| Screw-Ups |
[12 Dec 2009|08:22pm] |
Around 4p.m., Rhiannon woke to orange slants of sunlight on her eyelids. Squinting, she blocked them with her hand. It felt swollen from the fluids they pushed through her IV. Upon realizing how many hours passed since Whistler drifted out, she rallied herself. The up-down button on her bed allowed her to lever herself upright. As her weight shifted downward, so that her stomach muscles were forced to bear some, it hurt like hell, but she needed to sit up. How else was she going to reach the IV bag?
( Whose Ordeal? )
( Don't Bust a Stitch )
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| Certain Connections |
[12 Dec 2009|08:01pm] |
At first it felt like a dream. A horrible, terrible nightmare. Only he was brushing his teeth. Images flashed behind his eyes: blood, a long, jagged spear going through flesh. And he could hear her voice. Not calling out for him though.
When Whistler'd become conscious in this new world, things weren't right and he knew it. It wasn't readily apparent but soon the memories became clear. The first thought of his best friend had unlocked them. As in the dimension he'd come from, where part of him still was, the Agent had met up with the teenager who'd become his best friend. Their bond cemented, just as before. But something had gone terribly wrong, and it was his fault.
Hugh Everett posited a Multiple Worlds Interpretation, which suggested that a multiverse existed where all things that didn't occur in one reality took place in others, and then spun out in different branches. In this world, Whistler had killed a Slayer and, racked with guilt, irrevocably broke his friendship with Rhiannon in order to go into seclusion.
What hadn't changed was his connection to her. When she'd been injured, he immediately knew and nothing would keep him from the hospital.
( No Ping )
( A Decent Young Man )
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| Trial By Fire |
[13 Dec 2009|12:46am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 surprised |
] |
Kris had just gotten off shift an hour or so ago, but after that close encounter with mister likes to bite a lot she had decided that maybe just maybe she deserved and could do with a drink. She'd promised Leon that she would at the very least speak to Jenny about the bite, but honestly Kris didn't know what else Jenny would be able to do given that she had already had all the relevant shots anyways.
She stripped off her jacket as she slid onto a stool, ordering herself a shot of whatever was strongest in this bar. Her hair had been tied up but was shortly let loose and free, curls settling around her shoulders and resting there for a moment until pushed out of the way by a hand that steadily worked at some of the tension.
"God," Kris murmured quietly. "What a night." The white bandage on her neck and the bruises on her face were the telltale signs that this off duty police officer had had a rough night.
She straightened the curve of her back and thanked the bartender for the shot, dropping the hand from her shoulder to clasp the glass, lifting it to her mouth where she swallowed it in one.
( Rough Day? )
( Practical Learner )
( So Getting Fired )
( The Vampire Slayer )
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| Lightbulb |
[13 Dec 2009|12:18am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 determined |
] |
Bethany had come to the conclusion that the sooner she remedied this… work situation the better, it was currently unacceptable and she was a hairsbreadth away from putting the nearest sharp implement through the eye of her co-worker who had no brain to mouth filter. What kept her from giving in to that impulse was the reminder that rent was due and as ridiculously expensive as it was it was still the roof over her head. Bethany was in no lifetime - even one as shitty as this - being homeless and on the streets.
Currently Bethany was finishing up her shift, glancing at the clock out of the corner of her eye before smoothing back a strand of hair, feeling the frustration build as time seemed to drag on forever.
Of course having nothing much to do was good for one thing: getting a read of her co-workers and more importantly the so-called friend that had stolen the promotion and was currently doing the manager. If this had been another place and another time, Bethany would have respected the girl for going after what she wanted, but as it directly impacted on Bethany’s life Bethany held the woman in nothing but contempt.
She took a moment to count her tips and smiled at the amount, obviously the flirting had paid off in just the way she expected. Maybe just maybe she’d be able to afford a pair of boots soon. The mere idea that she had to save up for one pair of boots was… sickening and vomit inducing, but it wouldn’t be for long, this much Bethany was sure of.
