The tip of the cigarrette smoldered as he raised it to his lips, taking a long drag before flicking the ash to the wayside, scanning the row of cars in front of him. 

The parking garage was dimly lit, but it did nothing to hide the luxury of the vehicles he had to choose from, neither how inherently vunerable they were. Easy enough to strip down, sell for parts. Get him that much closer to one of his own. Vintage Porsche, maybe. Corvette. Even better.

Flicking the cigarette to the ground, he ground it out with his heel, moving toward the Benz parked on the right.

Seattle!AU

He had no idea when he'd become such a fucking night owl.

Probably after working the graveyard shift and switching back to days. Hell on his sleep patterns, and no matter how fucked he knew he was going to be come work in the morning, he couldn't bring himself to crawl into bed. Too hyped up, too antsy. Finally, he'd abandoned his tiny apartment, taking a jacket and his cigarettes and heading for the piers.

Matrix!AU

It was dark. Dark and dank and he'd done the living in a cave thing, but there was always an escape. Self-imposed isolation was nothing compared to no way out. Two days and he was craving a return. A return that, according to Chimera, to Candice, wasn't possible. He kept quiet, going about the duties on the ship assigned to him, trying to pretend it was just a dream he couldn't wake up from

So when they told him he was going to 'plug in', he jumped at the chance, his mind not even processing the rest of the words.

He wanted to go back.

 Matrix!au


The quiet squeak  of the sponge on the glass grated in his ears, leaning down to soak it in the warm, soapy water before straightening, moving it in wide circles over the store-front window. His hood was pulled up and over his lengthening hair, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. In the shadow of the skyscrapers or not, the city was too damn bright in the afternoon. Night after night spent staring at his computer screen really wasn't easying the strain on his eyes.

Tossing the sponge back in the bucket, he moved to toss empty it into the storm drain. Darting a quick glance upwards at one of the shining office buildings, he wished the word sellout didn't have such a bitter taste in his mouth. Company man or not, pulling down six digits as a programmer would've been fucking heaven compared to this shit.

Lance was half asleep on the couch when she came in, watching wrestling and nursing a beer. The latter in an attempt to kill the splitting headache he'd had all day, the former because...well, it was wrestling. Didn't really need an explanation to watch two guys beat the hell out of each other.

"Hey," he mumbled, glancing over at her. "Don't turn on any lights, okay? I have a bitch of a migraine."

To: uraveragejoe@aim.com
From: rockin_ouloud@gmail.com
Subj: (none)


I'm not working tonight. So if you're not...maybe we could...get something to eat. Or whatever.

From: rockin_ouloud@gmail.com
To: ambiguouslyzach@aol.com
Subj: (none)


hey. so. this is probably late in coming but...i figured i owed you more than some shit i spouted when i was high as a kite. i know how much it fucking sucks not to ever get an explanation and so. yeah. this is an explanation i guess

--Locked to those who know Lance w/ the exception of Wanda--

I normally don't like to use this fucking thing, cause fuck, whining about your problems to strangers has to get old real fucking fast, but I...need to get this out somewhere and I'm not going to fucking talk to anybody about it. So its either this or get blind fucking drunk and I've fucked up enough stuff that way, so I'm trying this.

Pietro's dead.

Has been dead. For a month now, and I didn't fucking know. Probably the longest he's ever been still and it's funny but it's not, not at all, because it's Pietro. He's not supposed to stop moving, not ever and he's not supposed to be dead. It's not supposed to work like that. He was a fucking celebrity. An Olympian. Someone important, goddammit, who had people who needed him and he's not supposed to be dead.

It's not fucking fair.

And I betrayed him. I fucking sold him out to save my own ass and Wanda, too, and she called me family. He was my best fucking friend in highschool and he fucking did something with his life and her too and I sold them out. Why? So I wouldn't go to fucking prison? Where I've been headed my whole fucking life anyway?

No. It's not going to be like this. I have to...fix this or something. Somehow. I need to take care of Wanda cause I owe him that. I owe him at least that.

Date: Fall 2005
Characters: Lance Alvers, Candice Wilmer
Summary: Lance and Candice try to deal with the aftermath of last night's events.
Status: Complete
Warnings: Graphic sexual situations, dark, angst like whoa 
Private, AU beginning from their first meeting in the park

The insistent, shrilling ringing of Candice's cell phone woke him early and with a groan, Lance reached over to grab it off the bedside table, turning off the alarm.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he rolled over onto his side, shaking her lightly.

"Candice," he mumbled, still half alseep himself. "You going to class?"

Date: Winter 2005
Characters: Lance Alvers, Candice Wilmer
Summary: Lance chooses the wrong person to play confessor to.
Status: In progress...
Private. Cause, well. It's personal.

He stared at the number, black ink on white paper, standing out in stark relief.

The phone sat beside him, dial tone barely audible as he tried to decide whether he really wanted to call just to pitch his sob story. He needed a drinking buddy, though, at the very least, and the fact that his chosen partner in drunken self-pity was a woman didn't escape him. But...fuck, Candice was a better choice than most people he knew. She didn't fucking coddle him and he didn't have anything to lose in regards to her.

Two things that put her above Joey and Zach in the whole confessing to murder shtick. 

And maybe, just maybe, he wanted some punishment for this. Fuck knew he deserved it. At least she would give it to him straight, no holds barred.

Sighing, Lance punched in her number, waiting for it to ring.

Scowling, Lance popped the cap off of his beer slumping down in front of his computer, punching the power button a bit harder than neccesary.

He was going to kill him.

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rockin_outloud (11:54:08): i can't believe you