Who: Wash and Cindy What: Gremlin Hunting and talk of Dreams and OC weirdness Where: Local movie theater When: Sometime during the Gremlin Infestation Rating/Warning: Low to medium, maybe? Violence, blatant disregard for private property and dead gremlins Status: Complete!
No one really expected a badass to go patrolling the streets in a fucking pumpkin coach but, you see, Cindy was no ordinary badass. She was a specially trained spy, she was a terrible diplomat, a fighter, a businesswoman, a princes, thank you, hailing from the Homelands in her dreams - a fairytale cacophony that was chock full of more politics than you could shake a stick at - and from here, good old Atlanta, Georgia. Her stepmother’s family manor, on an indigo plantation (or what used to be one) was about as castle-like as she was going to get. Not that she introduced herself with ‘hello, my name is Cinderella, yes, that Cinderella, and I have a pumpkin coach’ very often - or at all. But when shit hit the fan in her happy home, the best introductions were often made with a bang,
Besides, her husband recalibrated the pumpkin coach for her (it was technically one of their first dates, their first big project together and what got them spending time in each other’s presence?) and she was very proud of his efforts.
Why wouldn’t she be? Hunting nasty things like gremlins was so much easier when you had specialty sensors, cannons, blasters, not to mention a cloaking mechanism in place as well. When she wasn’t using the old girl, it was tucked away in a special garage in Trabuco Canyon. But bringing it out for special events was fun.
In fact, her radars were picking up a pocket of gremlin activity by the movie theater just up the block, so she headed that way, cruising down the road in her carriage. Don’t mind her.
Wash was in a mood. Almost two weeks ago he had woken up from his three-day coma-nap and had been in the best mood since fucking ages. Yeah, it had been weird and he’d questioned it at first because no one should have felt that good after working up to, and actually having, what amounted to an emotional and mental break. But, Wash was in such amazing spirits, he was willing to just shrug it off as a result of surviving his Dreams and maybe, just maybe, being finished with them. A fantastic Christmas present to have for sure.
Nope.
The day after Christmas, Wash had woken up feeling like utter Hell: physically and mentally fatigued, like he was trapped in some kind of hazy mental fog he couldn’t get himself out of. He was anxious, restless and paranoid, which would have been bad enough, except for the fact that he and Kyu were still visiting her parents, who had gotten to know him as a happy, up-beat, likable person. So, Wash had to continue that façade for the next couple of days, even though he felt furthest from that person. He didn’t even know that person, who he was, where he had come from or where he had gone.
And the cherry on top of the weird, fucked-up mental state that was his current frame of mind was that he was Dreaming again. Pleasant happy Dreams of being trapped in one of the recovery bays while his squad, his friends, fought each other, literally tore each other apart, over A.I. fragments, equipment and the very existence of the Project that they had all thought had saved them. When the dust settled, the Mother of Invention had crashed, Carolina had been lost and presumed dead (thrown over a god damn cliff by fucking Maine, what the actual hell?!) and everyone else had scattered to the winds. Wash was the only one who had remained behind if only because he’d been incapable of going anywhere. It felt as though they had forgotten he’d even existed.
So, yes, Wash was in a mood. Shooting gremlins in the streets and watching their ugly little heads explode in green gunk and fizz was extremely satisfying. Gale was right, hunting was good for the soul.
He was tracking the little fuckers now, which was incredibly easy given the trail of chaos, confusion and destruction they left behind. If only all of his bounties were this easy to trace. Wash was making his way towards the movie theater at a casual pace, reloading his pistol as he went. Why the hell not? Was someone going to arrest him for open carry? He was just doing pest control. No big deal. You want these little fuckers running amok? No, of course you don’t.
Of course the issue of Wash openly wielding his gun in public was quickly made moot when he caught sight of the carriage rumbling along the street headed for the same movie theater. Wash stopped and stared at it as it passed him. In of itself the carriage would have warranted only a passing glance, but this particular carriage looked like a pumpkin and moreover was outfitted for war. A war pumpkin. Go figure.
Wash raised a brow and slid his gun’s magazine back into place before jogging after the carriage. If that was, in fact, Cinderella’s coach, this was a woman he wanted to meet.
