Low Tide

Later on, she'd say it was a coincidence and nothing but.

Key West had its fair share of sports bars. Some had two or three pool tables, smaller than regulation-size and populated with a strange mix of off-duty Coast Guard members and Cubans. It was a potent recipe for fights, once either side had a few beers and a few losses under their belts. She didn't like it. For one thing, people assumed she was there to bask in the cloud of testosterone and cologne, and hopefully get hit on. They sent over beers and stared at her ass when she made shots. For another, she felt compelled to do something when they broke into fistfights. Compelled to stop that sound. Meat on meat. Furniture scraping. Voices climbing into the cheaply-made drop ceiling.

No. I don't want to. After all, at least something was jumping off after-hours in Key West.

Eventually, she found her way to Felt. It was different. No plasma televisions, no designer cocktails. Just a long, narrow building with nine-foot tables, shitty acoustics, beer on tap, and real players. The bathrooms were to be avoided. So, too, the mozzarella sticks in a greasy basket. Tonight, a guy sat on a stool on stage belting blues on an old guitar. It looked like he'd broken up with the instrument before. Dropped it out of his truck doing high speeds, then gone back to pick up the pieces.

( Tailing Him )

Silence.

If Rhiannon opens the windows, she'll hear a breeze in the palms, the tinkle of a neighbor's windchimes, a bottle clanking in a streetside garbage can. But that's it. No sirens, no arguments, no car horns, no mess. Even the waves are quiet in Key West.

Lately, sleep is tricky. Two nights in a row, Rhiannon crawled out of bed at 4am and crashed on the couch with the television playing background noise. I just need the ugly noise of the world, she thought.

It always used to drown out the noise in her head. Peace via whirlwind of chaos.

( If Mirrors Could Talk )

[NPC 'Rhiannon' was written by Paul.]

In the heat of a fight there was very little to grasp onto, especially if you were running on instinct alone. Even as Joseph was slammed into the nearby wall, he found the clarity to pick up a nearby bottle, smashing it over his would-be attacker’s head. It worked like a charm, causing enough confusion for Joseph to land a punch that left the bigger man stumbling backwards.

The cause of the fight had been lost, round about the same time the man had decided that the best way to settle the issue was by putting Joseph’s head into the bar and would have been through it, had he enough upper body strength. Thankfully he hadn’t, just enough to leave a bruise on Joseph’s right temple behind, breaking the skin open around his eyebrow.

Joseph was determined to end this fight, wrapping the other man’s collar with both hands and using that grip to throw him through the nearest table. The table buckled under the weight and as it gave, the other man hit the ground, knocking him for six. Easy enough for Joseph to press the weight of his foot over the man’s throat, pushing down just hard enough to restrict breathing, narrowing air passages. Just a little longer, he knew exactly how much longer the other man had until complete and utter unconsciousness claimed him and then…

*Click*

( Pull It, I Dare You )

( What's Your Problem? )

( Let Me Buy You A Drink )

An eighteen-wheeler barreled along the dark, Florida highway. On its way by, the driver honked twice at two women standing on the edge of a heat-cracked parking lot spotted with oil puddles. Locks of long, brown hair lifted off the brunette's neck in the wake of the truck. She smoked her third cigarette since taking off on the miniature road trip. She hadn't so much fallen off the wagon as been dragged off by the prospect of an hour in the redhead's company. Southern Florida was lucky she wasn't nursing a bottle of hard liquor while she drove.

So much for new car smell.

Rhiannon scraped her boot on the pavement, trying to free a pebble that was stuck in the tread. "Before you ask, no, we're not here for guns." It would've been a fair question, since she had pulled the black car alongside Big Al's Army Navy Surplus. "But you do need something they've got, and you're not gonna find it in the Red Chandelier Boutique."

( Plain, Non-label Cotton )

"Yeah, I know I promised to send them yesterday, but you've got them now... Yes, check your email." Rhiannon's shoe kicked a broken piece of concrete into the gutter. She was in no particular hurry. The afternoon sun slanted shadows on the street. She stayed in them, on her way back from the small property management company that leased out her house. At least rent, if not her work assignment, was on time. "So you got them. Do they look okay?" She slipped a lock of hair away from her sunglasses. "Alright cool, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Bye."

She closed the cell. Her boss at the tourism board lectured, but he was all bark and no bite. Though Rich Patterson had noticed a -- what was the word he used? -- tonal difference in Rhiannon Lee's work since November, he didn't take any issue with it. Said it was 'edgier'. How graphics depicting Key West as a tropical paradise could be edgy, Rhiannon didn't know. It felt grotesquely pedestrian to her. Whatever. Being a sell-out had its perks.

She looked both ways before striding into a crosswalk. Heat had cracked the white paint and faded it. Too busy staring at the asphalt, she barely noticed the tan brunette coming towards her. Rhiannon looked up only as their elbows met. "Sorry."

