turmcil

[turmcil]

( cade-buchanan​ )

“Well…” Caden paused for only a moment, long enough to let out a chuckle. “I had one unknown name when I was born. But I was put into an orphanage shortly afterward. I had been called Callum there. Then I got adopted and became Caden Buchanan. It’s the name I stick with. However, in my line of work, I sometimes need others, with matching ID and bad picture in each of them.” A tiny smile formed on his face as he was telling a ‘mostly’ truth. As a Private Investigator, he needed more names. However, it was his work with the Imbued that required that and convincing identification. But, of course, Taron didn’t need to know that part of it. if he had, then it would have been very bad for him. There of course was the name Elohim, what he was. However, the more sensitive didn’t like that and hated his species didn’t use the more common Nephilim title. Caden himself didn’t know the origin of the name other than it is said to have came from ancient scrolls written in an unseen variation of Hebrew that seemed to be a mix of it and bastardized Enochian. Prehaps they were trying to give the Nephilim their own order that ended in ‘IM’ like so many other angel types. “Taron Chomsky?” He processed the name for a bit. It was not familiar to him. Not in a 'heard it around town’ kind of way or a 'read it in a file’ sort of way either. “Nice name.”

White hair flopped helplessly over to the side as Taron’s head tilted, an act that he often did when he was trying to work something out in his head. He could tell that explaining this held some sort of importance to the man before him but it didn’t make it any easier for the amnesiac to really comprehend the meaning behind it all. He didn’t know what an orphanage was or why someone would have a name specific to that location, nor did he know what an adoption was or why his name had to change for that reason either. Context clues were...helping, at least. “You’re odd,” he settled on finally after having stared at the man for far longer than was socially acceptable in any context. “What do you do for your line of work, as you put it?” There wasn’t a profession that Taron knew where that would be something a person would need to do. Though, his experience with workers was limited. He knew retail workers of most ilk and, of course, food service workers but things were fuzzy aside from that. He barely understood law enforcement, only that they regularly threatened to arrest people for sleeping in perfectly reasonable places that weren’t owned by anyone. “It’s just a name. It didn’t do anything nice to you.” This man was weird, for sure. Nice name. What was that even supposed to mean? “Do you do that often? Compliment people’s names?”

[turmcil]

( dragon-cop-quinn​ )

Quinn had to get out of the office. He was much less tolerant of being inside of a building than Caelan was. A few hours was okay, anything more, and he wanted to start knocking down walls and burning through the floor. But, of course, both were things he could do with a simple sneeze. But, of course, waiting in a line was only slightly better than being stuck inside. “I fully understand that this place is packed, and everyone is working their asses off and all. HOWEVER, I kind of want to throw everyone before me through the windows so I can get my food.”

The diet of someone like Taron mostly consisted of cheap burgers and loaves of stale bread purchased from the grocery store, all carbs to burn off while he walked around the city and played his music. He’d become infamous, in a way, around Raleigh as the man who played a rather heartfelt tune and never complained about the things that people offered him. He was in no position to deny charity when it landed in his lap. This was how he ended up in line at the restaurant; a very kind waitress had told him to go in and order and she’d ring him up for a meal at the cost of the drink alone. At least for the night, he’d have a full belly. As he counted his coins for the small amount he’d owe for the deal, a man spoke before him. Any sense of charm in the words were lost on Taron. Instead, he looked uncomfortable. “That’s aggressive,” he commented, eyebrows sat low just above his fanning eyelashes. “Maybe that’s something to work through with your therapist or something. ‘S better than thinking about throwing people out of windows.”

[turmcil]

( kitsune-jett​ )

The loud drumming of rain echoed in Jett’s ears. Each droplet that fell sent the humans around him scurrying away and underneath the nearest form of coverage that they could find. They shivered from the cold water that the heavens brought down upon them. Not Jett, though; a water Kitsune never felt safer, more powerful than they did when it rained. Still, he had to play the part of a human, and so he wore his hoodie pulled tight around him and marveled at the sudden downpour that hit them. “Wow, that came out of nowhere. Do you think a storm is coming or something?”