( Making Life Better )
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| Bound & Gagged |
[13 Dec 2009|12:05am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 working |
] |
There were many ways of coercing information from a person - you could bribe them, blackmail them, threaten their security, but there was no better way of extracting information from a person than by hurting loved ones or hurting them directly.
Joseph preferred the latter to the former, knowing he’d rather keep his loved ones out of the line of fire and there were some depths he would not stoop to.
Currently he was stood back, distanced, separated from the events playing out before his eyes. He’d intervene, he always did, he was too good at this part not to get involved. It was a strength, one that kept him awake at night, not always though.
Smoke was exhaled as Joseph turned and extinguished the last remnants of life in the cigarette he’d been nursing, fingers flicking lingering traces of ash away and into the dark of a nearby shadow.
( Answers )
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| Thoughts |
[12 Dec 2009|04:35am] |
Destiny lay on her bed, marveling at many things. Thanksgiving with Emmy felt like other Thanksgivings she had shared with her. There was an Aidan-shaped hole in the festivities, and her kitchen table remained unscathed and without shards of beer bottles, so maybe it wasn't exactly just like other dinners with Emmeline Keddle. Destiny couldn't help but smile a little bit. This new Emmy had no idea about just how awful Destiny could get while drunk. Des intended to keep it that way, having sworn off alcoholic drinks shortly after she moved back to New Jersey. The wedding reception, to the chagrin of her father, was dry. Destiny even started seeing a therapist, who tied her excessive drinking to a coping mechanism, though the Slayer didn't think she should have wasted her co-pay to find that out.
Nevertheless, it was enjoyable. She had hugged Emmy at the end, thanking her profusely for the meal. Though she was tempted at many points during the meal to stand on the table and yell "WHY DON'T YOU REMEMBER?", she kept a polite smile on her face and discussed books and current events. Destiny recently got herself a job as a bookseller at the local Borders Express. She cringed, remembering the degree that was now nonexistent in this new environment. Her job wasn't awful, though she was feeling the Christmas crunch. That crunch, starting with her first shift on Black Friday, had left her life without time for anything more than eating and sleeping. Emmy's phone number sat neglected on the island in the kitchen, weighted down by a grapefruit. When she felt more awake, she would call her. Maybe she'll send an e-mail or something. The previous body who she inhabited had a very nice Macbook, sleek and white and sitting on her lap, and a very nice internet connection. That connection allowed her to watch TV via internet, which was a blessed event in her vegetative state.
The dialogue of the program softened as more thoughts came to her head. This was the... fifth or sixth Christmas without snow? Not counting the winters she came home to visit or the Christmases she spent in nondescript hotel rooms across the United States when she was escaping New Jersey in the first place. Destiny let out a short bark of a laugh, tinged with amusement. Destiny, Fate just does not want you to be in New Jersey. She looked at the clock. Five in the morning. The bad thing about landing in Florida is that there is no jet lag, and therefore, five in the morning in Jersey was five in the morning here. One thing that she did notice was that fate had brought her to sandy locales both times. The ocean noise, once lulling her to sleep in seconds, no longer provided soothing white noise.
Destiny closed her laptop, show forgotten, and put it on her nightstand. She lay back and closed her eyes, listening to the steady in and out of the waves. She still could not believe that she lived in a beachhouse on the waves, and that, somewhere in another time, perhaps another Destiny was living with her husband in suburban New Jersey. She flung her arm to the side of her queen sized bed, meeting empty space. That was what she missed most of all from her "old" life. She missed having the warm body to cuddle with. Though in her hometown it was approaching the low 30s, the balmy weather here still allowed for her to wish for someone.
She wondered who else she would encounter here, in this new life. For now, it was "Just keep swimming" until the Christmas rush was over and her life would return to pre-Black Friday levels. Destiny felt the tug of sleep at her consciousness, and let her thoughts drift into the salty breeze.