The tan brunette in question was one Kris Michaels, on her way home after finishing a shift at the station, looking forward to a well deserved week off. She had all kinds of plans, one of which was to swing into that bar that Hayden worked at, see if she couldn't catch up with him and maybe drag Jenny out with her, the girl could do with having some fun. Simon on the other hand had way too much fun and Kris had had to deal with another random one night stand left in his bed. The asshole had ditched before the woman had woken up, leaving Kris to explain a few things. Less than fun.

( Strange Circumstances )

( The Same, But Not )

[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? )

The Ocean Key hotel, a white and blue fortress near Mallory Square, played host to some of Key West's wealthiest visitors. With a liquid lounge, spa and fitness center, restaurant featuring tropical cuisine, and access to the Sunset Pier, the resort spared no expense in providing a vacation experience for its clients to remember.

Luckily, they weren't big on privacy.

Rhiannon walked up to the receptionist, asked for a guest by name, and bingo: 451... apparently a corner suite with balcony overlooking the water. The Ocean Key was the third hotel she tried, simply because of all the windows. One would think pulling all those curtains would be a pain in the ass. Guess not.

( Looking for a Redhead )

After two weeks of avoidance, Rhiannon walked into Lower Keys Medical Center to sign paperwork, settle up her bills with an insurance card, and ask a few questions. Because it was the easiest part, she went to the business office first. She got a dirty look when the account representative pulled up her patient record and figured out Rhiannon had climbed out of bed and skipped out, without medical clearance or check-out paperwork. Rhiannon's terse response of, 'Whatever, listen, I don't have time for this,' didn't go over well, either. There were things she wanted to get done. Receiving a lecture from a woman with press-on nails wasn't on the list.

After taking care of the payment situation, she walked outside and went around to the Emergency entrance, since it was easier than navigating the maze of windowless hallways. An ambulance out front idled and clogged up the air with exhaust, its paramedics shooting the shit before going back to the station. Weaving past them, she entered the sliding doors to the waiting room, which was pretty empty at 2pm on a weekday.

( Doctor Lowe )

( Okay, That's Weird )

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. :) ]

Kelly's stood on the corner of Whitehead and Caroline, in a tidy, white building that was built in the 1920s. Once used for the sale of airline tickets, it was now home to a Caribbean bar. A canopy of thick threes covered its brick patio and a micro-brewery out back produced Havana Red Ale and the Southern Clipper Wheat. It was a little upscale for Rhiannon's usual style, but she liked the patio at night. Holiday lights twinkled in the tree branches like stars and the beer was the best on the island. She took a book and sat by herself at a two-top table in the backmost corner, sipping from her mug and listening to the white noise of conversation. In jeans and a burgundy tank top, she was a little underdressed, but nobody cared. By the time she tucked her paperback in a hip pocket and went on patrol, she'd be loose enough to forget about her recent injury, but not enough to be impaired.

The wind rustled the palms. Their waxen leaves moved like fingers. Tonight she drifted away from her book and just watched those, a finger between the pages to keep her place. Out back, beyond the patio, she heard muted voices, things thumping, and assumed them to be employees taking a smoke break or loading supplies in and out of the food preparation area. Rhiannon eased back in her chair and lifted a boot onto the seat, her fingers twining into the laces. She watched the world beyond the garden through the tiny gaps in the trees trunks, where she could see the ocean and sand on one side of the patio, Whitehead Street on the other.

A man's work was never done, a saying that seemed intent on circling Joseph's head at the most inopportune moments; moments such as the one he was in right now. He'd methodically taken apart a bar from the inside out, killing all but a couple witnesses in the hopes of sending another strong message to the superiors, a message that clearly said: there's a new player in town and they're looking to tear you apart one man at a time.

( Scuffle in the Alley )

( Bad Men )

Destiny adjusted her red apron and fixed her hair in the little mirror in the employee lounge. Christmas Eve. Why on God's green Earth was she working on Christmas Eve? She was still the new girl. Everyone still thought she was eighteen and in high school, despite the fact that she, at least the self that had made it here, was in her late twenties. She did, however, get the lucky present of stocking the shelves and tidying up the aisles. What had they called it? Stock control? Damage control? She didn't remember the corporate world technical term for it. What it meant for her, however, was much in the way of hoisting and carrying boxes. Slayer strength helped a lot in this instance.

Destiny stretched her arms out and stretched her one leg at a time parallel to her head. Twenty-four years of Slaying in a young body? Had its perks. She hadn't Slayed in months, but, she promised herself, she would pick it up again after the Christmas rush. The Slayer took a deep breath, smiled for the mirror, and entered into the Christmas-colored, Jingle Bells-playing bookstore proper.

God, I hate Christmas carols.

