[center]-------[/center][i]‘Just don’t listen. Just ignore it. None of our business.’[/i]

This suggestion, tapped quietly on the table in Morse to Don’s mute partner as the younger Asylum grew curiouser and curiouser of the goings on of their company in the cafeteria by the minute, held absolutely no standing when gravity quite abruptly decided to stop working. Suspended in the air and hoping Niel was close enough to hear him, Don muttered irately, “Maybe next time I feel like skipping breakfast you won’t bother me about being [i]bored[/i].”

Several long, irksome moments later, they were dropped from their suspension. The blind Asylum heard his cane fall near him and grabbed it up quickly. As he felt around for a seat not covered in an unrecognizable glob of food, he heard Niel’s response tapped out to him.

[i]‘I’m not bored anymore.’[/i]

“Jesus fucking Christ, Niel…” This irate muttering was more to himself than to Niel. He felt around in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Whether Niel understood the situation at hand, the situation they had gotten themselves into simply by coming to breakfast this morning, was fairly irrelevant. When something piqued Niel’s interest he ran with it, consequences aside; and apparently this travesty had piqued his interest.

Niel frowned at Don’s scowl, at his own reflection in the mirrored sunglasses always worn by his partner. [i]‘Calm down. Can’t avoid it anyway. We heard.’[/i] 

It was rare than anyone other than Don could decipher how quickly he tapped out Morse anymore. With it being his primary means of communication for the past several years he had grown very adept with it; and Don was at least as adept at translating. Their communication barrier with others had prevented the two of them from becoming very familiar with any other Asylums. Their team name was known by a few but not their individual names. The casual [i]“hello”[/i] by a passerby in the halls was a rare, nigh unknown occurrence to Niel. He hated it. Any social interaction was fine by him, even interaction with fellow death-row inmates.

Don managed to light his cigarette, take a puff, and blow a smoke ring at his partner. “You’re still too eager for my liking.”

[i]‘You heard the guy. We buy in with the Chrono. We eat bullets for dessert. I pick “probably” over “definitely.” You?’[/i] Don sighed. [i]‘Be reasonable.’[/i]

“Reason went out the window when we joined this lot,” Don muttered. Niel knew he didn’t mean it. Their business with A.M.R.O kept them busy. Keeping busy kept him sane, and he knew Don more than well enough to know the same was true of him. Further proving his point, Don stood and started toward the other table, following the sound of their voices. Niel hurried silently after him, tucking his ponytail into his scarf. If Don’s temper made things get ugly then he wasn’t going to walk into this unprepared.

As the other team that had just joined the table, Niel took an empty seat, and tapped the table to his left to indicate to Don that it was unoccupied here. 

As Don took his seat, he ran a hand back through his dark brown hair, ensuring it was smoothed back, and straightened his tie and smoothed his white dress shirt. A quick, subtle wave of his hand after this confined the smoke from his cigarette to dissipate within his own personal space. Be curt, be courteous, be presentable. These were maybe the only useful things he had ever learned from his father. 

Niel was a stark contrast to Don’s own clean cut, tie-and-cufflinks sort of visage. Niel wore his black hair long, in a lose ponytail that was generally tucked into the thin, breathable scarf covering half of his face. His black, sleeveless muscle shirt, black cargo pants, and beaten and dirty combat boots screamed unprofessional so loudly it was likely earsplitting to his polished partner. Niel considered it more practical; he was more likely to be fighting than sitting around in a stuffy meeting room with a bunch of high-strung businessmen, so looking the part made sense. 

“Donagh Murrough. You might have heard me referred to as ‘Smoker.’ I prefer Don.” He nodded to his right. “Niel Lynch.”

[i]‘Tell them I prefer “sexy beast.”’[/i] Don ignored his partner’s tapping. 

“Ríoghnach, at your service. I’m pretty accustomed to all this [i]wrong-place-wrong-time[/i] bull so I’m not arguing if our overhearing [i]involved[/i] us. Niel here can’t talk. He communicates through Morse code. I interpret. Don’t bother asking him to carry a notepad, he won’t.” Niel shrugged and nodded to confirm this. He could never keep track of pens and gave up trying as the only person he generally communicated with on a regular basis couldn’t see. “I’m blind, as I’m sure you can see if you’re not, but I can get around fine or I wouldn’t even be here.” He took a drag on his cigarette, and spoke his last in a cloud of smoke that billowed around his head and shoulders. “That’s it.”