She recognized him, actually. Yep, Cindy sure did, when she glanced behind her and saw the sandy-haired dude running after her prized weapon of war. So she slowed up a bit (not that she was zooming along at warp speed anyway - usually this method of transportation required horses and a coachman, but it had been tweaked a little) and lowered one of the blasters - the coach had firepower, but she wanted to make sure that the go boom zone was free of civilians first.
“Hey!” She leaned out the window, turning to look at him. “I know you, I think?” They had mutual friends in common, friend of a friend, whatever, it wasn’t entirely important. “Can you give the place a sweep up ahead and let me know if it’s clear? Because this movie theater probably won’t survive the day.”
Cindy just bet those gremlins had gotten into the snack counter - butter and popcorn and jujubees everywhere.
So the Cinderella Wash had grown up knowing was a demure maiden with a soft spoken nature and oozing saccharin sweet kindness. He hadn’t expected the Cinderella of Orange County to be locked and loaded and speaking as though she was comfortable as hell in a combat situation. He actually preferred this version.
She hadn’t exactly given him an order, but it was best to adhere to the requests of women in war pumpkins as such. “Roger,” he called up to her.
Gun still drawn and aimed at the ground, Wash made his way around the carriage in a tactical walk and keeping his back to the vehicle. Steel grey eyes up and trained on the entrance to the movie theater. It looked calm from the outside, but Wash knew looks could be deceiving. The calmer the environment, the worse the shit that could possibly go down. Once he was on the other side of the carriage, he raised his gun and did a visual sweep of the immediate area - left to right and back again. No civilians. No gremlins, either. Good on the former, too bad on the latter.
Slowly, Wash made his way towards the theater’s front entrance. The glass doors and windows were tinted, which meant whoever or whatever was inside could see out, but he couldn’t see in. Wash hated that. In his sweep he noticed a blind spot in the windows between the box office and the first set of automatic doors. Perfect.
Wash quickly made a line for the spot, pressing his back to the metal support between the windows and doors. Gun raised, he paused a moment to listen. He could hear…something going on behind the door. Something just loud enough to penetrate the glass, but not quite loud enough to be identified. Wash ducked down and moved backwards to the box office’s pony wall. Once there he raised his head just enough to peer over the counter and through the ticket slot.
From this vantage point, he had a descent, although limited view of the concession stand. And it was wrecked. Wash could see bits of popcorn flying through the air like confetti. A soda machine was dumping ten different flavors of soda and ice all over the counter. Candy wrappers littered the space. If any civilians were still trapped inside, Wash didn’t see them.
Once the situation was assessed as much as possible through the box office ticket slot, Wash made his way back to Cindy.
“The little fuckers are having a grand ol’ party in there,” he reported. “Didn’t see any civilians within.” He cocked a brow slightly. “Just what are you planning to do with that thing?”
Cindy rolled her eyes, baby blues to the sky and back on a rocket of sarcasm. “Ugh, of course they are,” she sighed. Because from what she remembered of gremlin lore (it had been a really long time since she’d seen those fine pieces of celluloid), they really did love their parties. And making messes. And generally being reptilian trolls for humans, with their scaly skin and teeth and claws. Nasty little fuckers, that was for sure.
Figured that Orange County would be hosting an infestation of them around the holidays.
“Well, I’m going to try out the heavy artillery on this sucker,” she said, stroking her chin. It looked clear from her end too - the whole ‘people running and screaming out of the place’ thing had already happened, because who wanted to stick around when gremlins were ruining your moviegoing experience? “There’s a machine gun and also a cryo-blaster; it’ll freeze everything, including them. My husband just did some re-calibrations on our baby.”
The pumpkin carriage was special to them - Garrus worked on it a lot, to keep it in prime condition for situations like, well, today. “Which would you rather see?”
Wash really wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm, but she out gunned him and just because she claimed she knew him didn’t mean squat. So he kept any biting remarks that sprang forth to himself.
“Your husband,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. He let his eyes pass over the carriage, getting a better look at it and what exactly it had on it. Who the hell had she married, exactly? Whoever he was, it was clear that they had a special set of skills.
Wash turned his grey eyes back up at Cinderella. Or was it Cindy? They called her Cindy here. Who was “they”? Judging by the firepower on the coach, probably Lina. But maybe Leli. Or Gale?
