| Fascinating |
[25 Oct 2006|12:14am] |
Down in the bowels of Wolfram & Hart, the more specialized areas laid. Residing on one such level were the medical and biological research facilities. The last person to be in charge of them had been killed in the recent inadvertent purging of the employees, but a company like that simply shuffled around its personnel when encountering a shortage, as with any other resource.
Now that it was run by the authoritarian Dr. Katherine Metzger, the place even felt like some futuristic SS concentration camp...
But nobody could argue with her credentials. She got results and cared nothing for just how ruthless she had to be.
Precisely the sort of employee Wolfram & Hart most appreciated - even if she had started out as more of a client.
The laboratories themselves were as vast as they were sterile. The woman still had an 'official' job and reputation, but it was here where the more secretive research was carried out. Here, too, where an assistant directed lawyer.
"Doctor Metzger?"
( Who done it? )
( Memory Lane )
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| Where It Hurts |
[25 Oct 2006|01:01am] |
"Have you heard? It's in the stars... next July we collide with Marsssssss..."
No swell parties tonight for Whistler. He switched shifts at the restaurant, agreed to work a double on Saturday. The events of the night previous cut him emotionally. The ghostlight was completely unfamiliar but felt corporeal. Like he was watching a horror unfold in real time.
Not to mention that noise. He was still a bit unbalanced, a day later. Every so often Whistler caught himself pausing in mid-step and reaching out for the nearest solid object to keep him steady.
It was... unsettling.
He sat rock still on the step of his porch, eyes unfocused on the setting sun. Even the reds and gold that laced through the clouds made him uncomfortable.
Seeing the road was a challenge.
Rhiannon pulled the car off, once or twice, to get a grip on herself. A cup of ice melted down to nothing in the console. The wet cubes felt good wrapped in tissue and held against her eyes. It wasn’t the right way, probably, but it was hers.
Sometimes being alone was a mistake. This was one of them, a fact Rhiannon recognized as soon as she got in her car, and felt the void. The absence of comfort, and of hope, that made her contemplate all the things she could do to wreck herself. To have her body match the heart inside it. Bruised, bloody, broken.
In times past, she would have gladly fought herself into a dangerous corner. Or drank until she was stupid. Or followed some guy into his car. Not today. She parked out front, not down a ways so she could chicken out before Whistler saw her. Guilty as she already felt for weighing him down again, Rhiannon couldn’t help it. She needed him now.
“Whistler?”
( Hit Me )
( Trading Fists for Words )
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| It's A Tough Job... |
[25 Oct 2006|03:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 accomplished |
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Rusty awoke to a loud pounding against the door. He was slumped on the floor in the dingy shack. He opened his eyes and blinked in the darkness.
The room had a hard wooden floor. The room was bare. It appeared to have at one time been a storage room, but now it was empty, unless you counted the dust and cobwebs. Rusty was in some kind of abandoned building. In the corner of the room sat a single sink, with a dripping faucet. The sink was dingy and rusted. It had been leaking for a long time, and had little use.
The pounding noises finally ceased. Rusty stood up with a groan and tried the door. Locked. That's when he noticed the nails. There was a final loud hammering sound and Rusty realized what was happening. He was being nailed shut into the room. "Great. Bloody new coffin I've got here," he muttered under his breath. That's when he remembered. He glanced around. He was alone. "Tristan?" His eyes narrowed at the door. "TRISTAN!" he bellowed.
( All in a night's work. )
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| Unsuspecting mentors. |
[25 Oct 2006|08:02pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 determined |
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90's pop music be damned.
Damned to the deepest pits of Hell from where it came.
At least, that's what Byron thought to himself as he trudged down the dusty dirt road leading from his house in the black of night on his way to work. With his arsenal of compact discs tucked under his arm in a neat zip-up case, the werewolf was prepared to do battle with the tiny convenience store's ghettoblaster, hoping to forever rid his night shifts of cheap pop music and replace it with something nicer.
Something like Nine Inch Nails.
The clinking sound from the chain off his wallet echoed throughout the black of night, and Byron trudged along with his head in the clouds, his mind firmly fixated on a particular little blonde cutie. Under his breath, he muttered lyrics to the Modest Mouse song that had been stuck in his head since Issac Brock's voice pealed over the radio-alarm on his bedside earlier that evening. His mumblings interrupted by short breaths, and the werewolf stomped his feet in unison to the beats of the mishmash of song that came out of his uncaring mouth.
The worry of having possibly impregnated a Slayer now the furthest thing from Spike's mind, he'd gone back to doing pretty much what he'd been doing the past several years-helping the helpless, dusting the nasties and going through cigarettes like gangbusters. Which was mostly why he was in this dirty little convenience store in between patrol rounds; Spike couldn't fight the vampires nearly as well if he didn't fill his dead lungs with nicotine and oxygen-robbing smoke.
What was lung cancer to someone who'd flash-fried in a Hellmouth and lived to tell about it?
Spike heard the distant murmuring before the young man came through the door into the store, grabbing his packs of Marlboro Reds and stuffing them in his pocket. The last cigarette from his last pack stuck out from the vampire's lips, his eyes giving a passing glance to the man seemingly lost in his own music.
Oh well, at least the music was something decent. Unlike, say, anything played on MTV anymore.
( The fanged meets the furred. )
( Who you callin' a groupie?! )
( Be my Mr. Miyagi )
It'd be nice, having a werewolf as part of the crew. So far, there was a Slayer, a vampire with a soul, and a werewolf. If things kept like this, Spike would have himself a gang that would put Angel's little P.I. crew to shame for good.
And any chance to stick it to Captain Forehead was a chance Spike wasn't going to pass up…even if Angel wasn't around to know about it.
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| A Succubus walks into a nightclub... |
[25 Oct 2006|11:22pm] |
The Drais After Hours was one of the hottest and most exclusive clubs in all of Vegas, and one of the hardest to gain entrance to. People could wait for hours for a chance to get into the restaurant turned nightclub in the Barbary Coast, and more often than not if you didn't have VIP status or know someone who did, you weren't getting in.
That did not apply to one Leah Allen however. The young hybrid, her abilities supercharged by Elfleda and any thoughts of human morality wiped away, simply walked up to the head of the line and was instantly granted admittance.
( non-journal entry )
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