Molly Toombs
Earlier this week Molly had a bit of
a... traumatic experience while walking home from work. A couple of
creeps had followed her, and one turned out to be creepier than the
other when he pulled a gun to challenge the knife she drew to warn them
away. He was going to take her into an alley under the threat of slow,
bled-out death, and make her do goodness knows what. If she was lucky
she'd only be violated, but chances were that she simply wouldn't
survive the night.
Thankfully there had been a Stranger there to
intervene. Tommy, he'd called himself, a behemoth of a man with scars
all over his face and a busted up nose. He was a strange man, awkward
in a way that made Molly feel uncomfortable around him. But she was
grateful for his physically stepping in to the situation and scaring the
gun-wielding psycho away.
When Tommy had scared the gunman away,
the dumb kid had dropped his firearm. Tommy said Molly should have it,
since it looks like she might need it since her knife didn't do a good
job of saving her.
So, tonight, as Molly walked the same path that
she had last time around 2:30am, she was uncomfortably aware of the
miniature-sized snub nosed gun that she had in the tote bag she used to
substitute a purse. It wasn't registered in her name, she didn't have a
concealed carry permit. She was accutely aware of the fact that her
possession of this firearm was quite illegal, but she was reluctant to
take any steps toward turning it in or registering it to her name just
yet. She didn't know if she wanted to keep the thing just yet, so she
was 'trying it on for size', so to speak.
Molly's hair was left
down around her face. It fell in dense dark waves and hung just above
her shoulders at its tips. Her mascara was flaking and her make-up was
old, it had been applied more than half a day ago. She looked a mix of
things-- relieved to be off work (evident in how she happily slipped on
the small cup of iced tea she had with her), but wary of her walk home.
She had walked home yesterday with no trouble, but she still didn't
have complete trust in the path she'd used after work every night for
the past year. Not just yet.
So, while happy about her tea, she
was cautiously checking alleys and keeping accutely aware of any other
pedestrians she might go past.
Flood
That same
measured man makes his way through downtown Denver. Measured in tall
height and tailored hems and demeanor all balanced in a highball glass.
Sharp like a gin and tonic. Fresh. Except for a bit muddled in and
shadowy and therefore maybe more of a dark and stormy. His three piece
suit is buttoned tight so that he can cut through the night past other
passing ships.
Flood is sleek and purposeful as he takes in his
surroundings with the faintest of smiles and even more distant, but
still distinct, interest.
The dead man's complexion is pale. How
long has it been since he last deigned to waste blood and paint his skin
with that patina of humanity? To make his chest rise and fall. To even
blink when it wasn't for a reason. To impart context or some character
to a statement made.
There's still that olive complexion,
Mediterranean, Italian near Rome for those with the eyes to pick it up,
but so few have eyes like that anymore. And he is no pure breed. It's
also cut and adulterated, and so are they, those eyes that are green as
clover, so there's Irish in there too and the way it sharpens these
facial features and broadens others. Probably where he got that height
and that lithe and sinewy build.
Black leather wingtips shoes are
singular applause with each step slapped down on the pavement. And his
eyes narrow to dagger points when he sees Molly. A familiar face. He
remembers seeing her alone before, cutting through the 16th Street Mall
in very different attire that what she must be wearing on her journey
home from the hospital. He sees her eyeing the first and closer passerby
and that interests him. That she would be so jumpy. So cautious.
Suddenly so careful.
Flood doesn't know the story behind that
caution or what lies beyond the bulge in that tote. Not just yet. But
he's certainly curious. And curiosity consumes him.
[ Is that a revolver in your tote or are you just happy to see me? Perception + Streetwise. ]
Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )
Molly Toombs
When
the vampire had seen Molly at the mall, she was on a tiny bit of a
tear. She was indignant and looking to drown that with one more drink
before going home, showering the hairspray and make-up and sweat away,
and collapsing into bed. Then she'd been gussied up, dressed in a
cocktail dress that flattered the drastic curves of her hips and bust.
