Repose

Who: Cris Martin, to be joined by Sam Alexander
What: a narrative → log
Where: Capital → home
When: just after this
Warnings/Rating: mentions of suicide & drugs

( Boricua, early thirties and early male pattern baldness, a real intricate, complex tattoo climbing trunka neck in banding, swirling black, ending 'round Adam's apple. )

[Locked to Babs B]

Mbali's back, and she's super mad.

[Atticus was eager to see his new baby. PJ was due back from the Capital, and rust and cracked interiors were something easy. Atticus liked easy. Easy was better than all the complicated things lately. Better than the boys and their respective supernatural issues. Better than Billy, who he wanted to help without encouraging. Better than Janus, and whatever brand of trouble Janus stirred. Better than the haunts, which were becoming bolder around him. Emboldened. He'd gotten fairly good at controlling them over the years. But this town, this town fed them. They already came from far and wide to be made tangible. To touch someone they loved. To lift something they craved. Atticus was accustomed to that. Was even accustomed to the violence they carried with them. But here, here things were different. Here things were livewire.

Today, Atticus wanted a break.

Not that Atticus didn't always want a break, but today he was pursuing one. Baggy and faded jeans, a white t-shirt layered over deliberately long-sleeved gray, he walked over to the garage. His headphones, spongy and tethered to an old Walkman, played something familiar, and he let himself into the garage with shuffling feet that scuffed the floor.]

Better have good beer. [He didn't scream the greeting. Didn't yell. Just expected to be heard. The cold and acrid air that circled him was minimal, thankfully. The haunts weren't jealous of PJ and the car, or so it seemed.]