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Proverbs 16:18 [29 Oct 2005|03:30am] Place is a regular Smallville…only with sand. Jill's first trip to Searchlight left her less than impressed. Her car rolled to a stop on Villanueva Rd., and as she sat in her car with the headlights off, the lawyer's mind couldn't help but wander. She could understand if demons and other supernatural beings were attracted to Las Vegas; big city, lots of energy. Not only that, but Wolfram & Hart had an interest in the city, so of course happenings of the not-so-mundane were to be expected. But this little podunk-nowhere crap town? Why would anything ever want to set foot in this place? At least Jill was here on business. Much to her surprise, Katherine had come through on her end of the bargain. An email the day before had left the attorney with Rhiannon's address, so here she was, sitting in her blood-red Corvette in the middle of some stupid little desert town, staring out into a row of one-story apartments, just waiting. Jill considered lighting a cigarette while she waited, but she didn't want to chance the Slayer seeing the red glare from the burning tip. While she was here to confront Rhiannon, Jill didn't want the Slayer to see her too soon. The last thing the lawyer needed was another ass-kicking. So for now, waiting was good. The door to an apartment slammed open. Its knob ricocheted off the stucco exterior of the building, and fine powder drifted onto the porch. A pair of pale arms extended long enough to drop one cardboard box, and then another. A booted kick nudged them further toward the steps, and then disappeared back inside. Not twenty seconds later, the Slayer walked through the door. In her arms, a trunk of weaponry was held aloft and to one side. Rhiannon tipped her head to see the steps she descended and went straight for the black Nissan parked nearby. She didn't waste time unloading her burden on the pavement, and going fishing in a pocket for her keys. It was that removal of barrier that would've allowed observation of the Slayer's physical state. Typical hunting gear was worn; black, durable, outfitted with more tactical pockets than she had stakes to fill. But one side of her outfit was practically shredded. Her hair was a tangle of brunette waves to her shoulders. Thick, black mascara had made its way beneath her eyes, and a speck of blood was faintly visible beneath her nose. Rhiannon looked like hell, but the fiercely blackened determination behind her eyes would've wiped away any doubts about her abilities. If you knew her. As she pulled her keys free, she turned her head and looked straight at the red Corvette. Not exactly an incognito way to travel in Searchlight, Nevada, on a dead-end street at the edge of a negligible town. It wasn't so dark that she wouldn't notice a person's shape within it. And look away with disinterest. Rhiannon unlocked the trunk of the car and bent to pick up her load. "That has to be her," Jill heard herself say, her hands grabbing the steering wheel tighter. After all, who else besides a Slayer would dress like that? And that trunk? Probably weapons, various instruments of death and destruction, designed to--among other things--kill off Wolfram & Hart clientele. And the way the girl's face looked? Hoo boy...this was a demon fighting machine, alright. Even down to the speck of blood on her face. The lawyer's expression quickly soured as she watched the woman fiddle for her car keys. No sooner did Jill find the girl, and she was off to leave? Uh-uh, the lawyer thought, her hand reaching for the door handle. The ass-kicking I took, I am not letting this chance slip away. Opening the door, Jill stepped out of the car, brushing back her long hair and smoothing out her baby blue skirt. Her heels clacked a little too loudly on the pavement as she walked, approaching the woman with the horribly tattered clothing. "Looks heavy," Jill stated. ( Need a Hand? ) reply