“Well, I hope not,” the white-haired vagabond commented before he could think better of it. It wasn’t like Taron to communicate with strangers, especially while traversing the streets of Raleigh. He’d learned a long time ago that people in his economic position were better received when they weren’t seen or heard. However, he imagined there was a part of him that craved the human interaction as much as anyone else did. It was just not so easy to read on someone as complicatedly introverted as he was. “Rain brings mud and I can’t afford to go the laundromat any time soon. Would rather not be grimy for the next few days.”

[turmcil]

( roman-cardoza​ )

The streets were still wet from the recent rain. The dirty smell of wet blacktop clung to the air as powerfully as the scent of wolf lurked in the woods outside of the city. Although he was never bothered by the run itself, Roman wasn’t exactly a fan of it. Typically, he’d warm himself and the area around him enough to keep the droplets of water from connecting with him, usually evaporating before getting within a few feet of him. Still, as he moved to enter the bookstore, Roman couldn’t help but comment. “Couldn’t it rain another day or something?”

Something hidden so deep within the skin in a manner that could not simply be clawed out to the surface had nagged at Taron for days. It itched like an ugly sweater two sizes too big and far too warm for summer weather but it wasn’t a feeling that Taron could put a name to. He had felt so familiar in the same way that most onlookers in a theatre could remember the face of an actor without knowing the name or the reason for the recognition. It wasn’t until blue eyes caught the very minute, vaporized water molecules radiating off a shape in the distance did his heart yearn outward with an ‘Ah...there you are....Where have you been?’ Such a reaction caused the homeless man to stop walking mid-stride, focus fixated on leagues of tan skin and dark hair. He was beautiful, aura like kindling to a dying bonfire. He’d been staring so long that the form had grown closer to the bookstore he’d sought shelter within from the rain. The door was opening and then...words? “Huh?” The noise was all choked up, throat seized by some unknown force. Was his mouth always this dry? Were his fingers this tingly, with the itching within them growing ever stronger? The book he’d picked up to pretend to be shopping had been forgotten entirely. “What, uh, what did you say?”

[turmcil]

( fallenrahl​ )

“Don’t ask questions, just let me borrow whatever cash you have in your pockets.” Maybe she intends to give it back, maybe not. To trust a stranger is the question now- and she’s got this look on her face that says to trust her but the glint in her eyes screams bad intentions. Fingers wiggle, impatient as they wait for cash to hit their palm. “Come on.”

“You’re asking a homeless person for the cash they’ve got in their pockets?” Taron repeated, eyes alight with humor as he surveyed the person before him. He might have considered this the most polite mugging he’d ever received if he thought for a single second that such was her intent. “You’re either the world’s worst robber or an insane person.” In spite of his words, he rummaged through his jacket and produced a small roll of one dollar bills he’d made the night previously. It didn’t amount up to more than twenty dollars, but he had much more in coin and she hadn’t asked for any of his so-called hoard. “Here.”

[turmcil]

( cade-buchanan​ )

He seemed like a thinker. Caden had grown used to seeing the thinking faces of others. So far, people could keep one solid face no matter what was going on or what they were doing. His foster parents were masters of that art. He had heard many people refer to it as a sort of ‘Game’ that people in that social class liked to play. It wasn’t something that Caden was born into but had been something he had been made to adapt to. Still, he was pretty shit at it himself most of the time. “My name? I’ve had a couple in my time. But Caden is typically the name I’ve used since I can remember.” Wasn’t entirely a lie. He had used many names since his time joining the Imbued even though he wasn’t one as well as Caden was neither his original name nor the name his foster parents had given him. “And yours?”

