Notorious in Small Circles
Who: Molly Burroughs, John Abbott What: Introduction and Deep Thoughts After a Wrap Party When: Late at Night Where: Unnamed Bar Near Plainsite Rating: Mild (Some Language)
Molly enjoyed wrap parties -- there was a certain sense of accomplishment to be had, another notch on her belt, a successful end to her part of the process. This particular wrap was a boisterous one, spilling out from the studio party to a neighborhood bar, but her crew had begun to slowly filter away, even though she’d wanted to hold on just a little longer to that feeling -- they’d been a good crew, they’d worked well together, and while she’d work with most of them again, there could be a bittersweet feeling of loss in addition to the happiness of finishing something well.
She was also putting off going back to her small apartment for just a little bit longer, if she had to admit it.
Elliot made her entirely too self-aware, and while she knew he’d leave soon enough (he’d made that quite clear), she wanted to not think about how he’d be there when she got back, pleasantly polite due to his sense of obligation and duty, making her feel…
...things she didn’t want to think about.
So she reached for another drink after her assistant bowed out for the evening, instead of leaving like she should.
As the energy waned like a cooling of embers, a man pulled at the door handle and crossed the threshold. He brought a puff of warm air from the street. In a dinner jacket and crisp white shirt, open at the neck, he looked fresh out for the evening though it was nearing midnight. He noticed that the bar smelled of people, but there were few. Empty glasses crowded the tables, curls of lemon resting on their bottoms.
John picked up a napkin, tidy except for a blot of coral lipstick.
“It looks as though I’ve missed the party.” He smiled at the brunette. A bartender meandered into John’s line of sight. He lifted two fingers and ordered a drink, rubbing at his jaw as he waited for it to be poured.
“Hmph,” Molly replied, snorting a bit as she reached for her own drink, a gin and tonic (she was slowing down a bit). “You could say that, yeah.” She shrugged. “S’ Hollywood,” she added, “There’ll be another one tomorrow.”
The man had a smooth British accent, and was handsome in a darkly broody sort of way.
“Mm. A trait I admire,” John agreed and accepted his scotch. He lifted it in the woman’s direction. He drank a bit and concluded that it was a good bottle, aromatic enough to hint at cinnamon and orange. As it settled in his throat, the vampire surveyed her from the corner of his eye. Her face held an interesting quality, some character that he recognized but could not put his finger on. He thought it might be her nose.
“Do you mind if I join you?” John tapped a seat back nearby. “Otherwise, I’ll wind up sitting here and then we’ll be left to drink in polite, if a bit awkward, proximity.”
“Riiiiight,” Molly drawled, shooting him a skeptical look before shrugging a little. “Free country,” she added, “although, really, fair warning, awkward is my middle name, so it’s bound to head there no matter what. Molly,” she added, raising her glass.
She hoped to God he wasn’t a pick up artist.
If he was, the accent was probably a fake one, but he didn’t appear to be wearing goggles or a feather boa, which was something.
At least she wasn’t getting that little tingle in the back of her head -- the ‘something’s wrong’ tingle -- now that’d saved her bacon a few times.
John blinked at the greeting, his head making a barely perceptible shake as he sat. Aloud he noted, “I have never felt more simultaneously welcome and unwelcome in my life.” He settled in, elbow at ease on the table. “John.”
A server swept in to remove empty bottles and glasses. John’s fingers hovered on the rim of his.
“Was it someone’s birthday? An engagement party? It seems as if those leave at least one person down in the mouth. I hope that’s not what you’re doing, but you have a look of… something. It’s in the shoulders.” He reached up to point at his. “And if not, my god, you have appalling posture.” He smiled.
“Wrap party,” Molly replied, laughing a little despite herself. “And you’d get along fabulously with my mother,” she added, a bit of a tease in the tilt of her head and the flash in her eyes.
“It’s a mixed bag,” she added, “ending a good shoot. And this one was a good one. Circle of life, though.” She leaned a bit towards him. “You in the biz at all?” She asked. “You have that slightly hungry look that says you just might be.”
“Ahhh…” His hand flicked in the space between them, an air of uncertainty in the gesture and his expression. “Yes and no. Or rather, not just yet. I’m a writer.” John fiddled with his collar as he explained, “A studio has bought the rights to one of my projects, so this sort of thing,” he shrugged at the vestiges of a party, “It’s a part of my future, I suppose. Though if I’m honest, I’m not certain how I feel about it. Notoriety, I mean, outside of academe or... “ His voice became a whisper. “Sci-fi conventions.”
“Hah,” Molly replied, “the horror, the horror.” She paused, looking him up and down. “Congratulations on that, truly,” she said. “That’s a bit like winning the lottery, yeah? How much creative control do you think you’ll be able to get? Or did you just… sign off the rights? I’ve seen it both ways -- each has their challenges.”
She tapped her drink on the side of the bar. “And fame…” she shrugged a little. “People behind the scenes can live lives that are a little more private. It’s not inevitable. Unless that’s what you want.”
She looked over to him, and raised her eyebrow. “So what’s your pitch?” She asked, grinning a little. “C’mon, lay it on me.”
