butdid_youdie (butdid_youdie) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2020-08-15 22:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | tasha sloan, ~phanuel |
Gods and Monsters
Who: Tasha, Phanuel
What: Performance
Where: Searchlight
When: Present
Ratings/Warnings: Low
The stage was a blank canvas. Tasha could look at it, and see a realm of possibilities. She would start to perform, and either bomb, or kill, or exist in an even worse neutral ground of acceptable. The results usually depended on how drunk or high she was when she started.
Tonight, Tasha planned to save her drinking after the performance. As a result, she was steady, hitting every note, her fingers sure and steady on the strings. The former hunter decided to end on a cover, which usually went over well in the crowd. On this particular occasion, she had chosen her favorite dreamy yet fucked up track from Lana Del Rey.
In the land of gods and monsters
I was an angel
Living in the garden of evil
Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed
Shining like a fiery beacon
The lyrics pierced through Phanuel’s vodka-induced haze and struck her deep within her soul.
You got that medicine I need
Fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly
Put your hands on my waist, do it softly
Me and God we don't get along, so now I sing
The singer. What did she say her name was again? Fuck, the Angel hadn’t been paying that close attention when she’d taken the stage. But this song, a cover if she’d heard correctly, resonated.
She leaned into the bartender’s face and said, just loud enough, “her tab’s on me tonight.” A credit card was tossed onto the wooden bar.
A smattering of applause greeted the last fading chords, and Tasha mumbled a ‘thank you’ into the mic before exiting the stage, placing her guitar carefully and gently into its velvet-lined case. She would have to help get the rest of the gear situated later, not being nearly important enough to have roadies. It didn’t bother her, though. She liked making sure everything was in its right place.
She slunk toward the bar, nodding at the bartender. Wordlessly, he slid a tumbler of Macallan neat toward her, then waved her away when Tasha began to pull out a crisp 20. She shrugged and put the money away before taking a deep slug. “Who do I owe the pleasure?” she asked wryly.
Phanuel shook her head at the bartender, hoping the singer wouldn’t notice, then returned to nursing her own drink.
Combine Tasha’s stone cold sober state with her innate senses of observation, and the result was her noticing the gyration of head that was happening next to her. She turned slightly in her stool, lifting the glass in salute. “Not what I was expecting, but thank you.”
Tasha drained the glass and set it on the bar. The bartender immediately filled it again; he knew the score when she was around. “Good man.”
The woman pounded back her alcohol with as much fervor as she did. If Phanuel wasn’t careful, she could get caught in a drinking contest. And that never ends well, usually for the bar owner.
“You weren’t what I was expecting either,” the blonde replied. “That last song you did. I felt it. Kudos.”
Tasha took it a little slower this time. The night was still young, yet. “Thank you,” she replied, sincerely. It was still a nice little thrill when someone vibed with her performances. She swept her dark-eyed gaze over the mysterious benefactor.
“I don’t know if I’ve noticed you here before. But then again, I’m usually out here looking for someone to go home with,” Tasha told her bluntly. It wasn’t the best feeling, returning to a cold, empty bed, especially not when drunk. Gave her too much time to think and reflect.
“No doubt, you have your pick of … whomever you choose.” The subject of sex always confused Phanuel. She got the concept, and understood the (usual) end result. But since Adam and Lillith, and then Eve, she simply didn’t understand the passion. At least the Angel’s concept of relationships had evolved faster than organized religion. She didn’t like to presume a preferred choice of gender.
Phanuel took another sip of her drink. Thankfully there were no pretzels nearby.
“Sometimes.” Tasha snickered quietly into her drink. It was less about picking, and more about sensing who was nearly as fucked up as she was. Who would offer the path of least resistance out of her apartment once everything was all over?
“Some people really dig the whole aesthetic.” She gestured to herself. “I might play it up, but don’t tell anyone.”
“Lips are sealed.” Mostly because she didn’t understand the desire of sleeping with musicians. Or with anyone.
