There Were Many More Exciting Things To Do Than Smoking Outside Of A Nightclub, Yes. Effie Hasn't Thought

damon had purposely seated himself at the bar during its slow hours. typical hangout for the slower afternoons. the doordash notifications were dry as a fucking desert, even for the miles long drives. the phone sits just out of reach, their fingers tapping to the tune of the music without a second thought. savannah speaks and it has damon humming out of tune to the beat - music never their strong suit despite the creative heart. rhythms lost to their racing thoughts, but they could still enjoy it. cheek rests against his palm, lips pursing as he considers his reply.

" probably a good thing you weren't there. " briefly thinks back to the collateral damage. a bottle they'd had to pay for, selin in particular being in the middle of it ... fuuuuuuuck they wish they were drunk enough that night to wipe it from their memory. regardless of this, he laughs something low from the chest. " i won't judge you, thirty and flirty is still a thing who cares about trick or treating ... wait, no. scratch that. as long as you were dressed up as something cool i'll let it slide. lemme guess. " this, a good conversation to distract from the lingering weight on their chest. fingers drum a bit faster against his phone screen. " actually, this is just as basic. tinkerbell? no, no, princess daisy? "

Seated at the bar enjoying a round before the band was set to perform, the drummer can't help but overhear the individual whom was a few seats down from her. There wasn't much of a crowd at this point in the evening yet, other nights being busier in the past. Maybe people just weren't in the mood to drink or hear live music? It's not like there was anything worth celebrating as of late. Savannah wouldn't really blame it if there was more of a crappy turnout for tonight's gig. But, part of her secretly hoped the band wouldn't have to perform for less than their usual number of audience.

Taking a sip from her beer, she offered Damon a sympathetic glance. "If it makes you feel any better, I wasn't there to see the fight. I was too busy trying to score the good candy," she lets out a small giggle. "If you don't give me shit for being almost thirty trick or treating, I won't give you shit for being here."

FOR : ricardo! @inadeqcies . LOCATION : ricardo's rich boy home . TIMESTAMP : 7:35pm .

as if the register wasn't already its own personal shitshow, this might just be its final downfall. questions, questions, questions. plagued with questions. effie on the streets, her business line, her email. it didn't matter if the owner's email was listed anybody who was curious enough would bombard any reporter related to the post. maybe it wasn't the release of the information that pissed effie off, maybe it was just ricardo. no, no, more accurately it was the fact she was cut from the information. woke up the next morning to a post surrounding bronte and daniela and not a single inkling of ricardo's intentions. the release was haphazard at best, a clear indication of a rushed dump. if effie weren't so distressed, she might even be impressed with its half assed effort. it's better than anything she'd imagine ricardo capable of.

instead of the office effie tracks down his personal abode. wasn't hard to look at the records and figure out the address. this is personal, so she's going to make it personal in his own home. three continuous knocks against the door until it's opened. there's a complaint on ricardo's lips as he opens the door. it goes in one ear and right out the other as she shoves in, hands thrown up.

" i didn't know you had it in you! really, i didn't. " a certain passion ignites in her voice, " but what never fails to show is your absolute arrogance, ricardo. you know how many people are trying to get an insiders scoop from me? some extra juicy bits? giving me some bogus gossip column shit? i can't even say a word because ... oh, i don't know anything! care to lift the veil for me? such as where the hell this daytime drama incident came from? and if you even crosscheck your source? "

# 𝗖𝟬𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗗𝗢𝗧𝗦

dependent blog for @ redcreekfm . the ink on the paper is running ...

𝗘𝗙𝗙𝗜𝗘 𝗙𝗟𝗢𝗬𝗗 — thirty3. journalist @ the register. willa fitzgerald. 𝗗𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗘𝗟 𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗘 — thirty. tattoo artist @ devil's ink. samuel larsen. 𝗔𝗕𝗘𝗟 𝗗'𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟𝗢 — fifty. co-owner of redstone bar. laz alonso. 𝗠𝗔𝗞 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗞𝗢𝗩𝗔 — twenty6. nurse @ red creek hospital. harris dickinson.

