[b][u]DISTRICT 12 \\ LOWER NEIGHBORHOOD[/b][/u]

A sigh, like a cloud. Light and fluffy.

The syringe rolls about, finding the air and bouncing across the cool linoleum. He's twirling his fingers, but finding nothing.

[i]Knock, knock[/i].

"Come in," The twirling fingers murmurs.

The door chokes and heaves but cranks open, it's tracks ungreased and ancient. A pair of men, one with slick, black hair and another with shoulder length violet hair enter the cramped dormitory and pause to grimace. What's that smell? Trash blankets the floor and the only light is from an unadjusted holoscreen at the far corner of the room. Our slick haired villain reaches callously into the confines of his maroon leather jacket and pulls a handgun from it's prison -- archaic, bulky and completely menacing. The other man lights a cigarette, careful to avoid stepping on the litter that is abound in every direction.

"Mr. Corlan?"

The figure slouched at the edge of the loveseat stirs. Draped in darkness, he sits up and his silhouette is apparent in the visage of the blaring holoscreen. He's a well to do man with a suit and tie, but it's been hours since he's worn it proper and his tie hangs low around his neck. The matte of sweaty hair atop his head is in no fighting condition and while not visible from afar, a simple glance at the base of his neck tells any wizened up onlooker how he spends his weekends.

"What is it, boyssssss," he slurs, but on no purpose of his own. He's feeling high and mighty, except the mighty part. The two men step through the minefield of garbage and form a fleshy wedge between the television monitor and the couch. The [i]klick[/i] of a pistol's hammer being cocked is the start of the soundtrack. Suit and Tie doesn't move, but instead stars up at the visitors like presidential candidates, but their sharp demeanor's owe sympathy to the bank. The man of violet takes a long drag of the cigarette. He drops it's burning stub and crushes the flame with a grinding stamp of his boot.

"What's his fucking malfunction?" Violet inquires, as if reciting the greatest articulation of philosophy.

"He's triple dosed. He don't get it," the slick haired hero says. Suit and Tie stirs and in a flash the gunbarrel is pointed right between his eyes, but the poor soul doesn't skip a beat.

"Come onnnnn, I was gonna pay up when I came back to uh," but Suit and Tie's dialogue is superseded by the one between Slick and Violet.

"Triple dosed? You mean like shootin' up three times a day?" He's bewildered at this point.

"I'm talking three syringes in a sitting. He's fuckin' fried." Slick glances at Violet, to check his expression maybe. Maybe.

"What? How is he not in a coma?" [i]Klick![/i] An orange light glows bright, then is snuffed out. Violet exhales smoke and clutches the cigarette between slender fingers. He gazes around, but his gaze is paced and cautious. He spots the syringe but it's all the evidence he needs. Violet's eyebrows dig deep and he scratches his head to find an answer to a question that hasn't yet been asked. 

"Yeah."

The pistol barks. Suit and Tie goes limp against the couch, his eyes still cool and relaxed. The announcer on the holovid doesn't skip a beat. There's a political scandal in District Zero but nobody is listening. Droplets of crimson soak into Violet's jacket, but there's more important business here. "Didn't I say we weren't going to sell to outsiders?"

Slick knocks open the chamber on the pistol. He pulls the smoking case free from it's metallic prison and drops it. He's digging in the pocket of his trousers for something, but Violet isn't finished.

"I'm fuckin' serious, Dak. This dude is a bullpup and he didn't pay up for weeks."

"He just paid up."

"Cut that shit out."

"Got a light?"

[i]Klick![/i]

Slick joins the party with a cigarette of his own. He leaves it dangling from cracked lips while he pulls a fresh round from his pocket and drops it into the chamber. He slams the breach and points the gun downrange, as if ensuring post postpartum perfection. The two linger for a few minutes, their gaze trading between the corpse of Suit and Tie and the various oddities that dot his abode. He's a working man, an informant and a junkie; but most importantly an informant. What family he worked for in the district was nobody's fuckin' business any more because he was a dead man and dead men don't snitch.

Violet takes one more drag of his cigarette. It lasts an eternity. He flicks it across the room and it's fiery ember is swallowed by the darkness. The door closes and the news report continues on somewhere in the background.