i blame this town -

[jackson noah sharpe]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #a0a0a0 solid 30px; ] OH NOOSE, TIED MYSELF IN TIED MYSELF TOO TIGHT OUTFIT CLICK TAGGED OPEN THE PAPER FROM TWO DAYS AGO WAS LAID OUT IN FRONT OF HIM. he was glancing at it, but it was just a cover. everything was always a cover lately. but it was ok. it was a stake out. surprisingly jackson sharpe was alone. usually he was accompanied by someone. however, not today. today he was working alone doing his part to report back to his... business partners. jack held his coffee in his hand as he glanced out the window. he was sitting in a coffee establishment that wasn't starbucks. he didn't even care what it was called though he had been coming here every day for the past week. he always sat at the same table, on the same side, and always ordered the same thing, coffee, black, no cream. the only reason why he was giving this business his patronage was because it was located right across the street from the valkyrie county bank. jackson was no better than an alcoholic in a liquor store. after successfully robbing five banks, it was an itch he couldn't scratch as he tapped his thumb on the hard table in front of him, watching people filing in and out. he had been watching this place he knew the first shift security guard left for a smoke break every seventy three minutes along the side of the building, casually glancing around to the main entrance every forty five seconds during the eleven minute smoke break. if jack hadn't been sitting here, he wouldn't have been able to tell you that the armored truck came every day at three-thirty, though yesterday it came at three thirty-eight because of an accident that happened two blocks away. jack paid close attention to detail if you couldn't tell already. "would you like a refill, sir?" without batting an eye or looking away from the window he said, "yes, thank you." twenty two minutes, right on the dot. people really needed to pay attention to their internal clocks. it made his job so much easier. to anyone else, it looked like jack was just people watching. admiring a sunshine day in sunny valkyrie. but really? he was watching the guard come back from a smoke break. jack moved the two-day old paper away and pulled his pen out and jotted down a few notes in his book underneath the paper. covering up the book again when he was finished writing, jack looked back outside. why was he doing all of this? it was simple, he and his friends were going to rob the valkyrie county bank. this was the first time they had taken their activities to valkyrie. for the past three years, they were all over the state, but this time, they were robbing their own city. in the movies, this was a game changer. a game changer that wouldn't work out for the team and everything would start unraveling. but movies didn't have jack. his plans were fool proof. they had one exit strategy? jack has three. everything worked... you just had to follow the plan. everything he organized was plan to the very last second. numbers were important, time was essential. now, jack wasn't a typical guy to become a criminal. he grew up in a nice family, went to a good college, could be supported by his parents, but jack wasn't like that. he was above the need to get help from his parents. after his reputation was unrepairable in los angeles, jack took things personally. he was done with the bullshit that his boss got him in. one thing jack wasn't going to crawl back to his parents' house in the hills. jack had too much pride. what he earned was what he earned. his parents were surprisingly supportive of just letting their eldest son go on his own. as long as he didn't start using drugs were the parting words from his mother. jack was pretty sure becoming a criminal wasn't what his parents had in mind either. the twenty eight year old loved his life though. he could say that he didn't feel like he was living until three years ago when he woke up and smelled the money. moving the paper aside once again, jack started making more observations on car traffic during different hours of the day, and how many people filed in when the weather was different. yesterday, it rained and the percentage of people going into the bank dropped. it all was in finding the best window of opportunity. he knew he could already be going to jail for life, but he wasn't going to. he was going to be robbing his sixth bank. TALKING SHIT ABOUT A PRETTY SUNSET

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY MODEST MOUSE

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[irina aleksandra chemikova]

