| Forever |
[06 Jul 2009|09:55pm] |
A pool cue cracked on a white ball. It sent the others scattering. A green stripe rolled into a side pocket and Rhiannon straightened to watch the others. Between her fingers, she fiddled with the chalk. "You're a fucked up guy, making me play pool with a broken wrist." Across the felt, she saw her friend burning a cigarette. The smoke added to the haze in Firewater, a pool hall and bar with purplish paint on the walls and low lighting. To illicit sympathy, she held up her splinted wrist. The bones of a Slayer healed quickly. They felt worlds better than yesterday and the day before. She flexed her fingers to get circulation going. She figured an emergency room trip for a busted wrist and a punctured leg was a small price to pay for living through it.
"You're solids." She tossed the chalk and waited for Whistler to make a move.
"Consider it training. Get used to handlin' wood in awkward situations." The hatted man studied the table intently, as if willing mental dotted lines to line up from the cue ball to easy shots. None were completely bankable, but he was undeterred. "Three, side pocket." He eased the cue forward, inching the white ball off the left bank and tapped his target. It touched the pocket and held firm.
He stepped back from the felt, reached over to the raised table and took the soft-pack in his hand. Whistler shook out a cigarette and lit it. "You gonna tell me more about the fight, or just leave it at 'She's dead, Jim'?"
( Not So Simple )
( He's Gone )
( Turkish Prison )
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| Last Call |
[05 Jul 2009|10:51am] |
The line-up at Barnes and Noble began before their doors opened at 10am.
The protest started two days before.
The strong, the fearful, many counting themselves as devout church-goers, carrying placards and chanting, praying for God’s wrath to reign down and smite the blasphemers. The throng, a gathering of less than 20 at first, soon to grow over a hundred, attempted to chain themselves in front of the bookstore. Tempers flared, accusations and spittle thrown, before police were called. The movement was ordered across the street, to stand behind metal barricades usually reserved for parades.
They would not be deterred. An unholy thing (or the next Anne Rice, take your pick) was due in moments to grace their presence. And all in attendance – the worshipers, the curious and the righteous – would have their moment with the vampire named Deanna.
( Yin and Yang )
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| Owning the Neighborhood |
[29 Jun 2009|02:17pm] |
"Wait, hang on a sec." Rhiannon braced her shoe on the seat of a bench. The nylon laces of her newest boots tended to untie themselves. Not wanting her footwear to fly off during a kick, she double-knotted them and tucked the ends. "I should've just glued the soles on the old ones." She tugged her cargo pants down and caught up to her friend. Because of conflicting schedules, they didn't patrol together -- or beat one another up for fun -- as much as in Las Vegas. She missed it. Tonight was a chance to catch up and see if they could get into any trouble.
At his side again, Rhiannon stuck her hands in her pockets. Only two blocks from her apartment, not much had happened in the way of conversation yet. "So hey." Her elbows swayed forward and back. "You gonna entertain me with stories of Connor's New Social Life while we look for things to kill? I could like that. Especially if it's tragic." She smiled.
"When isn't it tragic?" the Destroyer cracked, his tone only half facetious. "The last woman that came near me turned out to be a damned succubus. It wasn't exactly romantic. I'm starting to think all women need to have warning signs around their necks, different ones for different situations. It'd save me a lot of time."
The night was clear and warm, and for once there was actually little troubling his mind. "I don't know, I guess things are looking up, griping aside. I took Clemence to dinner and we had a good time. It takes some of the pressure off to not be constantly worried about what she thinks of me. It gets tiring after a while."
( A Monkey On His Back )
( Fangirls )
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| Burdens |
[18 Jun 2009|10:12pm] |
Kevin Parkinson suppressed a sigh as he pulled away from his ex-wife's house, where his seventeen-year-old daughter was home fresh from a three-day stay in the hospital, after getting beaten half to death by a vampire of all things. It was bad enough that Denise had sole custody of Jennie, but letting a child go off and try and kill all sorts of evil and brutish creatures in the night for years was grossly negligent, as far as he was concerned.
If Denise's bloodsucking lawyer weren't so damn good, he might have been able to do something about that. Paying Child Support and Alimony on a construction worker's wages in San Francisco meant he barely had enough money left over for living expenses, let alone another court fight that would have cost thousands he didn't have. No, despite how angry he'd been when he'd first found out about Jennie's 'calling', Kevin had little choice but to simmer in silence and try not to show how worried he was for his daughter's safety.
The past two days had been his worst fears confirmed. He hadn't even been sure Jennie would survive at first when the doctors had told them the extent of her injuries. Fortunately she healed fast, and the damage didn't seem to be as bad as they'd first feared, so they'd been able to bring her home today.