Fuck it, didn’t matter.
“The cryo-blaster sounds interesting,” he said at last. “But, I’ve been getting personal enjoyment out of filling the gremlins with lead. Splattering the walls of this place would be nice since, you know, it’s not gonna survive anyway. Your weapons, though, your choice. Go nuts.”
Don’t get your panties in a twist, Broody McBrooderson. That was just a taste of her charm - take it or leave it, or get out of the way. “Have you?” she grinned a bit - because maybe the Cinderella from stories was a sweet, bat-the-lashes type, but this one had a little bit of a mean streak and she was the first to admit it. Especially against people or things that liked to ruin her day - honestly, she had enough, given that her dreams were done and she was dead. The holidays were meant for relaxing, not for obliterating pests. A spare minute to roast a chestnut or two would have been nice!
“Fair enough. I’ll give you a good show,” she promised, and pushed a few buttons to situate the machine gun - she was in a decent enough range, and since the movie theater lobby was clear of civilians, the shattering shrapnel and bullets wouldn’t strike squishy parts she didn’t want them to strike.
In a round of gunfire, she let it rip. Through the glass, which exploded, debris scattering every which way along with goop and spare gremlin parts. Best thing about a machine gun was that it was pretty effective at obliterating everything in a decent range. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Wash holstered his gun and put his hands over his ears as shit was about to get fucking loud
And Cindy delivered on her promise of a good show. It was a great show, actually. Wash stood next to the War Pumpkin and watched the front of the cinema get obliterated. Good riddance tinted glass. And, ah. Yes. Gremlin guts exploding everywhere. Very gratifying. It was so enjoyable to watch, Wash didn’t even care about the collateral damage Cindy was causing. The theater was a lost cause anyway after being infested with gremlins. The little turds were going to destroy it anyway, Cindy and Wash were just going to make the demo easier for the owners. Insurance was more likely to cover gun fire than gremlin mess. The only thing that would have made this even more satisfying was if Wash himself got his hands on that machine gun. Ah, but there would be stragglers remaining inside for him to murder.
Once Cindy’s volley of machine gun fire had subsided, Wash lowered his hands from his ears. He turned a grin up at the woman in the coach. “You wanna come in with me and pick off the stragglers?”
If that wasn’t an invitation for fun, she didn’t know what was. “Sure thing,” Cindy responded cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just completely annihilated a pocket of creepy-crawlies. She pressed a few other buttons, ensuring that her carriage would be safe out here - you needed to know certain commands to start it up, you see - and then she hopped out, surprisingly not wearing a glittery blue dress and glass slippers, but more like a smart-looking catsuit and boots. Been awhile since she slipped into the catsuit, but it worked for her.
“I’m Cindy, by the way,” she introduced herself, checking her ammunition - she had her pistols strapped to her, and a couple of knives that had been a gift from her mama bird and maid of honor. “Completely not new to shit like this. What a place we live in, huh?”
Man, she could smell the carnage from here. And it didn’t exactly smell like a rose, those dead gremlins.
Nothing like the smell of dead gremlin in the morning. Wash waited patiently for Cindy to disembark from her coach. A brow quirked over steel grey eyes when he got sight of that cat suit. Yeesh, the fairy tales had clearly gotten everything wrong.
His instinct to identify himself by name and rank as he’d done with Leon during Midna’s transformation a couple of months ago was completely gone. Despite that Wash still wore his dog tags under his shirt, Gunnery Sergeant David Barrow had no place in this world anymore and strangely Wash wasn’t all that sad to see him go. “Wash,” he introduced himself as Cindy checked her weapons. If she knew him through the network (or through a friend of a friend), she probably knew him by that name anyway.
“Doesn’t look like this is your first rodeo,” he observed once Cindy was satisfied she had what she needed. He drew his own gun again from the holster at his back. He was sporting a pair of combat pants and a tactical vest over a black t-shirt and his trademark combat boots. You know the cliche, you can take the soldier out of the war, yadda yadda. The pants and vest each had plenty of hidey pockets for enough ammunition to take on the entire gremlin population if he so chose, which, he just may have given the amount of bullets he’d taken along with him when he left his apartment that morning. There was also a spot for his combat knife, though, Wash didn’t have much of a desire to get close enough to a gremlin to have to actually use it.
