private SPITTING SPARKS ╱ IKAROS

[VEGAS]

❝  This building bears down on him like more than a cloud. A heavy, oppressive weight. Up-walkers haven't been here for many moons now, he'd guess, but nature hadn't quite reclaimed it. Instead it looms as some terrible kind of monument to their colonialism. Vegas hadn't been around in the times when this twolegplace didn't creep quite so close to the wilderness, though he knew enough of the stories to miss it anyway. A time without stark corners and looming concrete. They weren't dens, cozy and warm, but maybe that's what makes them such good hiding places. His mark's been hiding here. A few times out for prey, a few other faces in every now and then. Eyes rolled over a shoulder in discreet glances back, as if to make sure nobody saw him going in. Unfortunately for him, Vee's just a little bit better at this than some kibble-fattened house cat could ever be.

He'd slipped in through a rusted-open window, paws hitting a layer of dust so thick it rises up like smoke from his touch. A grumbled, wordless protestation sounds like a curse from between his teeth. This place is wide and empty, several entryways off to separate sides. No tracks in the dust yet, least not right around him. Probably the first one here for a while. Building's big, though. Plenty of places to search. Long as he's quiet, it shouldn't take too long. This one thing, and then it'll be enough to keep them afloat for a few more cycles of the moon. It'd been a big enough offering that he couldn't even think on it. Maybe that meant something about him. Maybe it doesn't even matter, long as it keeps the three of them alive. Maybe he'll do anything at all.

†  ooc notes information †

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  ooc: —
• full information.
  

  
  VEGAS,  vee  or  v.   accepts others, how happily depends on who it's from.
  ──── uses he - him + masc titles ;  will accept others with bemusement.
  ──── about 26 moons old,  born during early greenleaf or late newleaf.
  ──── gay, singleish. crushes on a broad range of men; doesn't act on it.
  
  a sleek chocolate point tom with some odd irregularities in his spotting, and a soft length of thicker fur from between his ears and down his spine. his eyes are a soft, mellow blue, though they have a more intense glow in certain lighting. deceptively strong, with the build of one accustomed to work.
• "speech"

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[IKAROS]

It wasn't an unusual request, but Ikaros has gotten a whiff of fish left out in the sun too long— figuratively, of course. A life for a life is simple in theory, and it isn't the first time he has answered similar contracts with acceptance and success, their targets left in an alleyway while Ikaros returned to his employer with blood still between his toes. But their reasons were understandable. Justifiable enough for him to take on the burden of death. He doesn't accept the petty and spiteful as understandable reasons; cheating (former) partners and bruised egos aren't grounds for sending any soul across the river, but murder is. Ikaros knows that well, and so he'd nodded and promised the deed as good as done— though his employer's satisfied, smug gleam had given him pause, instinctive suspicion rearing its head over Ikaros' shoulder.

It watches now as he leaps between aging, brick windowsills and painstakingly lowers himself inside. For the supposed scene of a butchered dear friend, it's remarkably undisturbed— and the portly cat motionless in the corner doesn't meet the description of the killer Ikaros is to handle. He approaches the body and prods a black shoulder, then bends to stare intently at their chest. Asleep, not dead. He can't decide yet whether this is some poor victim of circumstance or the supposedly dead companion he was told would be here, murdered by a rival. The employer had allegedly learned they'd kidnapped and killed his friend, but the only "they" here is fucking napping.

There's that rotting fish stench again.

He tips his head toward a nearby empty doorway. There's a shadow, a silhouette of a cat, and if the room weren't completely vacant, Ikaros might have hidden from view for a surprise ambush, but seeing as a fucking mouse couldn't hide here, he strolls through boldly— and this one meets the description: a white cat dumped in mud on both ends. "You're clean for a killer," he says, rocking back on his heels. "And this is dusty for a fresh tomb. Let me guess: the deep-sleeper back in the corner is why you're here."
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