capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

WHO: Luck and Clover
WHEN: Tuesday evening
WHERE: the general vicinity of the MAC.
SUMMARY: So Luck is currently fifteen and his memory has more or less been put through a blender, which is a recipe for... something. Fortunately Clover isn't likely to care too much if he forgets that he's not supposed to mention the whole 'I Was A Teenage Mobster' thing.
WARNINGS: Well he is a teenage mobster. Probably nothing serious though.
FORMAT: Starting with para, after that, anything goes.

His efforts at figuring out what was going on in his city hadn't really come to much, so, feeling kind of discouraged, Luck slouched in a chair in the MAC's lobby. He still hadn't heard anything from Keith, Berga, or any of their people; he hadn't even been able to get hold of Firo to find out if the Martillos had pulled a similar vanishing act, which made it all the more likely that they had.

If something was going down, why had he been left out of the loop?

He felt like he ought to do something. His family was supposed to take care of their territory, even if he was the only one representing the family right now and it was only technically his territory in the sense that he was living in it. He'd had the vague thought of at least going up to make sure Clover was okay and that her brother hadn't gone missing too or something, but then he realized he had no idea which apartment was hers.

Which, if he were going to admit it, might have been part of the reason he was cooling his heels in the lobby. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Luckily for Clover, her and her brother both had come through the magical interference completely unchanged. Clover herself had no interest in looking after kids (and Snake would probably argue that looking after her was task enough), so for the most part she was just annoyed by the whole affair.

You couldn't exactly schedule job interviews when all the places hiring were closed due to the employees being too short to reach the locks or security alarms.

But by some stroke of smooth-talking and blatant omission of some rather key facts, Clover had snagged herself at least a temporary gig as a professional driver. Who cared that she didn't have an international driver's license? Certainly not Clover. (It was honestly a miracle things went as well as they did, but don't jinx it.)

So it was early evening when Clover was swiping her tags at the front entrance; it was a good thing just about everything here was automated, or things could have gotten pretty bad.

Since her whole day had been revolving around 【luck】 it should have come as no surprise who caught her eye when she made her way inside. Well, it wouldn't have come as no surprise if he didn't look like a little kid.

(He didn't, of course, any more than Clover did—but fifteen was much more than just four years from nineteen.)

Not that Luck seemed to have quite grasped, from an outside perspective, that he was fifteen instead of closer to the vicinity of twenty; he was still dressed more or less exactly the same, and when her arrival caught his attention he straightened up out of his frustrated slouch and got to his feet, dipping his head in a nod of greeting that could almost have passed for one of his usual mannerisms. Sort of. "Clover."

"Hey, Luck," was an almost easy reply, but the physical differences between this Luck and the real one were just enough to be uncanny. It was one thing to have a bunch of strangers turn into toddlers, but something else entirely for that one guy she kept bumping into to get cranked down like that.

With one hand against her jutting hip, Clover added dryly, "So who took the hacksaw to your legs, huh?"

She got a very blank look from Luck in reply to that; clearly he had, in fact, completely failed to get the memo that anything was different about himself lately.

"What?" He looked down at his own legs, and then back up to Clover, puzzled and a little dubious. What on earth was she talking about. "Nobody. My legs are fine." He said it in more or less exactly the same tone he might have used to say, 'what are you talking about?'

"You really can't take a joke, can you...?" she asked, pretty light-hearted. Hey, she's not dead, she has every right to be in an otherwise good mood, even if this whole exchange is like tumbling into the Twilight Zone.

"What are you hangin' around here for, anyway? Waiting for someone...?"

"I can take a joke, when it's funny," Luck objected, not too much affronted. Clover's meaning having mostly missed him, he wasn't sure where the humor in the idea of someone taking a hacksaw to his legs lay; he was pretty sure Berga would pull the legs right off anyone who tried it, though, so one way or another it didn't bother him too much.

To her other question, he shook his head, because he couldn't very well admit that he was half hoping she might come wandering through. He had his pride, and all. "Just keeping an eye on things," he said instead, off-handedly. "It isn't as though I have anything better to do, with things like they are." By the last part of that sentence his expression had sobered a little, and he regarded Clover curiously. "Have you been all right?"