,HER FINGERS FELT <sub>cold against her skin. she was pressing her skin against the sheet of steel protecting her from the fire. the flames were licking at the metal, eager to tear into her skin. the blister were coming and she just watched, twisted and delicate. watching herself breaking from the inside out was both dangerous and beautiful. a body, pretty and untouched, laying dead the side of the road. she is undisturbed, pale and light, wearing a dress of white lace, only stained in the middle with aging blood. her eyes are closed and her hair is fanned out like an immature halo. you don't want to look, but you have to. your mind says no, but your body craves the forbidden. you want to feel included. you have just passed the first gate to something dark and you crave to know more. you know you shouldn't, but you do anyway. for the very same reasons princes go after fire-breathing dragons and the girls who went after the fire-breathing dragon in the first place, the girl who was once juliet sakahrov was exploring the cave, looking for the monster. no one ever showed her a picture of a broken girl in a roadside ditch, pretty and gone. she overheard whispers, dead eyes and tense lips. there was nothing for her then. she needed more. and the only place with more is somewhere dark, a place you most certainly should not be. the passersby never mean it. they don't want to be the one who stabbed the fading angel. there is no wish to step into the spotlight. they just want a sample, a little taste of not driving home to two children and the angry woman at the other end of the table. juliet sakahrov did not want to wield a weapon. she did not want to find a body. she didn't even want to look for the answers. she wanted to be the body, pretty and gone, with a fading light and broken halo. she wanted to hold her hand out for the fire-breathing dragon and feel its flames melt her skin. if only.

if only.

her body had been taught to crave the burning of her fingertips. she grew hungry for the tug of the stitches, the feeling of the blade. she felt better empty. she was stronger this way, starving and ripped open. the only thing she allowed was the burning touch. her hands, cool and chapped, examined the body attached to them. the blue lighting in the coffee shop bathroom was harsh, it was real. the soft bulbs in her hotel room were too forgiving, mushy like the woman who stared at her collarbones and offered her brownies. even though the fire was burning brightly, all she felt was a destroyed chill. the flames were blue, translucent in the caustic brightness. she continued to walk the line, barely sewing up her broken pieces, because she was hungry for the burn. she couldn't find the warmth. did she want to feel warm and content, or watch her skin blister and flay? she didn't know. each was as unattainable as the other. here she was, suspended between living and dying. she couldn't decide on anything. so everytime her eyes managed to find her broken reflection, she pressed a little harder into her skin. another meal skipped, another cut, and maybe the fire would slip into her bloodstream. if only. if only.

she came here because the lighting was real. it was harsh and true. even the cruel dressing rooms at the mall lied to her. this little sideshow cafe was the one place in valkyrie, california jules irina chemikova had managed to find the truth. it didn't lie to her here. no one lied to her here. the staff eyed her destructively, judging and disgusted. they didn't pretend she was worth being around. and the flickering lightbulb above the sink only fed their truth. the voices - the mean voices - polluted her ears. little demons with sharp teeth were forming out of the shadows, desperate to pollute her eyes as well. dancing in the warmth of the real fire excited them. they would grow stronger when she pretended to be a real girl. so she stayed cold, wandering the edges of reality with harsh lighting and broken mirrors. pretty shards of glass followed her. she broke reflections whenever she saw them clearly. so she didn't look, not really. juliet sakahrov was looking into the mirror of a dumpy little cafe in valkyrie, but she wasn't watching her face. had she met her eyes, she would have shattered the mirror and faded into nothing. no. her head was titled to the side, chapped fingertips pressing her skin, counting her ribs like rosary beads, feeling her collarbones. she wanted to break her bone cage, but it wouldn't take. it was the same steel holding her back from the fire, and it wasn't phasing. stupid body.

when someone knocked on the door, her mind cleared again. how long had she been lost in the fog? often for hours, jules would be looking at her cage, willing for it to disappear. she was suspended between living and dying, freedom and entrapment. she didn't know anything, because she didn't want to know anything. each option was too scary. blinking a few times, the russian girl haphazardly shoved the little demons to the back of her mind. it was a matter of time before one of the knife-eyed girls who worked here discovered all she did was loiter and tell her to go be stupid somewhere else. muttering a quick apology to the still air, she pulled her dress back up over her starved torso, pretended to turn the tap on and off and pulled the door open. this little place was one bathroom, unisex. anyone could use it and could make her sick with their germs. her smile never quite reached her eyes, but it fooled enough people. she lied about food poisoning and not feeling well. she must have been in the bathroom for a long time. pulling her dry hair back into a messy ponytail, jules smiled that same crooked smile. it was an effort, perfecting her smile into a lying frown. she needed bright eyes and a dimpled grin - people fell for that. valentina had that. jules had always hated that about her. with her empty eyes and emptier smile, people watched her for a second longer. it was stupid. no one cared about her. people just liked to pretend to, because a part of them sensed she could be the next dead angel at the side of the road and they wanted to be included before she died. that was the only reason several staff and the odd regular eyed her as she weaved her way through the little cafe. a generic little smile on her pale face, jules approached the counter for the first time since arriving. how long ago was that? "just black, like usual. don't want to upset my stomach again." conversationally forcing her smile into a demented grin, the russian traitor stared the pencil-drawn eyebrows of the girl behind the counter down.

