#//ok same deal as last time no need to match length when i exposition dump

[enarmor]

//post-ruina/pre-limbus au; will contain sensitive material; starter for @beholdenning

"Denning! Cliff-faced as usual, I see!"

The backstreets are hardly a kind of place for friendly reunions, yet here Sain is, forever playing the fool. He greets the Index member with a gentle wave of his hand, eyes flicking to his fingers when he realizes the irony in such a gesture. There's a pun to be made there, for sure. But they're working on borrowed time; he needs to be selective with what he horses around about. Stepping forward, he doesn't stop until they are a breath away.

His grin is unbecoming of the City. Rarer and almost more horrifying than a freshly mutilated corpse.

"What, no smile? Not even for me--your long-time friend?" Years ago they would smile at one another. It helped them get through the cold nights beneath a backstreet's stars; positivity was a lifeline, and Sain could be depended on to keep his spirit. He always dreamed of delivering satisfaction with sunshine, of being the daring hero to rush in and save a damsel in distress. He read about that sort of thing, in tattered books dumped into gutters, in the centuries-old tales he consumed at a formative point in his youth. Believing that he'd some day be like the dashing young men in his stories gave him hope, breathing warm life into an otherwise dismal state of affairs.

They've both come a long way since then.

Sain stands not in bruised rags or dirty, ripped pants. He has on his back a green trench-coat, with gold embroideries near the bottom and clinging to his sleeve--expensive, but a statement of renown. He always thought the way its collar came up just below his ear was like the kind of armor knights in his fairy-tales would wear. He makes sure to wash it first. Underneath lies a stock-and-standard black tuxedo jacket--fish-lapel--with a white dress shirt and verdant tie peeking through. This is the uniform of a Fixer, no doubt the dream he would have chased as a child. When he drives his lance into the back of some scoundrel--when blood stains that precious black suit--his conviction screams at him: he's fighting not for himself, but love and justice. His dress pants and classy shoes are of similar grade to his matching top, with the caveat of a small insignia stitched onto his left pocket. It's the symbol of Licaen's Office: a thorned rose, its petals blood-red and stem pus-brown.

"My association is working with the Index, you know," he continues, refusing to miss a beat as he begins to pace around the other. A finger waggles in the air below his chin. Silly and trivial; quick to keep the horrors at bay. "We fixers are just like the knights of yore. We swoop in to save the day, delivering fair maidens from the clutches of harm!"

His heel digs a pit into the ground as he stops. Turning to Denning, Sain draws an imaginary arc with his hands. They enter the world of theatre, with the Lover cast as its star, "Picture it now: Sain, the Green Lance. Once this job goes off without a hitch, you can expect to see a lot more of me again..." And at that notion, he grows somewhat quiet. The distance between them... Is it off-putting? Or something that was meant to be? The fixer can't decide if he should press further or back away, or if the excitement in his words prior is really misplaced or not. He lightens the mood with a quip:

"Plus, my director says she'll finally take me out to lunch when I get back. Can't go botching this, now can I?"

Lance in hand, he turns to the sorry state of the building before them. Now is Denning's cue to speak of their personal life, if they wish. Sain knows them not to be a talker, but things change with time, or perhaps there would be so much to say that they'd open up.

Whatever the case may be, he allows his gaze to drift inside. What he's looking at isn't exactly a front-door. It's more like the rubble-remains of an archaic instrument shop--a once beating heart in the Streets of Music. District 9 hadn't always been this way. Sain has gossiped about The Pianist, as anyone has, and he knows that affluence was its curse. Still, he didn't expect the destruction to be so palpable up close. He can practically experience the past if he closes his eyes. Hearing that eerie tune... Watching staccato after staccato decimate countless buildings and livelihoods and innocent women--He shudders. There may be places where even the sun can't shine.

But he has a job to do. He's got to bury his fears beneath a mountain of sweet nothings.

✢⁎. snippy scissors