Tasha reached inside her purse, flipping the cap off an orange bottle and grabbing an oblong white pill. Looking away, she swallowed the tablet, chasing it with liquor. Once done, she turned back to the woman beside her.
“Appreciate it.”
Phanuel took notice of the surreptitious use of the pharmacy-grade opioid; the pill bottle the most obvious clue, and rinsing with alcohol suggested it wasn’t an antibiotic.
“Where does it hurt?”
Her eyes crinkled with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Tasha wasn’t quite sure where this was heading. “What?” She laughed, taking another sip of whisky. “I mean, my wrist is a little tired from playing, but…”
Tasha trailed off, her gaze turning straight ahead.
“I’ve been around long enough to recognize pill bottles and their contents, and I don’t think that was for your wrist,” the Angel replied, bluntly. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m not always so fucking nosy.”
Phanuel finished her vodka tonic and ordered another.
The Macallan seemed to be loosening her own tongue, as well. “34 broken bones,” she answered quietly. “Not to mention hairline fractures, a concussion, a broken eye socket…” Tasha finished the second round. Why bother nursing it?
“And the knowledge of looking death in the face, and wanting it, but being completely snubbed when you needed it the most.” She raised the empty glass. “Cheers.”
“But you should’ve seen the other guy,” Phanuel joked, hoping to lighten the mood ever so slightly. Like sex, comedy wasn’t her strong suit. The bartender returned with her sixth vodka tonic, and the bottle of Macallan for the singer.
She considered the ways someone would get that damaged and survive. “Car accident?”
“You could certainly call it a wreck,” Tasha smirked. After the four demons she had been trailing had been done, she could have passed for a hit-and-run victim. “The person who found me and took me to the hospital sends me birthday cards. It’s so fucking depressing.”
She shook her head, dark braids following suit.
”You could certainly call it a wreck… The person who found me and took me to the hospital sends me birthday cards.”
The hairs on Phanuel’s arm raised. There was an important detail missing from the woman’s story, something she was hiding.
’Because she wouldn’t be believed?’
“It was no accident.”
Phanuel didn’t understand why she cared to know, but still, she did.
Christ, she wanted a cigarette. She mentally shook her fist at Nevada’s state-wide ban. And she wasn’t feeling the long walk outside to light up, either. “No, not an accident,” Tasha agreed.
Some past-life remnant of recognition was sparking inside her. “There’s something about you, isn’t there?” She squinted a little, gesturing vaguely. “You’re…something.” Tasha didn’t take her for a demon. No, there was something kind of soothing about her.
Phanuel took a sip of the vodka tonic. “I could say the same thing about you,” she deflected. “You’re not just a struggling musician. As least, you weren’t.”
Normally, the Angel was good at identifying species. Vampire, human, demon, Quezoquatal. (Granted, she hadn’t seen one of those since twenty twelve.) This woman gave off a distinct human vibe, but her body language suggested more. There was a subtext to the way she rested at the bar. A quick glance saw one foot firmly planted on the floor, as if ready to make a move quickly should one be required. And the way she scoped the room. As if keeping one eye out for trouble.
And yet, she couldn’t quite place the what.
“I’m on my second career.” Tasha weighed her words carefully, even though she had already cultivated a pretty steady buzz. “The first one was...a forced retirement.” That wasn’t entirely true. Her family took great pains to remind her that she had made a choice. They hadn’t been on the receiving end of the demons’ message, though. Quit now, or next time would be even more unpleasant.
The pieces of the puzzle were all there; Phanuel just couldn’t find the outside corners to begin putting it together. ’Forced retirement? Who retires after having nearly every bone in your body broken? Soldiers. But she didn’t mention bullets. That would indicate a more… intimate attack.’
So she was assuming it was an attack. ’Remember the body language. And the drinking.’
Fuck. It was on the tip of her tongue.
