Post by Kagetsuki on Feb 9, 2008 2:16:51 GMT -5
(If I talked to you, you’re in. If not…You can PM me, but I can’t guarantee you a spot. It’s pretty crowded already.)
(Please be warned, this RP will contain language, as you will soon see, and perhaps some explicit content. I doubt you guys really mind, though. =P )
“Number 571, your order is ready. Number 571?” Cold, tinny voice. The youth craned his head to look up at the microphone, dark eyes showing only dim comprehension. After a pause the announcement was repeated, “Number 571, your order is ready. Number 571?”
Number 571, the youth thought idly, still staring at the microphone. Funny. Five and seven made twelve, plus one was thirteen. Thirteen was unlucky.
“Excuse me,” A high-pitched and annoying feminine voice said from the youth’s side. He turned to look at the woman with eyes that said he was not quite there. “Excuse me, but you’re Number 571 aren’t you? I think it’s your turn.” Her tone was snobbish, condescending. The youth had a strong desire to smash her equally snobbish face in with a brick. Rich girls. “Excuse me,” She said again, speaking slower now, as though to a child, “Excuse me, but it’s your turn. Can you move, please?”
“Fuck off,” He muttered in monotone, shuffling towards the metal counter to pick up his prescription. A tiny spark of satisfaction brightened his mood as he heard the woman gasp in shock behind him. Fucking prudish rich girls. They all deserved bricks. Maybe a bat. He’d be able to control the force of a bat to the face better than a brick to the face. Yeah, a bat.
The attendant behind the heavy glass screen, face unrecognizable for her image being distorted and blurred, had to repeat her question twice to catch his attention. He’d been getting worse at that lately, focusing. Oh well. “Number 571. Excuse me. You are Number 571, aren’t you? Here’s your order.” A little red paper bag was slipped under the tiny slot in the screen, and then the attendant was asking for payment; he was staring at the bag. Red for ordered, white for prescribed. Red for not needed, white for required. They should have made his white.
He paid in coins and then shuffled slowly away from the counter before the distorted woman behind it could say goodbye. There was no reason for a goodbye; he’d be back eventually anyway, back to the inhuman, tinny voices coming from the microphones, the inhuman metal counters and the inhuman glass screens with their inhumanly distorted attendants sitting behind. Fuck he hated hospitals these days. Not as though they’d ever been any better, but he could dimly recall a time when they had been less…harsh.
At least it had become easier to get meds. What with the riots that had started a couple of years back, more and more money had been directed from public services to law enforcement groups; hospitals couldn’t afford to check the legitimacy of pharmacy orders anymore unless it looked seriously suspicious. Despite the frequency of his orders and his visits, he himself had nothing to worry about because the pills were under a different name, and he always made sure to visit different hospitals (they didn’t check that sort of thing anymore, either); if something were ever suspected the feds would go after his dealer, not him. Because the pills weren’t for him, not really; he was just the go-between guy. His dealer needed the meds for some freak disorder he wouldn’t mention—he figured it was an excuse for a simple over-the-counter addiction—and in exchange for his trekking to get those meds every few days or so, he’d receive his fix in return.
His fix, he recalled with a sort of grim fondness. Fuck, he couldn’t wait. Pangs of need were already making him weak as he shuffled slowly back towards the more run-down part of the city. It had been, what, two days since his last fix? Two days without the glorious stuff he didn’t even know the name of. The dealer had said its name once, long ago, but he couldn’t really remember what he’d said, nor did he care to. It was good shit, that’s all that mattered. Fuck, he couldn’t wait. Maybe he’d be able to see that girl ag—
It was raining. Oh. He hadn’t noticed. His clothes were soaked; people were giving him strange looks. Why hadn’t he noticed? He was cold. He shivered. It was raining hard. Had he brought an umbrella? He couldn’t remember if he had or if it had been left behind in the hospital. Dammit. Fucking hospital, always making him forget things. He flipped his soaked hood over his head for some unknown protection and trotted down the street towards the broken buildings of the Construction District. They really should have just called it the Dead District; the stark gray buildings were never going to be finished. The higher-ups didn’t have time anymore to hire builders, unless it had to do with the riots. Those half-finished skyscrapers were going to rot, just like the people that had been meant to inhabit them.
Damn, he was cold. His hands were white and wet and shivering in the rain which fell in curtains from the foreboding skies; he’d somehow, instinctively, shoved the little red bag into his jacket to keep it from the wetness. If nothing else, he had to protect that little bag. He needed his fix.
~
When, some minutes later, the amount of people crowding the streets with him had faded to but a trickle, he slowed his pace and ducked into an open door of broken glass. To the left, across the street, was the entrance to the Red Light District—not at all an interest to him—to the right, a block or two down, were a few small restaurants and cafes. Why they were all the way out here was a mystery, but somehow they managed to keep enough customers to stay open. He’d eaten at maybe one of them, once or twice when he’d had the money and cared for actual food; he couldn’t remember what it had been like. Oh well. All he needed right now was his fix. If he had his fix he could maybe even see that girl aga—
A super-bright flash of lightning outside temporarily rendered his sensitive eyes sightless, sending him into a fit of cursing. The deafening clap of thunder that followed close behind was enough to dash all further thoughts, and he scrambled deeper into the broken building he’d entered, groping the dirty and gritty walls while his sight returned in white and green and red spots behind his eyes. He didn’t need this shit. Fucking rain, lightning, thunder. Fucking storms.
Dammit, he needed that fix.
(All right! Time to finally get this started! Aren’t you all happy? Those of you I’ve talked to, your characters should preferably start out in the Construction District, someplace relatively close by. Kainus and Subtle, I’ll let you two know when it’s time for your entrance. If there are any questions, feel free to ask.)
