islahvnt

[islahvnt]

For someone that was overtly against the life that the majority of his family lived, Gideon was nothing if not, the nosey neighbour with all the gossip. So when he stumbled through the way in which he'd found her, Isla wasn't the least bit surprised. Few things in her world make Isla stop and second-guess herself. Force her into a mindset that requires her to think of something other than only herself. For so long, it'd been only survival, but the way in which her name falls from Gideon's lips makes her pause, swallow thickly and seek anything else in the room that might capture her attention. "It's not like that." At least, she'd never seen it that way. Someone from the outside however, might have seen the Rutherfords taking Isla on as initially being leverage enough to keep her father and their small, quaint corner store safe. It'd been a choice though - she'd chosen to join them, and she'd been given that choice, hadn't she?

"It was just a run in with a couple assholes at the club," the blonde bit out the half lie rather easily and even still, she felt a jagged blade of guilt slice through her gut. Because it was easy to lie to him. To anyone. A thankful smile cracks her lips, "I don't need you to look out for me, Gid. I'm a big girl - tie my own shoes and everything."

'What happened to you??'

It hits him two seconds too late, and he feels stupid for the surprise and the dismay that had shot through his voice at the sight of her. As if it isn't obvious enough.

The mob happened to her. The Rutherfords happened to her.

And the worst part is, they would keep happening to her unless she's out or unless she's dead. He shuts the door behind him but doesn't approach, not wanting for her to feel cornered in her own sick room. "No... I should've asked for permission to visit," He admits, "But I didn't realize you were in. I came to see another patient and saw your name on the whiteboard and..." The surgeon trails off, the rest of his story self-evident.

'Accident', she calls it, as if he hasn't grown up a mobster's son long enough to doubt that. If she were anyone else, Gideon might've snorted.

Instead, he pleads. "Isla..."

The wheels turn, and he comes at it from a more strategic angle. "If you're in trouble, if you're in over your head... I can talk to some people. If they haven't listened to you, they might listen to me." Not because there's much love lost between Andrew Rutherford's gang members and the prodigal son, but because, sometimes, helping him could curry favour with the boss. At least theoretically.

"But if you don't want to talk about it... I won't push."

#* gideon

[islahvnt]

There's some further sense of resentment rising, time and time again - Isla had done exactly as asked. Proven herself, over and over and yet the one set-back and three years in prison seemed to quickly remove any clear notion that she woman was perfectly capable. "Some of the girls at work," a pause, because she knew that would never be enough for him, "And Alexander." Surely her boss' name carried enough weight to be trusted in such a circumstance. Her brows furrowed and despite the fact that she knew she should have bitten her tongue, she spoke too quickly, "It's not exactly like Oscar is spending a whole lot of his downtime in the Venue, so.. no, asking him as opposed to anyone else mid-shift, wasn't really an option." Even if it was what could be considered a bitten retort, it simply resounded Isla and her every day attitude - it wasn't meant to carry any weight of disrespect.

Lips pursed tightly and quickly, she felt the bruise that covered the base of her jawline protest as he made his disapproval clear - as if she wasn't already expecting as much. What she wouldn't give to be seen as more than just a disappointment. A curt nod, and she moves to pull two cell phones from the bottom of the that held a few of her things. Courtesy of Ayaz. "Their phones." Maybe it would have been something to compensate their brutal deaths, "And no, they're not burners." They were idiots, the look in her eyes screamed. A heavy sigh befell the blonde and though she'd never really tire of Johnathan being around, she was becoming less and less interested in having visitors. "So I keep being reminded." She shrugged, her tongue rolling across her molars until it hurt, "But three grown men are dead and me, a five foot two waif of a girl, is still here. So, clearly I'm doing something right."

"Who?! Who did you run it by?" Johnathan stepped back and took a deep breath. The last thing he needed was to attract more attention, and he definitely didn't want to raise his voice at Isla, but the situation was making his blood pressure soar through the fucking roof. "If you had time to run it by a few people, then you definitely fucking had time to warn Óscar." He didn’t need to explain to her why that was the better option, or at least he hoped he didn't.