In all the time that they’d spoken, Taron was unsure of how to quantify the experience or the man who sat beside him. This was a person reminiscent of a world that sat within window displays. He was pretty, eyes kind and inviting, voice like an anchor during the harshest of storms. Yet, there was a coldness...chill. It bit at the tips of one’s fingertips and turned the lips blue after shallow breaths. Taron couldn’t place why he felt that way. He couldn’t understand why he felt both at ease and the need to be on guard. Maybe it was the way that he embodied all of the things about society that rejected someone like the vagabond. Maybe it was the way he picked his words like every choice was deliberate and practiced. He wasn’t sure. “In your time? You’re, what, twenty-four? How many names have you had in that amount of time?” It was absurd to think that anyone held more than the usual number of names. Though, in his limited experience with people, such short lives didn’t leave room for gaining more titles. “Taron Chomsky. It’s the only name I’ve got.”

[turmcil]

( dshnred​ )

Hunt raised an eyebrow - at both the observation and the explanation. “So you’re a loner with a keen sense of sight?” There weren’t many people Hunter shied away from. He’d seen what he considered to be the worst the world had to offer. It was unlikely that he’d meet anyone as evil as those he’d already encountered. “Do you want them to avert their eyes?” Nodding his thanks as the bartender handed them fresh drinks, Hunter kept his eyes on his momentary drinking pal. “Or are people just assholes to you?”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” he answered, rhetorically. Taron wouldn’t have called himself much of a loner due to his uncaring nature in regard to being alone or surrounded by people but he could understand that the label made some level of sense. He was, primarily, alone in the grand scheme of things. When the drinks were offered to him, he slid one closer to himself. “People see someone who looks or smells like me and they turn away. You get used to it. Cheers?” The offering of his words were accented by him raising his glass. He’d been told by a companion once that this was a tradition used for people drinking things together. He didn’t know whether that applied to all beverages or just the ones of the alcoholic variety so he usually just did it with everything. “Hope it gives you what you’re looking for.”

[turmcil]

( captivve-cherub​ )

De-escalations and other matters had prepared Caelan for these moments, but even then the cherubim wasn’t a hundred percent aware of what he was throwing himself into. As soon as Taron had winced, Caelan retracted his palm. Keeping calm, the elohim was able to meet the other’s gaze; although he was far more focused on his eyes. ‘Why didn’t I bring my tools with me?’ If he’d had a flashlight, then he could have gone with the standard procedure of monitoring the movements of the pupil and retinas. Was he under the influence of substances? No, clearly the signs told Caelan otherwise–Taron had been the victim of an attack. First and foremost, the detective would seek to observe any damage that required immediate attention. Being in a restaurant wasn’t the best place, of course, and Caelan was just about ready to call the ambulance. Looking at the bartender, he held up his hand for a moment before diverting his full attention to the mysterious figure. ‘I’ll ask about the ambulance.’ “Taron.” If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, the blond would compliment the originality that came with having such a name. Caelan observed for any response, hoping for confirmation. Understandably, being in pain and the stemming discomfort resulted in an otherwise cranky civilian. Certainly not the first, and not the last. “Yes. Very good.” The half-angel softly replied, pleased that Taron could at least recall that much. It was always frightening when someone couldn’t say who or where they were, especially in harrowing events. Wordlessly the half-angel complied, albeit slowly so as to not startle Taron. Did it hurt the sensitive cherubim when people denied help? Absolutely. Yet it was in these moments the empathetic pisces was able to regain a level head, something Caelan attributed to his training in the academy. “It hurts to speak? Do you taste blood?” He asked, scanning the phoenix’s visage for any signs of swelling. Taron’s jaw didn’t seem too dislocated, and from a purely focal viewpoint Caelan couldn’t spot any signs of breakage. Not yet, anyhow. Thorough medical examinations weren’t his specialty, either. Even while keeping a neutral expression, the subtle furrow of Caelan’s brows gave away the confusion. “A police report,” he said. “You know, documentation that this assault occurred. In case you’d like to press charges against the attackers.” Caelan could have gone on about the complexities, but Taron’s discombobulated state irked him. He almost sounded like a hermit, but who knows? Not everyone made it a habit to interact with the cops, let alone wind up bruised from a street fight.

