| Recovery |
[14 May 2008|06:47pm] |
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mood |
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[[Non Journal Entry]]
After escaping the bar and the fucked up ambush by the inept government Bethany wound up in alley, losing most and practically all of her stomach contents. Apparently the tear gas hadn’t agreed with her the moment she’d hit fresh air.
She slumped back against the nearby wall and lifted a very bruised hand to her mouth, wiping away traces of vomit before she coughed, feeling her eyes burning. She was still for a moment before she pushed away from the wall and straightened up slowly.
Bethany was well aware that the cut on her eyebrow would blossom into a black eye and she could feel a cut in her lower lip, she must have caught it when she had been busy slaughtering whoever stood in her way.
Things were not helped by the fact she was a little dizzy and somewhat disorientated. Slayer or no Slayer, she was still vulnerable to things, like concussion for example. Apparently the guy had had a harder head than she’d given him credit for.
Her eyes were streaming, not because of any emotional outburst, but because they were still suffering from the after effects of the gas that she’d spent far too long in the middle of.
The knife still clasped in her hand was spun across her palm and eased back into the thigh sheath. There was no more need for it unless somebody was stupid enough to try and take her on now. Hopefully they wouldn’t. She was lacking in mercy today.
Bethany reached up and caught a hold of the black ribbon, loosening it and letting it catch in the cool night breeze before she merely shook out her blonde hair, it was time to lose herself and be lost to the darkness.
And then she could make plans.
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| It Comes Down to This |
[14 May 2008|09:22pm] |
It was so late by the time Connor got to Rhiannon's apartment that it was early, the first weak rays of dawn starting to turn the sky a light pinkish orange. He was exhausted. He was hungry. He stank. He was also still furious, his steps stiff-legged as he moved down the street past the silent stores and parked cars.
He checked the street when he reached the Slayer's building, found it empty, started up the stairs to her door. He didn't even know what he intended to do when he got there, if he wanted to talk or yell or fight or what. He could still smell the tear gas clinging to his clothes, and he coughed at the top of the stairs and spat over the railing to clear his mouth of some of the aftertaste. Then again, wishing he had some water.
When he felt like most of a human being, the Destroyer rapped on the door sharply with his knuckles, which were still bruised. Was she even home?
No.
When the striking force of his sore fist hit the door, Rhiannon was still a block away on foot. The clothes on her body were a modified version of an Agent’s riot uniform—an undershirt and tactical pants tucked into heavy boots. She had stripped off the thermal shirt and coat earlier, and unless the odors of small-time chemical warfare and smoke could be laundered out, she didn’t plan to put them back on. A low bun of dark hair was still tied at the base of her neck.
The neighborhood where Rhiannon lived was empty, an industrial area that had died off and attempted to revitalize itself with loft-style apartments that never took off. She could walk the streets nearest her place for blocks and not see another human being after dark. Connor stuck out like a sore thumb.
She drummed her fingers against a brick building. There was only one reason he’d be there, and she knew it without having to start a conversation. He wanted to know for sure if she’d been part of that raid, and maybe he wanted to exercise a little aggression if he found out she was.
“You pissed?” she asked, coming up the sidewalk.
( Pissed Doesn't Cover It )
( But This Might )
( For a Girl )
[Edited to Add Content]
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