She had been womanly, comely, and full of fire.
How Molly looked
walking home from work was very different, but her hair and apple cheeks
and freckles were all the same. She dressed in boxy scrubs, colored
black with white accents in the hem and threading and collar. The fact
that she was a curvy gal hadn't changed, but the loose gender-neutral
uniform that nurses wore helped to tone it down considerably. The more
dull she could appear, the better she could blend into the scenery and
be left the hell alone.
Her eyes had hopped from a skinny waste of
a man that was walking past-- with a dusty baseball cap and billy-goat
facial hair. He'd nodded and smiled to show he was missing some teeth,
and Molly had flashed a quick closed-lipped smile back to be polite but
kept on. Flood would notice her glance over her shoulder to make sure
the older man hadn't turned around to start following her. He hadn't,
so she looked back ahead, content that there was no threat from the
person she'd just passed.
Unfortunately, the next person that her
eyes landed upon was a tall man with a suit that fit well enough that he
might as well be in a movie shoot. By the time her blue eyes had found
him, he was already looking in her direction, staring at her tote bag
as though trying to see through it. Molly didn't slow her pace, but she
did move to the other side of the sidewalk than what Flood walked on,
so that she could give him room to get by when they were to pass. She
held the strap of the tote bag that rested over her shoulder with one
hand and nudged at the bottom of her bag with the other, shifting the
contents, uncomfortable with the amount of investigative staring this
tall gentleman was doing.
Flood
You're going that way?
Oh, okay, I'll go this way.
No, wait, I meant this way.
Wait, are you sure? I mean... I mean, excuse me.
That's
the little dance that Flood initiates when she gives him space. Playing
the polite gentleman getting out of her way, but going the absolute
wrong way to do it, and then maybe she goes this way, so he goes that
way, and those ways are the same way and see how they've suddenly gotten
into the way of one another?
See how he's gotten close enough to
try and plunge those fingers onto that bag, grasp the heavy weight of
that gun between impossible - literally, it can't be possible to do that
with a ring and pink finger so easily, can it? All while the other hand
is a distraction on her shoulder, tapping it in an apology, like he's
trying the steer the smaller woman in the other direction.
And so
is that charming smile that he gives, looking almost embarrassed and
perhaps, in the right streetlight, all the more affable for it?
"Excuse me, really, I'm sorry," he says.
[ Blowing a BP on Dexterity. Starting out with Manipulation + Subterfuge to get close without drawing too much attention. ]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
Flood
[
The is going to be a resist for the first one, but going to roll the
Dexterity + Larceny now, anyway, just for expediency. Trying to pick
that gun out of her tote. ]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
[You digging in my shit? Perception 3 + Alertness 3]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 6, 7, 7) ( success x 3 )
Molly Toombs
[Also, why are you being so awkward? What are you up to? Perception 3 + Subterfuge 2]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
The
man that she was trying to avoid seemed to be trying to do the same,
but he was hapless in his efforts. He was half a second behind her when
she moved, trying to do the same, but constantly putting himself back
in her way each time. She smiled politely, muttered some vague "excuse
me," and did her best to try and get past him anyways.
This ended
in Flood and Molly being virtually front-to-front. He'd stepped before
her again as she'd tried to dodge him by slipping between his side and
the wall. Now he was placing a hand on her shoulder, tapping it lightly
as though he were some jovial eight-year-old man apologizing to the
cute young woman that could easily be his granddaughter.
By the
time he'd gotten near enough to reach for her shoulder she was scowling
cautiously at him. The man was too tall, too well dressed-- it was
impossible for him to be this clumsy. Besides, there was a certain cant
to his eyebrows, a poison to his smile, and a knife's edge to his eyes
and voice that had her immediately distrusting of this guy.
He was up to something.