“Were you in the Ultimate Fighting Championships?”
“Nah, they get paid. Mine was sort of a calling.” Tasha debated on a third drink, but decided against it, for now. This conversation was too weird and interesting. It had been a minute since she’d had one of those. Probably not since Audrey, staying up ‘til past dawn, just talking.
“If I tell you something, can we both pretend it’s just the liquor talking?”
’Mine was sort of a calling.’ Aha.
Phanuel leaned in, conspiratorially. There was the missing piece. “You were a hunter.”
‘Well, shit.’ She got there first. Tasha nodded slowly, a certain underwater feeling coming over her. “Circle gets the square.” She took out a cigarette anyway, not lighting it, just to hold something tangible.
“How do you know about that?”
The Angel hadn’t pegged the woman for a Hollywood Squares fan. Then again, two minutes ago, she wouldn’t have thought she was a hunter. The brunette was an onion. If she kept peeling at the layers, Phanuel wondered, what else would she find?
“I’ve been around a long time. I’ve seen my fair share.” The Angel remembered Derek and Tomas.
“Say no more.” Tasha didn’t need to know the fine print. She could sense no threat from this strange, perceptive woman. “You’ve got a name? I keep thinking of you as ‘strange woman’ in my head.”
“Phanuel.” There was a remote chance the former hunter might twig to the name. “And what’s yours, then? I missed the start of your set.”
Phanuel. Maybe in her earlier state, it would have jived. “Tasha.” She fished around in her purse, finding a dog-eared card. She slid it across to Phanuel. It was mostly used for bookings, but whatever. It’s not like she ever ran out.
It would read ’Tasha Sloan, available for…’ It was decidedly lame.
“Nice to meet you, Tasha Sloan.” Phanuel pocketed the card in her pocket. (Thank whoever invented those, she really hated carrying a purse.) No seeming recognition from the brunette regarding her lineage; it just went to show, the world was slowly moving from Christianity.
Tasha nodded, checking the time on her phone. “Well, if I ever see you around again, I’ll dedicate a song to you. To Phanuel, with the good taste…” The bartender motioned to her empty glass, and she shook her head ‘no’.
“I’m sure we’ll meet again.” She raised her glass to the singer. “Good hunting,” Phanuel continued, with a wink.
“Not bloody likely,” Tasha countered darkly. She knew Phanuel was referring to something else, but the phrase still struck out at her. “And you should run a paid confessional booth. There’s something about you, I can’t quite place it, that just makes it okay to spill all your dirty little secrets. But somethin’ tells me that isn’t your intention, at all.”
“Nope, I just have that kind of face.” Phanuel smiled to Sloan; not a practiced smile that many wore to hide their true selves, but one borne of good will, as befit the (former) Face of God.
“And where do you think Charles Schultz got Lucy’s psychiatrist booth idea from?”
Tasha raised an eyebrow, but decided to roll with it. “And you would be Lucy? Where’s your football?” She mouthed the cigarette, a finger around her lighter. In a moment, she would take the initiative to head outside.
In a moment.
She didn’t miss a beat. “In my storage locker.” It was near impossible to tell if Phanuel was telling the truth.
“Of course. Where else would it be?”
Tasha stood slowly from the stool, holding her free hand out to Phanuel. “Thanks for the tea and sympathy,” she quipped. “But I should probably head out.” The night air was calling her name.
Phanuel was sufficiently buzzed and, as such, her guard was down. She reached out and shook Sloan’s hand.
Contact.
Shit.
Memories flooded her brain; Phanuel relived the singer’s trauma and recovery, and her decision to walk away from family.
“For what it’s worth,” she offered, “you made the right career choice. Most singers outlive hunters.”
“Not the singers who live like me,” Tasha fired back with a good-natured smile. She gave Phanuel a small salute. “See you around, not so mysterious stranger.” With that, she drifted back toward the stage. She would use the back exit to enjoy her smoke.