Re: Shiloh/Mao
Shiloh had no tails, and he could lay claim to no demonic blood. He knew about abilities, and he knew that plenty of people in Repose hid (or boasted about) special traits, but these things didn't make the Southern boy feel like he was in the town minority. Being on the lam for murdering Mother had to count a something as interesting as fangs or the ability to conjure up dead fish in the lake. These days, he was close to professing his supposed crimes to someone, anyone, just in order to get it out. The whole damnable situation was like something thick stuck in his craw, and Shiloh wasn't any good at silence. So he sat, brash a could be given the circumstances, on that pinball machine.
By the time the boy with the cat ear headphones approached, Shiloh's beer was nearly drained, and the bottle was merely an accessory. He brushed the mouth of the bottle against his lips thoughtfully, and he blew into it and made it whistle annoyingly along to the music when he remembered to do so.
He'd been watching bodies move around in that strange, neon-tinged-shadow, and he recognized the approaching boy as the one that had been dancing on the DDR machine (it was the headphones that gave him away). And so Shiloh smiled, a cheshire smile, the pinball machine reminiscent of some tree he'd chosen to perch on as he stared down at Alice. He lifted the beer and lifted a brow. "This? I'll show you in exchange for some lessons on playing that dancing game," he said, his Southern drawl slow and refined, practically dripping money with its smoothness.
He slid off the pinball machine with long-legged grace, and he sauntered down toward the back of the arcade, along the darkened hall, and to where the red cooler sat with a promise of libation. He leaned down, retrieved two bottles, and he held one out. His old bottle was tossed into the neighboring trashcan, and he popped his own lid with his hand. Shiloh was old enough to drink, so at least that was one law not being broken this evening.