When
he reached for her shoulder, his fingers had enough time to touch but
his palm didn't make contact. She jerked herself away from him, the
motion both abrupt and rough-- nearly violent. She was very defensive,
metaphorical hackles raised, and her blue eyes flashed when she said:
"What the hell are you getting at, man? Just let me by."
She
was in enough of a self-defensive flurry that she didn't quite notice
that the weight of her tote bag changed. Staring up the half-foot
distance between her own face and Flood's to challenge the tomfoolery
that this man presented her with was distracting enough for that little
detail to slip on by.
Flood
A lot of people might
think that putting your hands up was a way to show you mean no harm. But
when you're this close it would probably look like Flood is raising his
hand to a woman, so one hand goes behind his back with the other.
Suddenly he regains his balance and precise strides, graceful and
surefooted he's a step back and there's a whole yardstick or more's
worth of space between Molly and him.
On the nurse goes now that
she has weathered his advances to make her way through whatever other
gauntlet the way home will set in her path - or at least that looks like
what Flood expects. No, he's wrong, and looks pleasantly surprised.
She's facing off with him, and looks to be expecting an answer to her
question. His green eyes grow wide with interest and his lips curl a bit
more.
It's a smile. Really.
His hand comes from behind his
back and he remains silent as the gun is revealed and turned on its side
the other's palm, pale fingers wrapped around its grip, finger beside
(but not on) the trigger. The cylinder gets released free, hanging now
unlatched from the frame, and he's looking to see just how loaded it is.
He finds it nearly-full of bullets.
"I
think you dropped this," his dominant hand no longer on the grip as his
off one's digits wrap around the barrel and offer the weapon back to
her. "There must be a good story behind that missing bullet."
You know, he gets this out unless she's running away from the fact he's revealed he's holding not only a gun, but her gun.
Molly Toombs
Running
away would probably be the smarter thing to do. Molly might realize
that in retrospect. In this moment, though, she does no such thing.
Instead she stands, feet planted on the sidewalk, waiting for Flood's
answer.
Sure enough, when met with the challenge, the man's grace
suddenly returned and he took a long smooth step back away from her and
held his hands behind his back. When they came forward, it was revealed
that he was holding a gun, and by god does Molly's adrenaline spike.
Not again, is the thought.
But
then she sees that he's holding the weapon flat against his palm, not
aimed at her. He's not fingering the trigger thoughtfully, stroking it
like that Max guy was two nights ago. Rather, he's got the cylinder
free so that he can count the five bullets that remained.
A chill
ran through her when she recognized that the gun he'd asked if she'd
dropped was, in fact, the gun she obtained two nights ago. No, she knew
for a fact she hadn't dropped it. That thing was tucked securely at
the bottom of her tote bag. Her posture changed so that she was
standing with a straighter spine, and her chin was held more level now
rather than jutting out with obstinate challenge. Her eyes were wide,
pupils restricted, and a pink flush was creeping from the collar of her
shirt to make its way up her neck.
He was toying with her, that
was apparent by his languid body language. She didn't quite rise to
whatever bait he was laying, though. Not entirely at least. Instead,
she took a slow breath through pursed lips (this made a soft, quiet
whistling of wind sound) so that her lungs inflated fully and her chest
pressed out, and then she exhaled completely and quietly.
Then, in a cautiously low and forcibly level tone: "What are you getting at..."
Flood
"What
I'm getting at is it's a story I'd like to hear," he begins, and then
it is like he is just noticing she isn't taking the grip of the gun he's
offering back, upturned so that the bullets don't slide free from the
cylinder like bolts from an overturned bucket.
Flood's fingers
find the cylinder again and, a look in his eye like maybe she doesn't
know how to do it herself. He slowly and demonstratively pushes the
cylinder back into place, before repeating that last word's sound with a
different meaning:
"Here," holding the sealed, locked and loaded
weapon toward her again. "Revolver's a solid weapon. You always know
it's going to fire. Don't have to worry about cleaning it as much. Rain,
water, sand, dirt, mud, you know it's going to fire," like he knows a
thing or two about guns. But he says it like they're nothing more than
tools, without the fascination or romanticism of many gun owners or
younger men.
