Re: Shiloh F + Jack P: The Capital
Nobody in Second City had any intention of ratting on anyone else, in Jack's experience. Oh, within the confines of the City and all the murk and turmoil that lay beneath, petty jealousies and deeply serious strife but the point was, nobody bothered mixing the world above and the world below except the people who wove between the two. Jack was currently a walking bloody reminder what happened when you did. He could smell the joint on the air. People talked a good game about weed being sweet or faintly musty: Jack thought it had a reek like cat's piss, distinctive and tangy in the nose and pleasant enough if you got used to it, but what they called an 'acquired taste' which meant you only really liked it if you held your nose while you ingested until you associated the aftermath with the smell.
Anyway. He smelled it. Over the sulphur and the smell of burned magic which was faintly like electrical wires singing and the kid who stepped into the light from behind the dumpster (clearly actually taking the drunken piss, if the smell of astringent liquor was anything to go by) reeked of it. Headphones and all, there was no chance the kid had actually heard a thing, even if there had been much to listen to. The usual barter, trade, that kind of thing. Jack looked about as normal as any man making trades in back alleys could. His jacket was long, and his hair was mussed and he was harmless-looking, unless perchance you had some way of taking his skin off and then there was no chance he was looking harmless for very long.
"Drugs," he said, flatly. That was what the kid expected, wasn't it? He wasn't a copper. "Do you often piss in alleys, then?" Jack's voice lilted, amused. He smoked his cigarette, now it was alight.