If he'd stayed at the house, he would have just gotten into a screaming match with Denise over how she was parenting their daughter, which would have led into all sorts of other baggage the two parents still carried with them. That wasn't what Jennie needed to see or hear, so instead of letting himself vent at his ex, he'd just made sure Jennie was resting comfortably before kissing her on the forehead and telling her he'd see her tomorrow.
( Laying Blame )
[NPC Kevin Parkinson was written by Tim]
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| Foul World (AU Rhiannon & AU Connor) |
[10 Jun 2009|04:56pm] |
"This world is foul."
Connor muttered the words as he stalked into the building he and the other Inquisitors were using as their headquarters, closing the door behind him with an overly-controlled motion. He took a long deep breath, the mask of the air purifier tucked out of sight, then crossed to where he'd set up his maps, pinned to the wall with tacks. He picked up a pen, circled the name of the park where the succubus had escaped, started marking likely spots where she could go to hide. If she used her abilities, she could possibly use some unfortunate human as her accomplice. He wished he hadn't missed.
As far as he could tell, he was alone in the building, which suited him as his mood was rather dark. He disliked failure, especially in himself. There could be no more mistakes, not if the heathens had gotten so desperate as to carelessly assault someone in public. They must all do better from here on out.
In a quiet corner, Rhiannon sat calibrating her instruments. On a walk through the Lincoln Park area, the levels on the handheld gear went haywire, and afterwards nothing carried on her person at the time seemed to work properly. She took a few of the wrist-mounted gadgets apart to see if moisture had gotten in, but the gears were dry as a bone. Working with a light and magnifier, which could be fastened over the eyes like a pair of glasses, she painstakingly reassembled the gear.
( Riding on a Man's Coattails )
( Panic )
[OOC: All inquisitors should receive Rhiannon's patched copy of the transmission, contained within this scene.]
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| Email Regarding Doppelganger |
[06 Jun 2009|05:12pm] |
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( Email to Connor, Whistler, Purity, Hayden, Kris, Juliet, Logan, Izzy, Sonya, Faith, Toby, William )
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| Not Her Joseph, Not His Rhiannon |
[06 Jun 2009|04:31pm] |
Joseph had steadily been working on making connections and getting to know people off the beaten track, none of those closer to him than the guy who ran a small diner a few blocks away from his pool hall.
He'd been going to it quite regularly for the last couple of weeks, discussing the happenings of Chicago and everything else, including trading information for money. It helped to know people in this town, aided Joseph in keeping as much trouble away from his doors as he could. He wasn't about to delve back into a world he'd made the conscious effort to leave behind. For himself and for whatever future he had with Rhiannon.
A couple weapon trades here and there for people weren't about to drag him that much deeper into the Hell he was sure he was destined for at the end of his life. "Hey Paul," Joseph greeted as he slid onto a stool and smiled at the man behind the counter.
"Joseph," Paul said with a warm smile. "You managed to get some time away, huh?"
( What's in a Hot Dog? )
( Who is Hitler? )
****
( Text (Joseph to Rhiannon) )
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| The Problem of Integration (Inquisitors Lee and Haig) |
[01 Jun 2009|06:25pm] |
In the early part of the new millennium, as the paper industry declined and news went online, daily papers collapsed in the shrinking market. Somehow, the Sun-Times kept a toe-hold, enough to keep a Sunday edition in circulation. Rhiannon knelt at a solitary street corner stand, where a half-dozen once huddled together. Inside a plexi-glass panel, the front page announced the week's biggest headlines. She balled up her gloved fist and wiped grime away to get a better look.
"I can't believe they still have these." It was spoken with wonder. She stood up. Behind her, a storefront window reflected her image. The Inquisitor's hair was wound into a severe bun on the crown of her head. The thick sleeves and pants of her uniform were uncomfortably hot in the May climate of this city, Chicago. Even the wind blowing down the busy street was of little use, heated by the exhaust of automobiles. She looked at her hunting partner.
Warner glanced briefly at the newspapers, his expression impassive as his gaze returned to the street. "I don't understand this place," he told Rhiannon, his voice verging on monotone. "Despite the scourge that's so obviously present here, they still walk freely and carelessly." He gestured to an upscale bar across the street where a group of people were gathered, waiting to get in. The male Inquisitor frowned, resisting the urge to draw a weapon. "I think we should make a sweep. Perhaps in one of these places. I need to understand what we're dealing with here."