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| Broken Down |
[11 Dec 2009|08:51pm] |
The front yard was almost grassless, and Mallory reminded herself that Hayden lived in the bottom half of the house and not the top. She'd been by Abandon Ship! earlier only to find him not there, but the day bartender had been nice enough to direct her. She walked up the concrete path to the porch, rapped lightly on the door. Hopefully he wouldn't be too pissed about her interrupting his day off.
"At least it's for a good cause," the redhead muttered. "To me it's a good cause anyway."
Hayden sprawled on his couch under the lazy circulation of his ceiling fan. A Magnum, P.I. marathon played on the television. He got sucked in around lunchtime and two hours later he was still watching. Halfway into the first episode, he had drawn an uncomfortable parallel between Tom Selleck's shorts and his own and gotten up to change his pants, just in case they looked anywhere near that tight. Or short. Otherwise, his brain stayed on autopilot. A bag of ruffled potato chips rested on his stomach, a glass of Coke on the table behind his head. Periodically, he reached backwards and awkwardly maneuvered it to his mouth while trying not to spill.
( Taking a Walk )
( Uncomfortable Story Time )
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| Practice Makes Perfect |
[11 Dec 2009|10:45pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 flirty |
] |
If there was one thing Joseph was good at it, it was knowing when and how to have a good time, especially when he’d spent the last couple nights working his ass to the bone trying to find out as much information about the people who “ran” the city.
Currently he was enjoying a cigarette and a game of pool that was rapidly turning in his favour, to the dismay of his once enthusiastic now turned dejected opponent. Joseph had offered him an out about three balls ago, but the guy’s confidence had been falsely built up by that point so he was under the mistaken impression that he could win this.
Shame that he couldn’t.
Joseph swept his hair back and prowled the table, tipping his head to watch the angle that the man was aiming the stick, tutting under his breath slightly as he just knew it wasn’t going to do anything except knock the ball too far off target. Not that Joseph was about to share that piece of information.
( Not Very Nice )
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| Look Before You Leap (pt. 2) |
[11 Dec 2009|02:41pm] |
After six months in the Burlesque theatre troupe, Heather had barely made a dent in her debts.
Nobody dropped out of veterinary school after three years -- it was insane. At $20,000 a year, who could afford to pay back the loans without a white coat? She slogged through her classes and clinical rotations, but that fucked-up feeling like the walls were closing in didn't go away. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. It isn't for me. Well, she'd made her bed, they told her. Now she had to lie in it.
That bed was a cot in the converted den of a Key West cottage. Her costumes hung from pegs on the walls, bright splotches of pink and turquoise against the wood paneling. Close up, they weren't sexy. You could see the spots where sequins popped off and had to be re-stitched. Her feet kept blisters from the acrylic platforms she wore on stage.
( The Blue Convertible )
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| A Crush On You (pt. 1) |
[09 Dec 2009|02:25pm] |
God, he was drunk. Three sheets to the fucking wind. John recognized it but did nothing to prevent himself from becoming quite sloppy over a cluster of shot glasses and a pile of discarded lime wedges.
They designed these places for loners, he thought, his chin resting sleepily on his palm. The tiny tables had room enough for one chair, two if gentlemen didn't mind rubbing knees, which most of them did, for fear of accidentally rubbing something else. He supposed they all looked like starved, neglected dogs, too, a few dodgy enough to paw the buttocks of waitresses who wore top hats and glittery bow ties, and who shook their breasts like maracas above the cocktail trays. At least, those waitresses who weren't in drag.
( Strange Art )
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| Floating |
[09 Dec 2009|11:22am] |
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( Thoughts )
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| Light of Day |
[08 Dec 2009|02:06pm] |
Avery had been on the campus of Florida Keys Community College. He had forgotten why. Maybe it had been to feed. But the vampire had suddenly been struck with something. It hadn't been physical, at least, he didn't think so. The dark was suddenly upon him on all sides. Confused, he had begun walking ... and walked directly into a concrete pillar.
He had had to sit down, close his eyes. It was like being heavily intoxicated. Time slipped by without his realizing, and when his eyelids began to burn red, Avery realized with a sharp bolt of fear that it was now day. The vampire was directly in a bright ray of sunlight, and ... he wasn't burning. There wasn't even pain. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stood.
