| I'll Take 'Bad Ideas' for $500 |
[05 Jan 2010|02:51pm] |
The Ocean Key hotel, a white and blue fortress near Mallory Square, played host to some of Key West's wealthiest visitors. With a liquid lounge, spa and fitness center, restaurant featuring tropical cuisine, and access to the Sunset Pier, the resort spared no expense in providing a vacation experience for its clients to remember.
Luckily, they weren't big on privacy.
Rhiannon walked up to the receptionist, asked for a guest by name, and bingo: 451... apparently a corner suite with balcony overlooking the water. The Ocean Key was the third hotel she tried, simply because of all the windows. One would think pulling all those curtains would be a pain in the ass. Guess not.
( Looking for a Redhead )
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| How to Confuse a Telepath |
[02 Jan 2010|05:34pm] |
After two weeks of avoidance, Rhiannon walked into Lower Keys Medical Center to sign paperwork, settle up her bills with an insurance card, and ask a few questions. Because it was the easiest part, she went to the business office first. She got a dirty look when the account representative pulled up her patient record and figured out Rhiannon had climbed out of bed and skipped out, without medical clearance or check-out paperwork. Rhiannon's terse response of, 'Whatever, listen, I don't have time for this,' didn't go over well, either. There were things she wanted to get done. Receiving a lecture from a woman with press-on nails wasn't on the list.
After taking care of the payment situation, she walked outside and went around to the Emergency entrance, since it was easier than navigating the maze of windowless hallways. An ambulance out front idled and clogged up the air with exhaust, its paramedics shooting the shit before going back to the station. Weaving past them, she entered the sliding doors to the waiting room, which was pretty empty at 2pm on a weekday.
( Doctor Lowe )
( Okay, That's Weird )
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| Old and New |
[30 Dec 2009|03:42pm] |
Kelly's stood on the corner of Whitehead and Caroline, in a tidy, white building that was built in the 1920s. Once used for the sale of airline tickets, it was now home to a Caribbean bar. A canopy of thick threes covered its brick patio and a micro-brewery out back produced Havana Red Ale and the Southern Clipper Wheat. It was a little upscale for Rhiannon's usual style, but she liked the patio at night. Holiday lights twinkled in the tree branches like stars and the beer was the best on the island. She took a book and sat by herself at a two-top table in the backmost corner, sipping from her mug and listening to the white noise of conversation. In jeans and a burgundy tank top, she was a little underdressed, but nobody cared. By the time she tucked her paperback in a hip pocket and went on patrol, she'd be loose enough to forget about her recent injury, but not enough to be impaired.
The wind rustled the palms. Their waxen leaves moved like fingers. Tonight she drifted away from her book and just watched those, a finger between the pages to keep her place. Out back, beyond the patio, she heard muted voices, things thumping, and assumed them to be employees taking a smoke break or loading supplies in and out of the food preparation area. Rhiannon eased back in her chair and lifted a boot onto the seat, her fingers twining into the laces. She watched the world beyond the garden through the tiny gaps in the trees trunks, where she could see the ocean and sand on one side of the patio, Whitehead Street on the other.
A man's work was never done, a saying that seemed intent on circling Joseph's head at the most inopportune moments; moments such as the one he was in right now. He'd methodically taken apart a bar from the inside out, killing all but a couple witnesses in the hopes of sending another strong message to the superiors, a message that clearly said: there's a new player in town and they're looking to tear you apart one man at a time.
( Scuffle in the Alley )
( Bad Men )
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| Heads-Up |
[19 Dec 2009|08:16pm] |
Bobby was off to Gainesville to finish his business trip, his court date for drug possession scheduled for sometime next year and Izzy had put the incident out of her mind for now. Stewing on it wouldn't do anyone any good, and the blond had her own life to live after all. She would deal with it later, there was time.
Now though, the witch was standing in front of the house Rhiannon shared with Connor. She wasn't sure if either of them were home, but it had been a few weeks now since she'd seen the Slayer and they'd promised to stay in touch. There was the matter of Joseph to be brought up. Izzy could imagine what it would be like if Rhiannon were to encounter her former fiancee in this reality unprepared for the fact that he wouldn't remember who she was. It wasn't something she would want for herself, and she wasn't going to let it happen to Rhiannon if she could help it.
