| Confrontation on a Serious Scale |
[08 May 2008|04:14pm] |
Demons and supernatural entities were not known for a tendency to cower in fear or cooperate with authority.
When pushed, they snarled ferociously, bit, maimed or killed. But rarely did they run, and rarely could they be persuaded by intangibles like a 401k plan or the promise of legal assistance.
Given the increasing turbulence in the supernatural underground in May of 2012, it only made sense that eventually, the government would force them into unity, but of an unproductive kind.
Organized resistance.
True, some had joined the ranks of badged authority and some had relocated to less officiated climes. But by and far, most stayed to guard their territory or rebel for the sake of violence, or even to make a simple point: They would not be controlled, at least without a fight.
Word was put out about an informal meet-up to take place at 9pm in a third-rate, pirate-themed bar called Davey’s Locker. The owner was a sympathizer, rumored to have demonic blood on the paternal side of his family. He flew under the government radar, but that didn’t mean he supported what the Feds were doing. When asked if his establishment could be used as a staging ground for the rebels (or ‘illegals’, as the suits liked to call them), he was more than willing to oblige, as long as nobody broke his bar stools.
[Thread: Open to All]
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| Good Timing |
[07 May 2008|09:59pm] |
Mallory had become very careful with her schedule. Up early to go running just after the sun came up, then back to the trailer for a quick breakfast before cleaning up the dishes and taking Tuffy for a long walk. After that she'd usually go down to the diner to drink a couple of cups of coffee while sitting at the counter and watching Verlie give the evil eye to the truckers who talked too loud when they straggled in from the highway.
The trailer was too quiet. She'd unplugged the phone to keep herself from weakening and using it to call Victoria, relying on the cell phone Agent Markowitz had issued her when she'd gotten her badge because the vampire didn't have the number. She'd done the right thing. Made the mature decision, the only decision. She'd also woken up crying for the past three mornings.
If there was nothing DHS needed her to do, she stayed to herself and didn't seek out company because she couldn't stand being near anybody. Not even Julie, who she loved like a sister, but she knew Julie wouldn't be able to be honest and say she was sorry it was over between her and Vicky. She wouldn't ask Julie to lie for the sake of their friendship, so it was better to keep away from her.
She hurt, hurt worse than she'd ever hurt. And she was so Goddamned lonely that she kept the television on all the time just so she could hear another voice. She cried a lot, randomly, bursting into tears while she was cooking dinner or cleaning the bathroom or carrying the garbage out. Mrs Abnernathy caught her bawling while leaning on the rearview mirror of the truck, a bag of groceries sitting at her feet, and the old lady had offered her a glass of too-sweet tea to make her feel better. That just made her cry harder.
She'd done the right thing. She had to stick to it. Even if it made her feel like she was dying.
Of all the gifts Hannah Flynn had been entrusted with upon her death and rebirth, being empathic wasn’t one of them. Her appearance at Mallory’s trailer was coincidental. It was no longer strictly necessary to materialize in the middle of someone’s living room. Nowadays, the ghostly Agent could access her solid body and follow traditional habits, such as knocking at the door.
This she did now, frowning at certain signs that all wasn’t right in Mallory’s world. Scrubby grass poked up around the front steps and begged to be cut back. A couple of newspapers hadn’t been brought inside the trailer. Hannah held an electronic bill in hand, which she’d found below the mailbox, coated in desert dust, as if the redhead had dropped it and hadn’t even noticed.
This was her old neighborhood, too. Certain precautions had to be taken upon appearing there, lest a nosy person take note of Hannah’s post-mortem visit. She wore nondescript jeans and flip-flops, topped off with a yellow hoodie, which she pulled tight around her face.
Hannah rapped her knuckles against the door a second time. “Mallory?” she called, attempting to project her voice through the door, but nowhere else. “Um… don’t freak out… just an old friend.”
( Heart to Heart )
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| Marching Orders |
[07 May 2008|06:42am] |
Months had passed. How many, Tyler did not know. Perhaps even a year. Time was a comical concept to the young immortal at this point. It was the one thing, truly the only thing, that he had in spades. Yet he craved to trade it in for other things. More intimate conditions.
For the first several months, Tyler had been rebooted into a better version of himself. He had endured mental and physical training with some of the best teachers that the West had to offer. And when that time had passed, his father had brought him home to Japan to begin all over again. Through the frustration, the endless effort, the exhaustion, the pain, the blood, and the slow passage of days, Tyler had finally been molded into a perfect weapon. A fire wielding, timeless soldier who was fit to carry out the end game to all that his clan had been taxed and toiled trying to vanquish.