Even in his pain-addled state, the affirmations provided by the man offered some layer of comfort to Taron. Though, if he were able to stretch his imagination beyond the surface level of escaping the pain for a brief moment, he would doubt that this would be comforting at all. He didn’t like praise, especially for something so menial as remembering his own name or where he sat cosmically in the space around them. However, the acknowledgement of this information meant that it meant something to this man that he knew it and was able to accurately recite it. 

There was gratitude in not being touched in the face while trying to communicate. Big blue eyes rimmed with smatterings of purple and red skin gazed up at the man as he asked about the reasoning behind his earlier statement. “Yeah...it...” he started, swallowing around something and tasting copper. “Got kicked in the throat a few times...” He distinctly remembered taking a knee to the head as well but that had been pressure localized mostly at his nose and not at his mouth or neck. He was thankful that it wasn’t lower. He hated the feeling of regenerating teeth, another little thing he knew was different than other humans but couldn’t place why.

A police report.  Taron knew what the police were but he didn’t know that they had documentation on things that happened. He had always associated them with making arrests and scaring him off park benches or sleeping on bus stations. They didn’t seem the type to document anything. “I don’t want any of that,” he decided after a moment of just breathing and processing. He could most certainly accurately describe his attackers down to the amount of clogging in their pores when his mind wasn’t wracked with pain, but it wasn’t worth it to him to seek any sort of retribution or revenge. He didn’t care enough. “I’ll be fine...I just need...uh...Just...” The words were fragmented. “...Some time to heal. It’s not the first time. Won’t be the...last.”

[turmcil]

( cade-buchanan​ )

Although he kept a straight face, his eyes drifted up at the other faster than usual when he spoke. He was probably right. Caden had experienced a lot in his life, and as an Elohim working with the Imbued, he had ended many lives in that time. To him, it was as common an activity as going to the gym was for other people. He was naturally desensitized to it to speak of it as casually as someone asking to pass the salt. “It’s a strange world we live in, I suppose.” Was his only response to that statement. While it may not have answered anything, it was an excuse that was general enough to provide some leeway. “Analyzing and being judgmental is very different, natural, but not mutually exclusive.” Every judge’s people. Rather it’s something as pity as how they smell or their attractiveness. Or how little strength you’d need to put into a punch to put them down if need be. Admittedly, the latter was a far too common thought for Caden when he met new people. “I guess it just depends on if you’re an ass about it or not.”

The man was weird. In all the time that Taron had spent around other presumable humans, he’d not experienced someone quite like this one. He’d mentioned that people that looked like this man were often quick and prone to violence when challenged, but here he sat without raising a finger or brow in anger or disgust. Alternatively, he wasn’t some doting, facetious man adamant on appearing to be a good person to better soothe his ego. He just...was. His existence was present and his conversation, while confusing to Taron, was easy and unforced. “The world’s not strange. The people we live in it with are just strangers,” he added. The ideology was how he processed the differences he experienced daily. “I don’t know what mutually exclusive means but you made it sound convincing.” The two concepts seemed to go hand-in-hand for the white haired phoenix. He always associated them with one another, but if his use of context clues could provide clarity for the phrase used by the other man, it was most likely insinuating that they could also be two separate things and mean different things to other people. That seemed reasonable enough. “What’s your name? You talked a lot about how conversation’s supposed to go but never followed through with it. Thought I would circle back to it.”

[turmcil]

( fakebitchlevi​ )

Levi’s face continued to appear deceivingly polite and sweet, despite the man’s words. Levi, inwardly, was definitely letting the other man have a verbal beat down. And after a moment? Levi decided that this side of town was one where most people of his caliber wouldn’t frequent…So why not let loose?

