It had started with a magnificent killer hangover, which she'd pretty much begged for and done everything short of coma to achieve, during which Goth persistently sat at her laptop - she was feeling nothing short of masochistic, so why not inflict some more agonizing pain on her abused brain? The light seemed to burn all the way through her eyeballs to the very back of her skull, searing everything in its path, in a blissful, agonizing torment. Once or twice she had been close to passing out - her mortal body was resilient, but not that much.
The pain had receded slowly throughout the day. And then - brilliant idea! - she decided that making a journal post focused on the Christians sounded like a fucking good plan. Nevermind that she knew it would eventually lead to that, as her downfalls tended to. Feel dull, rant, rage, plead, calm down, panic because of the chaos caused. Lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseam.
And Punk was back. The bastard had a perfect sense of timing - just a day too late to prevent her from blowing up shit. Probably so he couldn't be blamed and enjoy all the scene from the backstage. That was definitely like him.
How she missed him.
Punk belonged in the States, but Goth's home was in London. In that they were opposites, but this city still felt alien to her. There were plenty enough mortals attuned to her, but there was no pull from the rest of the subculture media. It unhinged her, and - well, no matter how it unhinged it was leaving her, it was no bloody excuse for that bloody fucking mess she had got tangled in because of a pretty pair of eyes.
Knowing that the older culture god was in the city had, however, managed to rein in some of the insanity. If someone ever could instill some sense into that red head, it was Punk. Not quite a father figure, more like the dearly loved brother, over a decade older. She could rant and yell and rage at him, and he hit back just as hard. It was invigorating, and a healthy throwback to her earlier days. And he was a damned good cook.
And thus it was that Goth was hopping off a bus just outside of SoHo, a multitude of long red braids dancing with her movements, platform leather boots splashing on the puddles on the sidewalk. Punk sang of her origins, and thus she was clad in a vivid mix of color, plaid red skirt over black leggings and matching tank top, complemented by black mittens and fishnet from elbow to shoulder and covered with the obligatory trenchcoat. Her bag, slung over one shoulder, carried the precious beverage.
Nothing could be the same without vodka, after all.
Walking down the block, she found Punk's door and pressed the buzzer for a long moment.