"No way."
Corbett was used to doing his research and lesson-planning in the comfort of a quiet office or a dimly-lit library, but December was so nice in Key West that he found himself sitting outside. A laptop sat to his left, a stack of history texts to his right as the Watcher jotted notes into a yellow legal pad. Such warm temperatures this late in the year took some getting used to, but Corbett certainly wasn't going to complain.
( Indecent Exposure )
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| Full Disclosure |
[08 Dec 2009|01:47pm] |
The apartment was clean, dinner was cooked and eaten, and the dishes had been washed and put in the drying rack. The sun had been down for a couple of hours by now, and a floorlamp illuminated a spot around the slightly worn armchair near the center of the room. The last cup of coffee from the pot cooled on the table next to the chair. A strangely domestic scene, all things considered.
Mallory lived by herself in the apartment on Greene Street, and the landlord told her that she was one of her best tenants. She kept the place clean, she paid the rent on time, and she even recycled, dropping her plastic bottles and cans into the collection kiosk in the parking lot. With the exception of the clothes-chucking incident, there had been no problems.
The redhead had relented and gathered up Dominic's stuff, then bagged it in one big garbage bag for if he showed up to get his things. Without washing them. Let him deal with the sand in his jeans. She was not his maid or his mother. In his sleep, Tuffy the bulldog chuffed, his short back legs kicking as if he chased rabbits in his dreams. Mallory flipped the page of the newspaper she was reading, moved on to the classifieds. Sometimes, she really relished a quiet evening at home.
( Man-Child )
NPC Dominic was written by Jessica
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| Some Assistance Required |
[08 Dec 2009|12:38pm] |
Long after the last cruise ship left port, Hannah closed out her register. The vendors of Mallory Square lounged in folding chairs and on stools. They talked amongst one another, arms propped behind their hands and flip-flops dangling off their toes. Some packed up their goods for the night. Since Hurricane Hannah's was a cart, all the proprietor needed to do was pull down an aluminum door and lock it. She took her time stuffing items in her shoulder bag, which contained the day's necessities: a notebook, gel pens, phone, keys, sunglasses, chapstick, and enough fruit-flavored gum to give a person TMJ.
Hannah set it on the pavement and began to pull the rolling door into place. Unfortunately, its tendency to get off-track flared up. "Crap," she grumbled and dropped her belongings. Hannah hated technical difficulties, like getting a flat tire on her moped, locking herself out of her garage apartment, and the rare occasion when her cash drawer jammed. Nice as people on the island were, it was embarrassing to encounter problems a can of WD-40 wouldn't fix.
"And breeeeaathe," she coaxed herself. Hannah shook out her arms. Ugh, people were staring. Maybe if she gave the door some time to think about its actions, it would cooperate. "On a count of three," she coached, "You're going to roll all the way down, got it? One. Two... Three." She heaved the door up, then slammed it down again.
( A Little Help Here? )
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| Old Bones |
[06 Dec 2009|10:31pm] |
Four a.m. in Key West. Barflies tipped off their stools. Vacationers trudged back to their hotel rooms to sleep off a tequila haze. The buzzing of streetlamps was audible, now that the island music had drifted away. Time for a dreamless sleep.
Rhiannon's shoes scuffed along the pavement. Closing time was a good time to patrol, just in case a vamp got the bright idea to munch on a bleary-eyed tourist. The paper landed on her doorstep every morning. Mysterious deaths increasing. Strange neck injuries. Yeah. Right. It was Searchlight all over again. The difference was, Key West had an inexhaustible supply of necks.
She read the storefronts. 24 kt. gold! Tanzanite! Diamonds! Kites for toys and sport! Key lime pie! A beer bottle rolled in the gutter next to Captain Tony's Saloon. Duval Street was a weird part of town, she thought. The brightly painted shops looked like Candyland and smelled like a mixture of suntan lotion, beer, and seafood. Behind the famous street, a narrow alley was strewn with garbage. Palm trees, not tall buildings, blocked out the light. Roosters and rats scuttled in the garbage looking for scraps. A homeless man barged into her shoulder and kept going, mumbling under his breath. Because he didn't ask her for change, Rhiannon knew something had scared him. She stood at the mouth of the alley for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. A breeze blew a strand of hair into her eyes.
