiciously sweet smells of baked goods (that are incredibly illegal, in Hell) and dark coffee saturate the grossly humid air that surrounds the cafe. Chatter, along with the sound of music unfurl from the door; mellow rich guitar cords of accompaniment play from what appears to be some kind of ghetto blaster, tucked against the back of the tiny stage. Elizabeth quietly yet sternly occupies the small space inside a faint haze of stage-light.

The folk here are not classy; actually, no one in Hell really is. But if it's one thing Hell does right, it's music. So when Elizabeth starts to sing, a fair few customers shut up pretty damn quick to listen. Once she had sang for Sander Cohen, so the crowd of the cafe doesn't usually bother her. Today... she feels tense, in a way she can't define. She'll go for a ride when this is over, she decides. Follow the road as far as it goes. For the moment, she firmly presses her restlessness beneath her heel, and pours her focus into finishing her song.