"Do you understand why I'm not fucking impressed that you killed three Frenchmen?" A beat. "You needed to keep one of them alive." It made no sense, for the French to target Yvonne. Johnathan needed to understand why it'd been her and he needed to know who gave the fucking order. He could see the mistakes of his past flashing right at him. Whilst he wasn't the type to down the useless road of would've could've and should've, he needed to drive this message home so it was loud and fucking clear: "You're not ready."

#* johnathan

[islahvnt]

#* isla #* white oleander

[islahvnt]

"Oh, so my date is free reign but yours is entirely off limits?" The blonde scoffed with relative content that this was where they drew the line. Cretin. It made the corner of her mouth curl into something of a snarl. The upend curvature of a serpent spitting venom as the word Olivier chose for Maks boiled her blood. "Watch your tongue," not quite a threat, but definitely within the realms as she plucks her glass up and brings it to her lips, "This isn't the place and if you want to talk about all the things I did wrong, and you did so fucking perfectly, take a raincheck."

In all honesty, he shouldn't have expected anything less than that retort when it was Isla he was speaking too. The minute she opened her mouth he knew he should've turned on his heel and stalked in the opposite direction. Olivier was putting himself in this position. And he wished he had the answers for why. Swallowing thickly, he tried to calm that tremor that sat somewhere between anger and worry as he looked around for her Russian counterpart.

Lisette.

"Don't. Don't -- not her. We don't discuss her. You don't get to know fuck all about what I'm doing. I wasn't the one who made it clear spitefully. I wasn't messin' around with anyone else before that. And for fucks sake, a Russian cretin, too?"

Still, envy akin to something ugly and green rose on his skin.

#* olivier

[islahvnt]

The sudden rise of his voice should have been enough to make anyone with a heartbeat flinch, but Isla had spent three years under the thumb of prison guards who felt their lives wasting away while they watched a prison full of women. It resulted in a lot of dick-swinging and barked-out orders. The only difference between them and Johnathan now, was that she felt the weight of this, of disappointing him. His questions went unanswered. Not only because she truthfully didn't know where Ayaz was, the last she'd heard, he'd been organising the disposal of the bodies she'd left behind, moments after he'd left her side. Beyond that, she was as lost to answers as he was. "I'm sure." It's quick, and concise. Young as she might be, she'd never mistaken any of those pigs for anything other than the French. They never made it all that difficult to spot. "They made it pretty clear who they were, but I did run it by a few people before my shift ended." As if that would somehow make it all the more obvious that Isla did sometimes know what she was doing. "Yes, I'm sure."

The French, Yvonne, photos, dead bodies. Johnathan's blood boils and he sees red. He grabs the nearest chair and throws it across the room. There's a loud bang as it crashes into the cabinets, and a few nurses run into the room. "Out!" He shouts at them, voice like thunder, with a finger pointed towards the door. "And where the fuck is Ayaz?" The words explode out of him. Was their line of communication this fucking slow? Why had the photos not reached his fucking desk?

He paces back and forth for a moment, thinking about the next steps they're going to have to take. Isla, the girl lying in bed because she'd put her life on the line, was going on the back burner. That was the reality of the business: family first, individuals second.

Then, for the first time, a question truly meant for Isla to answer: "Are you sure they were French?" A beat. "I'm not in the fuckin' mood to be pissed around, Isla, so if you're going to say yes, I need you to be one hundred fuckin' percent sure about it."

#* johnathan

[islahvnt]

"Plenty," Isla quipped with ease in return. It wasn't the first time someone had ever underestimated her. Undoubtedly, the bitch would continue to think as much, and it'd give her an edge in burying her like the dog she was. "Oh, perception is your problem, not mine. I was just saying, can't remember a party you weren't really at, can you?"

"Don't they teach you anything at school?" Elaina smiled at the child before her. "Be careful what you say, or I might just get the wrong idea."

