You walk down the dark streets. The street lights overhead are starting to flicker dangerously. It's just like some sort of bad thriller movie, you realize, but that has nothing to do with your main objective. You have to find that stupid twin of yours. He walked out earlier; Bro and Sis had egg on their faces, so someone must've said something that was just a bit too much. Or at least that's what you managed to understand with your sweet deductive skills. Nothing gets by you, but let's just hope for the sake of it all that your deductions are correct, Sherlock.
On a whim, you cut through an alleyway. The ground has potholes; some are filled with water. You realize that little fact when your converse splashes something wet onto the bottom of your right pants leg. You could manage with one wet leg. It feels weird though, but you'll be alright. You eventually stumble over where his hiding spot is, if this could be classified as anything like that.
He's sitting underneath a small outdoor lighting unit smoking a cigarette. His left hand is holding the cancer stick to his lips, and you can make out the tips of his right fingers which have buried themselves in his fringe. You watch him from where you're standing, and he lifts his head quickly, head hitting the wall so hard that it makes you wince. His left hand pulls the cigarette away with a snatch, and the smoke twists into the air. The smoke bends slowly underneath the light and wafts away quietly into the darkness. Your red eyes follow the lazy movements. You can just barely make them out, but a raspy "What are you doing here?" snaps you out of your daze.
"I came looking for you; what happened, man?" You shove your hands in your pockets and shift your weight. Approaching your twin now would be like going near an angry bear. You prefer to keep your distance just in case.
"Sis and Bro just ganged up on me. It was a rousing game of 'Fuck the Strider' with me as the main focus." He flicks the cigarette away with a grimace. "Can't even make good fucking runaways my mind is so fucked up." This he grumbles to himself.
You take a few steps forward, and he leans his head back. He doesn't tell you to stay back so you don't. You walk over to the opposite side of the alleyway from him and sit down. The ground was damp, but nothing worth complaining over. You mirror his sitting position—right leg up, left leg out.
"Talk to me," you say flatly, leaning your head back and looking up to the dark sky visible between the buildings. "What happened earlier?"
He grunts. "Sis and Bro were being serious for once, and we all decided to sit down and talk about just the future. Sis doesn't want to stay here anymore. Neither do I to be honest. Bro says that he's comfortable stayin' out in Houston since he can just sit on his riches whenever, but me..." As he talks, he lowers his head and slides his fingers through his hair. When he trails off, there's a few seconds of silence, heavy silence. You're good enough not to interrupt. "I don't know, man. Vegas' the best city for what I can do. Music's good and everything but not really something that I can kick back on, you know. That's Bro's thing. That's your thing."
There's another silence, and he looks skyward again. You look down your nose through the bottom open space under your shades towards him. You're not sure if he's doing the same, but your eyes go back up to the sky and keep focus there. He lets out a scoff and tilts his head, causing you to look back to him; you can see the rueful smile on his face.
"You know I can't even rap?"
You sit your head up and look at him straight on. "What, seriously?"
"Yeah, man. It's a fucking tragedy, right?"
"In this household it is. I know you and Sis don't do hash raps, but this is, like, a tradition, dude. It's how you earn your wings."
Dane shakes his head in another laugh and tilts his head back, raising his left hand up. He moves his index and middle fingers together like scissors.
"Well consider me clipped," he says, a trace of humour in his voice.
"So what are we going to do about this? You can't keep living if you can't throw a fresh rhyme, bro. What're you gonna do?"
Dane lets out a dramatic sigh and drops his hand on his outstretched left leg. "Ooh, I don't know, man. I'm going to have to pick up the cards and start working my way up from the bottom. I'll have to rob this town of its money to repress the fact that I can never carry a rapping tune."
"That's the way to become a derelict, my friend."
He smirks; you smirk. It's all good. You're both gonna have to sit down and really talk on this soon, but right now at least he's in good spirits. He makes a move to stand, and you follow.
"Thanks. Now let's get out of this shit hole," the older Strider says to you.
You scoff and raise your left hand to punch him in the arm when you're beside him. "You're the one who came here first."
"Every bird needs its nest, man."
"Yeah?" You say, looking back over your shoulder. "Well this is shit."