There aren’t many things Lex finds joy in anymore, even fewer things she considers essential to her daily routine. Whiskey in her morning coffee, a frozen breakfast burrito, and the few minutes it took to drink that coffee and eat that burrito are three things she does. There’s a pleasant quietness this morning - whatever time it is - that seems more peaceful than usual. It sounds like her downstairs neighbors finally stopped fighting and whoever was to the left of her finally got their kid to sleep. Or they were just out, it probably wasn’t even the morning. Regardless, it’s pleasant.

Until her door shakes with rather angry knocking. It doesn’t seem to phase her, this shit happened all the time. Still, her jaw clenches and she scowls at the barrier. She doesn’t bother getting up, but she does set the coffee mug down on the kitchen counter.

“Milt’s place is across the hall,” she shouts back. It wouldn’t be the first time an angry client came looking for Milton. The lazy piece of shit did everything half ass and he probably sold some low quality shit for a high quality price.

---

sylvie faust

you can't wipe it all away. that's the price she pays for ensuring the aftermath is spotless. the stains linger on her instead. rarely does she ever have a moment where that copper taste isn't on the back of her tongue, or when her fingernails don't have traces of crusted blood. she's made a habit out of wearing black polish because of it. 

the voice on the other side sounds tired. or, well, fed up might be a better fit, but that only makes her bang harder. 

"who the fuck is milt? unless he's the one who shoved a hand up to its wrist down a garburator, i don't give a fuck about some twit named milt."

maybe she should be scared of an ex-rocket beast, but fear doesn't really live in sylvie's body. her parents must've been saving all of it for rory and aaron. 

Alexandra Briarwood

☉

The hum of the microwave stops with the shrill beep. That’s what makes her stand, as the silence of Sylvie’s contemplation leads Lex to believe she turned her ass around to the door directly across the hall. However, the moment of reprieve is muted when the banging only intensifies and the words grow sharper.

She punches the button to open the microwave and steam rolls out from the small compartment. Subconsciously. Sylvie’s reminder draws the memories of last night back to the forefront of her mind. It was messy, as usual. He didn’t want to talk. Mutilation seemed to loosen his lips. And of all things, Lex smiles.

Until it all clicks.

Who the fuck is banging on her door and how did they know about that?

Her footsteps are muffled by years of careful practice and the knowledge of where exactly the creaking boards lie in her floor. She’s fast, striking like an Arbok when she opens the door, reaching out to try and nab Sylive by the collar and yank her inside with one swift motion.

She’s not gentle, little she ever does is. Lex is particularly not gentle when she pushes forward again, a motion that would slam Sylvie’s back to the door itself once it slammed shut.

The dull lighting of the apartment softens its roughness, but that same light sharpens the shadows across the enforcer’s face and accentuates the ever-present fury behind her amber eyes. She’s clearly not expecting company. Her red hair falls freely, messy with bed head, and she dons a braless tank top with shorts - likely her pajamas. Or perhaps she just doesn’t care which would be very on brand for her.

“Who the fuck are you and how do you know about that?”

---

sylvie faust

hum of a microwave. some type of shitty mexican food. quesadilla maybe? smells like beans and cheese. the shrill beep and as much as sylvie strains her ears, she can't hear anything on the other side. no silverware, no clatter of dishware, not nothing.

until suddenly the knob turns and she's being yanked roughly by the collar of her shirt and dragged across the threshold. the door meets her back in a way that makes her shoulders twinge and she winces, but that's accompanied by a toothy smile, carmine eyes lifting with amusement in the face of her aggressor's rage. 

"damn, take a girl to dinner first, why don't you?" she says and tugs on her pale wrist. 

"babes, i'm the only one who knows about that and that's 'cause of me. or did ya think all the bodies you enforcers leave behind just magically disappear when you're done with them?"