( The Alley )
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| Flash Back |
[06 Dec 2009|07:14pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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flirty |
] |
July 4, 2009
Key West, Florida
"Hey, man! Put this on!" With a light thunk, a plastic top hat landed on Hayden's head.
He took it off and looked at it. Stars and stripes, like Uncle Sam. He dug living in America, but no way in hell was he walking around a party wearing a flag on his head. He set it on a rustic deck chair and ambled down the steps with a cup of keg beer. The owners of the beach house had a narrow strip of waterfront, which was separated from neighboring property by a jetty. On this side of the barrier, grills smoked in a sand pit and a volleyball net had been set up. A couple of local guys played island music on guitars and animal-hide drums.
Hayden knew the hosts, two real estate agents in their early thirties. Monied but down-to-earth, they showed up at his bar for drinks on Thursday nights. Since he didn't feel like spending the holiday at work, he accepted the invitation. Looking around in the golden light of the tiki torches, he recognized some of the people. Key West was a small island, so the familiar, tanned faces of its residents were easy to pick out.
Sandals were kicked off and set aside so that pale toes could wriggle into the sand. Brushing a few strands of dark hair behind her ear, Purity listened to the music and let her body sway slightly where she sat. Taking a sip from the plastic cup in her hand, the witch sniffed the air and relished the mixed scents of sea and food. She'd been day dreaming again, and was brought out of it with a light nudge to her side. "I was saying, I bet you five bucks that I can get everyone running into the water by the end of the night."
( Give Me a Reason )
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| 10-15 |
[05 Dec 2009|12:36am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 pissed off |
] |
In the weeks Kris had been working this one area of Key West she couldn’t count on one hand the amount of times her and Leon had been called out to this one location with the same code every single night: 10-15.
It was always the same, the guy had gone home drunk and slapped his girl around some until she’d cried bloody murder and the neighbour had made the call. Nothing changed, it didn’t matter how many times Kris and Leon hauled the guy’s ass to jail, he just went right back and did the exact same thing over and over again.
Why the woman never left his ass was beyond Kris and she really didn’t feel like getting into it at the time she found herself turning up at the war torn apartment.
“Not this again,” Leon grumbled under his breath, shifting from behind the wheel, easing his weight onto the dimly lit pavement.
( Something's Different )
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| Just Visiting |
[03 Dec 2009|09:52pm] |
Izzy finished scrubbing the paint away from her face, then returned to her bedroom from the bath to look over her handiwork with a satisfied air.
The overdose of pink had finally been too much for her, and the witch had spent the past day transforming her room into something more adult with a few coats of white paint. Whatever she had been before the re-alignment, now she was something very different and having a bedroom that looked like something out of a Disney princess movie was more than she'd been able to stand for long. White walls were a good first step.
( Stranger at the door? )
[Note: The NPC Bobby Shaw was written by Stargazer]
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[03 Dec 2009|03:26pm] |
Maybe it had been a bad decision to leave Vegas in such a hurry.
It was eight o'clock at night, and Cassidy was fumbling for her sunglasses to put them on against the glare of streetlights as she made her way down the sidewalk. She was hung over, and she'd been hung over for a couple of days now. The problem with hangovers was that only more booze could ease the pain,and she found herself relying on the bottle to get her through even those short days. A drinking problem at forty. How unoriginal.
She could hear the tide going out, and she padded down to the sand. Her rental was close enough to the beach that the early tide woke her up, but she'd been avoiding the outdoors. She'd been half-drunk when she made the plane reservations, and caught her flight on a wave of schnapps-fueled indignation. Can her, would they? Well, she didn't need them. She still had her looks and her talent. She'd get by.
The question was...how.
( Everyone Is a Tourist )
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