| Reservoir Dogs |
[05 Oct 2006|11:28am] |
Chlorinated water. From a tap. Good god, how Andre missed the simple pleasures.
Nine-tenths of the employees at Wolfram and Hart trucked in their own arctic-filtered bottles or enjoyed the provided service from a local water-cooler supplier, but Andre was more than content to drink from the tap.
Filtering your own urine for something drinkable for the past five years made one happy for the basics.
And coffee. South American roasted beans. Heaven.
Andre consulted the papers left behind by his... predecessor, the better to catch up, and absently reached for his mug of steaming coffee on the corner of his desk.
And grabbed air.
He looked up, puzzled. The mug rested on the coffee table in front of the couch. Funny, he hadn't taken a seat there all day.
He could've sworn the mug was black, not navy blue. Trick of the light.
Andre trundled over and retrieved the cup, took a sip. One week into the job and he was already forgetting things. That was the problem when you ran the Technology division, so many directions to follow and so little time. Easy to forget the little things.
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| Like Father, Like Son |
[05 Oct 2006|09:43pm] |
It didn’t matter how much Spike brushed the sleeves of his coat, the dust just was not coming off.
It annoyed him to no end, nearly as much as the vampire’s constant prattling about how bleeding awesome Spike was, even while he was busy beating the creature’s face in and turning his limbs into a general origami experiment.
Spike wanted to turn the vampire into a swan, but he got a turtle instead. Well, a turtle that eventually exploded into dust.
Dust that was now caked into his signature jacket. Spike growled to himself as his face shifted back into its human façade, more of an instinctual reflex than anything. Now that the fight was over, the Champion really had no need to look all scary and bumpy-headed. One never really knew who—or what—was just around the corner in this little podunk, middle-of-nowhere town.
Connor was measuring the steps between himself and the snarling vampire, one hand lifted to keep the thing at bay while the other formed a loose fist near his side. He'd caught the bloodsucker lurking around the motel that night, decided to put him out of the world's misery before he got hold of some hapless passerby. The fight had passed largely in silence, intermingled with the occasional grunt of pain.
The vampire finally made a rushing charge at him, and Connor sidestepped it neatly to sweep the figure's legs out from underneath it. There was a thud, and then a whoosh of air as the young man drove the sharp wooden stake through the vamp's back, exploding its heart and setting off a burn that reduced the body to ashes in seconds.
He brushed his hands off, tilted his face up into the light breeze. Breathed in the smell of road tar from the highway, rapidly settling dust, grease from the diner, and...a telltale stink.
( You smell what I smell? )
( Quoting that classic Star Wars line would be too easy here )
Spike stood motionless, lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, the end burning slowly. His face turned quizzical, wondering not only why Angel never said anything, but why nobody else ever mentioned it. Fred, Wesley, Lorne, Gunn…nobody ever said word one about Angel having some demony offspring with his old vampiric squeeze.
Spike slinked off into the night, shaking his head and puffing on his smoke. He couldn’t believe it; he’d heard it, but he couldn’t believe it.
Darla’d had a baby…wow, she must’ve been a joy to deal with when she was knocked up. No wonder that boy was so moody.
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| Filling in the blanks. |
[05 Oct 2006|10:15pm] |
"I look outside from far above,
I watch you sleep and dream, dream out loud;
You say you wish that you could find
A guiding light, a guiding hand,
A safer place to stand.
We've never been so close to be so far,
There's millions of reasons, there is no way out;
Shall we give up so easy, shall we give up so easy.."
Singing was something Lorne seemed to do a lot of in the recent days to pass. He'd always been a firm believer in the idea that singing was the best way out there for one to bear their soul. After all, it was what he told his clientele, and really, it actually was true.
"Here we are dusting down the stars..
Left by the roadside all alone,
I turned to speak to you right there and you were gone;
You stood and cried and wondered why
You can't return from where we came;
Why are we born to fade away?"
Back when Lorne first arrived in this dimension, music was the one thing that showed him that the world out there was not as bleak and ugly as Pylea. He found music to be so pure, so beautiful, so painful, but so right. Music had a certain healing quality inwhich the demon sought solace. And as it seemed, most of the songs out there worth singing, just so happened to be the most depressing songs in the world.
Perfect for a sad Pylean whose entire world had just been turned upside down.
( Who died? )
( The Tro-Clan Demon-Spawn. )
( Knocking boots with Slayers. )
He tossed a twenty onto the counter, resting a hand on Lorne's shoulder. "Besides," Spike added, "The world's better when it doesn't need bloody saving."
"No arguments from me there, my friend," Lorne said in agreeance as he watched Spike stand up. After all, the demon had seen enough instances in his lifetime in this dimension where the world was about to end, evidence to that fact with the feeling he seemed to be getting lately that something huge was about to rear it's ugly head.
Then again, if the world ended, Lorne probably wouldn't still be standing to see more of his friends die. It was another way of looking at it. Another bleak way of looking at it, but with the way things were headed these days, the demon couldn't help but be anything but.
"Anyway," Lorne went on to say before Spike made his way out the door, "If you see that little demon spawn again, you tell him to stop by and see me."
A sidelong smirk crept across his face. "Tell him Uncle Lorne wants to see his favorite nephew."
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