“Never a dull fucking moment,” he agreed as he started with Cindy towards the shattered theater entrance. No sense in attempting to be stealthy now. “You get the Gourd of War from your Dreams?” He asked, hitching his thumb over his shoulder towards her carriage. “The fuck goes on in your dreams?”
“Nope,” she laughed a little, heading in alongside her newfound companion. “Definitely not my first rodeo. It’s actually sort of...tame? Compared to what’s happened since I’ve been here. Which is kind of sad, now that I think about it, but - “
She shrugged, drawing her pistol. Once they got into the wreckage of the theater, there were indeed stragglers - gremlins who hadn’t been riddled by machine gun bullets. “On your right,” she advised, and bang bang bang, ducking and dodging, more bullets firing - it was sort of like a game of whack-a-mole, shooting at ugly things when they popped up and showed their faces.
Then she had a minute to answer the second question. “I dream of being Cinderella. However, it’s a ‘fairy tales migrating to the modern world’ sort of thing - lots of politics and scandal. I had the Gourd of War but it wasn’t so tricked out there,” she grinned. “My husband did that here. But yeah, Wash? Sounds familiar. Leliana was my Maid of Honor.” She was pretty sure they knew each other - Leli had mentioned him a couple times, especially in regards to her soldier boyfriend.
If Wash didn’t know any better he would have assumed Cindy to be a soldier the way she handled not only her war pumpkin’s weapons, but close quarters combat as well (if you could call gremlin extermination “combat”, but whatever). Having someone fight at his side again felt good to Wash. He’d missed it, having someone watching his back and hearing the sound of friendly fire accompany his own and the comfort that came with it. Hearing that Cindy was good enough friends with Leli for the latter to be her maid of honor explained everything.
It must have been at Cindy’s bachelorette party where Gale had appeared as a woman. The thought made Wash snicker. “Sure, I know Leliana,” he said in that minute of calm as the green mist of gremlin blood settled in the lobby. Wash went on as he reloaded his gun: “Her boyfriend is a good friend of mine. He’s mentioned you a couple of times and I think we’ve crossed paths on the network before. You own...a shoe store, right?” He gave her a crooked grin, green blood splattering one cheek and his forehead. “Fitting.” He loaded the gun’s chamber with a click-clack. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but, I wasn’t expecting the whole Gourd of War, catsuit-wearing war valkyrie thing, but I like it. Makes sense if you’re dreaming about fairytale politics modern day Game of Thrones style.”
Wash’s train of thought was derailed by the sounds of scuttling and sniggering in the ceilings overhead. He looked upwards in time to see a grande-sized cup of soda come hurdling towards him. He barely had enough time to dodge to the side to avoid getting smacked in the face with it. As it was, about a third of the soda itself ended up in his hair. Immediately he was in a crouch with his gun aimed in the direction the soda weapon had come from and saw a pair of beady eyes in an open air duct before disappearing from sight, followed by another sound of scuttling.
“Great,” he muttered as he stood up again. “They’re in the ventilation system.” he reached up to wipe away droplets of soda as they dripped down his face. “You know, this may be tame compared to some other shit that’s gone on in the past year, but this is probably the most obnoxious event.”
“Shoegasm,” Cindy responded helpfully, wiping off a slice of green goo that had handed on her. This stuff was nasty, and she was sort of craving a hot scalding shower to rid herself of the mess - but that would come later. “Yeah, most people aren’t expecting the Game of Thrones-style twist. But it’s a lot more juicy.” That made her laugh a little, as she re-loaded her own gun, extra ammo strapped to her thigh, in the convenient side pocket. At least there was time to do it - sometimes that was the drawback of pistols, and she had to go for the good, old-fashioned method of snapping a neck with her bare hands. Or between her thighs.
Having a look up, she too side-stepped the soda projectile and scowled as the sticky debris hit the floor. Those trolling little shits. “I’d be inclined to agree - level of obnoxiousness, very high,” But they could foil gremlins, of all things. They were annoying but not really masterminds in a time of war.
