Low Tide

[Takes place before 'Stuck Together']

It was dark outside, but warm enough to open the windows for a breeze. Balmy air swept through the small house, rustling coupons magnetized to the fridge and a sheaf of papers on Rhiannon's desk. In the yellow lamplight, she stared at her laptop and held a pen captive between her teeth. Near the mouse pad, a cigarette waited in a glazed ashtray. It wasn't lit. According to plum-colored stains on the filter, she had considered it at least once.

She consulted the manual for a computer graphics program and compared it to the screen. Sometimes Rhiannon couldn't remember how to manipulate the designs she created for the tourism bureau. Chunks of Rhiannon 1.0's memory were suffocated (maybe overwritten) by Rhiannon 2.0. Since her paychecks depended upon being able to resurrect or recreate that knowledge, she spent hours pouring over books and online tutorials.

"Ugh." Leaning back, Rhiannon stretched her legs beneath the desk and rubbed her forehead. Maybe monsters couldn't wait. The world could be on the verge of apocalypse and need her... right?

Connor was glad it was dark when he got back to the house, because the neighbor across the street was out in the yard with their two kids and a dog. He knew what his face had to look like, because he could feel the swelling. The bags rattled as he let himself in, and the screen door slapped shut in his wake. He could still taste the faint tang of copper on his tongue.

( What Gives? )

As much as everything had changed with the revelation she was a Slayer a lot had actually stayed the same for Kris. She still had a day job and on occasion night job, a lazy partner, a good family and brilliant friends. Hopefully Whistler would be in touch shortly with what she needed to do next, especially as she hadn't been free to attend that party during New Year's, but she felt spending time with her marine on leave brother was more important. Family always came first in her book.

She was currently walking a neighbourhood that she knew like the back of her hand, reassuring the public that in spite of all the recent gang violence the police force was still out there and wanting to keep them safe. It was after all what she'd signed up for, back in the day when she was younger and a whole lot more ignorant than she was at this precise moment in time.

Kris had considered the cross idea, but it went against a lot of things she believed so she settled for always carrying a sharp piece of wood that could be turned into a weapon if needed, hopefully it wouldn't, but as Whistler had pointed out you never could be too sure.

It was only the sound of raised voices that pulled Kris out of her self reflection, frowning as beyond a fence and scattered across two driveways were two arguing men. It wasn't hard to tell that it was going to get physical sooner rather than later, especially with the way they kept pushing one another.

( Not A Good Time )

The streets of Key West were quiet, and Connor was ambling home from the grocery store with a plastic bag in each hand. Now that he was fully settled here, he had the route to the grocery store worked out, having traced his footsteps back from the shopping center often enough that he remembered the route home. All in all, he felt like he had a good handle on things.

The Destroyer rounded a corner, watching a bicyclist cross the street ahead of him. He was glad for the mild weather. It was a relief to shake Chicago's cold out of his bones. He hadn't figured out all the trouble spots yet, but in a place this small, he didn't suppose that would take long.

Trouble often found people on Duval Street. The long, rambunctious strip was home to hotels, cafes, bars, restaurants, and shopping outlets. Even a few art galleries were tucked between the rowdier places. It was a street that came alive after sunset. Groups of women stumbled from place to place, intoxicated and sunburned, their arms linked as they strolled under the awnings. Motorcycles roared. Laughter bubbled from patios where people drank margaritas and beer on tap. Everywhere, there was music.

John walked the block from Sloppy Joe's to Fat Tuesday's. His physical appearance didn't stick out. He was better dressed than some, but the mop of messy, black hair kept him casual. It was his quiet observation that was noteworthy, the slow gait and lack of friends or a lover on his arm. He kept his hands to himself and his remarks to a minimum. He held open a door for a couple of happy women and kept going.

( I See You )

( Trespassing )

At least he had a job he knew he could do.

