Who: Pscipolnitsa, the Automated Voice [NPC], Open Narrative [Be creative.] When: 3 pm, Tuesday. Where: A phone booth/street, downtown. Ratings: TBD
"Miss Day, is it?"
"Yes, this Nitsa Midday."
"Miss Day, do you realize your description matches a woman who, over the past fifty years or more, is wanted in several states?"
The voice over the phone was strangely automatic, but very live - it was as if the Automated Voice was, indeed, a real person, and it spoke to her in such a way where she could not decipher its true origin, or its gender. Pscipolnitsa caught her lower lip between her teeth, and glanced out onto the street. It had been a very - nearly insanely - surreal week.
"Miss Day, may we come to your business, what, Midday's Herbs'n'Things, to speak with you?"
And she finally spoke. Her mind had been caught in the tangled, bloody trail she seemed to leave without realizing. She started to think pissing off angels in the 1950's wasn't so smart, or mingling with new gods of unpopular political systems. "... No. You may not. I know who you and what you are, and you are not welcome at my store."
"We have already spoken with a Ms. Beatrice Yvette." They'd spoken to Baba Yaga? And survived? The lady had certainly become docile in the 21st century. "We insist on meeting with you." Was Beatrice dead? Had they slain Old Irontooth?
"...Fine. Send your people. But do not enter the store. We'll talk on the yellow brick pathway, near the lavendar."
"Miss Day?"
And she'd hung up, slithered from the phone booth, with a deep and unyielding chill. She needed a cigarette. She seemed to retreat into her Fall coat, bringing the collar up around her chin.