Jingle Bells was the worst. As she turned the pages of a book in the historical section, Rhiannon tried to tune it out. It was the staying power she didn't like. Hours after she heard the song, it'd be on a loop in her head while she ate dinner, walked the neighborhood, or took a shower. The only thing capable of canceling it out was another song.

( A Meeting )

Bobby was off to Gainesville to finish his business trip, his court date for drug possession scheduled for sometime next year and Izzy had put the incident out of her mind for now. Stewing on it wouldn't do anyone any good, and the blond had her own life to live after all. She would deal with it later, there was time.

Now though, the witch was standing in front of the house Rhiannon shared with Connor. She wasn't sure if either of them were home, but it had been a few weeks now since she'd seen the Slayer and they'd promised to stay in touch. There was the matter of Joseph to be brought up. Izzy could imagine what it would be like if Rhiannon were to encounter her former fiancee in this reality unprepared for the fact that he wouldn't remember who she was. It wasn't something she would want for herself, and she wasn't going to let it happen to Rhiannon if she could help it.

When the knock came, Rhiannon looked up from her computer, a fine-tipped marker clenched in her teeth. She was seated at a small desk with a flexible light. Art supplies and a laptop crowded the surface. She flexed her shoulders and pressed save, though she wasn't sure it was necessary. The graphic she'd scanned into the machine wasn't getting any better with digital enhancements. She had half a mind to draw two stick figures lounging in a hammock and email it to her boss, along with a message. 'It's Key West. C'mon. What do we really have to advertise?' But that logic put her out of work.

( Bombshell )

( Men in Swimwear )

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 )

At first it felt like a dream. A horrible, terrible nightmare. Only he was brushing his teeth. Images flashed behind his eyes: blood, a long, jagged spear going through flesh. And he could hear her voice. Not calling out for him though.

When Whistler'd become conscious in this new world, things weren't right and he knew it. It wasn't readily apparent but soon the memories became clear. The first thought of his best friend had unlocked them. As in the dimension he'd come from, where part of him still was, the Agent had met up with the teenager who'd become his best friend. Their bond cemented, just as before. But something had gone terribly wrong, and it was his fault.

Hugh Everett posited a Multiple Worlds Interpretation, which suggested that a multiverse existed where all things that didn't occur in one reality took place in others, and then spun out in different branches. In this world, Whistler had killed a Slayer and, racked with guilt, irrevocably broke his friendship with Rhiannon in order to go into seclusion.

What hadn't changed was his connection to her. When she'd been injured, he immediately knew and nothing would keep him from the hospital.

( No Ping )

( A Decent Young Man )

( Thoughts )

Four a.m. in Key West. Barflies tipped off their stools. Vacationers trudged back to their hotel rooms to sleep off a tequila haze. The buzzing of streetlamps was audible, now that the island music had drifted away. Time for a dreamless sleep.

Rhiannon's shoes scuffed along the pavement. Closing time was a good time to patrol, just in case a vamp got the bright idea to munch on a bleary-eyed tourist. The paper landed on her doorstep every morning. Mysterious deaths increasing. Strange neck injuries. Yeah. Right. It was Searchlight all over again. The difference was, Key West had an inexhaustible supply of necks.

She read the storefronts. 24 kt. gold! Tanzanite! Diamonds! Kites for toys and sport! Key lime pie! A beer bottle rolled in the gutter next to Captain Tony's Saloon. Duval Street was a weird part of town, she thought. The brightly painted shops looked like Candyland and smelled like a mixture of suntan lotion, beer, and seafood. Behind the famous street, a narrow alley was strewn with garbage. Palm trees, not tall buildings, blocked out the light. Roosters and rats scuttled in the garbage looking for scraps. A homeless man barged into her shoulder and kept going, mumbling under his breath. Because he didn't ask her for change, Rhiannon knew something had scared him. She stood at the mouth of the alley for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. A breeze blew a strand of hair into her eyes.

( The Alley )

July 2007 (in the Low Tide 'verse)
Detroit, Michigan

( Mercy )

( Opening a Rift )

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? )

( One-time enemy meets a new one: )

The sense of strangeness had followed Izzy all through the rest of that first day and into the next. There had been no escaping her housemates, but she'd managed to keep them unaware of her change of personality so far. It had been easier than she thought, so either she was a good actress or they didn't care. She wasn't sure which.

She'd gotten a call from someone called Mark, and she'd let it go to voicemail. The witch had gotten a strong sense that the 'old' Isabelle had been deeply involved with him. That was something she had no idea what she was going to about, yet. Hopefully something would come to her. Maybe he was actually a good guy, but so far everything she'd seen of her old self was rather shallow and she didn't know if her taste in men would be the same. Her family seemed to approve of him, that much she knew for sure.
( Searchlight in paradise )