"Anyway, bullet's useless outside of body. Did you
put that bullet to good use?" Again inquiring as to the missing bullet
as he waits to see if Molly will take back the weapon he had picked from
her pocket (tote) only moments earlier.
Molly Toombs
Her
lower lip was drawn into her mouth and held between her teeth. She
watched, not entirely aware of the fact that the bridge of her nose was
crinkled with distaste (and blatant distrust) while she watched Flood
turn the gun and purposefully, slowly place his fingers on the cylinder
and put it back into place. He was demonstrating this for her, showing
her how to do it for herself.
The second time that the handle is
held out for her, Molly reaches out and takes it. The reach is slow,
the snatching of the gun is quick, and she's ensuring the safety is
still on before quickly tucking it back away into her tote bag. Now the
bag is held close to her side, tucked under one arm so its weight was
cradled against her ribs rather than hanging off the straps. She still
eyed the man cautiously, but hesitantly responded to his attempts to
strike up conversation and hear a story.
"Not quite.... Some guy
pulled it on me the other night. He fired the gun, but missed. I was
lucky enough that someone stepped in and scared him away. I just picked
his gun up. Not too--," but she cut herself off there at the end.
Not
too sure what to do with it, was what she was about to say. But she
realized all at once that would confirm his current suspicions that she
had no idea how to use the weapon, and once that information was put out
for the world to see then the gun would be virtually useless to her.
She didn't want to fire it, she just hoped it would scare people away.
So she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to halt her own
sentence, then shifted uncomfortably and glanced past Flood, up the
street behind him.
She was antsy. Her pulse was quickened with
anxiety, even though her face stalwartly refused to show too much of
it. It's unsurprising that she cuts immediately back to the chase-- she
did come across as pretty no-nonsense after all.
"You stopped me
here on the sidewalk to take my gun out of my bag then give it back?
And that's all there is to it? I doubt that. What's your game?"
Flood
"I
saw a gun and thought it an interesting dichotomy. First, do no harm,"
he observes. Now, Flood is looking down at the way she is dressed in her
full hospital regalia, and then back up at her face with that full
smile still spread easily as butter spoiled in the sun across his own.
Sickly and sweet.
"Plus, there's a certain thrill in handing a
lady a gun when you're not sure what she'll do with it," he shrugs, the
grin fading just a bit. Becoming at least a little more tame as he
continues.
"And that's quite a story I got out of the deal.
Danger. A knight in shining armor. A damsel in distress arming herself. A
brigand scared off," before he concludes. "It sounds like you're quite
lucky he came along to scare them off."
"But if you want to play a
game..." He trails off, hands not upturned, palms offered as she shrugs
again. "I've got nowhere to be. Though who knows if there's an old lady
riding around on a tank the next block over. I can't promise I'm nearly
as brave as your your lucky someone, but if you'd like an escort the
rest of the way home," looking down the street in the direct she'd been
walking. "We can play that game."
Molly Toombs
She
hated his smile. Let's make that straight. She hated it because it
was handsome and rakish, and because she could tell immediately that he
used it like a tool all the god damn time. He knew he was Tall Dark and
Handsome, but she was fairly certain that he was spoiled rotten in one
way or another.
He fished belongings out of a lady's bag because
he was interested in what he thought he saw. He invited himself to a
story surrounding something as personal as a purse weapon, and once he
got it he recited what he took away from the tale and offered to play a
game with her.
That game would involve walking her home.
Her
eyes got their fire back in them when he offered her to take a chance
and allow him to escort her back to her home. She shook her head a
little, and her expression curled into something that said loud and
clear Are you for real? Her lips parted to show a little teeth
with this expression, her eyes squinted some, and the head shake ceased
as quickly as it could begin so she could continue to look moderately
confounded at what Flood just said.