“I hope you were looking in your reflection within my shoes when you said that,” Levi said coolly with a shrug of his shoulders.  “Because while I will apologize for my part in running into you, I do think that you have a part to play as well.” Levi said with a shrug of his shoulders as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You seemed to have your head up the clouds…Or was it up something else, instead?” Levi asked, letting his mockingly sweet smile take back over his face and not at all trying to hide the fact that it was more of a sarcastic smile more than anything else.

The world was a place filled with cruelty and injustice that got treated with as much regard as the greenness of the tree line in spring; it was casual. Most people believed themselves to be good people. They didn’t do anything so abhorrent that they changed the course of the world at large, but it was the little wicked acts that they committed that altered the trajectory of another person’s day. Taron would consider the malice that dripped from this man’s tongue as a little wicked act that attempted to ruin his day. However, he never let someone so petty dictate his emotional state.

With a grunt of disinterest, the homeless man continued to pick up the coins he’d earned for the day. He’d almost completely tuned out the rude, fancily dressed individual standing before him, his words mostly falling on stilled air. “Mm,” he hummed, as if to himself. “Do you feel like more of a man when you talk down to people like that?” Taron had gotten quite a few of his coins up now and had decided to sit on the ground to get the rest. No use letting his back cramp up from squatting.

[turmcil]

( cade-buchanan​ )

The man’s words were something that mankind had questioned for countless millennia. On occasion, Caden had as well. Of course, that was back when he questioned what it meant to be human and angelic. The ultimate conclusion he came to was that it was simply unknown. Humans were chaotic, illogical, and unpredictable species. However, he at least felt something when his humanity was active over his angelic side. When he used more of his powers and his divine grace overcame his human mind, it felt empty. He was void of almost all emotion and was driven only by whatever purpose had caused him to awaken his other half. Nothing else mattered, and he felt nothing but the drive to complete the task.

Caden picked up one of the straws they kept on the table and begun to run it across the inside of his cup’s rim. He circled it a few times before pulling the straw out and allowing the liquid to create its small whirlpool. “Well, I’m used to conversations being a battle of passive-aggressive jabs back and forth. The one who can tear the other to shreds without saying an actual mean word and maintaining their smile wins.” Which had been true for most of his life. His step-parents were masters of that game, and it served with speaking with command within the ranks of the Imbued. “Well, apparently, I’m not the only one analyzing people if my forehead has stuck so much in your head.”

Passive-aggressive was a term that Taron knew about but in the same manner that an average person knew about the depths of the ocean. People understood that it existed and had some level of weight on the world, though they couldn’t really quantify its magnitude. In that same stretch of the imagination, Taron couldn’t really understand the meaning. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he informed the other man, eyes peering over the rim of his mug as its raised to his lips. “We’re going from conversation to murder? With smiles on people’s faces? I’m confused.” The man had said many words in succession and they all made sense in colloquial idiomatic expression...but Taron didn’t hadn’t ever heard those words used in casual context before. To him, it sounded as though this person had openly admitted to being used to being privy to heinous acts. “Analyzing people is how I survive the way I do. I have been told I’m very judgmental. I would say I’m more observant. You can never be too relaxed around other people.”

[turmcil]

( captivve-cherub​ )

