| A Moment |
[17 Oct 2006|08:28am] |
“…And from there, I just ended up working for Armando.”
For the past twenty minutes, Tyler had been listening to Kyrie tell her entire life story. As unbelievable as it seemed, he knew that it had been a complete and honest account. Now finished, she sat at his kitchen table, knees pulled up to her chest. She gave a sheepish grin and a shrug as he searched for the proper response.
“So wait…you mean you actually…and then, with the flood, there were how many water syrens?”
Kyrie laughed and rolled her eyes, reaching for the cup of tea that sat in front of her. “Twenty.” She paused for a moment, eyeing him with interest as a thought formed. “Now let me ask you something. How, exactly, did you know that I wasn’t just another girl working the area? There are, like, twenty other girls out there.”
Ty’s eyebrows rose as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back into his seat, adjusting comfortably, and obviously proud of himself. “Simple. I asked the other pro’s in the area about you. When absolutely NO one knew who you were, it was a dead give away. They all know each other, especially in that neighborhood. Bad shit goes down there all the time.”
The young woman gave a nod of understanding. “You’re telling me,” she replied wryly. She sighed, and then bit her bottom lip and cocked her head to one side in a curious fashion.
“What are you doing out there, late at night? Don’t tell me you play superhero on your off hours.” She gave him a challenging look, full of smug, yet playful, contempt.
Eyes narrowing with return contempt, Tyler grinned evilly. “I was looking for a friends’ lost three year old daughter, and when I saw you I figured that I’d found her.”
“Oh!” Came Kyrie’s high pitched reply. “I should have known you were out looking for little girls, you so fit the profile.” She made a fist and shook it at him for good measure.
Now it was Ty’s turn for an eye roll before he fell into a few moments of silence. He looked her over a few times, trying to decide what to say next. Finally, his hand went through his hair.
He slide a small piece of sturdy paper across the table, and when he lifted his hand there was a pen on top of the paper.
“You write down where I can find this guy, Kyrie. Don’t argue, just give me an address. Then find somewhere to lay low for a week or two. After that, you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Kyrie stared at him for a moment, as though his language had just switched from English to Japanese. Then, as though decidedly giving up on any form of protest, her small hand picked up the pen and began to jot down information.
And Tyler began to smile.
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| The Little Things |
[17 Oct 2006|10:47am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 okay |
] |
The dog was essentially a mutt, a stocky boxer mix with a brownish coat and a badly chewed left ear. After some deliberation, Mallory ended up naming the animal Tuffy, since it seemed to fit the dog's scrappy appearance and personality. After putting away the groceries and fixing an early dinner, the redhead cleaned up and then went outside to play fetch with the newly purchased rubber ball. She didn't know if Tuffy had had any previous owners considering that he had no collar (she'd have gotten one at the store, but they were out) but she had missed having a dog of her own since she'd moved into the trailer park so she wanted to see if he was the playful sort.
As the sun began the last of its journey towards the horizon, Mallory pitched the ball out behind the trailer, watching it bounce across the sand before Tuffy started to lumber after it once it rolled to a stop in a small patch of scrub grass. He needs a bath, she reflected, watching the sun's rays play across mottled brown fur. And probably a vet check-up. I hope he can stand a ride in the truck without getting sick. A car horn beeped a couple of trailers away. Mallory turned in that direction, waved at Mrs. Trask as her neighbor left to go play bingo for the evening. Looked like it was just going to be a quiet night at home.
There was a sudden bump of her left leg, and when the redhead turned she found Tuffy looking up at her with the ball still in his mouth. Bending down, she took it from him, scratching the back of his neck through thick fur. Before giving it another throw, she took a brief second look at it.
Huh. That was weird. She could've sworn she bought a green ball, not a dark blue one. Must've been the packaging the thing had been wrapped in that misled her. She drew her arm back, threw the object a little farther away than before. This time, Tuffy ran after it with a bit more alacrity. It was going to be good to have a dog around again.
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| The American Boy and the Eccentric |
[17 Oct 2006|01:43pm] |
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mood |
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 working |
] |
The usual guy who delivered beer to 'The Lighthouse' was surprised to find a new employee wiping down tables, but once the cases had been signed for and Connor offered to help carry the stuff inside, the task was completed relatively quickly. Connor noted that the patch on the driver's shirt said 'Kevin' and made an attempt at small talk, then offered the man a soda before he left.
With that finish, he went back to cleaning up, then filled the bowls on the bar. Peanuts in one, pretzels in another, alternating until he was finished. He would take a quick pass at the kitchen to make sure everything was in order, then call himself finished until the first of the day's customers started arriving.
This wasn't going to be so bad after all.
"Doosh-doosh-doosh... I like you! Doosh, doosh, doosh... I love you! Doosh-doosh-doosh... I want you iiiiiiin my bed!"
The lyrics were sung out in a Russian accent. Sonya was wearing earphones and bopping head from side to side, dancing to the private tune she could hear.
"Hello, new American boy!" She greeted, bouncing up on the nearest stool before anyone else had the chance to. The earphones had already been taken out and were being swiftly wound up. "I would like to be gettings the very drunk, please!"
( Servicing The Customer )
"Hmmm..." That time, Sonya appeared to give slightly more concentration to the matter and then decided, "Perhaps not this time, American boy! I am thinkings to fly! Yes, this I will do!"
