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oh, a key. that must be useful. absinthe pauses as she briefly and finally recalls the locked door she had encountered in the hidden room north of the entryway. maybe the key would fit nicely there...?[break][break]

satisfied with this course of action, absinthe steers her character back towards the entrance, deciding to open the gate on the far side of the entry tunnel.

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his eye is red. something about it makes absinthe's skin crawl, and she doesn't know why.[break][break]

she looks away in favor of preparing two syringes. "no," she murmurs, more to herself than him. "i'm not."[break][break]

maybe she once was kind. maybe, a long time ago. that memory is far gone now, though. it has long since been replaced with cold calculation, a need to finish her life's work, and the occasional glimmer of the person she once was, shining behind the bloodied stone. looking at howard now, she is struck by the sense that they are now more similar than she had given him credit for.[break][break]

absinthe sterilizes the syringe needles with a lighter from her pocket, and then turns back to howard. "hmm. if you make yourself sound any more like a biohazard, i'll quarantine you."[break][break]

her own little joke, albeit small and hardly recognizable as one, just as his. in that light, she approaches, swabbing his arm with an alcohol prep pad before drawing the syringe close to his vein. "a prick," she murmurs, just before poking the vein with the needle of the syringe. "i'll stay to assist. i need someone to fetch me the supplies i need, though. and somebody to watch the bar."[break][break]

blood flows up into one syringe, about halfway, before absinthe pops it out of him and preps the next. "can you get someone to do that?"

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the melody ends just as quickly as it begins. a soft, final note hangs suspended in the air, lingering on the edge of potential: for a moment, it seems just as likely that she will continue to play as it is that she may stop. then, after a moment, the sound fades, and she rises to her feet to survey the bar.[break][break]

a woman's glass is empty. absinthe better fix that.[break][break]

the bartender, clad in black, masked from the tip of the nose down, drifts back behind the bar, and here, finally feels more in her element, more like a person. her piercing green eyes land squarely on the red-haired customer, and the glasses that she has set aside.[break][break]

absinthe inclines her head in question. "another?" she inquires, hand already lingering near the bar's tap.

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a therapist. absinthe suppresses a scoff. what does he take her for?[break][break]

she need not get too offended. they're mere words, after all, and she's come to know howard for his tendency to waggle his tongue. she listens to him, almost idly, while approaching his iv lines and staring at the clear liquid pumping through the tubing. saline, she would imagine. while pumping him full of fluids will eventually wash out the poison, it is hardly the safest or most effective means of doing so. her eyes lift back to his form, where a spark of bitterness clutches the lines of his face.[break][break]

he is unsure of his body. it is unfamiliar to him. it is not him at all.[break][break]

absinthe knows what he is feeling. maybe that is why her next words sound so genuine.[break][break]

"i'm sorry," she says, soft and low, wholly sympathetic beneath the many layers of hard rock that often surround her voice. then, just as quickly as that genuine, empathetic melancholy had risen in her throat, it is gone, and absinthe is back to work. she meets howard's eye, and she tilts her head.[break][break]

"i need your blood culture."[break][break]

not a request. in fact, she's already removing syringes from her coat pockets.

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absinthe's figure is silhouetted against the dying light of a broken city when she approaches the man, drip-fed by an iv line, scrawny.[break][break]

he is different. completely so. his new form is a poor, frugal imitation of what he once was, for perhaps his worldly poverty also extended into the land of fate. absinthe only recognizes him for his hat, his eye-patch, and the cadence of his voice, now familiar to her. and, of course, for his love of small talk.[break][break]

"does it matter?" she says, an answer to both questions, rhetorical. she believes it does not matter, if only because she also believes that asks not out of genuine care or curiosity, but simply because he is fond of niceties.[break][break]

absinthe has no care for niceties. she is direct to a fault, as demonstrated by her next words.[break][break]

"you have changed," she observes as a statement of fact, her eyes appraising as her eyes roam down his new form, and then back to his face. "in almost every conceivable way."[break][break]

there is an undercurrent to her words, the slightest hint that she is urging him to explain, although without the expectation that he will be truthful.