For eighteen days, Tyler had been completely alone in the hills, left alone to his thoughts and given the chance to finally get some much needed rest. But when he rose up from his sleep on the nineteenth day, he found something that brought back a different kind of recollection. He spied, laying on his small wooden table that he used for dining and for burning incense upon, a commission letter of the very same mold and type that he use to be sent when there was a mission that he was to carry out. It was, without any doubt, the official marching order of his clan.
finally.
Tyler could not move to the letter and tear it open fast enough. It was obviously from his father, for he was the only one who could move in and out of a room Tyler was sleeping in and not wake him up; a fact that Ty attributed to the connection of comfort owed to the formative years the young man spent being raised by the very same man. His adrenaline rose as his dark eyes scanned the ink on the page.
Son,
The time you’ve been longing for has come. There’s business that you are to finish. Be at Davey’s Locker tomorrow evening for a meeting. More will be explained to you there than I have time for now.
And please, try to be careful.
Tyler did not need anyone to tell him where the bar was located. He dropped the letter, and by the time it hit the ground, he was already on his way back to his village to pack his belongings and necessities. He wasn’t sure that he could make it in time, but he would be damned if he wasn’t going to give it a hell of a shot.
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| Chaos vs. Order |
[06 May 2008|06:47pm] |
At least the room was bigger.
Much bigger then the cells. Along one side, high up above, near the ceiling, was lined a one-way mirror, angled in such a way as to give a panoramic view of all which laid below. The chairs and table, made out of what looked and felt like stainless steel, were bolted to the floor. A few minutes prior, the prisoner had been brought in, cuffed in plastic restraints around wrists and made to sit there. Small, ball-shaped cameras were embedded at each highest point of the four corners of that location, looking down, constantly monitoring. Not just in one visual spectrum, either, but multiple. Everything about the creature was being observed and logged for later examination.
And she was dying. Or so it seemed... As the weeks went on, so the prisoner seem to become less and less energetic.
Nevertheless, the sudden clang of that door unlocking, was almost enough to wake the dead. While armed guards remained posted outside, in stepped an immaculate walking suit of a man, neither particularly old nor overly young. Everything about him seemed to radiate 'government'. A man who, once the door was closed, approached that table with a file, placed it down and took his own seat. An observant, "Hm," was made and the brief's contents were opened with a click.
"Miss Anderson... Or perhaps we should begin with a more truthful, 'Allen'?"
Leah raised her head and stared with a dull, listless expression. She hadn't paid much attention to the guards as they'd moved her from her cell, Homeland Security clearly knew enough about her to have female guards that looked like Russian wrestling champs move her rather than males out of GQ . There had been no opportunity to feed since they'd taken her from the cops weeks ago, and the hybrid was beyond hungry.
Still...something held her back from trying to pump the air full of her scent and drain the agent into a empty shell. There was enough intelligence left behind those eyes to know that if she tried she'd probably sign her own death warrant.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face at the mention of her real name, but she stayed silent. Waiting.
Let them do the talking for now, she didn't feel like she had the energy.
( Trust )
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| The sign up ahead |
[05 May 2008|10:34pm] |
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| Stolen Snippets Of Conversation |
[05 May 2008|01:27pm] |
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mood |
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 working |
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[[Non Journal Entry]]
“We got a deal?”
“Yeah, we have a deal.”
“Good, get it done tonight and I’ll have your money by morning.”
There’s a slight pause in the conversation and a slow inhale of smoke. “Remember, you talk to nobody. Not right now. It isn’t safe.”
Paranoia seeps in, like it does with every conversation these days.
“I get that.”
“You sure?”
A roll of blue eyes and a stolen drag of another’s cigarette. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Good.” There’s a hand and it’s patting the younger man’s cheek, like he would if he was family.
“Dude.”
Somebody laughs low and soft before it’s muffled by a small coughing fit, one too many cigarettes and some have finally gotten into the corners of lungs. “Just get it done.”
“I will.”
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| Deepest Recesses |
[05 May 2008|01:16pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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busy |
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[[Non Journal Entry]]
“I really don’t think we’re understanding one another,” Bethany purred as she straddled the young agent’s chest and leaned down to bare her teeth, glinting white and dangerously in the yellowing light.