(Please be warned, this RP will contain language, as you will soon see, and perhaps some explicit content. I doubt you guys really mind, though. =P )
“Number 571, your order is ready. Number 571?” Cold, tinny voice. The youth craned his head to look up at the microphone, dark eyes showing only dim comprehension. After a pause the announcement was repeated, “Number 571, your order is ready. Number 571?”
Number 571, the youth thought idly, still staring at the microphone. Funny. Five and seven made twelve, plus one was thirteen. Thirteen was unlucky.
“Excuse me,” A high-pitched and annoying feminine voice said from the youth’s side. He turned to look at the woman with eyes that said he was not quite there. “Excuse me, but you’re Number 571 aren’t you? I think it’s your turn.” Her tone was snobbish, condescending. The youth had a strong desire to smash her equally snobbish face in with a brick. Rich girls. “Excuse me,” She said again, speaking slower now, as though to a child, “Excuse me, but it’s your turn. Can you move, please?”
“Fuck off,” He muttered in monotone, shuffling towards the metal counter to pick up his prescription. A tiny spark of satisfaction brightened his mood as he heard the woman gasp in shock behind him. Fucking prudish rich girls. They all deserved bricks. Maybe a bat. He’d be able to control the force of a bat to the face better than a brick to the face. Yeah, a bat.
The attendant behind the heavy glass screen, face unrecognizable for her image being distorted and blurred, had to repeat her question twice to catch his attention. He’d been getting worse at that lately, focusing. Oh well. “Number 571. Excuse me. You are Number 571, aren’t you? Here’s your order.” A little red paper bag was slipped under the tiny slot in the screen, and then the attendant was asking for payment; he was staring at the bag. Red for ordered, white for prescribed. Red for not needed, white for required. They should have made his white.
He paid in coins and then shuffled slowly away from the counter before the distorted woman behind it could say goodbye. There was no reason for a goodbye; he’d be back eventually anyway, back to the inhuman, tinny voices coming from the microphones, the inhuman metal counters and the inhuman glass screens with their inhumanly distorted attendants sitting behind. Fuck he hated hospitals these days. Not as though they’d ever been any better, but he could dimly recall a time when they had been less…harsh.
At least it had become easier to get meds. What with the riots that had started a couple of years back, more and more money had been directed from public services to law enforcement groups; hospitals couldn’t afford to check the legitimacy of pharmacy orders anymore unless it looked seriously suspicious. Despite the frequency of his orders and his visits, he himself had nothing to worry about because the pills were under a different name, and he always made sure to visit different hospitals (they didn’t check that sort of thing anymore, either); if something were ever suspected the feds would go after his dealer, not him. Because the pills weren’t for him, not really; he was just the go-between guy. His dealer needed the meds for some freak disorder he wouldn’t mention—he figured it was an excuse for a simple over-the-counter addiction—and in exchange for his trekking to get those meds every few days or so, he’d receive his fix in return.
His fix, he recalled with a sort of grim fondness. Fuck, he couldn’t wait. Pangs of need were already making him weak as he shuffled slowly back towards the more run-down part of the city. It had been, what, two days since his last fix? Two days without the glorious stuff he didn’t even know the name of. The dealer had said its name once, long ago, but he couldn’t really remember what he’d said, nor did he care to. It was good shit, that’s all that mattered. Fuck, he couldn’t wait. Maybe he’d be able to see that girl ag—
It was raining. Oh. He hadn’t noticed. His clothes were soaked; people were giving him strange looks. Why hadn’t he noticed? He was cold. He shivered. It was raining hard. Had he brought an umbrella? He couldn’t remember if he had or if it had been left behind in the hospital. Dammit. Fucking hospital, always making him forget things. He flipped his soaked hood over his head for some unknown protection and trotted down the street towards the broken buildings of the Construction District. They really should have just called it the Dead District; the stark gray buildings were never going to be finished. The higher-ups didn’t have time anymore to hire builders, unless it had to do with the riots. Those half-finished skyscrapers were going to rot, just like the people that had been meant to inhabit them.
Damn, he was cold. His hands were white and wet and shivering in the rain which fell in curtains from the foreboding skies; he’d somehow, instinctively, shoved the little red bag into his jacket to keep it from the wetness. If nothing else, he had to protect that little bag. He needed his fix.
~
When, some minutes later, the amount of people crowding the streets with him had faded to but a trickle, he slowed his pace and ducked into an open door of broken glass. To the left, across the street, was the entrance to the Red Light District—not at all an interest to him—to the right, a block or two down, were a few small restaurants and cafes. Why they were all the way out here was a mystery, but somehow they managed to keep enough customers to stay open. He’d eaten at maybe one of them, once or twice when he’d had the money and cared for actual food; he couldn’t remember what it had been like. Oh well. All he needed right now was his fix. If he had his fix he could maybe even see that girl aga—
A super-bright flash of lightning outside temporarily rendered his sensitive eyes sightless, sending him into a fit of cursing. The deafening clap of thunder that followed close behind was enough to dash all further thoughts, and he scrambled deeper into the broken building he’d entered, groping the dirty and gritty walls while his sight returned in white and green and red spots behind his eyes. He didn’t need this shit. Fucking rain, lightning, thunder. Fucking storms.
Dammit, he needed that fix.
(All right! Time to finally get this started! Aren’t you all happy? Those of you I’ve talked to, your characters should preferably start out in the Construction District, someplace relatively close by. Kainus and Subtle, I’ll let you two know when it’s time for your entrance. If there are any questions, feel free to ask.)