After staying just a bit later at the station than Caelan had anticipated, the blond had taken a break for dinner at the nearby steakhouse before (hopefully) returning to his desk to sort through paperwork and case files. Being a detective wasn’t easy, and at times the balance between work and personal life became blurred. Having Quinn in a similar position made things much easier; but for whatever reason the dragon’s company couldn’t be found. After putting in his order, the male had taken to sitting in his booth; hands clasped around a mug of coffee. Probably not the best thing for the cherubim to order later on in the evening, but at the very least it give him an extra incentive to stay awake and handle his business accordingly. Just before he could indulge in his vice, Caelan became alerted to the silhouette of another. Due to his career, it was quite obvious to see that the stranger had been involved in a brawl. Arms around his stomach caused the detective to assume his center mass had been targeted, and naturally he shot up from his seat and hastily approached the bar. “I’ll cover it. Give us ice, plenty of it. And water as well.” The bubbly exterior of the cherubim fizzled out slightly, and despite the sympathy and concern he held for Taron; he was able to maintain some level of professionalism as he gingerly rested his hand on the phoenix’s shoulder. “Can you tell me your name? Do you know where you are? Have you been stabbed or shot?” Caelan asked, his tone quiet but firm. While he wasn’t on shift and wasn’t keen on performing any arrests, it was in these moments he couldn’t help but switch on the mentality of a detective. When the perplexed bartender handed the requested items over, the blond immediately took to dampening an unused napkin, placing a handful of ice inside and extending the make-shift ice pack towards Taron; before using another dampened napkin to begin wiping some blood off of the stranger’s face, if there had been any at all. “My name is Caelan. Trust that I everything said between us will remain confidential, unless you want to file a report.” His eyes glossed over the damage. Already, the cherubim was attempting to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Had Taron been attacked? Had he swung first? Was he being followed? These questions had the pisces’s mind buzzing, but he knew better than to overwhelm the pheonix for now. 

No matter how many times the flesh healed, the body always remembered how badly it had been burned. Or, more often in Taron’s case, been bruised. He could never make sense of the way his wounds would knit themselves together faster than that of other people, but he imagined it had something to do with what had occurred to him before he woke up with no memories. He imagined that his former self most likely reveled in the knowledge that their body rebounded from just about anything. Taron, however, found it to be a curse. He didn’t like being hurt and this was yet another strangeness about him that he couldn’t share with anyone. He would heal eventually at his own personal pace if left alone.

It was also why he preferred to nurse his own wounds. Less attempting to explain, that way.

When a hand was pressed against his shoulder, the tenderness of his skin felt like an explosion of white hot flame and he winced, pulling away from whomever was offering him some level of kindness. He had vaguely made out the words that the person had spoken, sound entering his ears like they’d been shouted across an overpass that he was sleeping underneath. It was hazy, yet there was some level of emotion he couldn’t quite make out. As he turned to see the person who had come to his aid, blurry vision picked up the key, winsome features of a man offering his assistance. He was so caught up in the notion that he was being helped at all that he almost missed the words that had escaped the other. ‘Name’. The word had been the first that caught Taron’s attention. From there, the rest of his questions became a bit clearer.

“Taron...” he muttered grumpily, brows knit tight in frustration at having been asked so many questions in such a short amount of time. His brain was already having a hard time focusing. This was only causing a migraine. “I’m...uh...in a restaurant. That’s where we both are.” His movements were slow as he grasped onto the makeshift ice-pack and placed it against the side of his head. That had been where the initial blow happened. He remembered the pressure of something heavy forcefully bashing against his skull with enough vigor, it felt like something had cracked. He surmised it couldn’t have been that bad as he was still able to walk some time later, but it didn’t hurt any less. “I ain’t been...S-stop wiping my face for a second. ‘S hard to talk already,” he said, swatting at the man’s wet napkin covered hand. “They didn’t have any weapons and I’m not filing a report. I don’t even know what that means.” Nor did he really know what the word ‘confidential’ meant, but he didn’t think his pain-addled brain would do well with four syllable words.

[turmcil]

( dshnred​ )

Hunt raised an eyebrow. “You must be awfully confident that they’re going to make that drink with actual alcohol this time around.” Despite his skepticism, Hunter nodded at the bartender in confirmation that he wanted one as well. It wouldn’t hurt to at least give it a try. Maybe this newcomer would have better luck with drink ordering. He gave his maybe alcohol savior a once over. “Do you come here often? I don’t think I recognize you.” All of his griping aside, Hunter frequented this particular less than stellar bar more and more these days.