“Let’s find the boiler room, it’ll give us access to the air ducts. You wouldn’t happen to have a grenade to toss in there, would you?”
Grenades. That would be something useful to receive from his dreams, along with battle rifles, sniper rifles, flashbangs and bombs. Maybe even some of that goddamn alien tech or a few of those artifacts the Project was always going after. But no. The items he’d received so far had been a skateboard, a picture of a pair of cats and fucking neural implants. None of which were the least bit helpful in combat. Well, the neural implants may have been if he had his goddamn power armor, which he did not.
“No,” he grumbled irritably. “I’m a soldier both here and there and whatever power that controls these fucking dreams has yet to give me a goddamn weapon. Figure that one out.” He sighed a little bitterly and shook his head, “But if we can find the boiler room, we might be able to make it so unbearably hot in those ducts that we can ‘smoke’ the remainder out.”
“They’re not done yet, are they?” Cindy asked. She figured they weren’t - you’d know when the dreams reached a conclusion, she just hoped that his wasn’t a final nail in the literal coffin sort of thing. Then again, sometimes they could surprise you - for months she thought she was done and then she started again, tossing and turning at night. “So you may be getting some weapons yet. They’re really impossible to predict though, the dreams. Rolling with the punches from them - sometimes literal - becomes a learned OC skill.”
And sure, grenades would have been handy, but... “That’s a good idea, let’s do it,” she nodded, and the boiler room was usually in the back somewhere. “Follow the smell of fake popcorn, I’m pretty sure movie theaters pump that through the air vents to fuck with your head.” In the back or down a staircase, she wagered, so she hopped over the snack counter debris, searching for a door that would open to a stairwell. Aha!
Except the door to the actual boiler room was locked, you needed a key to gain access, but that didn’t matter. She simply kicked the door in - super strength was handy sometimes.
He had thought the Dreams had finished too, and as far as he was concerned given the shit he’d gone through that they should have been. But, from the recovery bay’s portal, thick poly of plastic shattered by the crash, Wash had watched Maine toss Carolina over the cliff as if she were a rag doll. He’d watched as Tex, Carolina’s biggest rival for number one spot on the Leader Board, run up to try to save her, skidding to a halt in the snow when she realized she was just moments too late. When the realization hit her, she had turned and run away to save herself as if she had just known she’d be next - only she didn’t have a body to throw away. Maine then walked away as if he hadn’t once taken a burst from a battle rifle to the throat to save the very woman he had just tossed to her death. That scene alone told Wash his Dreams were far from over.
“No,” he said after a couple of beats and a slight shake of his head to rid himself of image of Carolina being tossed away, used and discarded. “They’re not over.” And he was going to have to learn to roll with their punches pretty fucking quick. He knew he was going to see Maine and Tex again. And of the two of them and despite Tex being the best fighter he’d ever seen, Maine was the one he had reason to be afraid of.
Cindy jumped the concession stand counter and Wash kept an eye out over head for anymore projectiles that may have come out of the vents aimed at their heads. It’d be embarrassing as hell to be taken out now by a box of Junior Mints hurled at their heads. He could still hear movement within the ducts - the unmistakable sound of little clawed feet scampering around up there followed by tittering laughter echoed down towards the two fighters, It was as if the massacre of their gremlin brethren hadn’t just happened. Gremlins may have been nothing more than a nuisance, but that was fucking creepy as hell. Why on Earth did people think Gremlins was a Christmas movie?!
“Find it?” he called over his shoulder to Cindy when he heard the sound of a door being kicked in. He hoped so, because the longer they stayed here, the more the hair on the back of Wash’s neck stood on end.
That particular set of flicks definitely wouldn’t have been Cindy’s choice for a ‘feel good’ holiday movie experience either. But man, you’d think that people would recognize the furry babies in real life and not break all the rules to turn them into full-fledged pains in the asses, then again, she didn’t have a lot of faith in the intelligence of the average person.
“Over here!” she called back, from the darkness of the boiler room. Quickly, she found the light switch and flipped it on - and yep, they’d stumbled upon the whole air conditioning and heating system for the entire theater. A chill wasn’t what they needed, but something with a little more spice instead.
