exsiliumlogs | diamonds will always look like stones; ( open )

Date & Time: vaguely this week
Location: around the city and hold
Characters: remy lebeau & open;
Summary: a week in the life. many options, pick one and let's roll.
Warnings: tba

( a ) When you live dangerously, there is often a price to pay. He's been spending off nights exploring every inch of the city, from the tunnels to the ruins to the inhabited places. Sometimes, those escapades end in fights, sometimes he acquires injuries incidentally. He's been shot, by a fellow Transport, more than once. Such is his life, and he's used to it.

But he's far from stupid. He knows he has to take care of himself, if only to the slimmest extent. That means that tonight, just before night gives way to morning, he's shuffling around in the Transport Clinic. He doesn't want actual care, doesn't want anyone to see him. He's just taking what he needs, and then he'll be on his way. He rummages around for bandages, blood seeping through a not-yet-healed wound on his leg. He bites down on his lower lip, drops a bottle of something and winces as it clatters to the ground and it rolls away. Damn.

( b ) Some nights are better. Those are the nights he spends at his favorite tavern in the crumbling city, sitting at a back table and playing cards. He's taught the locals some of his games, learned many of their own in return. He laughs, they all drink, and the natives are blissfully unaware that he's slowly sucking them dry. He doesn't keep the money for himself, however, and really has no use for it anyway. Those coins find themselves in the pockets of those who need it most, going back into the establishments he frequents and the hands of children on the street.

Tonight the laughter is loud and the drinks are ordered readily. Remy's always up for a game, or a talk, with a fellow Transport, and if he sees one enter the tavern he'll wave them over with a hand still holding half the deck.

( c ) He doesn't like spending time around the Hold, truth be told. It's too militaristic, for his tastes, and when he can get away from that imagery it still tastes like a prison. But he can only get away with existing in the city alone for so long, and eventually during the day he circles back to the Transports' assigned quarters. He doesn't care much for the training rooms, either, but he can appreciate their functionality. So this afternoon, he slips into one of the less occupied rooms and gets to work. He keeps his skills sharp in various ways--boxing, sparring, target practice. He's not wearing his coat, keeps reaching up to brush his auburn hair off his forehead. After awhile, a comfortable layer of sweat on his brow and melting ache between his shoulders, he pulls out his deck of cards.

He shuffles once, twice, and then a third time. Each time, one card appears on top--the Queen of Hearts, the weapon he'd chosen for himself here. He hasn't done much with her, yet, not wanting to risk the consequences of her disappearing entirely if she blew up.

Today, he's bored, and idle. He flicks the card up between his index and middle fingers, examines it slowly. It flares, briefly, with the signature pink light of his powers. Experimentally, he tosses the card towards the nearest wall. He expects it to burst, bounce back. What he doesn't expect is for a deafening boom to sound, taking out the majority of the wall.

And, amongst the rubble? The Queen of Hearts, still in-tact.

( d ) And, if none of the above suit your fancy? This fellow can be found in all manner of places at all manner of times: out on the rooftops, in the outlands, in various places in the city. He's never still, and trouble seems to follow him as a rule.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"And that's why it works, right there."

Still amused, and then she pushes off the light post. "You doing any specific, or just walking around?"

"Maybe lookin' ta do a little work," he says, though there isn't much decision behind the statement. "A man's gotta keep busy, after all."

"What sort of work happens this time of night?" There's not really judgment in her voice, but her eyebrows have gone up a little bit.

"Guess." There's only a couple options, after all.

"Mostly I can just think about police work and various illegal activities, really." Not that she expects an admission if it's the second, and not that she isn't using police work as a substitute for vigilantism.

"One a' those is more correct than the other." But like hell he's going to make it that easy.

"I can't really imagine you with the police." But she doesn't particularly expect him to admit to the other, either, even if it is true.

"They ain't really my crowd. C'est vrai."

Nodding, thoughtfully. He's never been really ashamed of what he is (he sees nothing wrong with it), and most people know it about him right off the bat. But sometimes it's fun to be coy.

"So thief." There's something almost amused in her voice, because she can't really judge him for that.

He winks at her. "Best there is, darlin'."

"Should have guessed you wouldn't have any modesty going there." Shaking her head with a small smile. "Any specialties?"

"I like things that sparkle." He laughs.

"Doesn't everyone?" A shrug and an evaluating glance. "Most people don't just take them."

"Mos' people live very unhappy lives, too."

"And you think this is the way to fix that?"

"Always works for me." A lie. Sometimes stealing makes him more depressed and leads him to self-sabotaging cycles of existentialism.

That doesn't seem like a terribly intelligent life plan there, Remy. "It's a good thing people have different ways of being happy, I guess. Is there even anything to steal around here, really?"

"More than you'd think. Maybe."

"Seriously? People don't seem to have a lot. You going on a lot of small missions or something?"

Remy shrugs, thinking of the collection of trinkets from various times hidden away in his room.

"I like ta keep busy, oui."

"A diligent thief." Nodding seriously, except it's ruined by the way she's almost smiling. "What a rare find."

"Not as rare as y'might think. Y'gotta be committed, in this business."

It's a craft, an art, a trade.

"Maybe it's just that the committed ones don't tend to get caught."

The best thief is a thief you never even realize was there. She's heard that before.

Remy very nearly pouts. "But gettin' caught can be half the fun, sometimes."

Blink.

Blink again. "Getting caught doesn't sound like fun at all."

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