Critical Mass was a dance club in the middle of the strip on Duval Street, and now that the holidays were over the place was starting to do more business. Connor had been on floor duty for forty-five minutes, and he made his customary pass by the bar to check for troublemakers. He was dressed casually, fitting in with the other patrons. He was the last person anyone expected to bounce them out if they got too rambunctious. He'd found earplugs in the bathroom at the house before leaving for work, and he was grateful for the protection of his hearing at the moment. Way-too-loud music was one of the reasons he'd never cared for the club scene.

The Destroyer got a cup of water from the bartender, sipped at it as he headed for the stairs that led to the upper level. He'd apparently worked out the timing so he could make his rounds on a consistent basis, and he nodded at another member of the security staff as they passed each other on the steps. All in all, this wasn't a bad way to make money.

( A Re-Acquainting, Sort Of )

With the temperature not even sixty degrees and a good northerly breeze, Izzy didn't even contemplate her normal ocean swim and settled instead for a jog along the streets of old town instead. The witch consoled herself that if she were still in Chicago this time of year she'd be dressed like a mummy in multiple layers rather than a windbreaker and running pants. Sounds of Sympathy for the Devil leaked through her earbuds as she jogged along to the Rolling Stones on her iPhone.

Connor had taken to riding his motorcycle around the island before it got dark, familiarizing himself with landmarks and street names for the purposes of getting around. Navigation wasn't that much different than tracking, but he wanted to replace his alter's memories with his own just in case. And the traffic was much lighter here and easier to deal with. The Destroyer rounded the corner, leaning with the turn as he headed towards Old Town. He could get a quick sandwich and then head back home. The holiday break was almost over, which meant he'd have to see about this school thing. He couldn't wait to see how that went.

"Izzy, hey!" The witch was just jogging past, and he raised his voice a little so he could be heard over the music she was listening to. "Is winter exercise a new thing, or from before?"
( Comparing past lives )

Up and down the streets of Key West, people hosted house parties for New Year's Eve or got glamorous and headed to one of the professionally-planned celebrations. Since most holidays, the latter only ended up in trouble, Rhiannon and Connor turned over a new leaf and stayed home, inviting new and old friends (and friends of friends) to join them. If the world ended, they could always grab weapons, drive a few blocks, and show up in time to save the night, right?

The house they rented was a small, one-story cottage with a screened front porch, a small back stoop, and a modest yard inside a picket fence. A fire pit had been dug out and could be used, if the temperature dipped low enough -- meaning the 60s. A charcoal grill was lit for burgers and hot dogs. The kitchen counters were full of snacks and drinks. One of their computers supplied music, and a variety of cards and a few board games had been set out, just in case anybody wanted to get into that. On the back porch, a few packages of fireworks and sparklers awaited midnight.

Mostly, they just hoped for company. New Year's was a great way of starting out fresh in Key West.

[Thread: Open to Rhiannon, Connor, Purity, Izzy, Whistler, Hannah, Destiny, and anybody else who's brought along or, hell, even wanders by on the street and decides to drop in or gets dragged in. :) ]

Around 4p.m., Rhiannon woke to orange slants of sunlight on her eyelids. Squinting, she blocked them with her hand. It felt swollen from the fluids they pushed through her IV. Upon realizing how many hours passed since Whistler drifted out, she rallied herself. The up-down button on her bed allowed her to lever herself upright. As her weight shifted downward, so that her stomach muscles were forced to bear some, it hurt like hell, but she needed to sit up. How else was she going to reach the IV bag?

( Whose Ordeal? )

( Don't Bust a Stitch )

The screen door snapped shut behind Rhiannon. She walked to the edge of their rental property, where crab grass met pavement, both cracked and abused by the sun. The sky was cloudless, the sliver of moon as thin as a fingernail. She pulled an elbow across her torso to stretch her muscles. At the late hour, many of the windows on Amelia Street were dark, neighbors having gone to sleep in preparation for an early start. It was a perfect time to go to the beach and get a workout. They were unlikely to be seen or interrupted.