His eyes widened as they came to fall on the tip of a Sais that rested a mere millimetre away from his pupil. “I’ve already sent God only knows how many of you away with the very same answer. We’re not interested in signing up to your Godforsaken initiative.”
“I’m not sure how many more of dead bodies it’s going to take to drive the point home.” She tipped her head and considered her prey through a delicate curl of blonde hair, out of place on the visage of cruelty that twisted her pretty features.
She rocked back onto stiletto heels and tipped her head, falling quiet again. “Stay right here.” Bethany eased leather clad legs off her fallen enemy and rose to her feet, smoothly and elegantly. She crossed over to the nearby window and pulled out her phone, managing to get a signal in the deepest recesses of Las Vegas. “Ralphael, cancel my three ‘o’ clock I’ve been unfortunately detained elsewhere.”
Bethany snapped her phone shut a second later and turned, frowning ever so slightly as it would appear the agent had taken it upon himself to get up and run. “Stupid boy.” She twisted her Sais and began after him, using his blood as the trail she would follow him to where she’d inevitably kill him.
She had caught this one trying to take down a couple vampires and even though she didn’t care much for the unknowns wandering this side of Vegas she wasn’t about to let them get slaughtered in some ridiculous government crackdown on the Supernatural.
So much for the land of the free.
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| A Horrible Idea |
[29 Apr 2008|07:33pm] |
Bad dreams made Spike cranky. Always had.
And when Spike was cranky, he needed to hit something. Several times, preferably hard. Which was what brought Spike to wander the streets of Searchlight -- and he used the term street loosely -- in search of many nasties to butt heads with, and maybe even a vampire or two to dust.
Fortunately for the Champion, he just finished off one of the former. Some greasy bugger with a black mullet and this annoying-ass black tattoo on his forehead. The good news was, this vamp didn't seem to know or care who Spike was. The bad news, he kept mouthing off about some propehcy about a child.
He made no sense, so Spike killed him.
But dusting the vampire did little to calm Spike. He still fumed over the dream he'd had hours before, an odd tale in which Lorne had talked him into taking as trip to Japan to stop a popular children's show from killing children. That wasn't so bad -- neither was the Japanese warrior woman who obviously lusted after him -- but the fact that Spike and Lorne spent much of the dream was wee little puppet men was a bit irksome.
The telepathic fish didn't help matters, either.
A gust of wind brought an unfamiliar scent Spike's way. One quick sniff, and the vampire surmised it was human. Not one he knew, either, so with a sigh, Spike lit a cigarette and began to walk away.
"Might wanna go home, mate. Not safe out here at night."
[Thread open to NPC Agent Markowitz.]
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| Credit Squeeze |
[28 Apr 2008|10:17pm] |
"What do you mean 'declined'?!?" Julie Sanchez demanded incredulously to the pimply faced cashier at her favorite coffee shop. She knew she didn't have huge sums of cash in her bank accounts, but she had enough to pay for a damn mocha ice and a chicken salad wrap! "I've got money in that account, it should be going through!"
"I'm sorry miss," the teenager replied, not sounding very sorry at all to the werewolf's ears and smelling like he hadn't showered in days to her sensitive nose. "It says 'card declined' -see?" He held up the credit card pad, which had the aforementioned words burning out of the display accusingly. and she restrained the urge to snatch the device out of his hands and throw it into the wall.
Julie huffed, frustrated, and pulled out her billfold from her purse to try and dig up enough cash to pay the bill. "I don't believe this," she muttered, face bright red from embarrassment.
"Here. Let me."
The voice came from just beyond Julie's right shoulder, and a wadded-up twenty dollar bill landed on the counter like a wounded bird. "Keep the change," Oliver said through a smile he didn't mean as he balanced his own large black coffee and roast beef sandwich. He had been at the opposite end of the counter getting his own order when the minor commotion took place, and his mouth was tight at the corners as the high school dropout behind the counter picked up his money and scuttled off.
"Having a day, are we?" he asked the werewolf archly, gesturing towards the table he'd intended to claim. "On second thought, you wouldn't mind eating outside, would you? I'm kind of expecting someone, and she doesn't like crowds. Besides, the people in here --" He jerked his head at the counter guy, who studiously avoided the spellcaster's attention "--leave a lot to be desired."
( One of those days )
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| The Family Tree |
[28 Apr 2008|12:35am] |
One, two, three... sliiiiiide.