Hot, hot heat. She searched for the right panel, while the little fuckers continued to skitter and cackle overhead, in the ducts above them. “Smoked gremlin, sounds delicious.”
Smoked gremlin sounded disgusting, but Wash understood the sentiment Cindy was going for. The sooner they got the boiler cranked the sooner they could kill them. Wash joined Cindy behind the concession stand counter in the boiler room. He holstered his gun so he could help her figure out how to crank the heat.
“Where do you think they came from?” He asked. “I haven’t seen anyone on the network talking about Mogwais.” Yes, he knew the actual term for the cute fuzzy creatures from the movies. He was a geek when it came to science fiction shit, shut up.
Right, Mogwais. That’s what they were called! Cindy had been trying to remember, but couldn’t for the life of her. “I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully, opening one of the panels - and practically dusting it off, because obviously it hadn’t been used in awhile. “Some probably just popped into the OC as full-fledged gremlins, others were the...fuzzier ones, then got fed and watered. Shit works in mysterious ways here.” But Wash was well aware of that.
There was a thermostat switch for the heat, or some kind of dial, and she gave it a turn to bump it on. Which it did, clunkily so, pipes clanging and banging because heat in southern California wasn’t usually a thing (except for this winter, clearly). “I think it’s on, can you feel it?” she asked. “I’ll crank it up all the way. Then we’ll fry those bastards.”
“Mogwais,” Wash supplied again, “the fuzzy ones are called mogwais.” Nerd. “Does it work like that?” He asked, as if Cindy would know. “Doesn’t the stuff that happens here usually have to do with what someone’s dreaming? Like, for instance, the storm back in July? That came straight from Lina’s dream universe, didn’t it? Or like when Midna dreamed she transformed into a spider and then woke up as a spider? Doesn’t someone here have to be dreaming of that ‘verse in order for something from it to manifest here?” However, as he thought about it, Wash wasn’t sure who was dreaming of being gender-swapped or, more recently, of various holiday characters and renegade mistletoe. “I guess it could just be some kind of fucked up Christmas miracle or something. Because, Cindy, let’s face it, only Orange County can totally fuck up a miracle.”
When the boiler came to life with a cacophony of clanging and baning pipes, Wash stepped outside the boiler room, looking upwards at the heating vents in the ceiling. He could feel a blast of hot air come from the vent directly over head. “Yeah, I feel it. It’s working.” He reported back to her. He drew his gun again. “They’re probably going to escape out of the ducts once it gets hot in there.”
“A lot of the time stuff has to do with dream baggage, but not always. The unexplainable shit, like swapping genders or bodies or being invisibly tethered to someone for a week, that’s just typical OC voodoo,” she explained, or tried to, as the temperature began to climb - higher and higher, and in a minute, Cindy would start sweating. She could already feel perspiration on the back of her neck, rolling down slightly. Maybe making snow angels would feel pleasant after this. “Usually we can tell the difference - mostly because dream baggage is really...specific.”
That was the best way she could think of to put it into words, and she supposed that the longer you lived here, the more things began to oddly make sense - like molding and changing your perceptions of what was normal. You sensed things in the air, disturbances in your own home, and learned to pick out who was a ‘dreamer’ and who wasn’t. It was an interesting existence. One she wouldn’t want to give up.
Her own gun was drawn again, loaded and ready. “We should be ready by those vents, then? Split up?”
Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead and collect on his back and chest under the tactical vest. He brought his arm up to quickly wipe it from his face before it congealed with the soda in his hair. “My perceptions of what is considered normal have already changed,” he said. “When Gale first told me about this place it seemed really fucking out there. I read a lot of comic books, so the idea of multiverse theory was something I was already familiar with, but I thought shit like that just happened in those books, or movies. It wasn’t reality. Then Lina’s storm happened and I saw Kyu’s wings and my dreams started. I got used to them.” That probably wasn’t exactly correct. He wasn’t used to having to guess who he was, or being tortured or any of the other bad things that happened in his dreams, but they had become an accepted part of his life regardless. “So now I’m standing in an abandoned movie theater shooting up gremlins with Cinderella. And it seems perfectly...well, normal isn’t the word, but it isn’t as freaky as it probably should be.”
