Tattoo

Lola Hawkes

Santa Fe ws a popular part of town, pretty and eccentric and full of art and culture as it was. This was a part of Anthony Tirado's success-- he'd opened his first tattoo parlor here, and between location, catering to his demographic, and a damn fine hand in art, he was able to open two more parlors around the area as well. He could make enough money to support his out-of-city cousins on this business.

It's this very tattoo parlor, the one that started it all, that Lola Hawkes is hanging out in front of. Behind her the shop is wedged between two other buildings, other businesses leased out-- a salon and a market store, to be precise. The shop front was brick and classic, but the awnings over the window were black and the sign over the door was tall and wood and black as well, the letters in a tall jarring white font declaring the place to be: LA LUNA SONRIENTE TATTOO. Out front there were a ramshackle collection of chairs collected on either side of the purple-painted door. In one of these chairs sat Lola, recognizable by some for different reasons.

She wasn't here getting inked, not as far as anyone could see at least. Dressed for the warm weather, she had on a short-sleeved and short-hemmed dress of thin white-and-black stripes, a light gray cardigan left unbuttoned over top that, and a straw hat atop her head to keep the sun off her. Granted, the sun was quite behind the mountains by this point, but it hadn't been when she'd come out this way.

She was conversing with a tall and very thin man who was getting an octopus tattooed across his chest-- he was here getting the color filled in and sat in a plaid button-up shirt left undone. Her expression was skeptical but relaxed-- the kid wasn't bothering her any so she was content to share the cooling night air with him. If he had it his way they would've shared a hit off his small false cigarette pipe, but she'd hit him with strong skeptical 'Are you kidding me?' and he shrugged it off (apparently it helped his sister's pregnancy, but whatever).

Around the time that the Uktena kinfolk may fall into Samantha Evans's line of sight is the time that the door opens and the tall skinny boy gets called back inside. He bumped fists with Lola and she told him not to cry too hard when he walked back inside.

Sam Evans

The evening is young and pleasant and Sam Evans is walking alone, and like any typical Glass Walker she's holding a cell phone in her hand which she is looking at intently as her thumb works its way swiftly across the lower half of the device. That doesn't mean she's not aware of her surroundings. The kinswoman neatly side-steps a couple headed in her direction and pauses when someone practically bounds down the steps of an upper floor gallery into her. She glances up briefly to shoot the person a look. That look spurs the young woman - a girl, really, out with a group of her friends for who knows what reason - to apologize. Then it's back to the screen for at least a few more steps.

Steps which are made in a pair of mid-calf combat boots. The rest of her outfit consists of shorts and a black t-shirt with a huge skull over the front (the Punisher emblem for those in the know) worn beneath a red plaid flannel shirt converted into a long vest. Her hair is down but tucked behind her ears to reveal the piercings that run from lobe up along the outer cartilage of both ears. Stabbed through her right lobe is a thick black spike. There's a messenger bag slung across her body, the pouch resting against her left hip.

Suddenly she sighs, all the air in her lungs pushed out in a single exhale as she slides the phone into the hip pocket of those denim shorts. Which is when she looks up and sees Lola Hawkes sitting outside of a tattoo parlor. Huh. Increasing speed, she heads for a woman she only properly met about a week and a half ago.

"Lola, hey!" she calls, one corner of her mouth tugging upward in a crooked grin.

Lola Hawkes

Lola really didn't look the type to be hanging out in front of a tattoo parlor, except for the tough exterior one would suppose. Her attire didn't suit the crowd, and the long bare length of her legs left out in the air by the length of her dress didn't have a lick of ink on them. Her hair was twisted into a dense braid that sat on one shoulder, and her stomach was big enough to take up much real estate into her lap when she sat upright as she was doing now.

When Lola's name was called she had been leaning down to retrieve a water bottle from where it was sitting on the ground under her chair. She looked surprised and alert to hear her name, and glanced about with an intent and severe gaze until she found Sam's face and figure coming her way. A face and identity matched to the call, Lola relaxed and leaned back into her chair. One hand lifted in a greeting, but she didn't verbally call back across the distance. Instead, she opted to take a drink of her water.

When Sam was nearer, near enough for speaking anyways, Lola answered.

"Sam, right?" She's not as good at names, but it's probably confirmed one way or another that she's correct. Lola'd continue, unabashed by her own lack of proficiency with remembering names (they stuck with her after a few times). "How's the evening treating ya?" Eyes cut up toward the sky, brief, then back down to the Glasswalker. "Secure, I hope." The moon was full, and their peoples tempers did run quite high on nights like this, after all.

It's worth noting that Lola Hawkes didn't smile to greet Samantha Evans, crooked or otherwise. Her mouth was a straight line, neutral as can be. She didn't seem unfriendly necessarily, though. This was her friendly face.

Sam Evans

To look at the pair of them, it'd be easy to make a lot of assumptions about them. That Samantha is younger, perhaps, because of her height or because of her attire, or the difference between her demeanor and Lola's. Lola is friendly, but a reserved sort of friendly. At least she's not scowling, though probably a scowl wouldn't deter Sam. They survived an ordeal together, of course Sam's at least going to stop by to say hello.

Lola's gaze cuts upward, Sam's stays on the woman in the straw hat. She doesn't need to look up to know what night it is. She was up part of last night watching the eclipse, after all. "About as secure as it can get," she says with a one-shouldered shrug. Then she looks at the sign for the parlor and back to Lola. "Are you waiting to get inked or waiting on someone getting inked?"

Lola Hawkes

The question was an authentic one, and it earned Sam a relaxed, comfortable looking shrug and shake of her head before she gestured toward the purple wooden door with a hitched thumb. "Nah, my cousin Anthony owns the place. I'm waitin' up on him to finish a session, then we're headed out."

She took another drink of her water then went on to clarify: "It's hot as fuck in there. Nice night out here, though."

Another pause, this time for her to glance up the street and wrinkle the bridge of her nose up some. She was a woman of the rural wilds, after all. 'Nice' was a comparative thing between city blocks and the stretching land she called her own. "Well, neverminding the obvious."

She'd next gesture to one of the remaining chairs (there were plenty left to choose from) in front of the shop with a sweep of her water bottle before she leaned sideways (not forward, leaning forward was a goddamn ordeal) to set the bottle back down on the cement. "If you're stayin' around you might as well sit."

Eva Illeshazy

Nor is Éva the sort to hang around in front of a tattoo parlor, and assuredly she is not hanging around anywhere. She is on the street however; half a block away, emerging from a non-descript glass door sandwiched between a headshop and a coffee shop, which must assuredly lead to some sort of generic offices tucked away on the second floor.

The door is closing behind her; she turns around and catches it with the flat of her hand. A stranger comes out behind her: a shaggy-haired man with sharp features and beaten-up leather jacket walks out behind her.

He says something to her.

She lifts her chin, and cants her head in response, listening.

A beat passes and she shakes her head. He slips past her, turns one day down the sidewalk. Éva goes the other, a briefcase head lightly in hand, heels a clipped beat against the sidewalk. Sam and Lola draw her gaze; which is dark and impassive.

Her gaze and the faintest hint of acknowledgment. No more.

She walks on.

Eva Illeshazy

(Fly-by, bed for me!)