Alexandra Briarwood

☉

Slowly, her fingers uncurl into an open palm, but the pressure on Sylvie’s chest remains - she wouldn’t move an inch until Lex is certain she doesn’t need to knock her out off the bat. The explanation comes with . . . amusement?

As she does with everyone she meets, Lex immediately sizes her up. The amber gaze falls down to her boots, up her slender legs, over the black polished fingers and finally back up to carmine eyes and teal hair. She looks tired, but not enough to dull her sense of humor.

Hmph. Lex’s scowl deepens, perhaps in frustration. Sylvie’s clear lack of fear or worry seems . . . disrespectful. Lex can’t quite place it. She’s not used to this sort of reaction to this degree of intimidation which is clearly intentional. Her mild surprise shows in the subtle softness that smooths over her still knit brows. The toothy scowl turns up into a grin and her hand leaves Sylvie’s chest. It moves up to rest beside the stranger’s head on the door as she takes a step to close the gap between them, hovering close enough she can smell the subtle hint of bleach probably caught in her hair or stained to her skin from scrubbing away Lex's handy work.

“Sounds like you’re here to thank me then,” Lex suggests, offering an alternative route for the conversation to take. She could be reasonable sometimes. She hasn’t forgotten the anger in Sylvie’s bangs on the door or her colorful use of ‘asshole’, “I probably keep you pretty busy,” the grin spreads into a toothy smile, “Busy enough to keep you fully employed,” if read between the lines it sounds like a threat. Everyone is replaceable.

---

sylvie faust

to lex's credit, anyone in the right state of mind probably would have pissed themselves at this point. but sylvie's seen every emotion one can in another's eyes, and murderous intent just isn't there. still, her shoulder blades hurt and her neck is a bit uncomfortable from the ex-beast's iron grip. 

"i work for terrorists," she snorts. "there'll always be bodies to dispose of. 'sides, you get chummy with the dead as long as i have, you kinda stop giving a shit about the other side."

nightmares still linger. it feels wrong to call them dreams, as bloody as they are, but they don't leave her gasping in the morning or shaking in the middle of the night. they simply exist. sometimes it's murkrow pecking out dead, dead, dead eyes. sometimes it's a corpse decaying while she's rooted to the spot, forced to watch as days go by in the mindscape and minutes tick down until her alarm goes off. 

she tilts her head. 

"i've seen some fucked up things, especially after avatars have gone through, but you got damn nasty with it. and was that you last week too? down in mauville's slums? the fucking floorboards took me six godsdamned hours." she frowns.

"so what's the deal, eh? those burritos doing something funny to you? 'cause i'm about to light them all on fire if it means i get a fuckin' break."

Alexandra Briarwood

☉

In truth, Lex really hadn’t thought much about what happens after she’s done with a job. Now, she’s confronted with it, face to face, centimeters apart, and she was back to wishing she didn’t know. If Lex had a shred of empathy, she may understand where Sylvie’s frustrations blossomed from, but that didn’t concern herself with such trivial emotions. Not anymore. Caring about someone other than yourself doesn’t get you anywhere, it only holds you back.

Another pleasant smile appears at the mention of Muaville. The longer it took Sylvie to do her job, the better work Lex did. At least, that’s how she would think about it now. In what ways could she make Sylvie’s life harder? Others would suffer more, simply out of spite for this intrusion.

The smile fades back into a scowl, “Tch,” she got that from THEO BECKETT, “Your workload is not my problem. If you want a break learn to delegate,” and with that she pushes off the wall, letting fresh air rush through the space between them. The mention of her burrito ushers her back to the microwave, “Sounds like you don’t appreciate my work,” she uses a finger to poke at the tightly wound tortilla. Deciding it's not ready yet, she pushes it back into the microwave for another 30 seconds.

“Also, not my problem.”

She half turns to regard Sylvie still standing in her doorway, a new crease in her brow, “In fact, none of this is my problem and my job isn’t to hear you bitch and moan about it so if that’s all you’re gonna do then kindly fuck off.”

---

sylvie faust