Rhiannon appreciated the mild temperature. In Nevada, the nights got cold even in summer. In Chicago, she might see her breath on the air by now. She wore a tank top and loose pants, her hair in a braid. "Ready?" She looked back.

"Ready." Connor was wearing sweat pants and a thin T shirt, and he looked up at the tiny fragment of moon where it hung suspended in the blackness. The keys jingled as he locked the door behind them, the sound followed by the noise of his shoes on the sidewalk. He'd done his stretches before supper, and despite his half-full stomach his muscles felt loose and ready for action. This would technically be his first time fighting on this turf. He wondered if it would be different.

If the two of them would be different since their re-alignment. Only one way to find out.

( Love Taps? )

Sunset. Out on the screen porch, Rhiannon sat on a swing, holding a cell phone and a beer she found in the fridge. Third beer. Two dead soldiers occupied the seat next to her. At least the house was still empty. A weird desire to respect privacy kept Rhiannon from digging through her roommate's things. She wanted to know who slept beyond the blue-painted wall of her bedroom, but also didn't. If he was a stranger, how bad would it be, pretending all was the same? Did she have enough of this Rhiannon's memories to pull it off? So far, the most pressing memory was the nagging certainty that a work-related deadline approached and she hadn't started yet.

( A Lifeline )

( Well, That's New )

He'd left the house because it was too quiet, left and walked down to the beach, where he looked out at the water like a man in a dream.The last time he'd seen the ocean this close up, it was under much less benign circumstances than this, but it still felt slightly ominous to him. Supposedly, this was his life, and yet it seemed as if everything had a film of unreality over it, like thin plastic sheeting. The Destroyer rubbed his brow, wondering if he was going to be nursing a headache later.

He'd ended up in Mallory Square, where he had lunch at an open-air hot dog stand. Mustard with lots of relish. That, at least was familiar, the taste of pickles mixed in with the tang of the yellow mustard. Connor threw away his trash, carried the cup of soda off with him. If he walked, something might start to make sense. The day wasn't hot, but the sun still felt good on his back and shoulders. Ice rattled against thin cardboard as he poked the straw in between the cubes.

( Who's That Girl? )

This has happened before.

He's standing on the porch looking at the swing, which is attached by rusty chains to bolts in the ceiling. He'd been napping, and the hair on the back of his head is flattened from the pressure of the cushion. The porch is screened in, and through the thin mesh he can see the Honda motorcycle parked in the driveway. There's a gray plastic tarp wadded up near the bike. It's probably to protect it from the salt he can smell in the air. He can't hear the water, but he knows the ocean when he smells it. He doesn't know how he got here.

This has happened before.

The screen door squeaks, and he shades his eyes against the sun, which is only hidden by the barest wisps of cloud. It's mid-afternoon, and he yawns as he examines the yard. Not much grass, no other vehicle but the Honda. He looks back towards the front door, but no one else appears. Something is telling him he belongs here, but he can't remember why.

This has happened before.

There's a mailbox at the end of the sidewalk. Its painted black except for where rust spots have eaten through the last coat. He opens it, finds mostly junk addressed to 'Occupant' or 'Resident'. Amid the advertising flyers, he finds the electric bill and peers at the little plastic window. It has his name on it, carefully typed in the small space available. 'Connor Reilly'. He looks at the house again, then tucks the mail back into the box. Closes the little door. Okay, so his name hasn't been changed this time.

This has still happened before.

Clothes not belonging to him are in the bathroom, and the bra drip-drying on the shower rod makes him decide not to be there for a little while. Not until he's got his head on straighter. The afternoon is silent around him as he pads off away from the house, down the street to the left and in the direction of the water. He needs to think and sort out what's going on as much as he can. Before he finds out who he's sharing the house with.

This shouldn't have happened a second time. But it has.