( * YOU ANYWAY // OPEN )

[VOLATILE]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: calibri; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 1.4;"]V's never really been an ambitious kinda guy. The only thing he's ever given a fuck about was his own goddamn life and everything he needed to keep it as it was. Food, y'know, just the basic kinda shit. His shirt has holes in it, bloody teeth marks. His jacket's been sewed up a dozen times over and his claws have stayed with him his whole goddamn life. It's not all that important, living extravagantly. Volatile's just happy to be alive. Having the lives of others technically in his hands is a strange fuckin' thing — to be honest, he doesn't like it. The Abd guy'd be much better at all this shit because he gave a shit, but V's not gonna be caught saying that. Or thinking it. Or thinking about how he's getting this weird feeling in his chest, like something's trying to crawl up his throat no matter how many times he clears it, or like his heart's turned into some rabbit outrunning a fox.

He busies himself however he can to get his mind off of it. That means bruises all over his body, more of those bloody teeth marks deep under his skin, deep purple and black. He looks like shit, really, but V's most satisfied when he's ten kinds of fucked up. He sits in silence in Los Santos's home, his jacket over his lap and his hands occupied with a thread and needle. Soft curse words spill past his lips, gradually growing in volume and anger. "Piece of shit fucking needles, fuck!" His mama never really taught him to behave, huh?

[CAUSTIC]

[align=center][div style="width:500px;font-size:9.2pt; text-align:justify"]Caustic wasn't ambitious, but he wasn't not ambitious. He didn't jump for every shrapnel of authority like some people did- nether did he shirk an opportunity, though. This was just one Volatile got to before he did. Wasn't like he was complaining, though. Volatile needed to have his little fit, to wind himself up and hope that gravity would pull him back down before he fucked too much up. Looking at him now, Caustic couldn't say whether it was successful. Didn't mean he wasn't smug about part of the process, though; specifically, the one that left Volatile bloodied and bruised, shirt filled with holes.

Could still taste it when he focused a little more.

"Gonna get me to do that before or after you stab yourself?" He crossed his arms, standing up against a nearby wall and raising an eyebrow.

[VOLATILE]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: calibri; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 1.4;"]If he's bein' honest, V doesn't want this spot. It'd've been better going if he was listening to someone else. Someone that wasn't fucking Malik with all his goody-two-shoes way of looking at life around Los Santos. Caustic knows what he's doing and that's all well and good, he would rather follow his lead than anyone else's. Bane's top dog because he's earned it and V can't fucking wait for the man to get back here from wherever the fuck he's been, but in the meantime he'll manage. Sorta. He glances up just in time to catch that smug fuckin' shift of his partner in crime's face, his own eyes narrowing in a silent gesture of "if you say shit I'll kill you", which is a lie that Caustic'll catch up to easily enough. He knows better than that. Knows how to deal with him, knows how to hold him down or calm him down as he needs it.

Volatile puffs out a harsh breath and stabs the needle into his jacket near the line he'd been sewing, straightening up and rolling his shoulders. The shift of his hands is almost a reluctant thing, baring them to one of their unofficial medics and showing off all the pinpricks of red that had already poked through hard callouses. "Fuck you," he grumbles as a habit as he picks up his needle again, though he does look significantly calmer with him around.