Shiloh F + Jack P: The Capital
Shiloh appreciated the Capital in the way only someone raised in woodsy isolation could. It was so far removed from Meadowside that it could be an entirely new world, and Shiloh liked that about it. On the dirtier side of the skyscrapers, he couldn't even imagine Mother or Father existing. Their world and this didn't touch or intersect, and being in the city with millions of bodies and tall buildings was as if he was removed from anywhere they drew (or had drawn) breath.
He came often to the Capital, and he came with slightly less frequency to Second City. He'd no real idea why he liked it so terribly well. Perhaps it reminded him of prison, of the coma. More likely it felt safe. No one there was going to pin him for an escaped murderer from across the country. There was a certain honor among thieves who lived in shadows, and Shiloh never thought his life would bring him to the point where he would benefit from said honor. But he was here. He had arrived, and Second City felt safe to him in the same odd way that Repose did. Misfits, all, living and lurking in shadows.
But tonight he was at a bar aboveground. He was scoring, of course, and he had a baggie in his back pocket to prove it. He smoked a joint as he walked along the sidewalk. A joint, not some modern contraption that delivered oil, but the kind of thing which crackled as the paper burned. His curls were wild, and he smelled of Vodka and lemons as he walked into the alleyway to take a piss. He'd no intention of being any witness to anything, but here he was, and he'd no idea what he'd just witnessed. He'd not even heard it, thanks to the headphones he wore. But from behind a dumpster, he did see.
And, fearless and feckless as always, he stepped out into the light. In a long coat and pushing his headphones off one ear, he asked: "What kind of deal was that?" And he asked it of anyone who cared to reply.