These were the things in his life that Orange County had changed that he was alright with. The absurdity made him feel normal. It was when he was idle without anything to focus on, without anything to fight, that he felt on edge. That was why he took bounties from Pete, so he wouldn’t be idle during the lulls in weird County-wide events. The Dreams, though, Wash doubted he would ever get used to them.
“I’ll take the back if you want the front,” he said, motioning with his free hand towards the front of the lobby. He could hear more scurrying around in the air vents. Tittering laughter had turned into hisses of discomfort and pain. Any second now the stragglers would be popping out like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
“People probably get used to the OC’s temper tantrums, or disturbances in the force, whatever you want to call it,” she grinned. “But...the dreams, no, those are really personal. And different for everyone, how they react to them.” Some chose to ignore them completely, some embraced who they were in the dreams, others struggled. For Cindy, she accepted that Cinderella was a part of her, and she’d had a good life - she’d done some good, a lot of bad, but she was always herself and she died fighting for what she believed in. So, that was something.
At any rate, the latest OC ‘hiccup’ had to be dealt with. “I’ll be in the front,” she agreed, and quickly headed that way. Back toward the destroyed snack counter, practically slipping and sliding on pools of melted butter that had dripped onto the floor - but when those gremlins broke through the vents, the few that remained?
She shot them, point blank.
In a minute or so, it was eerily quiet where she was. No more gremlins on this end, but damn, was it hotter than two rabbits screwin’ in a wool sock out here (southern sayings were so weird).
People did get used to the OC’s little tantrums, even those who didn’t necessarily Dream seemed to expect them from time to time. Yeah, they could be disruptive - as the abandoned movie theater suggested - but people continued to live here whether or not they were associated with Valarnet or not. That in itself was probably the weirdest part.
Wash headed to the rear of the lobby where the entrance to the actual theaters themselves were. He could hear movies still playing behind closed doors indicating that the infestation had happened right as movie goers had sat down for a matinee. The corridor containing the theaters was littered with abandoned popcorn tubs and soda cups. Even a few pairs of shoes had been left behind oddly enough.
From back here Wash heard the report of Cindy’s gun in the lobby. He had already gotten used to the sound of it as friendly fire, alerting him of what was coming. It was only a moment or two later when he was met with a few gremlins attempting to escape the heat of the vents. They fell to the floor hissing and Wash shot them before they had a chance to spring up and run off.
He should check the theaters themselves for any that had escaped into them, but he had no desire to go in where it was dark and enough cover in the form of aisles of seats to be ambushed. He rejoined Cindy up front.
“Back halls clear,” he told her. Another swipe of his arm over his sweaty forehead. Sticky blond hair was starting to clump. “The only thing left are the theaters. What do you think? Want to take a pass through them or call it finished?”
“It sounds...almost peaceful,” Cindy had to snort a laugh, because yeah, they’d just completely decimated a movie theater. But it was better than letting gremlins run amuck - if anything, the snack counter could be repaired, good as new, rising from the scene of violence to churn out artery-clogging butter and snacks once more.
Oh, and the glass. There was also that - oops. But what was a little collateral damage all in the name of keeping Orange County safe?
“But no, I think we’ve got this. Should be clear.” Her gun was tucked away, back in its holster, and she looked up at Wash (because she was somewhat ridiculously short) and had a spark of admiration in those baby blues. “Not too bad, not too bad. I wouldn’t mind teaming up again, if shit ever hits the fan.” Which it would - they both knew that. “We should go though, since this caused a bit of a scene - but I’ll buy us a round of drinks? I’ll even give you a ride in the Gourd of War.”
And it was quite an honor, to get to be seated in that thing.
Wash agreed. As much as he enjoyed shooting gremlins in the head, the whole thing was getting old and it was only a matter of time before people started to question the sounds of gunplay at the movie theater.
He looked back at her with a slight grin as he holstered his gun as well. “I should hope so,” he told her. “ten years in the marines, you’d think I’d pick up a thing or two.”
They started towards the front entrance where the Gourd of War was waiting. “I wouldn’t mind having you at my back for the next round,” he went on casually. “I’ll take you up on that drink and…” He came to a stop outside, turning grey eyes up at the war pumpkin, “a ride in that would be awesome.”