AfterMath [29 Oct 2005|03:54am] [ mood | weird ] Matthew and Kris hadn’t spoken since leaving that dark alleyway and returning to Matthew’s bike. Not that a bike gave you much chance to talk given that you wore helmets and had the wind rushing past you. Both had spared the other a moment given their interaction with Rhiannon and neither one knew what to say. The Watcher’s reason for silence was blaringly obvious, his Slayer wasn’t herself and again, he hadn’t been there. Her words weighed heavy on his mind and the way in which she had said them seemed to pull at his heartstrings. Matthew knew that Rhiannon couldn’t be held responsible for her thoughts or her actions but still, he couldn’t help but wonder. Kris’ silence was for another reason, she kept replaying the altercation over and over again in her head and her emotions seemed to twist and turn each time she did it. She found herself wondering if there was a way back for Rhiannon, if there was a way to bring her back to herself or this version of the Slayer she respected was all that they had. Eventually the bike drew to a stop and Matthew settled his feet against the ground. His hands went to his helmet and a short tug pulled it from his head. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Kris. “You should let me clean up those injuries.” The Slayer had more or less forgotten about the slash wound she had taken to her stomach along with the minor cuts and bruises that littered the rest of her skin but Matthew now reminded her of them. “Yeah, that would be great, thanks.” Kris definitely had a knack for getting herself hurt. ( Don't Take It To Heart ) Matthew watched the Slayer leave and then uncurled his fingers to glance down at the stone. Strangely enough, the stone seemed almost warm against his skin and he exhaled a breath as he looked down at it. He turned on his heel and disappeared into his room to collect a few things before he set out of the apartment again. The Watcher didn’t bother with looking over his shoulder as he straddled his bike and kick-started the bike into action before revving the engine and taking off. He had someone he needed to talk to. reply

Fame and Vodka, Part 1 [29 Oct 2005|03:17pm] The cool night desert air whipped through the wild strands of the running brunette's hair, forcing her to swipe a sweaty hand across her brow to clear her vision as she chased after another figure running just ahead of her. Dressed all in the black, the figure nearly blended into the shadows that splayed across the cemetery, making it near impossible for the running girl to track. But unlucky for the figure, the girl hot on its heels was no ordinary girl. Adrenaline pumped through her lungs, burning through her system and amping her up, boiling her blood until she's running so fast she's nearly a blur to any passerby. She wasn't slowing down and the figure ahead began to feel the familiar fear of defeat crawling up on him the closer the girl became. With one final running step, the girl launched herself up off the ground, kicking off a tombstone and defying gravity as she flew through the air...landing directly onto the vampire's back. Hey, you've been around as long as she has and you learn a few new tricks. Both figures tumbled to the ground, the girl landing on top. She straddled the vampire's waist and pulled him back by his hair, snarling into his ear with an unmistakable husk. "You and your boys have been giving me a lot of trouble," she started with another hard yank, earning a pained groan from the vampire below her. "Thinkin' you can skip town on me and save yourself a trip back to the ground.” The vampire, while not the strongest of his kind, wasn't exactly stupid. He knew he was in deep shit the second he saw the leather-clad figure stalking through the graveyard like a cat ready to strike at any sign of prey lurking just out of her line of the sight. So when she got chatty, he began talking too. "It wasn't my idea, I swear! It was Carl's. He saw you were in town and he was the one that said we'd be better off in another city...and um, that we'd go on a diet of pig's blood!" The slayer snorted as a single eyebrow rose up in disbelief. "Yeah, like I'm about to believe that one. Save it for one of the new girls, they might actually believe your pathetic lying hide." To prove her point, she yanked him up to his feet, allowing him the momentary pleasure of being free before decking him with a wicked right hook to his jaw. "That's for lying," she said with a smirk, watching with enjoyment as he stumbled backwards. "And this is for running." The vampire's eyes widened as he recovered enough just to see the slayer pull out her stake. Before he could even protest his death, she'd bolted forward with a feral look on her face -- dark hair flying, eyes flashing, and an unmistakable smile of glee on her lips as she rammed her right hand forward. The stake slid in easy, like butter, tearing through muscle and bone and piercing the vampire's heart. Dust exploded in front of her, signaling the end of the chase and Faith stood there pleased, just another night in the life of a lone vampire slayer. Corbett hated graveyards. Always had. He found them unsettling, with their complete lack of lights and row after row of cold, motionless slabs of concrete. Throw in the occasional hooting owl or the low fog, and an already eerie scene became downright freaky. Ironic, given the British man's occupation…an irony that was not lost on the Watcher as he stood back, lit cigarette clenched between his teeth. Corbett had made his way to the cemetery by chance, having mindlessly wandered there. His mind was awash following his conversation with Quinn, his mind wandering with visions of his past transgressions, as well as his guilt over having not contacted Kris in weeks. Real good job of Watchering Corbett had been doing, not calling his Slayer and all. One would think losing one Slayer would make training the next one a more successful, if not more determined, endeavor. Then again, Corbett was so busy reliving his past, he often forgot to see the present. But speaking of determined... ( Walking through cemeteries, dangerous and kinda dull ) reply