Rhiannon nodded, quelling her interest in the idiosyncrasies of the world to focus on the objective. A horn blasted in the intersection, which a spurt of evening traffic had brought to a standstill. She stepped off the curb and walked between the vehicles. "Shall we find one that isn't quite as monitored?" she suggested. The bar was noisy and dark, but the primary problem was waiting in a queue, where a security detail might check them for weapons. When they set out, she had left her heavier equipment at the warehouse the squad acquired, but a pat-down would reveal gadgets beneath detachable panels in her shirt and trousers. Also, it would be highly inappropriate.
( Observations On the Street )
( A Waitress With Horns )
( What's a Hamburger? )
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| Caveman Tactics |
[27 May 2009|04:20pm] |
Rhiannon was in a good mood.
She jogged downstairs and left her apartment building at a trot, blowing past the only other tenant (the software engineer) at the mailboxes. All he caught was the smell of cinnamon incense, the sight of her ponytail, dyed auburn, and the back of her outfit, a navy tank top and tight-fitting jeans. Her earbuds blasted an old Skinny Puppy track. Its distortion and crunching riffs made a strange accompaniment to the afternoon. She took public transport across a few neighborhoods and hopped off near Connor's place. On her way up the road, she kept her eyes on the blades of crab grass sprouting in the sidewalk cracks. She almost missed him. He was about a block ahead of her, heading in the other direction. She picked up the pace to catch up.
"Boo." Rhiannon knocked her shoulder into his. She wound up the white wires of her digital music player.
He'd been looking up at the sky, watching the way the clouds scudded across the blue expanse as he walked, realizing that he could still tell what time it was just by tracking the position of the fiery orb. Even for city living, some skills never lost their usefulness. Connor adjusted his cheap sunglasses, then took a staggering step to the left when his shoulder was purposely bumped.
( Summertime and the Living is Easy )
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| Facing the Collector |
[15 May 2009|07:29pm] |
The rented van came from a moving and hauling company. When it rode over bumps and potholes, its spring-loaded seats creaked and bounced the passengers around. "Sorry," Rhiannon said, looking in her rearview mirror. "I'm used to driving a tiiiiiny little car." Between her seat and the passenger one, a Rubbermaid container held weapons. Two knives for Melinda, a knife and a butane torch for Jenny, a stake and a handgun for herself. Rhiannon thought anybody going into battle was entitled to pick their poison. The stake just felt right. The knives were in thick, leather sheaths that could be strapped to the other girls' legs.
The old neighborhood sat on the outskirts of the city. Weeds strangled some of the lots and thick oak trees towered over the houses. As the van reached 15 Grace Street, two houses down from Mr. Berg's crumbling residence, she put it in park and cut the ignition. Gathering an elastic band from her wrist, Rhiannon tied her hair into a ponytail. "How are you guys feeling?" She tugged on the brown strands. As for herself, she felt juiced, ready to go. If her insurance rate didn't already suck, Rhiannon would've been tempted to drive the van through Berg's front door. Nothing like a flashy entrance.
Jenny had her hair back in a ponytail already, but that did nothing to stop her from fiddling with the strands nervously. Her heart hadn't left her throat and there was a large part of her that wanted to turn and walk away, to leave and never come back. To let someone else handle this, someone stronger and better at this whole thing than her.
"Sick," she answered honestly, wriggling in the seat, and she did, "and nervous." She cleared her throat nervously, as if that would quell the nausea and stop her heart from thudding hard enough to make her a little light-headed. It probably wasn't. She cleared her throat again and played with the strap of her seatbelt.
( Are You Ready? )
( Into the House )
( Open Jars )
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| Plotting a Comeback |
[09 May 2009|05:03pm] |
Two boxes of pizza sat on the card table, steaming the air and scenting it with garlic. To the side, Rhiannon stacked dishes and napkins. Then she perched on the arm of her couch and waited, knuckles lightly drumming the upholstery. Usually, supernatural shop talk was done with cigarettes and beer at night in some dark dive, so the afternoon vibe seemed odd to her. But maybe odd-good. Anything to take the edge off how crucial the conversation was, how much it meant to come up with solutions. She debated who to invite. The usual 'think tank' for occult problems was absent. With this being such a personal situation, and a particularly painful one, she thought the three of them ought to come together alone to toss ideas around, at least at first. Mary Sue edged up to her leg and raised her back in a graceful curve. Rhiannon leaned down and scratched the cat's silvery-gray fur.
Jenny had, in a rather cowardly move, taken a cab to Rhiannon's apartment even though she knew she was more than safe enough to be out during the day. When she stepped up toward the building, she slid inside and headed through the building, looking for Rhiannon's apartment number.
