Elizabeth DeWitt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
once_janus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tacostop2017-05-08 02:23 pm
once_janus) wrote in tacostop2017-05-08 02:23 pm
(no subject)
💀 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.
💀 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.
no subject
wherever Hades might be. All he knew was he felt a few shades darker here, a heightened intensity for irritability, a complexity of shame and guilt and a bit more disdain for himself and for this world. Booker found little comfort here and even less joy. The spirits here, however, were strong and he wasn’t sure if it was some sort of ironic dark twist of comedy that the sins of his past world felt so much better here or if it was a general joke that spirits in Hades would harness a satisfying quench just for namesake alone. Either way Booker took to the drink with a dependent need of comfort and reliability.
He had been here for over a hour, a new bar for him to try and stumble out of. He was grateful there was no shortage of places for him to hang his hat, no matter what time of day it was. Little Hades was at least accommodating to the sinner and over indulger. What would he care, the worst he’ll ever do he’s already done; so coming here was the best he could ever hope for, especially when this place was well equipped to handle his kind of taste.
He left the bar about three hours since he’d come to it and his wandering feet took yet another road untraveled as he spiraled deeper into his mind. His trek was slow and his hands occasionally went out around him to steady his balance, this was when he felt the best. Drunk and numb.
Yet something penetrated his thoughts and he looked with unfocused eyes as he followed the sound of a voice familiar to him. It was like he was on auto-pilot because he didn’t find himself focusing until he saw the girl on the stage. He had both hands on the frame of the door and the open door pressed to his backside. His sight moved through the cloud of darkness with the dim of lights and beneath the spotlight a raven haired beauty had his heart skip a beat.
no subject
Some additional petty theft (and a few other things) probably wouldn't tip the scales; after all, she had already been judged.
All means to an end, was her justification. Everything she did was to find Booker; every crooked deal, traded favor, every draco (Hell dollar) passed beneath the table. It was almost the only way to get anything done in this town.
She never expected him to just walk through the door.
In the moment, the muddy dimness kept him hidden. As her song drew to a close, one particularly poignant lyric ('and then he climbed my tower, and off the edge of me he ran') struck an unpleasant cord in her chest. In the end, it didn't matter that she didn't-- couldn't walk through that door with Booker; that she couldn't bare to be among the hands that drowned him. She saw it, felt it, from so many points of view that even skirting the memories made her mortal head split.
Elizabeth's reflections stirred her restlessness; though she finished the song softly, she was quick to flee the tiny stage. She didn't even bother to gather her tips, because to hell with it. A year is a long while to work so hard for nothing.
Well, maybe not nothing. She did have someone track down her bird pin; an accessory she was almost never without. It was perched upon the rich red velvet band she wore around her throat, clean over a few nicks and scratches.
It took her only moments to cross the cafe, striding purposefully for the door--
And she very nearly walked right into him. For a lengthy moment she could stare, a subtle war of fear and hope tarring up the blue of her eyes beneath a barely held composure. This was Hell, after all; it could be a trick, or a Booker that wasn't... her Booker. She gazed at him uncertainly; maybe she had outgrown the free and careless impulse to reach out and touch his face... but her hand lifted a few hesitant inches, regardless.
"Booker," she spoke uncertainly; a small amount of suspicion overcome by a wounded hope that had barely broken past her fear. "Is... it really you?" it didn't even matter to her that he smelled like a brewery. A small smile attempted to turn the corners of her lips, and for a moment it made her look younger and softer than the harsh suggestions of her makeup.
"Are you really here?"