Yeah, it was hot; a high humidity hellscape, crawling-in-your-skin, these-wounds-will-not-heal levels of hot. Bodies rolled up and against one another in an undulating wave like some forgotten, pleistocene monstrosity of the deep, alive and well and feasting upon the energy of Slateport.[break][break]

Yujin had already made sure to locate the exits. More importantly, she was deciding whether she was actually going to use all those ‘trendy’ zippers on her outfit.[break][break]

A shiver in the air, the rustle of a different set of vibrations, made her turn. The dude had a sleepy, delinquent look to him. In fact, he reminded her of that punk 'boyfriend' she had several years back.[break][break]

“WHAT?” was the first thing she said, needing to lean in way close to the guy who’d asked her a question. “NO, I’M HERE BECAUSE LIFE HAS NO MEANING.”[break][break]

She grinned. She didn't look like the person for whom life held no meaning. Even more so, she'd offer him a water bottle.

“BECAUSE I’M ALONE.”[break][break]

When he returned the bottle she’d grab his wrist in the kind of gross violation of personal space endemic to the party setting. Indeed, she’d glance at his fingertips, chin tilted up, eyes narrowed to slits. The rest of her screamed inebriated and/or high, but her blue eyes were unpromising, like the glow of an alarm clock’s digits in the hours before it meant to ring.[break][break]

And then she smiled again and let him go, gesturing as the final person in front of them vacated the line and they were greeted by the sight of cheap plastic tables and cheap plastic cups filled with a colorful array of liquids.[break][break]

“LIVING OR DYING, I GO AT IT ALONE—SO I’M FREE, RIGHT?”[break][break]

Yujin would also finish the water bottle, set it on the table, and grab another. She’d also go for a bright blue mixed drink and toast her mysterious new friend, presumably if he’d grab something too.

He wasn’t yet in his final form. [break][break]

“NO, I LIKE IT. LIFE IS ALREADY A PRISON. NO ONE GETS OUT ALIVE.”[break][break]

There was no need to stare longingly outside of a desk office, watching the world go by, hearing the email reminder for your next meeting.[break][break]

His repeated attempts to look down on her did not go unnoticed. She huffed, she puffed, she pouted, and then she stood up on her tiptoes as they shuffled away from the line. Not the most comfortable maneuver to do in beach-ready flip-flops, so she got plenty of sand between the toes.[break][break]

The question made her laugh. “DYING TO KNOW WHAT’S ON MY MIND, HUH.”[break][break]

She took a sip of her drink, and when she was done, she laughed again. “MIND IF WE SIT SOMEWHERE? I WANT TO SKETCH YOU.”

Yujin laughed with him. A dark and dry sense of humor was harder to find in the civilian populace.[break][break]

As they sat down, she took out a leather-bound notebook and the pencil slotted in its spine.[break][break]

"I CAN READ YOU LIKE A BOOK, BUT IS THERE A LITTLE SUBTEXT THERE."[break][break]

“I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured innocently at regular volume; the words threatening to disappear straight into the uproarious air, much like the flick, flick of her tool.[break][break]

She smiled wryly as he enunciated. This one had a lot of rough character to him, but it wasn't reflected in her work. The sketch was inelegant but clinical. It didn’t appear to be an artist's rendition. It was too accurate, too balanced, and too unconcerned with biases. His likeness could go in a catalogue, new specimen of the rave typing.[break][break]

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SHIRTLESS? MINE IS YUJIN.”

Oh, were they trading intimate words at an intimate distance now?[break][break]

Yujin put a palm down against her seat and dragged it closer to him so that no word was missed. The screech of plastic that was meant to come instead died in the beach’s fine grains of sand.[break][break]

Now and then she’d reach back for her drink, carefully set aside from the mountain of other red cups on a nearby table. [break][break]

Dylan had a way of securing eye contact. With his wild appearance, it felt intense—even for her. Even though their knees were practically touching, she kept the sketchbook on her lap between them like a ceremonious wall.[break][break]

Her smile turned wry. “Seems like you can’t read me after all.”[break][break]

The sketch was done. It would be visible to him, but she didn’t offer it over.[break][break]

“I don't feel like saying. So? What do you do when you want something but can’t have it?”

Another fake huff of indignation met the height comments. Being short was an overall negative in life, but as a woman, it had some unscrupulous benefits.[break][break]

“... My. How patient you are.”[break][break]

She gave him a disbelieving look—glancing at the tips of his unruly eggplant-colored hair, his distinct shirtlessness, his fingerprint-less fingerstips, the cup he’d taken that wasn’t his, so on and so forth. The alcohol made every motion of her eyes even more exaggerated, and they lingered in all the wrong places.[break][break]

His eyes had roamed over the sketch by that point. Could he tell that she had basically pegged him for a criminal and wanted some comedic assurance so as to show the local law enforcement his likeness? After all, he was the picture of a delinquent. Wouldn't it be exciting if he was a murderer, too?[break][break]

The return question elicited a grin. She leaned forward.[break][break]

“I take it by any means necessary, of course.”