Leo Hines
L's eyes fluttered open from the hardwood floors and his glance met the beams supporting the ceiling of the base. Unlike other people, he didn't have a home outside the building, was a very early morning person, and a terrible night person. He let out a deep sigh and stared up with open eyes, mind drifting off in thought, thinking of the treaty that today would bring.
The Poisons are definitly going to break the treaty. Leo was always a pessimist first.
With their hot-headed leader it's to be expected. But it equally makes sense for The Sirens to break the contract. They're obviously a very tight-knit group of females but it's highly unlikely to think of them actually getting along with anyone, The Keys are the mannerly type, the type who doesn't wish to get touched by them, while The Poison leader still has that aforementioned erratic pattern of violence and hot-headedness. What of The Keys? It's possible that they abhor the rest of the gangs for their lack of everything gentlemen-like. They might actually destroy us. Maybe The Sirens will. Or The Poisons. Perhaps The Bullets will.
He pondered that last lonely thought for a little while. Through this contract any gang could destroy the other three easily but to what end? What mattered if one group reigned supreme? Richard Grant would still destroy them and fighting each other would only be making that easier for him.
It was surprising to think that Grant had never considered them a factor or perhaps he had. Maybe he had already sent his men undercover. Perhaps he thought everyone is going destroy each other. Matter of fact everyone was going to destroy each other.
L would admit that he was one of the first advocators of the idea of overthrowing Richard Grant if anyone asked what he thought of it.
After half an hour of laying on the ground he caught a glimps of the sunrise from a wndow and the bright warm orange hue that surrounded.
It was beautiful.
Guess that's what finally made him get up and move towards the kitchen. He was the only one in the living room of the base so it was good to cook breakfast. Today's a special day; when the treaty will be signed upon with the Sirens, Keys and Poisons. Something sweet...pancakes. So half an hour would pass before he could create four plates with stacks, each topped with a healthy amount of syrup, L's own kind that's basically boiled suger distilled, a creation that normally satisfied his own sweet tooth desires. In front of each plate was indidual pieces of paper that read: "Red" "Dark" and "Tien" messily scrawled as if someone was writing with their left hand but not before shattering ever bone. Writing was just too hard to grasp for Leo.
"What else...what else?" He had said to himself in confusion but then remembered he had to look presentable in the meeting. He found a suit that he hid underneath the sink and put it on, uncomfortable with the unusual tightness of the tuxedo and the tie (it was a clip-on), but he decided to bear it out and might as well be used to it. So he sat on the contemporary sofa and held his own plate of pancakes in one hand and a fork in another. It took no time to finish the meal but he still savoured every sweet moment of its existence. Terribly tempted to take the other plates, L found himself pulling a familiar book off a shelf, The Hunchback Of Notre Dame, an old book with weathered yellow pages.
He dropped his plate in the sink and sat in a contemporary chair, knees up to his chest, slightly hunched over, and started to continue reading where he left off. Maybe it would take his mind off the matter and how despite this was a treaty it wasn't going to treated as such. That in the end, the Bullets were going to ally strongly with the Poisons, a position L can't tell is beneficial or harmful. Some people, regular Bullets, started to arrive one by one as Leo held the book close to his face and large eyes went left-to-right on pages. It'd been amusing to find the expression on the other's faces to discover that breakfast was made for them, it wasn't a regular thing, but Leo was just too drawn into the worn-out pages and black ink to care for their reactions or the looks on their faces.
Oh Quasimodo, you poor, poor, bastard.