| Burnin' Down the House |
[15 May 2009|02:47pm] |
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mood |
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Two weeks could feel like forever when you were waiting to be able to walk without limping. Although her healing abilities were up to par, she had been very deliberate about making sure her moving parts were in working order before venturing outside. The pills Darian had given her had knocked her out so fast she'd fallen asleep almost before she was in bed, and she'd slept for almost a whole day, allowing her injuries to repair themselves.
Now Grace was sitting on the hood of her car, smoking a cigarette and waiting on Warner. She'd found the hybrid's phone number amid a jumble of papers and given him a call, needing a second pair of eyes and hands for a certain task after dark. Whatever else could be said for him, he was business-oriented. She was after efficiency tonight, not personality.
They'd see how it went. If he proved professional enough, they could make this a semi-permanent thing.
( The Professionals )
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| Facing the Collector |
[15 May 2009|07:25pm] |
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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| Civilian |
[15 May 2009|11:14pm] |
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mood |
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working |
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Since moving to Chicago, Bastian had alternated between going to the local VA hospital and a public institution for his medical care. As a veteran, he felt comfortable enough dealing with military doctors, especially when it came to his leg, but sometimes he didn't feel like spending all day sitting in a waiting room rehashing his days as a Marine with boys young enough to be his sons. So over he'd trundle to the nearest hospital, parking his truck in the pay lot before taking the elevator downstairs to the big reception area.
The Cajun was sitting in a molded plastic chair reading an outdated issue of Time magazine, picking the order forms out of his lap as they fell out from between the pages. Just a routine checkup for the most part, although he expected to hear more about the bits of metal in his calf. He fully intended to have the shrapnel removed, just not until after the boxing tournament. If he stood a chance of losing some mobility in the limb, he wanted to make the most of the full capacity of it while he could.
"Mr. Sonnier?" Bastian looked up over the edge of the magazine, glancing towards the receptionist. "Dr. Reed will see you now. You can just go on back." The big carpenter got up from the chair, leaving Time behind. He hitched his pants on the way past the desk, his wallet chain jingling as he walked. He wasn't really wild about hospitals, but this was a necessary thing.
"And remember just because the cast on your arm is solid that doesn't mean your head is," Alec muttered to the patient he was finishing up with. The kid was only 15 and big into skateboarding, but Alec figured it didn't hurt to say considering the skate-fanatic had already been in three times this week to have his cast fixed. He ushered the teenager out and turned his eyes to the man approaching.
( Consultation )
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