who let you in? || cashby

it's my house (i think it's time to get out)

A/N: This currently includes members from the following bands in addition to OM&M: All Time Low, Pierce the Veil, Sleeping With Sirens, The Amity Affliction, You Me At Six, and Bring Me the Horizon. I'll probably include more later. And FYI, the Jack mentioned at the beginning is Jack Barakat, not Fowler.

And yes, Alan, Alex (Gaskarth), and Kellin are cat hybrids. Bear with me, okay?

I don't own shit.

The only moving air comes from the thin crack in the frame of the muggy window, and it's so slight that Alan wonders if he's imagining it. Compared to the thick stuffiness of the room he's in, the sliver of wind from outside feels like ice on his fingertips, and when he takes them away, they tingle.

It's past midnight, and no one here is asleep. He can hear people shuffling down the hall just outside the door, but if they don't come in they might as well be mice in the walls. There are certain rooms off limits to low level grunts anyways, especially with Vic's name on the building lease.

Alan's not a grunt, but he's not an official member of any particular gang either. If anyone around here kept records, his name wouldn't appear anywhere on them. For all intents and purposes, he doesn't exist.

It's not as cool as it sounds.

He hasn't left the fourth floor of this godforsaken complex in five days, and he hasn't seen the streets for at least five weeks. Prior to that, he'd been allowed to go out under supervision a limited number of times a week, but ever since Vic started keeping anyone with a tail and fuzzy ears (read: Alan, Alex, and even Vic's little pet, Kellin) under strict lock and key, he's forgotten what the sun looks like.

That's about as shitty as it seems, and he didn't even get a reason the first time he'd been barred from going outside. Unfortunately, he didn't often get the privilege of requesting an audience with Vic Fuentes, so it wasn't like complaining to their leader's underlings was going to get him more than a sympathetic grunt.

He doesn't recommend getting involved with a gang. Not if you have the choice, anyways. Alan's choices were between slavery and perpetual boredom, so his hands were sort of tied. Perks of being a rare commodity.

"Hey."

Alan turns disinterestedly from the window, his fluffy ears flattening slightly back into his hair. "What?" he asks.

It's Jack. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it's not. Alan can't tell which one it's going to be tonight.

Jack rubs the back of his neck. There's exhaustion in every line of his body and it makes Alan want to yawn with an intensity only a real cat could manage.

"Scouting group's back," he says, pushing open the door a little further. "Everyone survived, but Jaime's got a busted leg."

Alan is absolutely 0% surprised. Jaime is a risk taker and a fucking idiot to boot, but he's a damn good liar and a forger as well, and that's the kind of stuff Vic can't turn down. Especially not during these times.

Vic's been sending out more and more scouts in the past month, and Alan's not dumb enough to gloss over the fact that it started happening right around the time he stopped being allowed to breath the city air firsthand. Something is up with a capital 'u'. Possibly even in bold or italics.

"Was it Bring Me again?" he asks, because he likes Jaime well enough-the guy doesn't treat him like he's made of glass for one thing-but he isn't known for his ability to avoid getting into constant trouble. Maybe Alan will pay him a visit once his leg is bandaged up.

Jack scoffs. "That's the word. They've got some new guy running with them ever since what's-his-name was shot. The word is he's their new intel man, got some nasty secrets up his sleeve."