forgoing the warmer in order to feel some of that heat, she burnt her left hand as it cupped the chipped mug. another reason she liked this place was because they never apologized for over-heated beverages. the boiling liquid felt addictive as it filtered through her starved body. the worn soles of her boots squeezed against the dirty tiled floors. her necklaces chinked much too loudly. she couldn't go anywhere without making a huge scene. she disgusted herself. breathing a steadying breath, jules stumbled her way through the half-empty establishment. people needed to stop staring at her. her body spent a lot more time looking around than her mind did, because it was carrying her toward the edge of the cafe. she was supposed to be going somewhere else. like to hell. oh well. burning her lips with a little of the bitter coffee, jules irina gracefully pushed herself into the seat across from the one person wearing a clear 'do not disturb' sign. he was busy looking out the window and a newspaper rolling the headlines from two days ago. maybe there was a reason she had come here after all. juliet sakahrov never did anything without a purpose. the last several years, her many eyes had been half-watching this fellow so unexpectedly sitting across from her. she had been here every day for almost two weeks. she had seen him right here, doing the very same thing, for the past several days. it was a plan she was choosing to believe was thought out to perfection.

she strummed her chapped fingers against the cool tabletop quietly for a moment. she had never really expected to see jackson sharpe again. part of her believed all he had been was a silly person wandering too close to the roadside, eager for a look at a dead angel. maybe he was, he probably wasn't. every whisper she had been given was as helpful as the silent man in front of her. he chose his words carefully, as she liked to pretend she did as well. her eyes remained chilled, looking from the old paper to the fogged window and to mister sharpe here. he may have told her he did things, he certainly did not tell her what sorts of things he did. not completely, at least. "i get all the alerts on my phone, personally." her oddly accented voice was sardonic, much more amused than she felt. tapping the newspaper softly, rubbing over the date a few times, jules smiled her empty smile and looked up at jack. "peter pan needs his lost boys, does he not? he never works alone." her eyes were almost confused, desperate to know why he was here. this was the type of individual she had such trouble solving. people like her - smart people - did not do anything with no particular interest. she wanted to know.

if only, right?</sub>

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TAGGED, jack !
LENGTH, 1686 words.
ATTIRE, here + boots.
NOTES, sorry it sucks. o-o
CREDITS, format and graphics to me.
lyrics to hollywood undead - "bullet"

