You first met Roxy Lalonde as a suspect for a case.
There was a burglary at her workplace, and, with the Midnight Crew running riot around the city, the sheer fact she was a Dersite was enough to place her under suspicion. You interviewed her thoroughly, and she stopped you, giggling, when you were halfway through citing the penalties for lying in this situation.
She left the police station an hour later, stumbling in her high heels, and you watched her go.
==>
You met her for the second time on the same night, in your favourite bar.
It was a run-down dive called The Smoking Gun, and you frequented it for the sole fact that the walls were adorned with antique weaponry. Nobody paid you a second glance, and that’s how you liked it. You spent most of your days being followed by stealthy glances by your co-workers, gossiping behind your back. Your unique and rather violent style of policing had earned you the nickname Aimless Renegade, and you tried not to care.
You were nursing a double whiskey, mulling over a new case, when someone dropped into the seat next to you.
It was her, again, the suspect from that morning. She smiled at you, exposing teeth like knives, and placed some kind of bright purple drink on the table. You tried not to stare, fascinated, at the way her chitinous outer layer segmented on her slender fingers. “omg, you’re the guy from this morning! the one who was questioning me!” She slurred, and you thought to yourself that you’d never heard anyone actually say ‘oh em gee’ before.
“I’m an officer of the law, it’s my duty to interrogate suspects.”
She giggled at that, and mocked your speech by repeating ‘officer of the law’ in a low, haughty voice. You, full of righteous indignation that she would mock your profession, began passionately expounding on the virtues of the police force. She’s intoxicated, and keeps trying to offer you sips of her drink, which you are fairly sure is poisonous to humans, but this is the longest conversation you’ve had in months and you feel a genuine pang of disappointment when she tells you she has to leave.
At least, you do until she clumsily pecks you on the cheek and shoves a crumpled up piece of paper into one of your hands.
“here’s my number, call me maybe.” She grins at you, all drunken happiness and carnivorous teeth, and think that you’ll definitely be calling her. There’s no maybe about it.
FILL: TEAM [Bro<3John]
There was a burglary at her workplace, and, with the Midnight Crew running riot around the city, the sheer fact she was a Dersite was enough to place her under suspicion. You interviewed her thoroughly, and she stopped you, giggling, when you were halfway through citing the penalties for lying in this situation.
She left the police station an hour later, stumbling in her high heels, and you watched her go.
==>
You met her for the second time on the same night, in your favourite bar.
It was a run-down dive called The Smoking Gun, and you frequented it for the sole fact that the walls were adorned with antique weaponry. Nobody paid you a second glance, and that’s how you liked it. You spent most of your days being followed by stealthy glances by your co-workers, gossiping behind your back. Your unique and rather violent style of policing had earned you the nickname Aimless Renegade, and you tried not to care.
You were nursing a double whiskey, mulling over a new case, when someone dropped into the seat next to you.
It was her, again, the suspect from that morning. She smiled at you, exposing teeth like knives, and placed some kind of bright purple drink on the table. You tried not to stare, fascinated, at the way her chitinous outer layer segmented on her slender fingers.
“omg, you’re the guy from this morning! the one who was questioning me!” She slurred, and you thought to yourself that you’d never heard anyone actually say ‘oh em gee’ before.
“I’m an officer of the law, it’s my duty to interrogate suspects.”
She giggled at that, and mocked your speech by repeating ‘officer of the law’ in a low, haughty voice. You, full of righteous indignation that she would mock your profession, began passionately expounding on the virtues of the police force. She’s intoxicated, and keeps trying to offer you sips of her drink, which you are fairly sure is poisonous to humans, but this is the longest conversation you’ve had in months and you feel a genuine pang of disappointment when she tells you she has to leave.
At least, you do until she clumsily pecks you on the cheek and shoves a crumpled up piece of paper into one of your hands.
“here’s my number, call me maybe.” She grins at you, all drunken happiness and carnivorous teeth, and think that you’ll definitely be calling her. There’s no maybe about it.