Vander had two options that evening. The first was to sit at home. Home, of course, being the tiny shoebox of an apartment in District 16. There, she would rock slowly back and forth on the edge of her bed, listening helplessly as her brain assaulted her with all manner of unpleasant thoughts. She would remind herself that she was dying. She would reflect, in a ritual of masochism, upon what her life could have been. And, of course, she would be alone with her cravings. It had been nearly a full day since her last fix. That was longer than she'd gone in at least a week.
The second option was to go out and do something. Antsy as she was getting, this was definitely the preferable of the two. Even if she'd tried, she wouldn't be able to handle a night at home, alone. Not again, not when she'd gone so long without sending a syringe of Lucid coursing through her veins. So instead, the girl had dawned her black leather jacket and brushed her hair down over her right eye in an attempt to hide how bloodshot it was. She locked the door to her darkened apartment, and let her feet carry her into the streets. Hell. Maybe she would get lucky and find some money. Then she would be able to score herself another round of Lucid.
For some time, quite a long time, Vander simply walked. She kept her gaze down, not wanting any neon lights to trigger a migraine. She didn't consciously have a destination, nor did she much care. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking many of the thoughts that she would have ended up thinking if she had stayed home. There was a distinct pain in her stomach. Somewhere around the lower right side of her gut. It was as though someone had clamped a vice there, and was tightening it and tightening it with every step that Vander took. She knew what the pain was. It was some part of her being eaten away. Some organ that she would soon have to say goodbye to as it died.
She had turned nineteen three weeks ago, and she wouldn't live to reach twenty. The thought hurt, enough to make her eyes water. She blinked hard, crushing the tears away. What good was self-pity? It was, after all, her own actions that had put her in this position.
Vander looked up, deciding it was time for a proper distraction. She found her legs had carried her all the way to District 10. She smiled slightly to herself. District Ten was host to a perfect distraction. The Spit. She had been before, and knew it was exactly what she needed right now.
A brief while later, she was weaving her way through a screaming crowd. Music played, blaring over the speakers. The beat was driving, the guitar chords and vocals strong and powerful. She leaned against the railing of a set of 'staff only' stairs that no one was using, watching the fighter inside the ring. The 'Crusher' was a crowd favourite, and she had seen him fight before. Within moments, his opponent was on the ground, unmoving, and the screaming of the crowd intensified.
Between the music and the people, Vander's head was tearing open with a quickly-growing migraine. She didn't mind. It meant she was living, was doing something, instead of just sitting around. Doing things, being places, meeting people...it was something she had to do as much of as she could. From her position against the railing, she watched the goings-on of the club, trying to find a good place to go and strike up a conversation. Women and men were everywhere. The former often climbing into the latter's laps. Vander watched several of the couples with mild amusement. The fighter had left the ring, surrounding himself with women wearing less than half as much clothing as Vander. She cast a gaze in his direction...and decided the ratio was probably closer to less than a third of her clothing.
Casting her gaze around again, she saw that she wasn't the only one to be looking in their direction. Two men, close friends, or perhaps even brothers, seemed to be shooting glances at the fighter and his harem as well. As she watched them, one was dragged off by a tattooed girl. Vander decided that this was the opening she had been waiting for. The other man was close, and hadn't seen her yet. She closed the distance between them quickly, coming up behind him just in time to hear him say something about, "Only place lower district trash like him could really hang out, huh?"
She sat down in the chair beside him, not waiting for an invitation. "Careful," she warned. Her tone wasn't the playful purr of a whore trying to flirt. Nor was it paranoid or threatening. It was the voice of someone who simply wanted nothing more than to talk. "Some people might take offense to being called 'lower district trash'."
The smile she offered him was pleasant and genuine, but still didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes were tired, the pain of the headache she was dealing with beginning to show in her expression. And even as she spoke with him, trying to focus on a conversation, Vander couldn't help but glance again around the bar, on the off chance that she might see someone she knew as a dealer. She looked back to the man, extending a spider-fingered hand. "Vander Pzypialkowski," she introduced herself.