One, two, three... sliiiiide.
It was ten o'clock and the lights in Searchlight's tiny bowling alley had gone dim. The only staff member left behind was Whistler, entrusted with closing up shop. He was in a back room, probably locking cash in a safe; She didn't really know. Hannah was too busy fulfilling a childhood dream.
Using the polished, wooden lane as a slip-n-slide for her socked feet.
New and improved control over her solid form allowed her this childish joy. It also supplied a heapin' helpin' of pain when she lost her balance. "Whoa-- shiiit!" Thunk. "Oww... my ass." Hannah rubbed her posterior and waited for the sensation to subside. She wondered if she could bruise.
One, two, three, four, five... "Ugh."
Why anyone would pay for their shoe rental in pennies was a mystery. They were intrinsically evil. 'Give a penny, get a penny' wasn't for anyone's benefit. And the mix of more nickel than actual copper meant it held residual energies. Get enough of them together and they could disrupt electronics. Batch 'em up in a plastic thingee beside a cash register, and no one's cash out was safe. It could bring down governments.
Evil.
Six, seven, eight, whoa shiiit!
Whistler ran out of the back office after the thunk and couldn't help but laugh as he spied the spirtely Hannah rubbing her backside. Served her right. He'd just waxed the alleys. If she'd asked, he would've recommended waiting another hour. The Agent learned the hard way the first time he tried it. "Hurts like a sunovabitch, doesn't it pixie?"
"Uuuughhh." She flopped like a fish, limbs akimbo. "All these months, I've been pursuing the feel-goods. Now I remember why I avoided pain." Hannah propped herself up on her elbows. "Still, I'm proud of myself. Doing pretty well with the old body, if you ask me. Now if I could just convince them to give me my mortality back..." Her face was a comical mixture of hopeful and smirking. It was highly unlikely.
"How's tricks?" she asked her hatted friend.
( Meg and Aaron Melone )
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| Cheese Fries |
[24 Apr 2008|11:14am] |
In the month of April, the supernatural underworld was beginning to know a lifestyle of panic. Word spread quickly about the Federal offensive. Descriptions of initial raids were inflated, of course. It only heightened the sense of fear that crept into conversations. Already, some demons had begun to stockpile weapons, while others had begun to change their nightly patterns, and some considered packing up for smaller towns, more out-of-the-way.
Despite that climate, there were those amongst the supernatural that seemed unaffected by happenings. Even oblivious. Star Tomlin fell into that category. While some stockpiled blood in secret storage facilities, she simply browsed summer shoe sales.
"Do you have these in a seven?" She dangled the slingbacks by a hooked index finger. While the sales attendant went to check, the wiccan slurped a cherry coke and ignored anything that wasn't footwear. The saleswoman came back empty-handed, though, so Star dropped the shoes on the display and headed back into the mall.
It wasn't that he'd meant to start following her, it was that he couldn't help it. Crowds were good to hide in, and he'd been careful to keep out of sight while the rumors and gossip about the men and women from D.C. spread through the supernatural community like the plague. Besides, the mall was air-conditioned and there was a movie theater. If he was to be run out of town on a proverbial rail, he could do it with a little bit of comfort.
It had been the radio earpiece that tipped him off, and Connor had fallen into step behind the man in the non-descript black suitjacket and paced after him once he realized that he was not out to steal the waifish blonde's purse. There were enough people milling around in the enclosed area that it was easy to pull the operative into a phone enclosure and leave him there to wake up with a monster headache and his cameraphone shattered into about a dozen pieces. The Destroyer sprinkled the man's white shirt front with the remains before stalking back out into the walkway.
He wondered what they wanted her for. He vaguely remembered seeing her at the mass meeting at the air force base. She looked like half the girls he'd taken classes with in college. Connor put his hands into his pockets and caught up with her on her left.
Yeah, she was definitely waifish. Almost elfin. "Excuse me, do you kniow what time it is?"
( 5 o'clock Somewhere )
[Thread: Open to Star and Connor]
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| A Novel Idea |
[21 Apr 2008|12:40pm] |
“You promised us the Chosen Child. Our patience is wearing thin.”
On the short list of Epimetheus’ least favorite things to do, facing the Elders was number one without question. A relative youngling, Epimetheus hated how the Elders considered themselves better than other vampires simply because they’d been around longer.