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[jackson noah sharpe]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #a0a0a0 solid 30px; ] OH NOOSE, TIED MYSELF IN TIED MYSELF TOO TIGHT OUTFIT CLICK TAGGED JULES --- THE MORE JACK WATCHED THE POOR SECURITY GUARD NOT TAKING HIS JOB SERIOUSLY, the more jack believed that his team's best bet would be robbing the bank during his shift. he left for a smoke break and only looked at his entrance every forty five seconds? a lot can happen in forty five seconds. a lot could happen in eleven minutes when he was on his "self-deserving" break due to his nicotine addiction. the area would be secured, the rob underway. jack would bet that the guard would be walking back to his post and they already would have stolen two million dollars. it was a feat to overcome, but when you were dealing with guys that had never been linked to any bank robberies, it was like walking on air. he knew he would still be doing surveillance on the bank, but his planning was far from over. getting them the window to get in was one thing, there needed a plan from beginning, middle, and end. this would be the point where it was time to involve morgan, their brilliant hacker. he'd be poking around their mainframe, finding more windows and opportunities. every system had flaws, no one could make a perfect system. it was flaws like that that gave their team the upper hand. from research on the bank, it had been previously robbed. in the nineteen thirties it was robbed by some vagabonds. usually, robbing a bank that had already been robbed could be tricky. the bank sees what went wrong and usually rebuild their security system, reaction times, employee procedures, basically a complete overhaul of what they had been doing. the virgin banks were always the best route to go. the reason why they decided to go with the valkyrie bank was that it was from back in the nineteen thirties, that was a sketchy decade as it was with the depression anyway, jack thought it was safe because at this point in valkyrie's history, it was just a story told to grandkids. besides, two weeks of staking the place out, he could see so many holes. they didn't care about what had previously happened to them before. he led a double life. on this one side, he was jackson sharpe, son of a defense attorney. was a very ambitious kid, would have been a phenomenal exec at a international corporation if it wasn't for the rotten exec he worked under, he'd be fine, he'd be playing fucking golf right now. despite jack's set back his parents still loved him, still told him come over for dinner, still trying to set him up with women that were daughter's of his mother's friends. his father even offered him a job at the firm, but jack wasn't going to take that. he had a whole other life that required none of that. he was with his friends again, he was making millions, he was a criminal, but a good one. people constantly lived in fear when they were criminals like him. when would he get caught? how long would he be in jail? at what age would the law finally catch up with him? jack did think about this. constantly. eventually, when he would start a family, would he be taken away in cuffs at a family dinner never to see his kids again? or, would he just be a bachelor for the rest of his life? jack thought that was a better option. be sixty and get caught, not really caring because he lived his life to the fullest as it was. putting his wife and kids out like that would kill him. maybe that was why he was always so slow to get to know another woman in a romantical sense. what was the point if he was only going to cause heart break? right as we was pushing out slightly depressing thoughts out of his hyperactive mind, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. pulling his eyes away from him the bank he was actually shocked to see who was sitting across from him. he leaned back in the booth he was in. "jules," he stated with a slight grin on his face. france. couple years back. just as he started robbing banks, he ended up going to france with his family. vacation of sorts. their "story" started like most. met in a bar and got drunk. as highly organized as jack was, he made a mistake. he might have told her that he was a criminal. but he was drunk, so he said criminal mastermind instead. he said that he was good at getting money. he never said anything more than that and was glad. though, he quickly discovered that she wasn't just some normal girl either. she... she knew things, she was in some kind of loop of whatever criminal circuit she was privy to. mostly, jack hated that she was kind of like him. you know, people that obviously hung out in the smart department. he could see it in her eyes. the way she analyzed everything. it was the same look he would give. it was hard to interact with someone like that. he would know. he didn't know how his friends did it. it wasn't like he was an asshole. like that facebook fucker. that guy was just a prick. no, jack was just calculating. always thinking, always planning, always seeing things through. "this peter pan does," he told her and took a drink from his coffee. like he was going to tell her anything. like the fact he works in a team, or that he was staking a place out. he studied her for a moment. "what makes you think i'm working on anything? just... enjoying the morning paper and some coffee." with that, he opened the front page of the two-day old paper, and glanced at the inside headlines. "oh, look at that. the mayor is going to be speaking about the crime in valkyrie on friday. that'll be interesting." he looked up at her and then back down at the paper. yeah, it was friday today, and he was sure she'd pick up on that one, but instead he said, "but what i find more interesting is what you're doing in town." TALKING SHIT ABOUT A PRETTY SUNSET

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY MODEST MOUSE

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[irina aleksandra chemikova]

,SHE HAD NEVER <sub>expected to turn out this way. of all the fairytales braided into her hair during childhood, this particular story was never written. it should have remained a dim idea, lurking somewhere in the back of the author's mind, quickly pushed aside for something much better, more attractive, more appealing. happier. everyone wants their life to turn out that way. people like her - smart people - generally got that, if that's what they so desired. everyone else bitched that their lives never unfolded the way they wanted. instead of pushing their hands into the lava and feeling the pain of success and satisfaction, they leisurely dribbled through life. juliet sakahrov expected to live that life. all she had to do was wait to be rewarded the starring role in her own fairytale. in a twisted sort of way, it had been promised to her. when her father victor sakahrov appeared like her white knight, eager to please his little girl, she had allowed herself to get caught up in the breeze, a cheerful wind laced with words of promise and fantasy. and this life, taunting her with darkness, never should have been reality, it was foolish of her to fall for the evil witch's spell about a wild fairytale she could have lived with the man who dared call himself her father. maybe she shouldn't have plunged into the burning flames of success and satisfaction. she could have tested it first, dipped a toe or two, and discovered it was too painful. she could have wandered the edges of reality, caught between misery and terror. that would have been okay. at least there would have been a small margin of hope for change. maybe she would not have written a fairytale. when the empty prmise was weaved into her hair, she should have cut it off and snarled. if only.

