DEATH I DO NOT FEAR, HELL I DO NOT FEAR.

Open to: Syndicate members/affiliates Location: Grand Central, Main Street-Flushing Queens platform It’s cold. Of all the things Sam is sure the city could afford, it’s heating underground. The trains don’t need the help, often too hot all year round as locals and lost tourists alike pack into them like overstuffed sardine cans. But the platforms? There is no reason a man should have to wear a hat and gloves while indoors. “You really should be more careful with your things. This station is a popular one.” Just as the street performers frequent this station, so do the criminals like themselves. Pick pockets prey upon those who leave their livelihoods on the line. 

“You’d be surprised how much you can learn about a person based on next to nothing. Receipts, pictures, how used your cards are. Forrest Gump was a genius with the shoe thing.” What all that doesn’t tell a person, though, is where they’re going. That’s what the criminals decide, once they get what they need. Instinctively, he looks toward the incoming train despite knowing it’s not the one. “When’s the last time you had something lifted off you?”

`

—

If the florist was better at being truthful with himself, Ziggy would admit in a heartbeat that he was looking for anything but the obvious to busy himself. What he should be focused on, in order of importance, were the following: calming the hell down and returning his breathing, thoughts, and focus to anything closer to his version of normal, documenting and filing a police report for the accidental property damage, and then cleaning the shop up so that broken glass didn’t inadvertently get caught under his friend’s feet. But, the humanist in him begged him to jump to the third step first, eschewing completely the things which made the most sense in order for him to fulfill that ever-present need of being someone’s hero.

He half-listens, too intent on properly checking for an injury — or, more accurately, for something to fix — but finds nothing. “Either my eyes are getting old are you’re in the clear,” Ziggy states simply, and returns to his favored shrugged-shoulders stance. “You partied with the Cartel? Come on, Z… You gotta know that’s a lot more dangerous than any mess I could make. Was someone at least, I don’t know, there to protect you if anything went down?” Brown eyes fix hard on her, thick brows knitted together in serious examination; the criminal activity of the city was something he didn’t mess with, not even in his most desperate hour — which, quite frankly, looked a lot like the man entering the shop with doubt and judgment sewn into his features.

His outfit — the deep navy of the NYPD, accented only by the shiny gold of his shield and the myriad of weapons and other tools attached to his belt — was too authentic to be thought of as a mere costume. It didn’t help that his entrance was marked by the crunching of stray shards of glass as they were inadvertently stepped on; the crack sounded less menacing to Ziggy’s ears than the heaviness of his steel-toed boots.

He knew better than to play around with maybes and off-chances when it came to a man in that uniform, with that gun fixed to his waist, and so he starts to explain, “Officer, I was just about to start filing a police report when my sister came by for a visit.” It’s a half-truth, but it’s one that can’t be disproved, necessarily — and besides, that’s what these guys liked to hear, right? Family? Still, they didn’t like liars, not even accidental ones born of nervous energy, and so he corrects, arms frozen to his side, “My adoptive sister, I should say. I work here. Got my name-badge on and everything.” He takes a quick downwards glance to his apron, only to realize that it’s Seymour written onto his chest and not Ziggy. The mental curses bombarding his brain are overwhelming now and force him to be silent, not quite able to meet the man’s eye but a tad too frightened to look anywhere else — not even at Zaira, the one person who mattered most in the situation at hand.

`

@andreagalan​ asked:

"there are things i cannot tell you with my own mouth." (context)

@vrzfr asked:

what’s your specific lonely? are there birds in it? (context)

—

“Big promise, eh,” Jacques says with another one of those characteristic short laughs; but as always, an easy smile lingers. “Look at you, makin’ a guy actually want to rock the amphibian look.” Again, another nod to the green. “You’re a dangerous one, Ivy. Thinkin’ about using that that power for good, or for evil?”

It’s all tipsy-driven and metaphorical, but if you asked Jacques what exactly he’s using his strength for, it’s hard to tell. For good, he thinks, but knows: The Brotherhood’s good might just be someone else’s vile. Quickly then, the earlier thought is dismissed, and corrected: The greater good.

“Any movie or show?” From behind his drink, Jacques’s eyes widen a touch. “C’mon now, tell me you’re not one of those livin’ under a rock types. You at least own a TV?” He’s teasing, now. Fair enough, her excuse is a good one: time, or lack thereof. “Aight, I’m intrigued.” Setting the glass down, he looks at her more attentively — if such was even possible to begin with. “What’s got ya so busy, then?”

`

— 

“What the —” Ziggy’s sentence cuts short at the sound of a familiar voice, a smile of relief lighting up his features in recognition that it’s Zaira speaking to him now, and not a stranger. Upon the proper sight of her, however, his countenance becomes something else entirely ; she looked divine in a way he didn’t know his friend was capable of, the shop’s overflow of flowers and foliage framing her in her own green finery. If there was ever a sight for sore eyes, it was Zaira Cross, a vision in green, at home amongst the blooms. 