When the knock came, Rhiannon looked up from her computer, a fine-tipped marker clenched in her teeth. She was seated at a small desk with a flexible light. Art supplies and a laptop crowded the surface. She flexed her shoulders and pressed save, though she wasn't sure it was necessary. The graphic she'd scanned into the machine wasn't getting any better with digital enhancements. She had half a mind to draw two stick figures lounging in a hammock and email it to her boss, along with a message. 'It's Key West. C'mon. What do we really have to advertise?' But that logic put her out of work.
( Bombshell )
( Men in Swimwear )
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| Screw-Ups |
[12 Dec 2009|08:22pm] |
Around 4p.m., Rhiannon woke to orange slants of sunlight on her eyelids. Squinting, she blocked them with her hand. It felt swollen from the fluids they pushed through her IV. Upon realizing how many hours passed since Whistler drifted out, she rallied herself. The up-down button on her bed allowed her to lever herself upright. As her weight shifted downward, so that her stomach muscles were forced to bear some, it hurt like hell, but she needed to sit up. How else was she going to reach the IV bag?
Little, white clamps had been fastened to the tubing. Wincing and stretching as far as she could, Rhiannon grasped one of them and closed it, effectively shutting off the painkillers that were keeping her asleep. It was a tiny accomplishment, but she was relieved. Her hair was stuck to her cheek. She brushed it back and looked around. The room seemed different from this angle. It took a minute before she realized it was different. No more heart monitor, just a bathroom at the foot of the bed, a curtain, and a rolling tray.
The warm covers had slipped off her arms. She rubbed at chill bumps and tried to get her bearings. Rhiannon used a fingertip to peel her gown away from her chest and look under the bandages at the stapled sutures. Zippers, she thought. One above her breast, the other at her stomach. "Great," she croaked. Even stoned, she was none too pleased. She leaned back and took a couple of breaths.
They'd refused to let him see her while she was in the ICU, insisting that she wasn't conscious yet and therefore wasn't up for visitors. No amount of "I'm her boyfriend, you jackass" had changed their minds, and so he'd parked himself in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room with his arms folded across his narrow chest. A stubborn man with his hair falling in his face. If they wouldn't let him in, that didn't mean he had to leave.
( Whose Ordeal? )
( Don't Bust a Stitch )
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| Certain Connections |
[12 Dec 2009|08:21pm] |
At first it felt like a dream. A horrible, terrible nightmare. Only he was brushing his teeth. Images flashed behind his eyes: blood, a long, jagged spear going through flesh. And he could hear her voice. Not calling out for him though.
When Whistler'd become conscious in this new world, things weren't right and he knew it. It wasn't readily apparent but soon the memories became clear. The first thought of his best friend had unlocked them. As in the dimension he'd come from, where part of him still was, the Agent had met up with the teenager who'd become his best friend. Their bond cemented, just as before. But something had gone terribly wrong, and it was his fault.
Hugh Everett posited a Multiple Worlds Interpretation, which suggested that a multiverse existed where all things that didn't occur in one reality took place in others, and then spun out in different branches. In this world, Whistler had killed a Slayer and, racked with guilt, irrevocably broke his friendship with Rhiannon in order to go into seclusion.
What hadn't changed was his connection to her. When she'd been injured, he immediately knew and nothing would keep him from the hospital.
( No Ping )
( A Decent Young Man )
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| Floating |
[09 Dec 2009|11:22am] |
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( Thoughts )
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| Old Bones |
[06 Dec 2009|10:31pm] |
Four a.m. in Key West. Barflies tipped off their stools. Vacationers trudged back to their hotel rooms to sleep off a tequila haze. The buzzing of streetlamps was audible, now that the island music had drifted away. Time for a dreamless sleep.
Rhiannon's shoes scuffed along the pavement. Closing time was a good time to patrol, just in case a vamp got the bright idea to munch on a bleary-eyed tourist. The paper landed on her doorstep every morning. Mysterious deaths increasing. Stabbings and strange neck injuries. Yeah. Right. It was Searchlight all over again. The difference was, Key West had an inexhaustible supply of necks.