Taron wasn’t sure if he’d had this ability before the incident, but since awakening from the catastrophe, he’d found that his sense of sight was uncanny. “The colors in the bottles of rum is purer than the other alcohol bottles. If you look closely, you can see little stuff floating behind the foggy glass of the vodka, for instance. Means they used water. Probably from the tap,” he supplied casually, blue eyes surveying the shelves. He didn’t lower his voice, openly speaking about the practice in front of the bartender with a brazenness that neither challenged nor insulted, merely observed. “No, but it sounds like you do.” Taron finally shifted his gaze over, eyes and cheeks slightly flushed from the cold. “Most people don’t recognize me. I’m used to people averting their eyes from my direction.”

[turmcil]

( fakebitchlevi​ )

Levi couldn’t help but to let out a small sigh as he shook his head. Walking home from one of the more…Extravagant parties, Levi couldn’t help but wonder how things in this city had become such a mess. He was new to the town, and even newer to the political scene of the town. But he could already tell that things were being held together by a thin string. All it would take was one wrong move from a species or a gropu of people, and the city would be in utter chaos.

It was practically begging for a war.

Levi stopped walking as he accidentally bumped into someone, a fake smile making it’s way onto his lips. “My apologies.” Levi said with a nod of his head. “Didn’t mean to rudely run into you like that.” The witch apologized.

Like most evenings, Taron had peeled the few dollars and assortment of coins from the case of his guitar and set those earnings into a compartment of his bag. He’d counted out a fairly decent payout for the day and this gave him the opportunity to soothe his aching belly and set some money aside to save up for a literal rainy day. It was tough to find the balance between instant gratification and looking forward to the future, especially for someone in Taron’s shoes.

As he packed away his instrument, he slung the strap over his shoulder and set out for food. It didn’t take long to find a restaurant that would offer him a nice burger without too much extra cost for toppings. He decided against staying and soaking up the warm atmosphere; he had plans to eat among the tombstones where he often rested.

The stroll toward his destination was halted only by the feeling of a body colliding with his own. Taron had never been keen on focusing on his surroundings. It helped that people parted wherever he walked in fear of some inhumane sense of infection, as if his circumstances were a plague that anyone could catch just by showing him any level of kindness. The collision had caused his coin pouch to dislodge from his coat and the metal clang all over the ground. “Yeah, yeah,” he responded dismissively, already leaning down to scoop up his day’s pay. He didn’t miss the lavish caliber of the man’s shoes, but he certainly didn’t bother mentioning it. Instead, he focused on the task at hand. “Just watch where you’re going next time.”

[turmcil]

( cade-buchanan​ )

Caden listened as the other prattled on. It sounded like he had quite a few interactions where people saw him as something less than dirt. It was the complete opposite of the way that he was treated after being found by the Imbued. His angelic status alone caused many people to treat him with an almost reverence in a way. Sure, he had those that treated him like an average person. However, he rarely found someone in his day to day that was openly hostile to him. The fact that the guy was so used to that was something that was also quite surprising.

Lifting an eyebrow, Caden just shook his head. “Why?” It was initially the only thing he said before looking at the other again. It took a few seconds for him to realize he should have said more. “Sounds a bit like an annoying and unnecessary cycle to me. Here I was thinking that asking one’s name, what they did, and how they were doing was how conversations were supposed to go. Although, is my forehead that big?”

People were rarely active in their empathy, Taron found. Strangers on the street held tightly to the mentality of the bystander and philanthropists were seldom doing their work through the genuine kindness of their heart. People learned about the plights of others and while sad, no one wanted to stick their necks out for others because they believed that someone better than them would, but those better than them were seeking some social capital that meant very little to the person in need. Taron didn’t mind it, though. That was just how life worked for the disenfranchised. “I couldn’t tell you why because I don’t know; and, I don’t sit around trying to figure out what makes people so quick hurt other people.” No philosophizing on his end would make any difference.