everytime she dared look at the her reflection, the disfigured monster staring back, the questions danced before her. part of her did not want to let the past go. she was so young, and yet her life was over. her chapter had ended. the loose papers were lying in a box somewhere. yellowed with age. forgotten completely. the editor had trashed every word inked on the pages. the author should have burned them, but secretly kept them. maybe one day. it was ridiculous. her monster eyes would sharpen daggers, a knife-tongued declaration of her misguided failure at life. part of her wanted that hope, feeble as it was. the child, with fairytales in her hair, quietly prayed for her white knight to erase the past. start at page one, on a bright piece of loose leaf, ink eager to create a timeless piece. what would have been? what could have happened? would it have ended this way? would they be living the life she foolishly imagined? they created words, italicized and sharp, in front of her. they were not meaningless thoughts, easy to discard. no. juliet sakahrov watched as these questions performed fiery dances. they would not extinguish, open to dancing all night. they were real. i think the emptiness in her body made her see things. when jules was lost, suspended between dark fantasy and endless reality, she saw the words, bolded as headlines. maybe one day they would slice her skin and drip into her veins. she was slowly going crazy. words don't dance. they don't cut into your flesh and make you die. she had to stop looking in the mirror, because these pathetic 'what ifs' were going to kill her.

i guess it would be easier that way.

the darkest part of jules irina was her lingering. she knew her fairytale had been destroyed, damaged beyond all repair. yet, her mind refused to let it go. she wanted to sit down with victor sakahrov and scream at him. she wanted to poison him with ugly words and questions that shamed him to an impossible extent. none of this would have happened had he not pretended she was a meaningless stranger. not even a ghost from his past, here to haunt him. no. he had shot his first, and favourite, child down because it was easier that way. it shattered her fairytale and she had been left alone, lost. no direction, a broken compass in hand. her ribs would not show like rosary beads, she would not spend hours suspended between time, and she would not see words dancing. if her mind healed itself and moved on, it would all be fixed. perhaps duct taped and taped with bandages, but repaired nonetheless. but she couldn't. not now. too much had happened. everyday, jules regretted it. all of this stupid sadness fuelled the ugliness of her actions. just because the questions danced, didn't mean she responded. they refused to slink back into the shadows, defeated. the sparked the fire and burned her, forcing her to stab at her past right back. deep down, she knew that. she would not be empty, with a monster staring back, had she been able to kick her life in the shins and create a new future. if only. she had to stop saying that. she would disappear if she didn't stop. she knew that, too. she was a smart person, remember. she just…refused to.

jules didn't even know why anymore. the darkness of her past, staring at chapter one, had turned her into this fanged monster, steely spikes deforming into her flesh. but the firewood continued to build. the way she turned against the russians. the way she sold their secrets to the italians. the way she was cruel and careless. it was a towering structure and it was going to fall soon. she didn't know when, i don't think anyone did. it was best to simply ignored it. why do you think she refused to look in mirrors?

not all of her history was sinister and cruel. here and there, jules had managed to find a break of light. it made her smile from time to time. she even forgot who she was and why she was destroying herself. jack here offered one of those brief moments. their few hours in france, the beginning, had been entertaining. he was a challenge. alcohol had impaired his calculations. he told her he was a criminal mastermind. granted, many people claimed that. the old businessman she had shamefully "entertained" had told her he ripped people off of millions of dollars. which is exactly why he had to pay her in twenty dollar bills taped together, often dusted with cocaine residue. but there had been an odd seriousness in jackson sharpe's eyes. perhaps he was lying. he could be another young and stupid existence. she was curious about him. they hung out in the same crowds: smart people. she responded that she, too, was a criminal mastermind. i don't think either of them bothered to tell the other they knew there was a semblance of truth to that. it made her smile. he made her smile, sort of, because she still had yet to solve this puzzle. "mister sharpe, the international criminal mastermind," she responded simply, an amused glint dancing in her eyes. crossing one leg over the other, she, too, leaned back in the booth. her eyes slowly examined him, his body, his movements, and the silly old newspaper laying in front of him.

