A Long Walk (Open)

[Reila Tsukino]

A step worth taking, Ophelia Kaverin drifted about the park just outside Central Head Quarters. A pale hand splayed along a chipped bench, her eyes meandering about the clear sky. Spring breathed through each blade of grass, tickling the tips of her toes through her flip-flops, but she barely seemed to notice. Her place wasn't with green--wasn't beneath a tall sycamore or inches from rest. Her hand left the bench and went up to brush away eyeliner trailed beneath her right eye. It went to the next, wiping it off and onto her black leggings. Tight against her skin, she felt too warm--too comfortable to sit on the bench. She continued walking, lax, empty, directionless. A militant without a base--a solider without command. No, they all died. They died in Drachma: a country that served lives on a silver platter. Drachma was her place--her country--her place of birth. She was half Drachman, but born and raised. Ah, raised, by a deceased older brother. The tundra took him too. Less flashy than an explosion, but yeah, he was gone. Now everyone else was too. Scattered. Dead.

She took a deep breath and let her hand drop limply to her side, hair taken lightly to wind, curling around her in wisps of pale blue. This was how she spent her days: in the park, a book in one hand. Drowning in the written word, all she could think about was Othello reciting his ABC's in a loud, childish voice, slurring around the edges. She'd pull away from her story and remember him tripping up the stairs, leaving the refrigerator door open, pulling on her hair. She hated it, but now it brought a sort of smile to her lips. Even if she never found him, their memories, singeing her evermore, lived on in each passing reverie.

When night fell, she went to the bar. Pockets growing lighter, she slapped coins onto the worn bar, leaning heavily into her hand. Smokey lights danced over her eyelids, fogging away the pain. She knew she was sulking, but with no aim, no direction, what was she supposed to do other than await orders from the Chancellor directly? The Briggs Brigade was gone now, wiped out. Reila Tsukino, Daigoro Ito, Murazar Dauthi, Xanthus Icarus, Ayden Derocha, missing. A explosion told them they were dead. But it was because of their selfless sacrifice that Ophie was sitting here now, nursing a glass of champagne and goblet of guilt. She was the leftovers that still breathed--the dry chicken that could be microwaved for tomorrow night's dinner. Or lunch. It didn't really matter at this point.

She took a long gulp and slammed the glass down, glaring at the bartender with cold, silver eyes. Don't even think about telling me I've had enough. She looked small, but she was half Drachman and half Creig; there was no gettin' her drunk! No way! She laughed shrilly and waved another, leaning over to talk to some person sitting next to her about whatever so long as it made her laugh.

[Guest]

Well, he was already starting to regret this decision. All he heard right now were his footsteps against the Amestrian pavement--people were slowly starting to return to their homes. The casual chatter of human life was dying away for the eve, leaving behind the low noise that permeated the night skies. He wore his usual suit: and his hands were deep in his pockets, one hand moving its fingers over the lighter in his pocket. He didn't feel bad enough to smoke--but he was most certainly too warm. It was spring-time here in Amestris; but it was still twenty degrees warmer than Drachma. It didn't feel right--he was too warm. Sighing softly, he reached his other hand into his suit pocket and produced a white box. Within this box were several small sticks, and he brought one of them up to his lips before lighting it with his lighter. After a second or two, the cigarette was smoking away, and he puffed at it a few times before letting himself exhale.

He'd been in Central for a total of four days now--waiting for Iris to get in touch with the Chancellor if she could. Although he would be willing to simply walk into Briggs and shoot the place up, he himself admitted that it would be foolish, reckless and likely to get him killed. He wasn't looking for a death wish, he was looking to wound the fuckers who wounded him. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, allowing a plume of smoke to escape into the air. "Well isn't this place interesting?" It was probably the most populated place he'd ever been--and he'd been in a few places before this time. Even though the people were dying away, there were still stragglers; and he wasn't even sure when they'd be leaving. As he approached the HQ and the more densely-populated city area around it, he found that there was an even larger amount of people. The nightlife was always interesting--but he'd never experienced it properly in Drachma. He was either at war or at home--never anything else.