She read the storefronts. 24 kt. gold! Tanzanite! Diamonds! Kites for toys and sport! Key lime pie! A beer bottle rolled in the gutter next to Captain Tony's Saloon. Duval Street was a weird part of town, she thought. The brightly painted shops looked like Candyland and smelled like a mixture of suntan lotion, beer, and seafood. Behind the famous street, a narrow alley was strewn with garbage. Palm trees, not tall buildings, blocked out the light. Roosters and rats scuttled in the garbage looking for scraps. A homeless man barged into her shoulder and kept going, mumbling under his breath. Because he didn't ask her for change, Rhiannon knew something had scared him. She stood at the mouth of the alley for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. A breeze blew a strand of hair into her eyes.
( The Alley )
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| The Guilty Party |
[27 Nov 2009|01:32am] |
July 2007 (in the Low Tide 'verse)
Detroit, Michigan
( Mercy )
( Opening a Rift )
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| Back in the Saddle |
[22 Nov 2009|09:51pm] |
The screen door snapped shut behind Rhiannon. She walked to the edge of their rental property, where crab grass met pavement, both cracked and abused by the sun. The sky was cloudless, the sliver of moon as thin as a fingernail. She pulled an elbow across her torso to stretch her muscles. At the late hour, many of the windows on Amelia Street were dark, neighbors having gone to sleep in preparation for an early start. It was a perfect time to go to the beach and get a workout. They were unlikely to be seen or interrupted.
Rhiannon appreciated the mild temperature. In Nevada, the nights got cold even in summer. In Chicago, she might see her breath on the air by now. She wore a tank top and loose pants, her hair in a braid. "Ready?" She looked back.
"Ready." Connor was wearing sweat pants and a thin T shirt, and he looked up at the tiny fragment of moon where it hung suspended in the blackness. The keys jingled as he locked the door behind them, the sound followed by the noise of his shoes on the sidewalk. He'd done his stretches before supper, and despite his half-full stomach his muscles felt loose and ready for action. This would technically be his first time fighting on this turf. He wondered if it would be different.
If the two of them would be different since their re-alignment. Only one way to find out.
( Love Taps? )
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| Grown Up? |
[15 Nov 2009|03:54pm] |
Crosslegged on the carpet, Rhiannon sifted through a file cabinet full of clues to her life. She found old bills, insurance records and certificates, the most interesting item a transcript from art school. Her two lives closely mirrored each other, which relieved her. It made the memories overlap better. The biggest challenge was figuring out which world events hadn't occurred yet, like the curtain that still hung over the supernatural.
A file marked 'The Garden' caught her eye. Upon opening it, she discovered invoices for property damage to a plate-glass window, as well as a canceled check. In March 2009, Rhiannon had paid $850 to the local floral shop. The owner was Purity Storms.
"Get the fuck out of town. A florist?" She jumped up, laced boots on her feet, and headed out of the house. The mid-morning sun beat down on the Slayer's face, so that she squinted even behind the protection of sunglasses. At the end of the sidewalk, she took a left, her memories of the shop's location coming back in fragments. Picturing the witch was harder, especially when she tried to willfully set aside what she knew of Purity from Chicago. Was she a practicing witch here? Was she dumped in this place, too, or was this girl entirely separate from the one she knew and lived with? "Please, please, please... know who I am."
White Siberia Lilies. Sunset Gerbera. Blue Iris. Pink Asiatic Lilies... All names that she shouldn't have known, and yet standing in the middle of the small shop, Purity was starting to recognize them. Some she had no clue, but little by little tiny snippets of the life she had taken over were seeping into her mind. Like wading through water while it was foggy. When she'd gotten... Home? It had been like a treasure hunt.
( Re-Connecting )
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| Familiar Surroundings |
[27 Oct 2009|07:06pm] |
AU or Canon: AU
Where: Chicago
When: November 2014
Notes: Alternate universe. Post-CL. Disregards epilogues. Different living arrangements.
( Different Now )
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| Rooftop Conversation |
[14 Oct 2009|06:04pm] |
AU or Canon: AU (slightly)
Location: Chicago
Date: 2014
Notes: Takes place after the close of CL, but discounts Rhiannon's 2nd epilogue.
( A Witch and a Slayer )
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| Happy Belated |
[14 Oct 2009|05:28pm] |
AU or Canon: AU (slightly)
Location: Chicago
Date: September 2014
Notes: Takes place 2 months after City Limits closed. Discounts character epilogues.
( A Packed House )
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