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gardening isn't really absinthe's preferred hobby. in fact, she seems to kill everything she touches. but, if it is useful, it is useful, and there isn't really any way around it.[break][break]

so, when she hears the sound of rustling in her small patch of land, a murderous intent ignites in her heart. how dare something broach the laws of etiquette in farming? how dare a rat rustle in her well-earned gains? how dare a disgusting—[break][break]

oh. goddamnit. it's cute as fucking hell. just a little thing, flitting around as if in the midst of a dance, rifling through patches of dirt in search of food.[break][break]

absinthe is reluctant when she reaches for an empty pokeball on her belt. she hopes nobody sees her catch this damn thing.

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after a longer than usual dip beneath the water, absinthe returns to crest the waves once more, this time holding a wilted, waterlogged piece of paper with nearly unintelligible words printed upon it. she narrows her eyes at the thing, tilting her head. hopefully it has a use and isn't just junk.[break][break]

she dives.[break][break]

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absinthe's eyes narrow at shalin's mention of the impending war. indeed, the warfront approaches. truthfully, absinthe couldn't care less about it, as she imagines it will be yet another footnote in the endless history of the fight between the league and rocket, but she knows that rocket's patronage of her skills does not end nor begin in the lab. she's certain she will be called upon to assist in the effort.[break][break]

with a deliberate, measured step forward, absinthe tilts her head slightly, her green eyes sharp and probing beneath the shadow of the tress. "and what side of the war do you stand on?" she asks, her voice as cold as the night air. there is a certain intensity behind the question. it is not asked out of curiosity—absinthe is gauging whether this woman will be friend or foe in any upcoming battles.

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absinthe sighs as she catches sight of the skrelp. of course they're territorial. why wouldn't they be?[break][break]

certain that shalin can handle herself, as she has for the majority of this game, absinthe instead chooses to STAY HIDDEN AND FIGHT WITH RANGED ATTACKS. it seems more useful for the character she's chosen to go with anyways: a wizard need not run to the front and start waving a sword as if it might do anything.[break][break]

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absinthe's piercing eyes flit towards the swinging doors that lead into the bar's 'kitchen', and then back to lulu. a clever woman, absinthe remarks silently.[break][break]

"never," absinthe admits, leaning back against the shelves that hold the entirety of the snake pit's liquor. "i presume headquarters facilities are far more impressive than mine."[break][break]

it is, of course, not too difficult to pull together facilities more impressive than her lab. while rocket's patronage has allowed absinthe to upgrade some of her equipment, most of her lab consists entirely of things stolen from her previous job, nearly three years ago. were she younger, perhaps her eyes might have glittered at the prospect of more expensive tools.[break][break]

she's not young anymore, though. absinthe instead crosses her arms over her chest, nodding to herself. "it will speed the process along, if that is the case."

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calpurnia joins absinthe at the table, and the chemist can already feel her patience wearing thin. the flirting, the way her voice lilts upward at the end of every sentence, her purebred attitude: it all serves to grate severely against absinthe's psyche.[break][break]

alas, the chemist is nothing if not capable of grinning and bearing it.[break][break]

even so, she wastes no time on pleasantries. tossing a menu onto the table in front of calpurnia, absinthe flits her eyes to it before meeting calpurnia's gaze. "feel free to peruse," says the viper with no hint of warmth or inflection. "if you'd like food poisoning, of course."[break][break]

absinthe looks back out to the dark, dingy world beyond their booth, one leg over another, her fingertips gently tracing the rim of an already emptied glass. her eyes are thoughtful, but altogether severe, weighed upon by expectations beyond herself. in moments like these, she is glad she is unrecognizable without her mask, lest her detractors spot the distinctly nervous way her teeth toy with her heavily scarred lips beneath it.[break][break]

"i'll get straight to the point," absinthe finally says, her tone almost gravelly. "have you ever done any research on sleep?"

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