FOR : open ! LOCATION : bench, not far from red creek hospital.

the emergency room was always something of a toss-up. either there's whining children or elders, or a catastrophic case. one or the other, never the middle. most ruckus of the day has been a check - in for a broken leg potential ; skin angry with the pressure of a bruise. nothing out of the ordinary. though, if mak can remember, they'd had a few intakes surrounding the ... anxiety surrounding red creek. red creek. dead creek. whining elders like they'd thought — distraught and heart racing high enough to turn over a horse. well, maybe not a horse, but close enough. they've mostly detached themselves from the news, the rambling of the town, but of course its brought to their fucking doorstep. like everything in their life. tossed in, locked and keyed. learn to live with it, maksym! grin and bear it! they want out of this fucking graveyard. it's moments like this in their lonesome it weighs on their chest ; anvil, stack of bricks. a concrete object instead of a desire. the same sort of weight is what keeps them here, too.

they aren't necessarily aware when someone sits next to them. in fact, at first they don't acknowledge them at all. when they do, it's out of their peripherals and then entirely all at once. " what, looking for company or just couldn't walk ten steps down? " a grating tone to their voice ; unnecessary, but if they'd wanted a little party they'd have trekked it down to redstone. the cafe. a heavy sigh escapes. " couldn't even offer a hello either, huh? "

as much as ricardo's stunt had send effie into a tizzy ... it has sparked a fire under the register's ass. maybe, in a way, it was what was needed. a new spark that wasn't a body or new missing person— but a spark is all it took to birth a blaze. who else would post an anonymous shot in the dark tip? what the fuck else would he approve to be printed onto the web? the passion of recording may have been rekindled, but the weight of fool's gold could send them all into the pits of hell. in this she isn't immune to the bustle ; greeting a few interns, reviewing a concept piece, scratching about her own ideas ( one, specifically, centered around the elusive wanted man ). a little busy bee. buzzing , buzzing all around until it collides with a windshield— out of the corner of her eye she sees the man before his approach. recognizes him in an instant. local fucking celebrities, the talbots. had the town so deep in their pockets, it's astonishing how they're not sinking into the pits themselves. at least, on paper. politicians, even the small kind, love to put on a show. luckily, effie is of that same blood. not a celebrity, but a woman that could paint herself a portrait to please any painter. forget dragging herself to hell when she could paint it in a fantasy. " nathan talbot. " immediate reply in her heel-turn. meets his stride halfway with the raise of a brow towards a coffee.

" busy, interesting. sure, you could say that. " a hand rests to her hip as she studies him. a nasty habit of hers. looking for the fault ; a misprint. people were their own stories with missing pages and different details ommitted depending on its reader. " well, i've been busy. you've seen the front page, heard the buzz. i know you keep yourself well informed. " she hums, " but not enough to know charolette's also busy. " a slight pinch, but she offers it as a jest. pairs it with a light-hearted chuckle. a pinkish red tint for this particular portrait. despite her own columns about this family, she tends to return a good show. wants to dig some of nathan's fool's gold from his pockets. find the cracks. see what exactly he likes to paint. " but you're in luck, someone else here could use that coffee. " the hand resting on her hip raises to grab the second coffee in his hand. what it is, doesn't matter. this action is both to make a point and quench the crave for caffeine. takes a quick sip of it before she continues her brush strokes. " humor me. play a little pretend interview. " the hand with what's now her coffee gestures around, eyes following with the motion. " what's your thoughts on all this? i can't help myself but to ask the man 'in charge', after all. call me greedy. " another sip and a smirk just behind the brim. " gotta have more to say than just asking how i'm doing, or am i wrong? "

