Saint Truman's race tracks, 10:30 p.m. A place filled with the yelling of failing business men next to the track, and the elite, rightfully brought up on to a balcony overlooking the race. The name of the track was actually a joke. Robert Truman was the founder of the track, a man with a gambling addiction and too much dirty money. In jest they called him Saint Truman, and the name stuck. It was the most popular race track in a twenty mile radius. Quite the show, one would think, when the line up at the booth took hours to go through, everyone placing a bet as quickly as possible. Greyhound number three, also known as Daisychain, would win first place in the first set. Or would it be TidalDog, who was the champion twice in a row thus far? The place smelt of uncertainty and cheap cologne.

But not where San was. The second highest balcony, only a few millionaires surrounding him. The race hadn't started yet, but the God of War looks as if his winning dog had already been announced number one. A pack of old tickets lay on the seat next to him, all of them ripped in half down the middle, which makes them impossible to cash in. A black boot with polished silver buckles rests casually on the white metal bars of the balcony in front of him, his arms crossed. He had a cigar in his mouth, which may have seemed slightly pointless if you knew exactly who he was, but sometimes even Gods feel like a smoke now and then. His charcoal black hair was down to his collar bone, longer than how he usually kept it, and much sleeker looking too. He was wearing a simple black button down dress shirt over his tanned chest, with perhaps too many buttons undone. His faded black denim jeans were ripped at the knees and looked like they had been in too many wars...Which wasn't far from the truth. He looked to be about eighteen (as usual), which is what it said on his fake I.D.

His blood red eyes were looking out towards the race track, the 'clean dirt' as they called it covered in foot and paw prints alike. Slowly he reached up and took the cigar out of his mouth, blowing a simple smoke ring as he exhaled. Taking another white ticket out of his pocket he looked over his bet. Ah...A dog called Warhound was going to compete. Interesting. Quietly the God leaned back, relaxed as could be. The balcony was beginning to fill up more, which wasn't surprising. Night time bets made by ashamed men. Too much wealth to know what to do with.

The dogs were being put in the starting positions, numbers written clearly on their sides. A muffled voice came over the speakers. The race was about to start, last minute to place the bets.

The God grinned with perfect teeth, and placed the cigar back to his lips.

(Mind if I join? If so I'll delete this.)

Thorn really shouldn't have been there. She was supossed to be at work early in the morning, as if she really wanted to go back to that office. She hated lawyers, why she worked for the bastards was beyond her. At any rate, the eighteen year old with a twenty-one year identification card named Rose but called Thorn, made her way to the balcony.

She also really had no place sitting at such a high position, surrounded by bussiness men and expensive cigars. She'd placed a very small bet on some unknown dog called 'Duke'. She'd probably blow that money, but what the hell, it was a chance to get out.

She took a seat, sevral down and one back from the man with ripped pants. She herself wore black leather trousers, so tight they must have Been painted on to her. She also wore a leather vest over a black muscle shirt. Her long, wavy black hair reached to her elbows and she wore a black cap with ‘BAM’ written in pink, low over her steel gray eyes. She looked lively enough, and she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, how they fit in there was unimaginable, and slipped one between red lips. She leaned forward, arms on the back of the seat in front of her and asked, to no one in particular, “Got a lighter?”

(( You will do no such thing! (meaning deleting, of course!) ;) ))


San heard her question. In fact he had heard her coming before she had set foot on the balcony to begin with. He leaned his head back, looking bored and handsome. Slowly he straightened up, pulling out a silver lighter with 'blood' engraved on it in beautiful letters. He pushed his black sleeves to his elbows, showing his tanned skin, and grabbed a few of the ripped tickets from the seat next to him. He struck the lighter, the flame dancing in to existance, entertaining it's master. Without a word he lit the tickets on fire, making for a rather large flame, eating up the paper greedilly.

"Depends on what you're planning to burn," He responded, his voice was deep and hoarse, and sounded a bit too mature for his youthful looking body.

Thorn watched, the tickets leapt into flame, the flame licked at the dried paper. She raised a slim eyebrow, curious as to what the point of lighting up the tickets was. Was he just showing off? Well a grand job he was doing to un-impress her. She took the cigarette from between her lips and held it up between two fingers, waving it a little as implication. She replaced it between her lips and leaned over row of seats.

“Just a cigerette. Does that meet your standards?" She asked sarcastically. Figures. All she wanted was a light.

San smiled slowly and watched the paper burn to his fingertips, where it stopped without burning his flesh. He let the blackened paper fall harmlessly to the floor before holding his lighter out again, striking it one more time. He turned around slowly, now watching the woman with one of his arms drapped over the back of his chair. He raised a dark eyebrow and held out the flame. "A lot of things don't meet my standards..." His head tilts to the side. Was this one of those things?