He cautioned a gaze upwards, noticing the stars in the sky twinkling away. You know, if RIOTE found out that he was here, he would likely be hounded down and executed. The familiar weight of his personal weapons--White Knight and Black Dragon--leaned against his thighs. They would help him. Feeling the cigarette near its end, he pulled it from his lips with one last drag, before dropping it onto the ground with a sigh. After crushing it beneath his toes, he turned his head to the right--a bar. It had a few people, but it seemed to net a good following. There were a couple of prices posted up, and they were agreeable to him at least. Stepping through the door, another blast of frustrating warmth greeted him--it almost caused him to turn away, but he decided to keep going with this current path. He had enough money for a few good drinks, and a bit more if necessary.

As he approached the bar, he quickly scanned the room--he knew nobody in there, and there only seemed to be one free slot. A seat on the bar, between a rather petite, pretty young woman, and a lecherous bastard who only seemed to have eyes for her.. features. A bothered feeling rose up inside his stomach, and he slowly approached the bar and took a seat on the stool. A few lousy coins were dropped onto the bar. "Vodka and Lemon, on the rocks." The tender nodded and brought him his drink quickly, just as he heard the woman next to him laugh shrilly. It was a bothersome laugh, but it wasn't too bad. He sighed softly, taking a long sip of his drink before noticing her leaning over to him.

"Yes?" He asked bluntly. He felt the piercing stare of the creep on his other side, but chose to ignore it. He'd deal with that annoyance later.

[Reila Tsukino]

"Yes?" She wasn't really expecting that. Was...was that it? She was supposed to start this conversation? What kind of man was he?! Immediately, her dulled silver eyes narrowed into lazy feminine slits. Well, fine. She took a guzzle of her new champagne glass and set it down with intention. He looked alright--had a good head on his shoulders and all that, but he really didn't seem to get the typical girl-in-a-bar memo. If she wanted to talk to you, talk. Make a joke or something. Come onnn.

"Hey you're Drachman," she blurted, not really caring about the innuendo 'cause she had the same accent. She also really didn't care what he was so long as something distracted her. But... could one be distracted by what one was trying to be distracted from? She didn't know. He reminded her of snow, brushing harshly against her cheeks like fuzz but cold. So cold, her arms were bare in the fray. She collected it like fireflies into a jar, setting it on an old, dusty windowsill to behold back home. Funny, how a single word brought home back. Yes. That was it. His eyes, as nonchalant as his attire, threw her back like a castaway fish. She was used to it--didn't care by now. The frigid waters, vast and cresting, had become her new home. "My brother raised me there." Just someone to talk to--someone that didn't know her and couldn't judge her. She spoke, her voice as husky and dim as the lightning. She spoke, and felt as though it was just falling out of her--as if this very moment was something already written--already set in stone. She shuddered, hand against the glass, leaving a transient print in the condensation there. "I just wish I could bring him back, she murmured, gazing into the bubbles scurrying to the surface. But there was nothing there, but to vanish.

Who was this guy? Who was he to understand anything she said? The guy next to him was almost better. Bigger, better, angrier. There was more emotion lingering around his fat ass then there was in all of Drachma. He barely fit on the stool. His glass was nearly empty. He had pockets full of everything he could ever want. He was one of the down-and-outs. His wife probably left him. And guess what, she didn't care. Right now, she was the one having the moment, not him. Him looking over like a mother at their kid's recital was getting kind of annoying. That was why she had waiting for the skinnier guy to show up and break the one-sided staring contest. Thank god. She was seriously done dealing the poker face at the attention grabbing throat-clears. This guy. He needed to go apologize to her. Set his life straight. What was he doing in a bar when he probably had a family to return to? How could he? How could he do something like that when... Who knew!? Who really knew...anything anymore. She slammed her head down into her arms and took a shuddering breath, throwing her head back up, and pointing a vicious finger past the Drachman and at the fat guy.

"YOU," she spat, her voice shaking, "why are you here?! There are people--people who need you out there somewhere. I don't know who you are or anything, but stop staring and think about what really is important." A wetness licked her eyelashes, pulling--pulling at the seams of gravity. Again, she was defiled by herself and all that's transpired. A distraction? Distractions didn't exist.

[Jay Furor]

~BUMP~

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