𝖫𝖮𝖢𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭　:　the register, 12:30pm 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖲　:　closed for effie floyd @c0nnectdots

despite  the  news  that's  been  plaguing  the  town  for  days  now,  one  thing  prevails  in  nathan's  mind:  keeping  up  a  facade.  of  course,  it  isn't  like  he's  being  forced  into  this  charade,  in  fact  his  intentions  are  halfway  to  genuine,  but  playing  pretend  when  everything  else  is  falling  apart  around  him  is  easier  than  having  to  face  the  wreck.  so  here  he  is,  standing  by  the  front  desk  of  the  register  with  two  cups  of  afternoon  coffee,  one  to  give  to  his  beloved  wife  whom  he  is  allegedly  wholly  committed  to  —  except  charlotte  isn't  there,  because  apparently  she  just  left  for  lunch,  so  now  he  looks  like  an  idiot  standing  by  the  entrance  with  two  quickly  cooling  coffees  and  a  mildly  bruised  ego  over  his  failed  attempt  at  being  a  good  husband.  that's  when  he  sees  effie  in  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  turns  on  his  heel.  “  miss  effie  floyd,  ”  he  calls  out smoothly,  sauntering  over  with  a  picture-perfect  grin  plastered  on  his  face.  “  must  be  a  busy  day  today,  ”  he  remarks,  gesturing  around  him  as  various  employees  walk  in  and  out  and  around  the  bulding.  “  how've  you  been?  there's  been  . . .  quite  a  number  of  interesting  stories  as  of  late.  ”

FOR : kennedy ! @brntout . LOCATION : a booth in redstone .

it wasn't often kennedy and effie were found outside of the office together, but this happened to be a special occassion. no, it wasn't a warehouse party turned sour. it was their own shared space : the register and a common 'enemy' of sorts. perhaps a way of strengthening a coworkers bond was by mulling over a mutual anger for their boss. sharing a drink, effie offered to pay, putting the little tension and pinpricks aside just for ricardo. " believe me, kennedy, i already had a talk with him. " spoken with a rub to her temples, eyelashes falling to a close. ricardo, as of late, was beginning to spark a headache for effie. thwarting her plans, putting a literal fucking pin in what she herself intended to write. she then wonders, briefly, if kennedy has had the same roadblocks.

" believe it or not, " a harsh puff of laughter, " i stormed into his haughty little house. brought it right to his doorstep. " the drink has long gone untouched and isn't disturbed until this moment. effie seems to trail off in thought for a moment, staring at the neatly cubed ice and condensation of the glass. she watches it drip down the side with one singular point in her head: is ricardo ever going to stop running the register like its a reality tv show? when she returns to the present she's taking a long drink of the cinnamon whiskey, lets it burn her throat before continuing. a rare question gets asked: " so, what do you think, kennedy? lay it on me. "

damon seems to lose some tension in their shoulders when they realize its hana. it emulates in the heavy sigh they give, hands dropping to their sides like a ton of bricks. " fuck ... hi, han. still got myself all worked up — you'd probably knock me on my ass anyway. " they're surprised they weren't knocked more on their ass, but luckily with the fight being broken up, well, wasn't a lot of time for that. one thing is for sure their head is pounding and the outside, loud chattering and whispers definitely isn't helping them.

at the offer, damon sounds a heavy groan. " god, yes, get me outta here. what i was trying to do in the first place. but, you know, you saw how that went. " shoulders deflate as they sink down the doorway of the bathroom. definitely isn't considering anyone else stuck behind them or trying to get in. centers in on hana for a moment, finding it the best way to keep grasp of their focus. " i think i've had enough law - breaks to steal the first aide kit. i think if you get me to the street that'd be more than enough. walk of shame myself home. unless you wanna make sure i don't jump anyone else. "

☾ one moment, she's downing waters at the bar in an attempt to not walk home plastered with an apparent killer on the loose. her eyes remain on the phone, texts becoming more legible but less frequent with every passing second. the next, an alarmingly bad fight breaks out in the middle of the bar crowd. nosy as ever, hana managed to clamber to a vantage point (kneeling on her barstool), only to spot damon breaking away from the fight. she gapes for a moment as her brain tries to catch up to the scene in front of her.

she tries to trail after the other, coming to a halt at the bathroom door — it would maybe cross a line to follow someone into the bathroom uninvited, even if they were friends. so hana waits. maybe a bit too close, because here comes damon directly into her shoulder. ❝ whoooa, calm down. ❞ she says, mirroring the way their hands go up in surrender.