"lost on your way to never-never-land?" the wryness was back in her voice, a small smile curling onto her face. in she remembered clearly, the sharpe boy was rarely out of the company of his band of boys. she probably had a silly nickname for each of them over the years. one hand cupped her coffee mug, still hungry for the burn that refused to come, the other continued to strum the slippery table surface. she, too, studied him. as he told her about the mayor, jules glanced outside and back at jack. she arched an eyebrow, still amused. "does it say what time? i'm hoping to be on my lunch break when he does. it is getting out of hand, don't you think?" let's pretend it's wednesday, sure. twisting the base of her cup on the table, she chewed on her tongue and looked at jack again, head titled. it was his silly way of pushing her off the crosswalk to what he actually did. sometimes it worked, because he could be just as calculating as she. he always refused to tell her. "because you and i are fairly interchangeable. you don't sit around and have coffee. especially when the mayor could be speaking right now." she spoke flatly, leery of his turning the questions back to her. raising the mug to her lips, letting the scalding liquid slide down her throat - she felt the warmth spreading through her chest, falling into her empty belly painfully - and contemplated an equally stupid answer. maybe her mind was fogged because she was still suspended. or maybe because it was mister often smarter than her. "would it be silly of me to say it was because you were in town?" she smiled again, the emotion never reaching her eyes, and looked at jack. "my work brought me here. just like yours did."</sub>

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TAGGED, j-squared !
LENGTH, 1546 words.
ATTIRE, here + boots.
NOTES, <3 stupidly long posts are stupid.
CREDITS, format and graphics to me.
lyrics to hollywood undead - "my town"

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[jackson noah sharpe]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i583.photobucket.com/albums/ss279/legendskseeker/fk5qwnjpg.png); padding: 30px; border: #a0a0a0 solid 30px; ] OH NOOSE, TIED MYSELF IN TIED MYSELF TOO TIGHT OUTFIT CLICK TAGGED JULES NOTES: you know the score. i was half way through the post when the virus attacked. --- IT WAS LIKE HE WAS A MACHINE, or a computer. his mind worked on another frequency it was like. this was strange to him because he wasn't what some would call as a genius. he was more like joe america, someone average. he wasn't super intelligent in the computer and science-like fields, he wouldn't have been qualified to go to mit or an ivy league school, but the detail in everything he saw was astounding. maybe that was why he didn't mind jules that much. she got that part because she was similar to him in that department. jack checked all of his bases. he tied up every loose end and he made sure he and the team would never be traceable. he made them untouchable ghosts with the plans. he remembered when they first did the bank job in santa monica. he made them all not splurge on with their money for a month, just so if the cops ever wanted to connect the men to that job, it wasn't like they bought the latest sports car two days after the job when it would have appeared that they wouldn't have been able to purchase it prior. it would draw attention. yeah, jack had been a hard ass the first couple jobs, but he didn't want to get caught and neither did the team, so they put up with it. he knew he couldn't be what most people would be considered "normal" but jack didn't want to go to the doctor to go and see. there was always the possibility that if he did go and the doctor found him one way or another that he would prescribe pills for him and the detail in his head would go away. jack couldn't live with that. and what could be wrong with him anyway? how could a doctor say, 'you think too much,' and take it all away? he found it easy to lie to his parents about his "job." mainly because his parents had been so damn proud of him when he was scooped up to los angeles after his undergraduate degree. despite his dick of a boss screwing up everything for him, jack had been extremely good at his job. he was moving up, he was given more responsibilities, he was securing his own clients. he was great. then? then jack became a criminal, and despite being richer than he ever would have working at the office, he was still obtaining his money illegally, and that would just break his mother's heart, his father would look at him differently, and maybe he would be disowned as a son. the two people he couldn't lie to, however, were his siblings, ryder and vivienne. he was the oldest, so he was always some sort of role model to his younger brother and sister, but he couldn't tell them that he robbed banks. even when his reputation int he finance and business world was shit, they still believed in him. but, he still hung out with them all the time, went and ate lunch with them on days it worked out for their schedules. jack saw both of them several times a week and it was hard to continually lie to them about his lifestyle. they asked questions. like how he could still afford his clothes and luxury items. maybe they did have their suspicions, he never really held things back from them, except for this, for the past three years. "mister sharpe, the international criminal mastermind," jack smirked and looked down at the words on the newspaper without reading it. she remembered, of course she did. "that's what they call me," he told her. he shrugged and shook his head at her. "you know me. always where the action's at. who knew it would be my hometown." jack remembered a time when the crime rate in valkyrie wasn't like detroit or chicago. it was just... average. then, when jack was in los angeles, did it started getting really bad with rumors of mobs coming to town and crime was on the rise. now? now it was really bad. busts were happening all over the place, cops were getting shot, soldiers of illegal organizations were being killed. it was a war on the streets and the citizens of valkyrie were paying for it. in jack's opinion this little "talk" given by the mayor was long overdue. it has been a problem solidly for the past six months. ever since the russians decided they wanted in and offbeat irish biker gang decided to have a little fun. she asked him what time the mayor's speech was going to be. jack glanced back down at the newspaper. "twelve thirty," he said. he knew it was noon now because he had looked at his watch five minutes before jules came to sit down across from him. he wondered how many people were actually going to be there. he had to say, he knew he'd probably see seasoned natives there. people that ran in the same circle as his parents. then there would be business owners who suffered the most from racketeering. the people that would be curious as to what the mayor was going to say. reporters, tv crews, and maybe there would be a few criminals like himself. all the big wigs would most likely watch it on the television. he laughed when jules told him that she was here because he was. he tugged at his jacket and ran a hand through his black hair. "always the amusing one, you are. i guess i can never seem to get away." if they weren't on the opposite side of the law, they were actually probably be decent detectives, or agents, or something that actually meant something to the government. it was the minds like theirs. jack did wonder if he could solve cases that had gone cold. he probably could catch something that other people would have overlooked or had forgotten. he recognized almost every face, he could catch anyone. too bad he found more of a thrill from stealing from people rather than helping them. he watched her carefully. "and what work do you have here. unlike you, i was born here," he pointed out to her. they were always rather secretive. jules knew that he didn't really work alone as much as he tried to hide it. a couple times, she showed up when they guys and he were getting prepared. they all knew jules even if they never met her. she was just the girl that found jack from time to time. they'd be loading guns and telling jack to take care of her. they were never really upset. they knew she was a criminal too, so there was some sort of mutual respect for the others. there was no need to go to the cops. "maybe i can help," he offered, not quite portraying the tone as a question. "i do know the city and all," he gave her once again, his boyish grin he could never shake. "but my real question for you," he asked, reaching across the table to touch her thin hands, "what should i call you now? i heard youare going by irina now." TALKING SHIT ABOUT A PRETTY SUNSET

