[insert clever title here] (Shiloh/Onyx)

[Shiloh]

Gage Aspen

Gage is alone in a bar. The place isn't one of her regular haunts, but she's been here before and she’s acquainted with the bartender. The room is dimly lit. Weak yellowish lights line the ceiling; they flicker incessantly but do little to illuminate anything outside of their immediate vicinity. Dying sunlight is filtered through frayed blinds, and the air, thick with smoke and dust, is uncomfortably warm.

Gage collapses on a stool, choosing a spot in the far corner by the wall. Ensconced in shadow, she feels virtually invisible. She heaves a sigh and leans forward, placing her elbows on the counter and resting her head in the crook of her arm.

"Sweetie, you’re back. Haven’t been around in a while, eh?"

She groans inwardly at the sound of the bartender’s voice. He likes her, and he isn’t subtle about it. He’s the main reason why she seldom frequents this particular bar; he is shamelessly persistent, and frankly, he tries her patience.

She tries to ignore him.

“Mm, long day, sweetie?” He bites his lip and furrows his brow, his expression agonizingly, patronizingly concerned.

Gage lifts her head to scowl at him.

“Aw. Mhmm,” he says again, nodding. “Don’t sweat it, sweetie. I’m sure things will --”

“Ugh, shut up.”

He looks surprised. “Well, can I get you a drink? On the house.”

Gage fixes him with the most menacing glower she can muster. “I don't want a drink,” she says through gritted teeth. “And I am not in the mood for flirting with you.”

He shrugs a little and narrows his eyes. “Hard to get, huh? Aight. If that’s how you wanna play.”

He’s gone again, and Gage rolls her eyes. “God, I hate this place,” she murmurs to herself, glancing across the room and surveying its other occupants with undisguised contempt. The population comprises drunkards, prostitutes, and scruffy, drunken bums who have nowhere else to loiter. Gage is familiar with most of them. And she hates all of them.

The place, known only to a few, is frequented by generally shady characters. It’s become a speakeasy, little known to outsiders, a sanctuary from the law. Gage only knows about it through her father, who used to come here often. She also used to hang around here quite a lot, when she had nothing better to do. Outsiders did occasionally stumble across the hangout, but they were regarded by the regular company with wariness and hostility.

Obviously, Gage would greatly prefer to be alone in her favorite haunt, deep in the woods. But the day has left her too exhausted to even consider taking the trek.

She extracts a lighter from her pocket, and soon she’s dragging on a roll of tobacco. She holds the smoke for several seconds before exhaling slowly through her nostrils. No one gives a shit if you smoke in here, and no one cares how old you are, either. Gage is about to take another hit when a sound catches her attention; she glances over her shoulder as the door of the bar swings open. Someone enters - a new face, one that she doesn’t recall having seen in the bar before. She narrows her eyes, openly scrutinizing the newcomer.

table by onyx

[Onyx]

I won't go where the sun doesn't shine

Love is a shadow, in the brightness it dies

On the flickering screen above me, two shining men throw punches at each other's faces, and their audience cheers for blood. I can't tear my eyes away, as hard as I try - the fight is so much more artful, so much more full of hate, than the Hunger Games. There's no fear, no desperation, no horror at the chance of not returning home if they lose. They're fighting for fun and out of pure rage. Somewhere to my right, the barman is flirting with a reluctant subject. Poor girl. I pretend not to hear her words, focussing instead on the grunts and cheers of the undesirables around me as their eyes are similarly fixed on the televised fight. This bar is the sort of place where people don't watch the news - and that's a good fact for me, for it means I can come here to escape my tribulations of my ever-scrutinised life without being recognised. Or attacked. My right hand encloses a glass bottle of some yeasty, sour-tasting drink, the condensation that beads on its outside reassuringly cool against my palm. The other hand is closed on top of the bar, still holding the change that the server gave to me when I paid for my drink in advance. I think that not opening a tab might be the only sign that I don't truly belong here.

"I don't want a drink," the girl has raised her voice now and I turn my head towards her, eyes wide as I try to make out her face in the shadows. All I see however is the glint of a piercing, and the dancing silhouette of a tattoo on her neck - a lizard? a scorpion? - which seems to stretch like it has just awoken as she moves her head. The barman seems persistent, leaning closer to her and leering like a hungry dog. I want to interrupt, but my desire to remain inconspicuous prevents me. Instead, I take another swig from the bottle, unable to resist the urge to pull my facial muscles taut as the foul liquid slides down my throat. And people drink this for fun? 

Suddenly, the noise around me surges into a roar like a hovercraft taking off. People are on their feet, shaking their fists jubilantly in the air. Beer and ale surge upwards in chutes from rapidly raised glasses before crashing down on the floor and tables like sticky, stinking rainwater. My eyes tear away from the undulating tattoo and back up to the screen - I haven't dared make eye contact with anyone except the barman since I came in - and I see that where two men were just fighting, one now stands victorious while the other lies barely breathing on the floor. The noise is almost blinding in its intensity, stepping over the borders of its own sense and causing an assault on the others, too. My neighbour has taken a moment of silence within the commotion to light herself a cigarette. The glowing end briefly lights up her face - aggressive and hard-set but with some level peace in it. Smoke drifts from between her lips and out her nostrils. Her eyes close in relaxed bliss.

And then the smoke reaches my own nose, and I inhale it sharply and accidentally - it sends me into a coughing fit that makes my throat feel like fire. As the chaos resettles into a murmur as the fight ends, I turn to the shadowed figure, wafting the ever-coming fumes away from my face. "Sorry, do you mind? I don't smoke." My voice is snobbier than I meant it to be, but as long as I get the urgent message across - don't murder me because you're choosing to kill yourself - then my tone matters little.

thanks malin @ adox

[googlefont="Oswald"]

[Shiloh]

Gage Aspen

A girl, probably around my age, occupies the seat to my right; I glance towards her, studying the wild blonde curls and blue-green eyes. She’s well-dressed -- even a bit posh, I decide. Cute, though. I find myself absentmindedly running my tongue over my bottom lip. Ridiculously cute.
But somehow, she doesn’t quite look like she belongs in District Seven. There is nothing about her fresh face or soft, flawless skin that screams “lumberjack.”
“Sorry, do you mind? I don’t smoke.”
I narrow my eyes a little, fixing the girl with a steady gray gaze. Then I take another slow drag, part my lips, and release the smoke directly into the other girl’s face.
“Oh,” I say softly, suppressing a smirk. “Sorry.”
The girl is coughing, and I turn back towards the counter. She has no place here.

table by onyx