❝ if you were trying to fight me, i'd take lots of offense. just so you know. ❞ she tries to joke, but she does pout a bit when she looks up at them. ❝ wow. talk about ouch. that must've been— intense. do ya want me to steal a first - aid kit from behind the bar ? or like, get you outta here. whichever. ❞

" bourbon. " and with her outburst, effie tries her damndest to reign it in. end of the day : the register wasn't under her thumb and name. frankly, she wasn't sure if was something she'd ever thought of. sure, it would run better that way. thinks a paper boy off the street might have more tact than ricardo, but at the end of the day ... she'd probably reject it. pass it off to kennedy who, frankly, could benefit more than it. maybe they'd be able to communicate better together, too.

she does almost stomp to the kitchen, anger simmering from her voice and presenting only in her body. " look. your register, your choice. however ... " hands raise to run down her cheeks and rest against her own chin. " playing games doesn't get you anything but tangled into a nasty little web, ricardo. so, you don't even know who sent those to you? somebody and you. those are great fucking sources. forget about wikipedia. " and maybe that's what is bringing in the sting of betrayal. trusting an anonymous source with a pretty little photo than his own employees. she waits until she has her drink to continue and damn near downs it in one go.

" you couldn't even tell me? kennedy? dammit, think a little! it's nice to see you running your mouth on paper instead of just air, but ... the hell am i suppose to do with this? " vaguely gestures out into the air, leaning her elbows against the counter. maybe she's ... worried, in her own way. if ricardo believes this, real or not, what else is going to believe? will he go down a wild goosechase and not come back? trip over his own feet, post the wrong sort of hot gossip? " look. i'm just asking for a bit of trust, ricardo. i know damn well i won't get any more of your respect, but at least your trust. games aren't meant to be played alone. "

" oh for fucks sake - " he cuts himself off because this is really getting ridiculous now . is there anywhere he won't be accosted ? silently , he reminds himself to get himself a maid or something , so they can get yelled at in his place perhaps . as soon as ricardo sees effie , he knows its game over . kennedy and effie were two of the main people he was vaguely concerned about . he almost cares . he almost wishes he was better . ricardo is a puzzle filled with almosts .

EFFIE MOVES WITH MORE ANIMATION THAN HE'S SEEN BEFORE . she's usually calm and collected . the ice to kennedy's fire . it's a testament to how clearly she thinks he's fucked up . " the photo isn't fake . " he says . " as for sources . well . they're mainly me at the moment , and i trust me . " he shrugs , a purposeful picture of BLASÉ . " everyone's so fucking interested in the story . nobody seems to give a shit about the more important thing : somebody gave this to me . right on my desk . they WANTED it on the register , effie . you of all people should be seeing the bigger picture here . this is a game , and i'm playing the part handed to me . someone knows something and wants to let everyone else know it, too . ABOUT DANIELA . ABOUT BRONTE . " he folds his arms over his chest , eyeing her . he can't lie : she looks really hot . " do you want a wine or bourbon while you yell at me ? you can continue in the kitchen . "

a certain restlessness has taken root in damon's bones. insurmountable energy that just couldn't be placed. maybe it was because their hands were empty ( except for their take-out piece of toast ) and the day unfulfilling in every possible way. what the average citizen of redcreek doesn't expect out of damon was how money driven they were. likely, they'd pick up just about any job. taxi service, weekender at the diner, the bar, the warehouse ... anything to add weight to his pockets. well, maybe they do. they're everywhere. also nowhere. a hard little mouse to keep track of, but a mouse after cheese nonetheless.

they're chewing with a spacy eyes, looking towards the bustling customers headed towards the car or down the street. recalls some of the faces: tyler, from the gas station. dwayne, a mid shifter getting off work from the diner, priscilla or miss. priss from the tenth fucking grade. faces and faces they'd seen from their lifelong stay in the creek. what pulls them back down to earth is the loud, recognizable voice of none other than tobias northcott. a pause of their chewing, a squint of their eyes. " what, think i'm not suitable for the public, northcott? " northcott in return for short - streak.