Sonya had learnt, just a little bit, that if she was honest about it, then people might not take her seriously.
"But sandwiches, yes! The breads and meats, please!"
Bread, meat and pornography. A stable diet, if ever there was.
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| Hutchinson's Lament |
[17 Oct 2006|02:07pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 blank |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Numb - Linkin Park |
] |
The early seventies...
"But... Grace! Miss Hutchinson! I didn't mean... I swear it won't happen again!"
Shannon might not yet be the Chosen One, but she was still very much a teenager. A schoolgirl with a crush, the declaration of which had just been rejected, in no uncertain terms.
They had been training; an almost-Watcher pinning her potential Slayer down on the mat, only for Shannon to take a chance and press lips to those of her tutor.
What a fool she had been...
"Please!" She begged, all hope now replaced by utter embarrassment and even fear. Dread for what her fanciful notions may now have brought. "Give me another chance! I'll... I'll study extra hard! You can still trust me, I'll prove it!"
"I said get away from me," Grace said sharply, grabbing a towel off a nearby bench and rubbing it across the back of her neck. Leaving the terrycloth draped there, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then spat once, as if she had just tasted the most disgusting thing imaginable.
( A Lifetime Ago )
"...but I still missed you."
With her back turned, Grace felt something shift very slightly in the silence of her chest. An echo, probably, an echo of the woman she had been. Suddenly, she wanted to see Matthew really, really badly.
Because he could make the blankness go away.
"Goodbye, Shannon..."
The NPC of Shannon Livingstone was written by E.
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| T minus two weeks. |
[17 Oct 2006|09:17pm] |
"Honey, the last time I threw a Halloween party, people got eaten, demons got mutilated, the sober got wasted, the wallflowers wilted and the biggest suit you've ever seen this side of New York City completely and utterly stole my limelight," Lorne said to his bartender animatedly as he gesticulated with his hands when he spoke, "And that was the best damn party I ever threw."
Russell stood infront of the demon's large mahogany desk with his arms folded and a dubious expression on his square face. Russell was a stalky man with darker skin, shaved head, and a thick earring in his left lobe. He'd stepped up to the plate since Elian's passing, and Lorne had corralled him into his office to discuss his plans for the upcoming bash he was conjuring up inside of his mind.
"It's two weeks until Halloween, man," Russell told him, "We don't have a lot of time to plan something like this. We still have to book a band, and get all the shit ready behind the bar."
Lorne would have none of this negativity. "Then you have two weeks to get your tuchis in gear and get me a band," he told the bartender, "I will have a Halloween party this year Sweetie, whether you want to help me or not."
The demon stood from behind his desk as he buttoned up the front of his deep mauve blazer. Lanky legs moved as he made his way around the desk to where Russell stood. He held up his hand and used the index finger on his other to pull down on his digits in succession as he began to list off his demands. "A band, Russell," he said as his pinky finger was pulled down, "Then we need decorations. Themed drinks. Door prizes. Those little candy corn things. For heaven's sake, we need to make flyers. Get the PR people on that - make a website, a Podcast, write a blog, go on the radio, whatever it takes. Get the word out."
Russell raised both his eyebrows, then shook his head. He half wondered what he'd gotten himself into when he took this job. "Alright, fine, I'll do what I can," he told his green boss with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. "So while we're all busting our asses trying to get this thing going, what exactly are you going to be doing to help us out?"
"Honey, I'm going to make sure I get enough sleep," the demon told him. "Now get out there, Soldier. We've got work to do."
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| Rooftops and Conversation |
[17 Oct 2006|10:33pm] |
It’s the same reason that doctors don’t diagnose themselves.
The same train of thought behind psychiatrists who go to others in their own profession for help, instead of self evaluation and medication.
Even on make-over reality shows, Stacy and Clinton have other people that pick out their wardrobe.
It’s not for a lack of knowledge, experience, or intelligence.
There simply exists an inherent invalidity in looking into one’s own circumstances, and trying to see the big picture. When you’ve dug a twenty foot hole in the ground, one would find it challenging at best to stand in the middle of the hole and have a vantage point that allowed them to see all around the hole.
But there Nathan Rhames stood, as close to the Wolfram & Hart building as he could be without setting off any alarms, visible or other. For the past two days, visions had burst through his memory, leaving more questions than answers. But through it all, one variable had remained constant: the Las Vegas branch of Wolfram & Hart.
While there had not been any sort of news release, Nathan’s abilities gave him the access to individual minds, to pick through memories as he saw fit. However, there were so many minds, that finding correct information that resembled any sort of sense was proving to be a frustratingly slow task.
"Anger has found itself a most unexpected home..."
Although two such beings would, in an instant, know of one another's presence; the elements reacting with temporary conflict as auras of opposing polarities intersected and merged, only to settle down several moments later, it was Elfleda's voice from behind which spoke its truth.
"This is not the only recent example of its favoring you, Nathaniel. Not the only time you have preferenced judgment in place of pity. In the absence of compassion, I wonder... Have you now found yourself forsaken, too?"
Nathan knew of her presence a few moments before he heard her voice speak, it’s soft and feminine tone making it’s way through the space between them and falling upon his ears.
He was slightly agitated at the entire world right now, in the midst of all of his unanswered questions that continued to remain elusive. But instantly, a question came to his mind that made him temporarily forget his current mission.
Why does your enemy come for a social visit?
( Because they like coffee, too )
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