[Filter: Viveka, Patrick, Reilanin]

He is not invited.

[Filter: Rogues]

On the 27th.

That is the date selected.

Sascha had three thoughts cross his mind when Metro began his caterwalling.

One; Shoot him.

Two; Shoot him bloodily.

Three; Stab his jugular out! He took his eyes, right?

Instead, cigarette hanging out of his lip, fingers covered in loose ink, quill detailed between thumb and index finger, he shook it at Metro.

"What do you want?"

Then, of course.

He saw her.

The house was full with the smell of Sascha's cooking.

This was the way it was supposed to be, after all. He took the cigarette from his lips and ashed it out by the sink, sighing as he perused the spice cabinet. He'd have to go shopping. While with the Rogues he cooked dinner regularly, merely quadrupling his servings and such, and had become more accustomed to multiple flavors. He'd have to try the same types of seasonings with Lunatics...

Ah. He settled with some taragon, and went back to boiling the stew. Good for a cold day.

[Voice: On]

I will not do any ridiculous survey.

C'mon, Sascha! Viveka and I're gonna -

Get the fuck out of my house.

No!

I won't do the fucking -

Do you have to be so stubborn? Come on, cranky-pants -

Don't -

Questionnaire #1 - The Basics

I can read it myself Viveka.

Question 1! What is your NAME?

Sascha Ha -

You have a middle name?!

Give me the damn thing! I'll fill it out if you just leave me be!

Grumpy, as usual!

What a let down!

( questionnaire )

Out into the night air. Just, relax. Just. Breathe! It's okay, humiliation was natural, what was he going to say? Viveka, I am never a sexual person, you were a grand exception? Oh, he hated this sort of thing the most. He thought this trip would be easier. Easier. Easier. Couldn't he be left to brood the whole trip?

(Why did it hurt so much, anyway, to hear Viveka say those things?)

(Why did it HURT. He wasn't angry, in a lot of ways...)

Fuck. He smoked a cigarette, kicked at the sand, hated the sand, and finally settled just sitting in it. Maybe he'd make friends with it somehow.

For OCD Sascha, Morroc was his worst nightmare.

As he fumbled with the key to his eldest brother's home he wondered idly to himself what kind of person would want to live in the dirtiest place in the world. He'd heard once that sand was cleaner than water - but say that to the sand building up in the fur lining of his boots, in the crevices of his hat, in the (unfortunately more and more prevalent) creaselines about his lips and eyes, sticking to Kevin's nose and tail, flicking through the air. What was the point of all this mess? It was disorganised, chaotic!

If SIGH METRO Odin existed SIGH, he must have thought this Heimdall's kitty litter box.

The idea, on a normal day, would make him smirk, but on a day when the sand was actually pelting in through the gap of his shades and his eyes, it made him curse in relief as he pushed open the door.




And the first thing he noticed was the place wasn't covered in dust.

Swipe. Crossbow out and ready, he didn't even bother to look back at Viveka as he began sneaking through the corridors. (After all, Sascha's older brother, though out of contact for several years, had essentially abandoned his Morrocan home for good.)

Sascha already had a grimace on his face. Kevin had, once again, been ordered to make himself comfortable out of harm's way, as he pressed one hand to his ear and the other snapped his journal shut. He didn't know what was worse, really, as he had a low tolerance for even good singing - the fact that Metro was okay and not horrible and not good, or the fact of the song he was singing. It was horribly twangy, even moreso than Metro's standard singing voice, and Sascha's bad humour that generally was with him everywhere just doubled the closer he got to the church.

"Metro!" He called, finally taking off his hat in surrender.

Too bad the boy was blind, he'd see Sascha had gotten a hair-cut.

"Shut up!"

NOW HIRING

Secretary. No preference on dress, sex, creed, talents, or abilities. Should know when to shut up. Contact via journal.

--

"You're wasting yourself." He shifted his weight and pressed the cigarette against Bryant's temple. "The virus is still out there eating people, you sunuva bitch."

Bryant's eyes finally focused, and tilted upwards, the burn marked charring his flesh unappetizing obsidian. Doll-like, glass, alcohol crystallised, they blinked and attempted once again to make sense of the charicature.

"The least you could do is kill yourself. Even this way, you're not really living."

...They said the virus wasn't traceable. "I don't understand," Bryant murmured, thumbing through Renta's records. "Everyone around her... everything she touched... and yet..." It left several questions to go through. What had she done? Who had given it to her? Why had they seen the need to remove everyone around her in this brutal manner? The Renta they were made aware of was a saint, a perfect angel.

"There's got to be a purpose." Diventia argued.

Bryant was lost in the fray of ink and paper. "...I don't..." His breath caught.

"Bryant!" And so, another who had touched Renta passed...


The characters now have filters.

I have no need for them. You may take them back.

Finish the story.

...Automatically, her heart stopped. It was brutal, swift, and condescending to everything it meant to be alive - she clutched at her chest, toppled against the wall, panted and stole every last second she had in the entirety of her existance, until finally she couldn't stall any longer. The tips of her fingers turned a terrible ash-gray, her eyes bulged, and her tongue lolled, swollen and gaping from her self-chewed lips. Blood trickled down her chin and petered against her beautiful cream blouse.

They say she was stricken by something tiny, diligent, and ever-confounding. It had burrowed it's way through her ear, out her nose, past her eyelashes and into the very core of her soul - they called it a virus, an end, maybe; a beginning, maybe. Needless to say, Renta Janus was dead, killed by a mercilessly unknown cause, her heart having burst within her ribs, her lungs having filled with lemon-jelly liquid, her drool the only thing still moving on her inanimate corpse.