| I Beg Your Pardon, Sir? (With Inquisitor Reilly) |
[04 Jun 2009|06:26pm] |
Town Pointe was a supper club with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the lake and a wrap-around terrace. Inside, oil paintings hung on walls covered , and thin silk paper. A pianist played unobtrusive jazz in a corner. The air smelled of eucalyptus and cigars, and the waitstaff wore vests and bow ties. During the evenings, only members were allowed to dine there, but it was open to the public on the lunch hour and catered to some of Chicago's successful businessmen and women. Darian went to talk about real estate investments. He kept his business above board, meaning he didn't embroil anyone in off-color deals that might wind up getting them bludgeoned. It was too high profile.
After a course of surf and turf, he got up and went to the bar. He didn't like pianos. He hated jazz. It rambled on like a classless drunk that didn't know when to make an exit. He stood with his elbow on the bar, giving the pianist an openly annoyed look. Once, during the soup course at a London dinner party, he had excused himself, pulled the strings from a harp, and wrapped them around the musician's throat. To his credit, it didn't kill the woman, though it left one hell of an impression.
Connor wasn't too wild about jazz either, but the sequestered nature of Town Pointe was soothing his aggravation into something manageable. Temporary quarters had been found and secured for himself and his colleagues, but he was still badly out of sorts about the botched raid. His next step after a late lunch was to acquire some reliable maps and plot out the next course of action for their fighters. He disliked this world very much, what little he'd seen of it. The pollution, the noise, the people. Dear God in His heaven, the people.
He was currently standing at the bar, his suit and tie marking him as a young banker or stockbroker, provided one never looked at his eyes, which were too calculating, too direct. He'd had tea with his lunch of shrimp and salad, and was now sipping from a short glass of burgundy. He seldom drank intoxicants, needing his wits about him since he was usually in the field, but one glass of wine was perfectly acceptable. And this atmosphere was much better than the barely-controlled chaos he'd encountered in the previous establishment. Connor liked order, it was why he'd joined the Inquisition in the first place.
( Minding the Tails )
( Mongrels, the Lot of Them )
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| Pretty Thieves (AU Francess & AU Cassandra) |
[04 Jun 2009|09:52pm] |
A two-story, brick building stood on a quiet corner in Lincoln Park. Once upon a time, it was a mom-and-pop pharmacy. It kept its working soda fountain for over fifty years. A small apartment upstairs housed the pharmacist, who inherited the profession and business from his father. He was lost in the 2013 disaster. Recently, the building was renovated for the market. The developers tried to keep its original charm, but in a market dominated by chains stores, it would be tough to sell it as a pharmacy.
The fugitives broke in through the back door and used it for a hideout. There were plenty of nooks and crannies for hiding, upstairs and down. Francess stood in a bathroom at the top of the stairs. It was narrow and long with checkerboard tiles and a porcelain sink. Neither the electricity or power worked. She watched her reflection in the mirror and combed fingers through her tangled hair. It was long, nearly to her waist. Several times, she thought to cut it. In their world, fugitives could sell their hair and make a few pennies. She couldn't bring herself to do so, though. People like her had so few vanities. The winter dress was too tattered and faded to be pretty. She had no cosmetics, nor a need to use them.
Fran remembered the slight perfume of her mother's powders, how the puff and talc felt so soft on her nose, her mother's laugh a balm. Arlene didn't know what her daughter was capable of. It was her sister Beatrice who discovered it, Beatrice who told. She chewed her lip and sifted the strands through her fingers.
Cassandra found Francess in the bathroom, pausing in the doorway when she saw the young woman lost in thought, staring into the mirror. As Francess started to try and comb her fingers through her hair Cass stepped in, clearing her throat softly so as not to startle Fran if she hadn't noticed Cass's presence.
( Things Growing Wild )
( Amazing Air-Boxes )
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