#* elaina

[islahvnt]

It took Isla a moment to get her bearings as she found herself back out in the hallway. It wasn't like she'd often visited the Berkley Estate, and with her head spinning the way it was, it took a moment or two before she could rightfully figure out which way the crowd was moving. It seemed a good enough direction than any. Her purse gone, phone gone.. -- and despite seeing a great number of familiar faces, none of the ones she wanted to see broke through the mess of people. "Was that..." the closet. That was where her phone was. "Was that who I think it was?" The video, the man hung and all but quartered by beasts. Something about the face looking up from the now decapitated head, she knew. You need to go.. "What?" How brow knit together in confusion as she looked around at all those perhaps as unsure as she was. "I'm, yeah.. I'm fine. Was that real?" Fingertips curled into the lapel of his jacket, hoping to draw a little more of his attention instead of the passersby. "We're leaving, right?"

FOR: @islahvnt WHEN: 22nd of March, 2024. WHERE: Berkeley Estate. POST PLOT DROP.

Where the fuck was she?

His hands ran through his hair once more, dropping his eyes to his phone in hand as a curse broke free from his lip. She wasn't fucking answering. He typed again, his third consecutive text within minutes as he saw the crowd swelling.

This was fucking bad.

You need to get out of here. Where are you??? Isla!

Looking up, spotting blonde hair and that familiar dress that had kept him captivated through the night, his feet were moving, dodging people as quickly as he could. He had minutes, if that before all hell fucking broke loose. "Isla." His voice ground out. "We need to go -- you need to go." he corrected, looking over his shoulder to find the rest of his people.

"Are you okay?"

#* maksim

[islahvnt]

Easier now, that the concoction of all things illegal had somewhat mottled within her bloodstream, Isla finally felt somewhat her normal self. Surrounded by a bunch of french cocksuckers and a palpable amount of testosterone. A powder keg, and the blonde would inhale it until it surmounted her current high. It sung in her veins, brought a smile to her lips that was impossible to wipe clean and above all, she didn't have to think about how much of a royal fuck up the last two weeks had been. The tug at her arm prevalent above all, Isla had been ticking over the concept of reacting as she usually might have, but by the time he'd spoken, such a thought was long gone. "What?" she muttered, tucked beneath a quiet giggle that didn't belong in the space between them.

Head not nearly as fuzzy as she might have liked in the moment, hues flickered to those nearby, quick to note that nobody was really around - nor paying attention, "What? What do you want?" It's ripped out in a whisper as she moves closer, the pair shifting further and further out of sight, "I really don't want to fight again, Oli."

FOR: @islahvnt WHEN: PRE-PLOT DROP. MINUTES BEFORE VIDEO RELEASE. WHERE: Outside a damn closet. Berkeley Estate.

He shouldn't have been looking for her.

Olivier had told himself only five minutes before he returned back to his date before he let her go altogether. He'd successfully dodged Thomas all night, even if their eyes had connected once across the room; familiar dread cooling his firey stomach.

Still, he found himself leaning against a wall, watching when he caught sight of her walking: he wasn't sure if Isla had seen him, hand snaking out to grab her upper arm.

"Over here," his head gesturing away from a crowd.

#* olivier

[islahvnt]

ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 1x04 - "Happy Progress Day!" ↳ "You were supposed to guard the cargo!"

#* muse #if ever anything suited isla more than jinx #idk if it exists

[islahvnt]

#* white oleander

[islahvnt]

"Oh, I'm sure this'll be good," Isla quipped with a telltale smirk as she happily picked up one of the shots, "Go on, you can't be here with no good reason - what do you want, Emine?" Friends wasn't quite what she'd call them, but maybe today they wouldn't quite be at each others throats.

@islahvnt

She was going to dismiss that the blonde came with a Russian, casually sauntering up with a tray of shots, placing them down in front of the other.

"I thought you could use these and I'll even have one with you."