She rolled her eyes heavenward, leaning forward, the end of the cancer stick meeting the flame and she inhaled until the smoke satisfied her. Then she took her face away from the flame, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and exhaled, tilting her head to the side, mimicking him. She examined the words on his lighter.

“You sound like my parents,” she muttered at his words. Her eyes turned dark, the gray not so much gray as the color of silver or aluminum. It was an inheritance from her father’s side.

"And where are they?" He asked. What a strange question, it seemed. He turned around and looked towards the racetrack. He was smiling with closed lips, flicking his lighter open and on again, before setting another ticket on fire in sheer boredom. Another muffled voice came over the speakers again, saying the race was going to start in five minutes. He had asked a question, but it had seemed like he wasn't waiting for an answer.

She leaned back, almost tossing herself back into the seat, even as he was turning back around. She rolled her eyes and huffed at his question. "Hell if I know." She kicked her feet up onto the back of the seat infront of her. Then she made a snorting sound and added to herself, "Hell if I care." Her tone had changed to acid when he'd asked where they were. She slouched into the seat, now trying to ignor him even as he ignored her.

But he wasn't. He was counting her heartbeats. "It's funny...to me, at least...That you should mention Hell when you talk about them. Ironic, even." He shrugged lightly, his eyes now roaming the people underneath the balcony beside the tracks. The people not rich enough to get a balcony. He smiled slowly as a fight broke out over money. Money was the greatest invention.

A shot rang out, and the doors keeping the beautiful greyhounds inside were opened. Let the race begin.

Of course, she didn’t understand what he’d meant. She also hadn’t paid for her balcony seat. More like she’d slipped her fingers into some unidentified persons pocket, pulled out a ticket, and found her seat. The doors opened and her eyes, which had previously been on his back flicked down to the track. The cheering began and the crowds noise level rose. “What?” She put her feet down, The cigarette between her lips, leaned forward, elbows on thighs and her fingers laced hanging between her knees. Her eyes remained on the hounds, her mind on the statement, and her heartbeat calm and steady.

San smiled as the dogs ran off with they're usual surprising speed. Number three was in the lead, closely tying with number eight. Which dog was his supposed to be? Ah...Number six. The one way behind the pack. His voice seemed to carry over all the cheering, even though he wasn't yelling.

"They're probably really proud of you, too."

She smirked, her eyes intent of dog number three, though she'd much rather call the hound 'Duke' then 'number three'. Her gray eyes didn't waver from the dogs to him, not this time.

"I make sure they are." Her voice was full of malice....and maybe just a little glee.

He laughed full heartedly. He turned slightly and smiled at her, but not any particular smile. Just a smile. He turned back towards the dogs, he placed his hands back behind his head. "I like you, kid. I think I might keep you."

She shot a glance at him just before he turned back around and saw the smile, in return she glared at his back. She returned her eyes to the dogs, her own bet was begining to fall behinde. "Keep me?" The words were an icey curiosity. "Whatever. And don't call me 'kid'," he looked to be only her age anyways. "my name is thorn." NOt really, but he didn't need to know that if no one else did.

"I'm sure it is," He told her, gesturing lazilly with one hand that she should sit next to him. The person on the speakerphone was becoming wildly exhilirated with the fast moving race, which made for a crash of words. San was watching his dog, way at the back...Practically jogging.

"Whatever you say, tuts."

Thorn glared at his back for a moment. Tut? What the hell? No ones ever called her that one before. She ignored his notion for her to sit next to him, noting his red eyes for the first time. Contacts. Still, they were interesting. She sighed, took the cigarette from between her lips and hopped over the back of the seats, settling in beside him. She once again observed his eyes, then turned her own gray eyes back to the track below.

"You know, those cigarettes can be a very...bad habit," Was he making a joke? Considering where they were, with gambling addicts underneath the balcony and on it, all signs pointed to yes. The God yawned slowly...This race was becoming too boring. And as he watched with crimson eyes two of the dogs began wildly attacking each other. They still had muzzles on, thank the lord (the betters would probably say), but they were still being pretty vicious. It was only those two dogs, though, as the others ran forward faster than ever.

"Which one's yours?"

She’d returned her eyes to him, studying him with a sort of black expression beholding no amusement at his comment that was probably just a joke. Just to be spiteful, or ruin his joke, she took a long drag on the cigarette and then blew the smoke out into his direction, looking as if she’d not done so on purpose.

She returned her eyes to the track, noting the fighting dogs. “Duke…er…number three.” She tried to see the numbers on the fighting dogs but could not read them.