She hurried along and finally found the door she was looking for. "Let's see what's behind door number one," she murmured to herself as she lifted a hand and knocked. She was nervous; she had no idea what was going to happen, but she had her notebook inside the bag she was clutching in her other hand, able to feel the spiral binding through the fabric.
Melinda had taken the bus, a longer ride but more comfortable to her than the train, with its cars weaving through the darkened tunnels like a boat on some invisible, underground river. When she needed time to think, she preferred staring out of the large bus windows at the scenery that whizzed by. After her conversation at the student lounge with Connor, she had switched tracks, from looking up how one could lose their powers, to looking up past instances where the circumstances were like hers: taken from a public place, disoriented and possibly drugged, dumped off somewhere else.
( Getting It All Out There )
( Making a Plan )
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| All Talk, No Action |
[09 May 2009|04:03pm] |
One thing about recovering from a sidelining injury, it gave Grace an excuse to get face-down drunk.
She found Dimensions by accident, hearing about it on the whisper-stream before cruising past it on Rush Street and deciding to stop in. Might as well, she'd hit most of the bars for humans already. Drinking with her own kind offered less aggravation in her condition, anyway.
The vampire occupied a table by herself near the back, lighting a Marlboro after finishing the glass of bourbon in front of her. There was a bottle on the table, still three-quarters full. She was at seventy-five percent tonight, her knee still twinging a lot more than she'd like. Never mind, though, at least the booze was top-shelf and there was no chance of getting jumped in here. Grace blew a smoke ring, poured another drink while watching the dancers writhe under the lights. It looked like Dante's Inferno down there.
The next time a server came by, she was going to ask for some blood to spike her drink with.
( Running Their Mouths )
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| Hypnotized |
[27 Apr 2009|03:34pm] |
Knock, knock, knock. Outside Whistler's door, she thought she heard television talk show babble. Rhiannon stepped back a few paces, narrow shoulders climbing to her ears while she pocketed her hands.
To pass the time, she looked at her footwear, the black leather rounds of new boots. She thought you could tell a lot about a person by their shoes. These, still polished and clean, the laces tight and blunt-tipped, hadn't been introduced to many asses yet. Standing there in her sunglasses and hooded sweatshirt, she felt like the unibomber. But she wasn't used to dealing with bruises and cuts that stuck around after a fight. It was embarrassing. The 'what the hell happened to you' stares, the uncomfortable feeling that somebody sympathetic was about to point her to a domestic violence shelter. In the future, Rhiannon decided, she needed to give her civilian friends more credit for dealing with it.
Her shoes creaked as she bounced on her toes. "Open up," she murmured, looking at the number on the door.
Dr. Phil hadn't been the same since he tried to fix the marriage between the Macy's sales clerk and her undead husband. Most thought it had to do with the man having tried to eat McGraw's brains in the third segment. Whistler considered it more likely that the pseudo-psychologist had hit bottom and just came to the realization. Pride had definitely gone before the fall, and it was a long climb back up to relative normalcy.
( You're Getting Sleeeepy... )
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| Strong Arms |
[19 Apr 2009|09:21am] |
On an April afternoon in Little Italy, the pleasant weather drew people onto the streets to walk dogs, jog, or run errands. Buds of green sprouted on the smooth, brown branches of shade trees along the sidewalk. Flower pots sat on the concrete steps of an old Catholic church, their tulips opening petals to expose pale pistils. When a woman opened the doors of Our Lady of Pompeii, a draft of cool air tickled Rhiannon's neck. She touched it and made a half-turn towards the woman, who smiled and descended the steps in quick fashion, her mind clear and onto some other thing. A grocery list, maybe. Rhiannon watched her climb in a sedan and pull away from the curb.
She was meeting Joseph. The stone-fronted church made an easy landmark, and she would be easy to spot there, a youthful figure in a ponytail, navy fitted t-shirt, and jeans. She looped her arms around her knees and rocked her boots up and down. Their soles scratched tiny particles of grit on the steps. It was difficult to be still. What she wanted more than anything was an hour of feeling like she belonged in her skin. Around her boyfriend, she rarely felt like a Slayer; she only felt like 'Rhiannon', an intimate part of her identity that Joseph tended like a garden know one else knew about.
The air stirred the tiny, dark wisps of hair on her neck, which weren't long enough to stay in the ponytail. She closed her eyes.
It was rare for the weather to be nice enough to go anywhere without a jacket, but was this time of year it would seem. It was about time some warm weather swept into town, it had been cold too long. Joseph had left his leather jacket home in favour of this good weather, dressed simply in a shirt, a pair of jeans with several rips and tears, trainers and his hair tied back.
( You're a Sight )
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