Name: Cy Valles
Callsign: Tailor
Location: The Seventh Heaven - Rooftop
With: Sergeant Sanders
@FieryCold, Killstreak
@EmperorsChosen, Jackal
@Hjorthorn
The purples and blues of neon were tantalizing, in their own way - sirens that called the Tailor to the dance. He had been here before, though he could not remember the specifics of the place, the edges of its architecture; sobriety was strange in that way, casting an unfamiliar light over all his old, hazy memories. The feel remained close to his heart, however. Even clear of mind, free of illicit influence, he could feel himself pulled, to the left, and to the right, and back again, and back again, and back. He felt the vibrations of a swaying dance, even as he remained perfectly still in his section of the top floor, away from Killstreak and the Sergeant.
It reminded him of the more philosophical, less scientific, aspects of the
poison; some were addicted to the chemical, others the sensation.
Killstreak's brand of cavalier tirade pulled him from his contemplations - of others, and all their various poisons: the Sergeant and her eternal disdain, the Watchdog's nonchalant musings, and Killstreak's incessant mockery. Tailor himself, and his endless need to think and think and self-monologue. They were all being true to their nature, or perhaps running contrary to it, and both were their own brand of toxin.
"All clear." Tailor noted in imitation, extending his even-keeled, calming voice over the various club-goers. Very few of them would be pacified, but perhaps some would barely require it, still anesthetized by the dim and dull of drink and dance.
He followed Killstreak's lead, joining both group and diatribes of strategy - Revy, as ever, hid a pragmatic wisdom beneath her irreverence. It was the Sergeant, however, who led them - hardened, venomous, to the point,
human. At least in theory. "With respect, Sergeant, we've no mental profile on the target. Being cornered by our numbers could lead her to inflict heavy collateral."
She was doubtlessly aware of the fact, Tailor mused, questioning why - then - he had even brought it up. Perhaps he was worried.