John rested his chin in his palm. “Quite a bit of control, I’m pleased to say. At least I think I am.” His nose wrinkled. Doubt crept over his features. “Shit. Should I not be?” The whisky sailed down his esophagus as he contemplated this new angle: could it be a bother, having a say-so into things?
He forced himself to focus on what else she’d asked. “The pitch… Now that, I never would’ve gotten away with it, were it not a proven commodity in print and digital media. I literally can’t imagine anyone going for the script without knowing the books were a success, and I actually think my publisher was drunk when she took those on. But!” He held up a finger. “In a nutshell… It’s a battle between two worlds. One technologically advanced, utopian on the surface, but with a dark underbelly. The other war-torn, polluted, sick, but for all its problems, one with a better grasp on what it means to be human. And it’s about a fight to determine which society, which… creatures... deserve to survive.”
“What it means to be human…” Molly echoed, taking a drink. “Now that’s an interesting turn of phrase. What does it mean to be human, by your definition? Especially since it sounds like neither of the groups are. Human, I mean.” She shrugged. “It’s late, I’m buzzed, why not get all existential and shit. Isn’t that what conversations in bars between strangers are for?”
She paused. “And hold up,” she said, “so you’re actually notorious at sci-fi conventions?” She gave him a once over. “Well then. That’s a first.”
“Oh, much better than notorious,” he said, his smile growing rakish. “Iconic!”
He raised his glass at the waitstaff, indicating his desire for a second round. A man with John’s constitution couldn’t putter about if he hoped for a buzz; he needed strong drinks in rapid succession. “To your question, there are humans. Quite a few characters are human. But that’s not the same as homo sapien. Or is it? Can a monster be more human than a woman?” He saluted her with his glass. “A lovely one, but with ordinary DNA? Certainly we know of ordinary people who are devoid of humanity.”
John slouched on the table, his mind alive with questions and curiosity, even if his body indicated a sort of malaise. “And isn’t it strange how the word human gains and loses so much with context? ‘You’re only human’, we say of someone who’s made a terrible mistake. And yet when someone deserves better treatment, we say, ‘That’s a human being!’ Which is it?”
He shook his head. “Funny word, human.”
“Who you callin’ ordinary?” Molly drawled, before grinning a little and rolling her eyes. If you only knew, bucko.
“See, now, here’s where I’m gonna get pedantic as fuck,” Molly added, “because the word ‘human,’ it implies homo sapien -- I mean, that’s pretty much what it is -- the species, or whatever. I get leniency due to being slightly drunk. A word like ‘people’ -- it covers a ton more ground. And there’s, like, human culture, and human rules and laws, but what about universal shit? What if there was an alien who walked in the door? Or like, I don’t know. A dragon. Would we call ‘em human? Nah. Would they be people, deserving of basic respect? I say yes.”
She pointed a finger at him. “So by that reckoning, what makes the people in that second world of yours more… peopley than the first world? Is it suffering? Tell me it isn’t just suffering.”
“Oh, loads of it. My god, the suffering! In fact, that’s what I’ve called the second book in the series.” He nodded, murmuring gratitude as his next libation arrived. “No, what makes them more human is their ability to…” He set his fingertips on the table and sorted his way through his thoughts, “To have borne witness to a spectrum of experiences and to recognize that humanity… well, it isn’t one thing, is it? Not just the tidiest thing, the most respectable thing. That ‘humanity’ can be ugly, or complicated, or vengeful, or downright stupid! But still redeemable. And, perhaps, not always homo sapien, as you have proposed. Yes, yes in the origin of the word, but I think it’s come to mean much more than that.”
He paused for a moment. “Well, that was self-indulgent! Molly, what do you do? Promise me you’re not a screenwriter.” He chuckled and gulped his drink.
“Oh, God no,” Molly replied. “Second AD at Plainsite. Backstage grunt. Make sure the trains run on time, and tell everyone where to be and when, and what their lines are.” She shrugged. “M’ good at it,” she added, “and it’s a good studio to work for.”
She leaned back. “So. People as messy, suffering, varied, and redeemable. I can dig it.”
John’s eyebrows shot high. “Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on stealing your wallet or any other nefarious deeds, seeing as we’ll be rubbing shoulders on the lot.”
He studied her anew, not bothering to disguise this scrutiny. Then, bending as if to retrieve an object from the floor, he came up empty-handed. “Not even a furry tail!” he half-mouthed. “I heard rumors about the place but I shouldn’t put stock in those.”
Molly snorted. “Barkin’ up the wrong tree, bub,” she said, “or should I say species?” She laughed. “And right, the rumors. Welcome to the team,” she said, cheerfully, “don’t wear silver jewelry, and don’t eat too much garlic for dinner. We also have footage of the faked moon landing and Area 51 alien autopsies.” She shrugged, grinning. “I’m a witch,” she added, waggling her fingers. “Nothin’ but wall to wall freaks at Plainsite. You’ll fit in just fine.”