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY MODEST MOUSE

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[irina aleksandra chemikova]

,THERE WERE NO <sub>expectations. none. no one on earth had assumptions (or hope) for juliet sakahrov. expectations come with the human connection. natural interactions soaked with sincerity and colgate-perfect smiles. she had never been privileged cursed with such a plague. she had watched people over the years. expectations and tears were something people seemed to crave. because it was followed with care and love. this disgusting, messy cycle of kinship was supposed to be "normal". a curse laid upon every average human being. it was painful, it was joyful, it was…everything. jules irina knew about people. she had spent tireless years carving her mask from nothing. she learned. she studied. ten thousand hours: that's all it takes to master something. the pretty russian girl could play society better than most others. she could pull a twisted smile on, have a little sparkle dance in her eyes; she could cry over people that weren't there; she could laugh at jokes that had never been told. if so much as wished, she could fraud her way through every level of society. it was up to her if people believed this facade. because there were no expectations. juliet sakahrov did not whistle her time away with trivial tears or wasted laughs. that was much too time consuming. there were years lost stressing over this normality. with no real content, jules was left with only her role to play. her life was not wasted over the complications of this human connection. people expected nothing of her, because she expected nothing of them. she sacrificed the passion and warmth - what she assumed were good things - for the cold freedom. there was no one she could disappoint. no sad eyes would be watching her, a somber smile saying nothing out loud. and, she knew, that was better than expecting just as much from others.

