The story so far:
Snaking from shadows, apparitions filled the darkened portion of the court; a baker's dozen bashed the emptiness into a clutter before Jack finished his chest-deep breath.
“Didn't think he was bringing the whole brigade,” Onyx muttered to Jack, hands jumping from pockets to bring a perfectly wrapped blunt to puffy lips. Jack flipped his blacks to count the bodies, faceless and silent yet. For a moment his orbs flashed with the haunt of glowing orange and he was hit with the odor of cooking flesh.
“What was that, 'O?” The darkness spoke with that damning voice. The voice was why Jack was standing on the grass that very night, cold, irritated and packing.
With a snort Onyx manipulated the tree in his mouth to rest at the left crevice of his lips. “Commenting on your entrance, 'Uma.” A spark blazed, illuminating deep set emeralds and casting a hue of citrus over a stubbed nose and gruff spattering of black furs. “Very nice.” Added more as an after thought than a compliment. Wasted enough words on him already.
“Flattery won't get you anywhere with me, O.” His voice was so damn annoying; high-pitched, whiny, always ending with a flat-toned nasal let down. It begged for handing the speaker a tissue or suggestively clearing the throat so long as words weren't formed again by mickey mouse during allergy season.
“Worked on your sister,” Jack injected, blue sucked on the blunt as Onyx shattered the hushed tone with his guttural laughter. More human like laughter mixed with the first after Jack let out a cloud of thick white smoke. The blunt passed back to the owner as the quiet crept back up.
Another drag of the happy plant, another pass over. “Sister, 'Uma, sister ****. And I know it's dark out and all, but really, that's his face, not his ****. Can't you see the handsome scar there on his big ol' chin?”
“Alright you two piss ants. Do you have my damn money or not?” The voice stepped forward and was splashed with a sickly glow. As far as drug dealers went, Akuma did not look threatening, he looked like a high school drop out still pining for high school. Fake paste coated the squinty rat face, paled by powder and emphasized by the charcoal around his tiny black pearls cast for eyes. Akuma went as far as to paint his lips with black and drip the liquid latex tear drops below his eyes. Bottle-raven hair waterfalled down his back in one thick sheet stopping midway, one crimson panel mixed in. He wore the black bondage pants hooked with chains and straps on every inch, fishnet covered otherwise bare chest and arms, black, of course. A handful of metal was flung in his face: a spiked labre, fluorescent ball on his tongue, a zipper sticking from the left side of his bottom lip, both ears filled with red plugs the size of walnuts, a left industrial, and of course an eyebrow, on the right. Onyx and Jack referred to Akuma as, “**** in his face.”
“Yea, yea,” Onyx let the words stroll off his tongue doing a little skip on his lips, nonchalant, uncaring, unmoved. “Jack's got your money.” A pause. “I've got something a little extra, to put this to bed.” He tossed the roach freeing the hand in a distracting sort as the other had already penetrated the safety-net of the trench coat; Jack was in much the same fashion.
“I know,” Akuma was cackling now. “I know, I know,” he gasped to breathe, pounding a fist to his knee. “Rabbit t-tol-tol,” another roll of laughter peeled from the black hole. “Rabbit to-told meeeeeheeeeheeee,” mickey mouse hit the apex of his amusement prematurely.
Jack scoffed, but Onyx stepped forward a pace his face hardened to crease the forehead, hands visibly clenching through the trench coat. Onyx's jaw was jutted partly, a vein was pulsing inside his right cheek, eyes blazed beyond the marijuana coursing through him. “Is. That. So?” Frigid was the question.
“Yea, O,” a faceless voice said. “I gave it up.”
Now Jack stepped up to stand beside Onyx, face rigid to copy his comrade's. Jack had a death grip on the metal, fingers twitching to destroy the smug triumph smeared across Akuma's rat face. We did not sacrifice so much to be stopped now. No god damn way! **** you Akuma! “Jacta alea est.” A 45 leveled at Akuma's head, Jack supporting his piece, ready for the past three months to blow up in a burst of bullet and brains.