Managing to avoid being dusted for over 10 centuries wasn’t necessarily evidence of intelligence and grandeur.
“I know,” Epimetheus uttered, trying to keep the venom to himself. “Things are progressing slower than anticipated. But the child will be delivered to you.”
( So what do you suggest? )
( Voicemail for Grace )
[NPCs Epimetheus and Seraphus written by Jeff.]
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| Cutting Teeth |
[21 Apr 2008|12:25am] |
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( Emma )
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| Making the Rounds |
[16 Apr 2008|10:51pm] |
"Well it's about fucking time."
The redhead was on hold for forty minutes. So much for feeling like a "valued member" of a government task force. "Yes," she continued, attempting to hide the demon from the remaining upright patrons of the tavern. "I need a clean-up crew in here. There are six-- no seven expired illegals."
She took one of the few unbroken glasses off a table and swallowed its contents. Deanna didn't care what alcohol it contained.
"Oh yeah, I'm gonna need a new partner. I'm well aware this is the third who's bought it in as many weeks. So, get me someone who can keep up, for fuck's sake!"
She slammed the receive shut and growled.
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| Mission One |
[10 Apr 2008|10:20pm] |
Grace was practicing her quick-draw, having tucked her spiffy new identification wallet into the pocket of her heavy leather jacket. She'd whip it out, unfold it to flash the shiny badge within, then snap it shut and put it away again, looking at her shadow where it had been cast on the wall by the fluorescent lights overhead. No reflection meant she couldn't use the mirrors, which was kind of a drag, but making her own fun - even of the non-killing kind - was something she was good at.
Black jacket, dark blue workpants, heavy boots, white wife-beater. She felt very Erik Estrada right now, getting ready to go out and be all law-abiding. Wonders never ceased. "Oh, yeah, I'm hot," the vampire muttered, putting the wallet away again.
What she wasn't crazy about was the idea of a partner, especially the partner they'd assigned her. A girl was known by the company she kept, after all. But whatever, she wasn't going to kick over it. She knew what her agenda was here. As long as she followed the rules on the surface, she could get done what she needed to get done.
Grace's new 'partner' eyed the spectacle from afar.
" 'Cause nothing puts the fear in a Gnaral demon quite like gold plating." Rhiannon made no effort to check her facial expression. Distaste. If matches within the U.S. government were made in Hell, then they'd gotten this just about right. The only thing more absurd would've been sticking her with Deanna. One or the other would be dead before they got outdoors.
True, Grace was rumored to be a decent fighter. Someone who could keep up. That was a plus. But a slayer/vampire duo was probably asking for disaster, like pouring a bottle of bleach in with ammonia. Particularly when they had a history of not liking to share.
(Matthew)
Perhaps that was a tidbit the Feds hadn't been able to dig up. Rhiannon slouched in her chair. It was a straight back, set against a conference table where she supposed they'd get 'debriefed' by a suit before they were dispatched on Mission #1. At least they'd been allowed to skip basic training. There were people doing actual aerobics in the room beyond.
"Gold plating's the shit, man," Grace responded with a distracted look at the Slayer. "I was thinkin' about putting some gold rims on the Plymouth, but it wouldn't look right against the whitewall tires." Shwe shook her head, still fiddling with the ID wallet. She looked around for a 'No Smoking' sign, then said a mental fuck it and lit up anyway. She was on the payroll now, the least they could do was let her have a smoke inside. Screw regulations. The Marlboro was quickly lit, the lighter tucked out of sight. The chair creaked as she slouched back in it, crossing one booted foot over the other.
"Some world, ain't it?" she asked Rhiannon, her tone not quite idle. "Us at the same table. Reckon next pigs'll start flyin'."
"Mm." The noncommittal noise didn't give much away. As verbose as the Slayer was with demons, not only at the bar but on patrol, she felt very tight-lipped now. If she was being honest, she probably wouldn't have been any chattier had another Slayer been sitting across from her. The whole situation was uncomfortable. No matter who her partner was, they felt like an enemy, because Rhiannon didn't want to be there.
Her eyes eased up to the vampire's face. Sooner or later, Rhiannon knew, they were going to have a problem. No way would Grace let the Slayer turn a blind eye to somebody like Connor. She'd have to figure out how to manipulate the circumstances, unless she had a bargaining chip. She wondered what loyalties Grace hid.
Everybody had them.
( Ground Rules )
( Target Acquired )
[Thread: Open to Grace]
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