because, really, all she would be is disappointed. jules had been disappointed once. it was like a sewer. a mixture of all the other ugliness, supplied by the ones you once regarded as "important". why would one go sniffing in the sewers for more? you drown in waters too dark and defeated to bother saving you. she was playing in black waters already, she had no wish to let broken hopes push her over the edge. you can swim in your own murky waters. rot in your own filth. looking for someone else's only resulted in you having to wash your clothes more than twice. there was not enough of tide's most tenacious detergent to wash disappointment away. those people who claim to find diamond rings and golden watches under the rusted grates? they get pierced and barbecued by alligators. they expected something. their minds were naive, unable to process what a real betrayal felt like. flaking scabs and salty tears, broken maybes and love letters torn into itty-bitty pieces…no. rip the scabs and pierce the wound with bloodied needles, collect your tears and inject them into your laceration; maybes that were really promises that were never really there in the first place, letters stamped with the guarantee shredded with cold smiles and poured into that sewer water. juliet sakahrov knew what real disappointment was. the everyday individual had no clue, no clue. they had expectations and hope and warm hugs and feelings of abandonment that weren't really abandonment, but childish confusion. they pretended, but they had no clue, not really. she wanted that. sometimes. but then her teeth sharpen into fangs and remind her what poison that brought on her.

don't you see? she could never succeed in turning herself off permanently. everytime she took a break, jules found herself yearning for more connection. the love and care and whatever else the fuck had been taunted before her so many years before. and then she ripped open her skin with razor blades and remembered. if she had any expectations, she would be disappointed in her lack of strength.

she did not understand how jackson sharpe could do it. all she knew was this fellow with the crooked smile and mischievous eyes was a scum-sucking criminal. he was the tar of the earth. he did bad things because he could, and he quite possibly did very bad things because he wanted to. she did. she was. juliet irina chemikova was a scum-sucking criminal too. but none of that mattered. her care for another's day job were second to none. it was how he could so easily sit here and, she suspected, plot his mind away so easily. just watching him, pointing at the newspaper and pretending to care about a mayoral speech, made her stomach flip. "you know me. always where the action's at. who knew it would be my hometown." she pushed that sardonic smile onto her face, achieving the same level of cool as her american counterpart. "now, you don't have to be humble. of course you knew." pushing more steaming coffee past her lips, jules tapped her foot against the cheap flooring. she watched him, just watched, somewhere between a curious glance and an uncomfortable stare. something about him fascinated her. how the fuck did he make it look so easy?

"always the amusing one, you are. i guess i can never seem to get away." his words almost surprised her. the first flicker of a genuine smile crossed her face. i think she laughed, but it had been a long time since she laughed. i'm not sure anyone remembers what that sounds like. "you love your hometown. and i love chasing you. i'll say we agree." her smile almost immediately twisted into that smirk. she felt safer behind her elusive little leer. jules could feel him watching her. he was like her. neither had an issue playing third-party, looking through the clear-minded lenses the rest of the world seemed oblivious to. drinking more bitter coffee, barely wincing as the hot liquid banged down her insides, she met his eyes, setting the half-empty cup onto the scratched table. "i thought we agreed i came here because you did." as his words approached their fine line, her words grew more defensive. she had mastered the ability of vanishing. but that was with the non-them people, the smart ones. "the russians are here, aren't they?" i guess that was a good answer. it was half-true. she raised her eyebrows as he grinned again, touching her hand with his own. he never asked questions. he only made people feel like they had a choice. it was part of the sharpe charm. remaining quiet for a minute, she shrugged. no one ever wanted to help. "and what could i do in return for your masterful assistance?" her tone had turned teasing, playing up his criminal mastermind role again. but the emptiness had returned to her eyes, a hesitance she rarely felt. returning the pressure on his hand, she turned it over on the table, lining her fingers against his. "i'm disappointed. a good spy knows one must conceal their identity at all times." she smiled again, sort of. tapping her toe against the floor again, jules looked out the window, watching as the cars zoomed and the people fluttered. real people. living in a town they never thought would be so polluted. "my name is still juliet." her words were oddly aloof, echoing. she spoke in her own voice, for the first time in months. a diluted accent, flat and dull. "i'm here because the russians are. i want to break them. and i think it's too messy for people." she watched him from behind her coffee cup, eyebrows raised again.</sub>

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TAGGED, j-squared !
LENGTH, 1272 words.
ATTIRE, here + boots.
NOTES, laaate.
CREDITS, format and graphics to me.
lyrics to hollywood undead - "my town"

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