Fame and Vodka, Part 2 [29 Oct 2005|03:25pm] ( A Watcher and a Slayer walk into a bar... ) There was another pause, this one longer and then Faith repeated a number out loud. No way was she going to remember that, but then the nice information lady asked her if she wanted to be directly connected and Faith had only one answer to that: "Hell yeah! Hook me up, lady!" As she waited for the number to connect, Faith could only look at Corbett with an expression of smugness. "Told you so," she said, her voice overly loud in the otherwise quiet town. reply

Chit Chat [29 Oct 2005|11:23pm] [ mood | tired ] "Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little..." ... "Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little..." Fuck. Whistler wasn't much for sleeping, even at the best of times. He wasn't always given that luxury when he worked for the Powers That Be. On call to a higher plane of existing could screw with your sleep regimen so he'd learned many years ago to survive on minutes if need be. Given that any moment here in the encampment could be his last, he'd decided to stay awake as much as possible. Learn what the hell was going on, and figure out what blocks the Powers had put in his brain since being 'fired'. Which now, apparently, included nursery rhymes. Geometry he could live with. No one really needed that. A few of his past lovers? Well, if he ran into them and couldn't recall the name, he'd withstand the outrage. What he couldn't live without was the knowledge he'd accumulated regarding what he was and who he was related to. A half-demon lived longer by knowing who you could call friend and who definitely wasn't. It was like Gretel and bloody ... whasshisname ... leaving breadcrumbs to find their way back home. The Powers had bloody eaten away his trail. "Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little..." Kael didn’t sleep much any more - he couldn’t seem to even though he was tired beyond belief. His body ached and his mind was tired but the thought of escape kept him going from one day to the next. None of his injuries had been seen to but that was to be expected and he had used what little water he was given to clean some of the worst injuries as he didn’t want infection to set in. A cough racked his body and Kael flexed his jaw as he felt a painful twinge in his side. He had taken to observing his “neighbors” and had seen a lot of new faces. New faces that had rapidly become as caked in dirt and grime as everyone else in the camp itself. New graves had been dug and bodies had been disposed of, Kael had made the mistake of looking over his shoulder at the wrong time and had seen everything. With every death, a new person seemed to appear to fill the gap. The demons were efficient, one couldn’t fault their handiwork. Joseph hadn’t bothered with sleep either, he had spent his time peering through a hole in the wall of their retreat. The number of demons had dropped considerably and he had to wonder why that was and how confident these demons were to think that no-one would try anything. He pulled back from the hole in the wall and snatched up what remained of his water. He placed the cup down beside the sleeping form of Hannah and then found his way over to Kael. “Hey, how you holding up?” He asked, his voice was low and barely audible. “About as well as you can in a place like this,” Kael answered with a slight lift of his lips before he grimaced faintly and tipped his head. “You?” Joseph managed a bright almost vibrant smile and shrugged his shoulders. “Eh, can’t complain.” ( Yer so loud you could wake the dead, or the undead  ) Eyes closed, Whistler hoped he'd get twenty minutes before being rousted by their 'hosts'. But his mind was awhirl. Foggy as his memory was in places, he could see through the haze enough that the big uglies were up to something big. If not, the Powers wouldn't have made sure to strip him of any knowledge. Including the silver. "Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little..." reply