" think your temperature is running a bit too high there. it's fucking nipply. " they return to their piece of toast, tongue chasing the grape jelly from the side of their mouth. tobias, a goddamn blunder of a newcomer. well, not really new anymore, but maybe they will be again. also everywhere and nowhere. must be why they keep rubbing shoulders. if damon were a different person, maybe like kieran, they'd be questioning what tobias got up to in the dead oof night. thumb to mouth, releases it with an obnoxious little ' pop! ' the silence is dragged on to be just as obnoxious, dramatic. " i got a better question for you. the hell you tryin' to trip into? good standings with the waitresses? "

closed starter: @c0nnectdots — damon del valle . located @ dolly's diner & in the surrounding circumference .

arriving  in  town  for  the quintessential  american  breakfast  means  that  his  taste  buds  are  open.  he  adapts.  he  blends.  (  actually,  this  just  means  that  dolly's  is  the  easiest  place  to  go  after  an  all  -  nighter.  )  but  who  pulls  that  kind  of  thing?  no  circles  under  his  eyes,  no  bedhead,  no  lackadaisical  jacket  —  surely  not  him.  (  it's  him.  )  tobias,  hands  stuffed  in  the  pockets  of  his  canary  -  yellow  letterman,  blisters  about  as  obnoxious  as  an  off  -  key  warbler  as  he  coaxes  his  way  across  the  diner  parking  lot.  hey,  hey,  how's  it  going?  felix,  right?  because  he  remembers  those  brazen  enough  to  knock  their  heads  getting  to  his  dj  booth  on  a  busy,  whirring  night.  he  remembers  them,  all  the  way  down  to  the  cut  of  their  jaw  —  and  the  distinct  upturned  curl  of  their  hair  —  and  the  way  ink  ribbons  follow  their  shoulders  —

fuck,  what  the  fuck  is  damon  doing  here?  disguised:  he  releases  felix's  shoulders  and  aims  both  guns,  they're  both  made  of  fingers,  in  damon's  direction.  “no  way!”  smile  already  curling  around  the  greeting.  “well,  well.  fancy  seeing  you  here,  short  -  streak.  what  kinda  meet  -  cute  bullshit  are  we  tripping  our  way  into?”  his  steps  were  quick  before;  they  quicken  further.  golden  retriever  bounding,  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  grinning,  it's  all  the  same  after  the  eleventh  hour. "least you deserve, after all this not - so - radical heat burning the shit outta your neck."

FOR : ha - jun ! @redcreekfm / @newwayin . LOCATION : REDSTONE BAR . TIMESTAMP : aprox 2:00am .

it's a goddamn disaster everwhere damon turns. its only been an hour since a fucking body was found ( ah, redcreek ! word travels as fast as lightning here ! ) and everyone is up in arms. there's whispers about the resurgence of the boogeyman, eyes of fear and anger all around as the celebration ends. people are rushing home, gathering into groups to thwart any other attempts within the night. however — like anyone else who couldn't stomach the thought of going home — damon finds themselves at the bar.

three drinks down, each one burning their throat harder than the rest. a prick of regret settles in the churning pit of their stomach. if it was going to be this packed, maybe he should have just went home. too late to decide now. the crowd at the door makes it impossible to sneak through without irritation. god damon is so irritated. they're sitting at the bar with the chatter around them growing by the seconds. they're trying their best to steel it, bite their tongue not to involve themselves. such is their knack, their nature. involve themselves, get to know everything and nothing all at once. damon just couldn't tonight. they decide they have to go. with a fourth drink emptied the second it met their fingertips, they jump to leave. ( here we fucking go ! the path towards nirvana awaits ! )

practically shoves through the crowd to get a single inch to his mile. shoulder - to - shoulder. sorrys here and sorrys there. at least people are aware of their panic, the tension they're pouring into the already thick air. they make it to the middle and feel confident in their escape — but their thin cord of patience snaps with a shove. single hand with force to the back which nearly sends damon to topple over another anxious patron. this ... this is what finally involves them. a hot flash of anger, adrenaline and the night's tension balling up their fists. " what the fuck, man ! " not a question. demanding, aggressive. they whip around and make the connection of hands, to body, to face. if they knew hajun, it doesn't register. it doesn't matter. what registers first is the arched swing to a jaw. " i get it's a sardine cane in here, but you're messin' with the wrong fucker right now. "