“Impressive!” he said drolly. “So let’s see. As witchcraft, werewolves, aliens, conspiracy nuts, and the evil vampire are all taken, I wonder… what could a simple man offer to a band of freaks such as that?” John mused. “Don’t suppose wendigo has been taken? I’ve been known to sacrifice myself on occasion. For a good cause.”
“Done,” Molly replied. She tilted her head, a thought slower to emerge due to the buzz she was working. “See, now,” she added, “you gotta be consistent, dude. Are vampires inherently evil? Or are they capable of humanity? Yes, I used your word,” she added, grinning, “because personanity doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be unbiased about those,” he murmured and wrinkled his nose. “Awful. Unilaterally.” John swiped a hand between them, then continued in a conspiratorial tone, “Do you know, one of them bit my sister? Much as I’d like to be above stereotyping, not judge all by the actions of some, I’m not perfect. Just because I write about it doesn’t make me capable of it. Are you?”
Molly blinked, and looked at him, concerned. “Oh,” she said, a serious expression crossing her face. “Shit. I’m sorry. Did she die?” She shook her head. “I… I mean, I’m not expecting perfection from anyone. Least of all me.” She frowned. “S’ more complicated in practice than, you know, hypotheticals.” She shot him a sideways glance.
John took the slim, red stirrer from his drink and jabbed at the air. “She did die… And yet didn’t. Hmm… ‘S a long time ago, no need to harshen the moment. If I’m honest with myself -- and sometimes I am -- she wasn’t much worse with fangs than she was as a girl. Just hungrier. All types of creatures act out when they’re hungry. Truly hungry, I mean, not… snackish.”
He sat up, tossed the stirrer aside, and drummed his palms on the tabletop. “You said I looked hungry when I approached you. I always am. Although I think it’s more of an itch beneath the surface. Do you ever have those? Can’t get at it, no matter how hard you try?”
Molly’s expression shifted from one of pity -- she understood how fear and anger could warp a person, but to have the view that one’s own sister was part of that ‘unilaterally awful’ was a tragedy -- to something a fraction more guarded.
Her spidey sense still hadn’t kicked in just yet, though, her personal Danger Danger Will Robinson, and she knew from experience that booze didn’t keep it from activating.
“I suppose we all have itches we can’t scratch,” she said, “and some cause more damage than others. Especially when it gets to the point where a body loses the will to keep from acting on it, or it hurts other people in the process.”
“Mine’s always been a search for something that moves me and never stops. I once thought I had alcoholism, but I think that was to deal with the other. I guess it could be productive. An artist driven to create, never finding closure because there’s always some new wonder. Or an athlete driven to go higher, farther, faster. Not me, that one.” He chuckled. “I’d rather,” he stirred his hand over the floor, “Roll around on a rusty bed of nails than go for a jog.”
He finished his drink. “Do you know you say next to nothing concrete about yourself, aside from occupation? Or maybe that’s to do with me and how I never stop talking…” He drifted off with a look of cheerful guilt. “I’m very arrogant.”
Molly snorted. “Perceptive and arrogant,” she said, picking up her glass. “No offense intended. I tend to not spill my guts to strangers. I prefer to leave an air of mystery,” she added loftily, a grin tucking into the corner of her mouth. She tipped her chin. “That bein’ said, seeing as how we’re going to be co-workers and all, I suppose stranger doesn’t quite capture it. Why, you curious about anything in particular?” She took a drink. “I reserve the right to veto,” she said, a prim expression on her face.
“Very well. Two things come to mind. You pick which to answer, unless you’re feeling ambitious,” he teased, a twinkle in his eye. “First… I noticed in describing your job, second AD for a major studio — a creative force in Hollywood — you mentioned nothing of passion, only skill. Why is that? Second… what’s the most frightening part of being a witch?”
Molly made a considering noise, leaning back in her chair. “Part of it’s the job description,” she said. “The key is consistency, yeah? Steady hand at the helm. My job is to deliver the product, not to put my own spin on it.” She bit her lip, and reached for her glass. “I suppose it’s less passion, and more… pride? Maybe someday I’ll want something more, but right now? It’s a good fit.”
She shrugged. “As far as the second, I suppose it’d be what other people think about it. Being an object of scrutiny. Being seen as different.”
“Really? That frightens you?” John turned his empty glass in a tight circle on the table, his interest in her increasing. As plain-spoken as she seemed, he now suspected the woman had layers. “I may have had you wrong, this whole time. I would’ve guessed you couldn’t give two shits what anyone thought.”
Molly rolled her eyes, her grin wry. “Everyone cares about what other people think, John. They just differ on what they care about, and who.”
She sighed, then, and tapped her finger against her drink. “Speaking of other people… s’ late,” she said, “and the later it gets, the more inconsiderate I’m gonna be. Much as it’s been fun shooting the shit with you, and it has,” she added, tipping her glass his way in a salute, “I’m gonna bow out. I’m sure I’ll see you around?”
“You probably couldn’t avoid it if you tried.” He laughed and raised a bit from his seat, manners carrying him that far, at least. “Good night, Molly. It’s been a pleasure.”
The vampire had a look at his watch to determine his next move, whether it be finding a new table or paying his tab and heading out.