When Two Heads Are Better Than One [29 Oct 2005|11:44pm] Devon had returned to Searchlight from Vegas. He swung by his place to wash up, but he hadn’t let the patch out of his sight. Now that he had rested and cleaned himself up, he was setting back out through the town. He had the patch clasped tightly in one hand. The only way anyone would be getting that from his hand would be over his dead body or if he could give it to someone he knew and trusted. Right now, he was on his way to see Hayden, the man he had interacted with all those months ago. A man he knew had connections, and a man that the werewolf knew was trustworthy. He was still a little injured from his entanglement with the Scourge but his injuries had been superficial at best. His body was already taking care of them. He took long and determined strides as he was moved swiftly through the town to find his way to the bookstore. Devon knew from past experience that if you wanted to find somebody to help, the bookstore was usually a good place to start. It didn’t take him long until he was approaching the building. He paused very briefly until he started around towards the back. His grip on the patch tightened for the umpteenth time. "Shit." The muttered curse came from under a lifted hood. It seemed like every time Hayden turned around, there was something else to fix in his fifteen year old Jeep. This time, it was the water pump. He pulled his hand free and checked out the knick he'd just taken out of a knuckle. Frowning, he reached back into the jumble of belts and metal. A cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth, periodically dropping ash on the engine block. Devon paused as he came upon a car and his head tipped to one side to settle a green gaze on a familiar build. He wondered what the best way to approach Hayden would be so that he didn’t startle the other man. He made sure his footsteps could be heard as he covered the distance that separated him from Hayden. “Hey,” he muttered softly, as he finally came to a stop near Hayden’s side. His eyes slid over to Hayden. “Think I can talk to you about something?” Hayden leaned back from the motor, so he could lift his head without hitting it on the hood. "Devon, hey," he mumbled around the cigarette. He was a little surprised to see Devon standing there, and his eyebrows drew together over hazel eyes. "Just a second." He pulled his hands free and straightened. Took the time to wipe them on a red rag that hung out of a jeans pocket, before grabbing his smoke with one and extending the other to Devon. Devon turned slightly and clasped Hayden’s hand with the one that held the patch. His gaze was intent as it lingered on Hayden’s face, until he drew his hand away and left the patch in Hayden’s hand. ( Substantial Evidence ) ( Putting a Name to an Ugly Face ) Hayden selected a few books from the pile and offered them to Devon. "Here, take these home," he suggested quietly. "I don't think Emmy would mind. Look through 'em, get some rest." A lift of his shoulders beneath denim. "Then go out again. Right now, you look like they could take you down with one punch." Devon arched an eyebrow and took to eyeing the pictures before he gave a slow nod. "You're probably right." He took the books from Hayden and then got to his feet. "Though it's hard to sleep when all I see is.." Devon trailed off here before he started to ramble again. He took a deep breath and nodded his head. "Thanks Hayden." He offered the man a brief smile before he started out of the bookstore. Hayden watched the werewolf's retreating back with a frown. Not a damn thing in the world would make him want to trade places with Devon right now. "No problem," he responded under his breath, and turned his attention to the computer. He had a message to send about what Devon had found, and it was going to everyone he knew. ( Mass Email ) reply

Dreams of a Princess [29 Oct 2005|11:59pm] ”Daddy?” Paul Andersen sat at his desk, rubbing his forehead in frustration as he spoke quietly into his cell phone. “Look, I told you the deal was going down tomorrow at noon. Either your boys bring the cash, or you don’t get the goods!” Glancing out of the corner of his eye, the man saw an eight-year-old girl clinging tightly to her teddy bear standing in the doorway. “I have to go, Dan,” he said before hanging up the phone, getting out of his chair and reaching down to pick up the little girl. “And how is daddy’s little angel?” ( Sweet dreams are made of these... ) reply

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