The warm mug in his hand felt like an anchor, a reprieve he found more comforting than the flavor of the drink within it. “If that’s how you think conversations work, you’re not doing this one right either, you know?” The question was more rhetorical than demanding of any answer. He was humored anyway, interior light bouncing off of the slight curve upward of his lips. “And your forehead’s absolutely that big. It’s the first thing I noticed about you. Second’s the way you look at people. Made me feel like I’m being analyzed.”

[turmcil]

( cade-buchanan​ )

“Oh, I am?” Granted, he wasn’t much of a talker as it was. It was ironic given his father’s status, but perhaps he was just the family’s black sheep. Of course, he also knew that he overanalyzed things, people, and the situation. It had been a habit that he developed ever since he was a kid. The Imbued trained him in situational awareness. The fact he was an Elohim or Nephilim had taught him to always keep on his guard. He never knew who or what would suddenly attack if they even got a hint of what he was.

“So, what’s the proper etiquette for such an exchange? It’s always interesting to know what random blokes have to say. Don’t suppose you’re a native to this city? I find either people have lived here their entire lives or come here as if drawn to the place.”

Taron had been called weird quite a bit since his awakening. Trying to parse out what was socially acceptable or recognizing patterns on the interpersonal level were not particularly easy concepts to grasp when you couldn’t remember the subconscious notions that allowed the brain to process in that manner. Though, there was no telling whether his brain had ever properly processed those things in a socially acceptable way before whatever happened that day. Even through all of this, he still found this stranger to be weirder. He had an air about him that just felt...off. Taron couldn’t put his finger on it but it was something that should’ve either sparked curiosity or hesitation. For the grey-haired man, however, it was just comforting to know not everyone was so perfectly cookie-cutter.

“Usually, guys like you say things that’re meant to be insults, like judging the way I talk or the fact that I’m homeless. Then, I target you back for the things I notice about you, like how your forehead’s massive and it makes you look like you’re both fourteen and thirty-two,” he supplied easily. “Then, the people that look like you start kicking my ass, but that usually waits until after we’re in a building. Can’t have people knowing you beat up the homeless.” Taron shrugged. He spent so much time cleaning up after incidents like that. The wounds healed easy enough, though. He’d learned almost immediately after the first time that his body didn’t stay injured for long. “Do I sound like I’m from here, fancy face?” Another sip. “I came here ‘cause it was the last stop on a long road trip while hitchhiking. I take it you’re in the second category you mentioned?”

[turmcil]

WHEN: Saturday night. 8:15 P.M.

WHERE: Salieri’s Steakhouse

tw: mentions of violence

For Taron, the apathy of people in the daytime was something he could handle. He could take the glares, the snickering, the sped up gait past him. No one would do any harm that mattered to him as long as the streets were still filled with people. All of that changed when the sun went down, though. On this particular night, when weekend day-drinking led to the belligerent having to vacate their den of bacchanal pleasure, the lowly homeless man was an easy, small target to make them feel bigger. He didn’t fight back; he never did. Something in him begged him to, pleaded to see to their small world erupted in flame, but that voice was tiny and Taron would rather get the shit kicked out of him for hours than listen to something so destructive. 

As he peeled himself off the pavement where he’d laid in the fetal position over spattering of his own blood, he pulled his jacket in closer to him and made a weak saunter toward the nearest establishment. He just needed ice, that was all. In all his nursing of his stomach to shield himself from having to throw up from the pummeling, he knew also that he’d been storing his coin pouch there. If the workers would have him pay for ice, he’d be able to indulge, at least.

The wind nipped at him as he opened up the door to the steakhouse. He’d never entered the restaurant before now and had his eyes been able to focus, he might have appreciated the sights. Instead, his tunnel vision led him right to the bar, hobbling forward. “Ice.” The word came out like a demand. He couldn’t see the bartender too clearly in his injured haze. He figured the sound of his voice was making a scene but he didn’t care. “I’ll pay just...just ice. Please.”