His lingering gaze drops to the floor and he’s immediately filled with guilt, eyes widening in concern upon the realization that she’d walked in barefoot, with dirt and glass and shreds of toilet paper strewn all over the floor. “Z, get your feet up right now,” Ziggy demands, pulling his stool from behind the counter next to the one meant for a customer on the other side, setting up a makeshift seat and footrest combination for the woman. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I think it was just some kids pulling a Halloween prank, that’s all. But, of course, they went for the only place on the block with windows from the 1930s,” he explains with a shrug of his shoulders as he searches the counter space for a clean cloth. The line of well-counted bills is pushed awkwardly to the side with a sigh, and as always, Ziggy relaxes into the truth in the presence of his friend. “Just… Can’t help feeling it’s my fault, you know? So, I’ve been counting ‘em out for the last few hours trying to make sure I ain’t missing something.” 

The florist gives up on finding a spare rag and resorts to using one of the store’s shirts for sale instead, intentions for it made clear once he kneels on the floor to properly inspect the damage done to Zaira’s feet — damage done on his account, the guilty voice at the back of his thoughts reminds him. Ziggy clears his throat, motions for her to prop her feet up, and returns the focus of their conversation to her, saying, “Alright, you’ve seen how my night’s gone. What are you doing here on Halloween? And, why the hell are you barefoot? In here, out there — NYC’s not kind to naked feet, you know.”

`

—

“’Eighty’?” He cackles. “Shi-it. How much are they payin’ you to be nice?” If the decision comes down to the ones in charge, then cheap wickedness is certainly widespread. Still, it’s all in good fun — until eventually, it isn’t. “If I walk outta here a frog, at least do a brother a solid and leave them a bad Yelp review for me.”

Should the state of affairs be any different, Jacques would perhaps have made less of a lousy  attempt to keep his eyes off of said ‘bomb body’, but her words are practically an invite to call out any bluffs — so downwards his gaze does well to travel, snapping back and fitting to each curve. And to think sobriety still reigns. 

“There ain’t no arguing that,” he says with a delayed but confident shake of the head. Damn the vixens of her kind. “And wouldja figure — green is my favorite, too.” Particularly of the stacking, wallet-feeding kind — if one is familiar with even the most shallow parts of him, they know that much is implied. “Ha. You’re warm, alright — almost hot.” Jacques straightens out slightly, as though it’d expand her view at all. “‘Coming to America’, ya ever seen it? That guy.”

`

Nora kept her gaze fixed downwards, glued to a couple of half-finished cocktails, each of a different color; and her hands were steady, as if she wasn’t a prey being carefully observed. “Mmm,” she hummed softly. “I’ve learned most people here don’t need a valid reason to think of someone as their enemy– are you not one of them?” Nora picked up her gaze, arching an amused eyebrow. “Ah, a thrill-seeker in our midst. Can’t blame you,” she added with a chuckle. Back in the day, Nora considered herself to be one as one– she loved it, the adventures, the adrenaline rush, the excitement filling her chest– before her spirit got broken, and she was stuffed in a cage of her own making. “What do you consider fun? What do you like doing for fun? Amuse me,” Right, the other brunette had a point– bats, all around, (and not just the Halloween decorations) and Nora feared not all were made out of foam. “I know them, the Cheese Ball human— they blew out their knee a few years ago, haven’t fully recovered so if they dare to lay a hand on you without permission, you know where to strike– or I might just grab a bat,” she informed with a wink– the opposite gang or not, women should still have each other’s backs. 

`

He listened to the other, giving her a slight nod, “Yeah, I guess so, but I always thought Halloween was kinda for being someone you’re not, ya know? Being able to try somethin’ you usually don’t or express a different side.” He shrugged, deciding maybe he was thinking too deeply about it. He furrowed his brow then, giving her a puzzled look, “Ya think so? I thought leather could be kinda sexy depending.” At least, that’s what he usually hoped to convey with the leather jacket tucked away in his closet. 

In a few points of the night he had crossed paths with some Syndicate members, everyone seemed to face the situation in their own way and truth to be told Nikolai was already tired of creating theories of how the night would end.

“I don’t know, there are enough clichés in this room for me” he admitted, standing beside Zara “We create our own fears and feed them, if that makes sense, it doesn’t depend so much on the environment you are in, at least for me”

Nikolai frowned, taking another sip of his drink "Too philosophical for a party I guess. What would the ideal vibe be like for you? Your night doesn’t seem too bad, it could be worse”

closed to: @agresti-s location: THE GREEN ROOM ( floristry )

By midnight, his eyes had learned to count the bills not by the numbers printed on the corners, but by the pictures of dead presidents painted onto each one, names and images he’d never bothered to memorize even when history and law had been the main driving forces of his career. By one in the morning, his eyes were no longer necessary, as his fingers had learned each bill by the miniscule tears on their sides, the individual creases that hadn’t yet smoothed out, the singular weight of each and every note that, by now, had been held a thousand times over. 

In truth, it was borderline obsessive — in a way that didn’t usually befall someone as happy-go-lucky as Ziggy Hawthorne — but he couldn’t afford to be complacent with the shop tonight, even if the break-in appeared to be little more than a Halloween prank gone awry. So, he counted, and calculated, and memorized, committing the same numbers to heart for an hour straight, terrified and half-expecting to realize an error somewhere along the way that’d require the late-night involvement of the owner — or worse, the police. 

The bright ring of the chimes above the door causes him to lose track of his latest count, and the unexpected guest is greeted by little more than an exasperated sigh. His eyes remain fixed onto the bills as he calls out, tone unusually flat and voice hoarse from the mental exhaustion brought on by the evening, “I know we like to say our doors are always open, but when one of the door’s windows is broken… Both doors are closed, a’ight?” 

`