"Are for real? Why the fuck would I let someone who stole shit out of my bag just to get a word in know where I live?"
Flood
His
head recoils and his eyebrows flatten over jade pinpoints, the bunching
of his brow casting his face in shadows as he does so. Because suddenly
she's cursing and looking at him like he had done something wrong in
initiating his own little game. Getting quite aggressive in her wording
and her accusations, and he shakes his head.
"Stole? Miss, I'm sorry, but your stolen
gun - the one you stole from some man - is back in your bag and look at
the lively conversation we've struck up because of it," and his face
only softens a bit. He still looks disappointed and displeased with her
answer.
"But could say say fuck? Just once more. If you had an
Irish accent you'd almost remind me of my mother," and that act he'd
been putting on, of being unhappy with her answer, melts away as his
demeanor is again turned upside down and he's smiling again with the
request.
Molly Toombs
Poor Miss Molly, she didn't quite know what to do with herself.
Turning
her back on this man seemed like a bad idea. She had a feeling that he
might follow her home for fun. But nothing sounded more appealing than
extracting herself from this conversation and walking away from it.
Yet, at precisely the same time, while the conversation was infuriating
it was at least interesting, and that was all Molly could hope for in a life that grew gray in the day-to-day grind.
So
she was left with her hands slowly raising into the air in front of
her, fingers turned outward as they would do if she was shrugging, but
her arms weren't wide or high enough for it to be a real shrug. Simply,
it was a gesture of exasperation and a plain show of the fact that she
didn't know what to make of this.
"What the--... You know? Never goddamn mind. Let me by."
And she moved to step around the tall man, her face a puffed out mask of frustration.
Flood
"Ah,
the face, even better. Just like when I'd put pennies in her soda bread
and she'd dull the knife trying to cut it," and Flood is kind enough to
get out of her way if only in return for that face she gives.
That
mask she puts on that does look familiar in its puffed and still-flush
redness, making the freckles seem to simmer like bubbles in a pot. In
fact he looks to be on his best behavior when that frustration and
exasperation rises up in her. Or like crackles and pops of ash in a
hearth's fire.
It finally comes to a head and she seems ready to
flee his presence and the conversation he's still quite enjoying. "Are
you sure now? I hear these streets can be dangerous, and not everyone
will give back what they come to take." The dead man asks again, should
she give him her back once she has stepped around and past him.
Molly Toombs
Soda bread?
For
some reason the thought struck her as odd. She hadn't heard of any
grain being called 'soda' anything outside of soda crackers, and only
her grandmother called them that. He moved out of her way, and she
stepped past him without hesitation and began to walk up the sidewalk to
escape this odd encounter.
But....
These streets can be dangerous, and not everyone will give back what they've come to take.
The
words must strike a cord. Of course they would-- he knew that they
would. She'd said she was nearly rape-murdered two days ago, so
naturally if he preyed off of that he would bring her to a fork in the
road, and that's precisely where she stood now. She had a feeling that
he was playing her, pressing buttons expertly, and it pissed her off
that it was working.
Her options were to continue the trek home
alone and feel her skin crawling because she was half-convinced that
this well dressed man would be lurking in the shadows, following after
her. Then she wouldn't sleep because she'd imagine she was seeing a
peek of pale forehead and swept black hair in the corner of her
apartment window. Like he was the fucking boogyman or something. The
other option would be to accept his offer, and at least be able to see
where he was and finish her walk comfortable with the knowledge that if
you were a woman walking through the night and you had a big rich
looking man with you people were far less likely to harass you. You
were taken.
So, with a reluctant sigh that rounded her shoulders
in a way that seemed like sagging defeat, she glanced back at Flood,
scowled heavily at him, then jerked her head in a 'come on then' gesture
and started walking again.
"Not like I can actually stop your feet from moving. ...Did you say soda bread? Is your mom ninety years old or something?"