#* emine

[islahvnt]

Don't come over here. Don't come over here. A repetition that becomes gospel in her mind. Undoubtedly, part of her wants him to - but she isn't ready. Certainly hasn't had enough tequila to swallow back the thick in her throat as he approached. "Yeah, I do." She remarks, because that was the entire point, wasn't it? All of them, showing up looking less and less like the monsters they were on the inside. She scoffs, beneath her breath, though she glances back at Maks. Clearly, she's doing something right. "You know, I'd say the same... but apparently I don't agree with the majority of voters this time around."

FOR: @islahvnt WHEN: 23rd of March, 2024. WHERE: Royal Albert Hall. Pre-awards.

They were both here with different people.

One she'd spent a date with and making out with on the Valentine's dinner. He'd gone home with Lisette, an old flame that had struck him stupid once before. It was all a little bit fucking much, if you asked Olivier, and still, his feet carried him to her.

Like a fucking magnet.

"You look beautiful," He wished the words hadn't sounded so strained, so unlike him. "You make a wonderful couple." God, did he sound like the jealous ex, or what.

#* olivier

[islahvnt]

"As unhinged as you might be, I don't think anyone expects you to be that unhinged." Or, maybe they did. Isla didn't really care all that much, even as she reached for his shoulders, pulling him down low enough to kiss him. "And fuck Diana, what the hell does that bitch know, anyway?" If there was one thing, Isla never paid much mind to, it was TWI, and the woman behind it. "A haribo one?" She grinned, "Well where the fuck is it then?"

FOR: @islahvnt WHEN: 23rd of March, 2024. WHERE: Royal Albert Hall. Pre-awards.

"People are going to start asking if I've proposed yet." Maksim said, as he chanced another glance down at his outfit. Fucking matrimony. But in all honesty, no matter how grand his outfit, he paled in comparison next to his date. "Don't worry, I didn't buy you a ring. If I did it'd be a fuckin' haribo one."

#* maksim #ignore her walking away

[islahvnt]

Type: Reaction - Should be couple For: @mrofontaine

#* olivier

[islahvnt]

"Well, at least this time you're here to remember it, right?" Isla's tone is coy, far too innocent to be heard in anything more than a positive light, "I mean, last year must be such a blur for you."

@mobscene-starters

"Oh, I am quite certain this year will be a year to remember." Not only because it's been a year since she had been found hanging somewhere by the water.

#* elaina

[islahvnt]

@maksimkurylenko

#2024mobsceneawards

[islahvnt]

It's one of the last people she expects to see, which seems a little messed up, considering he does work there. But as far as Isla knew, a lot of the details of the incident are being kept rather close to the chest of the Rutherfords - if only to keep the French from getting word that the massacre, and disappearance of two of their soldiers is her doing. "What are you doing here?" She snaps as his appearance forces her to sit up; regardless of how much it pains her to move with such little care. Her grimace is obvious, though she manages to not reach for her side like she so desperately wanted to. "I mean, did someone let you in here?" There were a lot of things about Isla's life that she didn't like to talk about with some people; Gideon especially, even if he was one of her closest friends. There's so much that would disappoint him. "I..--' Hues flicker between him, her hand and the door. She knows the bruises on her face are at their darkest, the yellow that paints their edges almost sickly at this point, "An accident, I'm alright. I promise, it looks much worse than it is." Lie.

LOCATION —  St Catherine's Hospital. DATE — March 15th 2024.  STARTER — closed for @islahvnt

It's by pure chance that he sees her name on the whiteboard, having come to the ward to see one of his own outlier patients.

It isn't exactly appropriate to ease between the roles of professional and visitor without making an overt request – the nurses won't be pleased if they find out – but as Gideon casts a quick glance over his shoulder and lets himself into Isla's (thankfully) secluded room, he figures that that's exactly why they needn't find out.

And if they do, well, Isla being Isla, he wagers it wouldn't be too hard to convince them that she needs the neurology consult after all.

But any knowing mirth that accompanies the thought disappears instantly when he claps eyes on the girl sitting up in bed with a start. His eyes fall from her battered face to her bandaged hand, dismay clearly written in his features.

"What happened to you??"

#* gideon