Flood
"Don't
underestimate yourself," he returns as he falls in rank beside her. His
strides remain long and sure, only their cadence slowing to match her
pace and keep their paths joined. He looks like he might go on, but then
she's asking about his mother, and he's considering his answer.
"She was the product of an older world and a simpler time," indicating where he might've gotten his sense of style. Was indicating something else.
Now
that she's closer she might notice, if she knows about these types of
things, that the collar of his white dress shirt is of an older make.
Detachable for replacement or a thorough scrubbing. It's unbuttoned and
his red and black paisley patterned tie is pulled loose along its tight
(yes, rakish) knot.
"Are you a doctor? A nurse? And orderly? Do
you wrestle madmen all day? If so, this must be par for the course,
then," his smile now less of a tool. He's amusing himself and that makes
it genuine.
And now that she's closer and can hear him
speaking... Now that she's undoubtedly watching him, the fingers of a
cold hand running through his hair to right the few jostled strands from
that I'll-go-this-way-you-go-that-way encounter they'd had only moments
earlier, she might begins to notice a few things about him. Now that he
doesn't have his gun in her hand and now that he isn't trying to put
his hand on her should whilst almost bowling her over.
Things that
a trained medical professional might notice. The fact that for all that
charisma he brings to bear (a lively personality to be sure, if with
varied motives) he has the torpid body of a corpse. His chest is still
and he does not blink and he is pale and even looks cold thanks to the
pallor that reveals itself as they walk under streetlamp after
streetlamp, the lights of oncoming automobiles and neon signs of closing
establishments also serving to light their way. A dead man walks beside
her, if she takes the time to notice it, or at least a man that ought
to be six feet under the ground with a tombstone over where he lays.
Instead he's talking and escorting her home. Offering to protect her from the night's dangers.
Molly Toombs
His
legs were longer than Molly's, so he had to alter his normal pace just
to ensure that he didn't leave her in the dust. After all of his
prodding and prying she finally agreed to be amicable enough to have him
escort her home. Why he insisted it on it she wasn't sure. Her body
language suggested that she was still very cautious of him, even though
she was opening herself up to conversation and the confused frustration
had wiped away from her freckled face.
"A nurse. I work the
E.R.," and she left it at that. She wasn't going to tell him which
hospital she worked at-- although in retrospect he could probably figure
it out easily enough, considering she was walking around wearing
scrubs. She probably came from whichever hospital was nearest, and that
would be St. Luke's.
She has no more to say about his mother.
She doesn't pay much mind to his clothes. However, once they fell into
step and found a few seconds of quiet between themselves, Molly did take
the time to let her eyes climb up and down the man at her side for the
sake of thorough study-- what did he want, anyway?
Then,
something odd became apparent, and the more she discovered to back up
the first oddity the larger the cold stone in her stomach grew.
He
was pale, but when they passed under a street lamp she could see that
the original tone of his skin was supposed to be darker-- if he ever saw
a lick of sunlight he'd be an olive-skinned man. But instead his skin
is white, pale, like paper. His eyelashes rarely met one another-- it
occurred to her now that she was watching for it that he hadn't blinked
since she started paying attention to the details. She was a little
afraid but couldn't help herself when she lowered her eyes to watch his
shoulders and the profile of his chest against the shirt and suit jacket
that covered it.
One-onethousand. Two-onethousand... And so on, until she hit thirty and his chest still hadn't moved.
She
stopped walking very suddenly, face twisted with confusion and
disbelief. She knew what she was seeing, but also knew there should be
an explanation. The problem was that she couldn't think of any good
one, and medicine was kind of her deal. Goosebumps sprang up on her
arms and the color started to slip from her face, making the freckles
stand out even moreso.
"....what the hell," was what she whispered. "You're...," but she couldn't actually say it. Because there was no fucking way she was right.
Flood
The
Lasombra rounds back on her when she stops, his hands white as yule
marble (as native to Denver as his accent) and folding in front of his
waist as his arms straighten and meet in a silk-shrouded V.
"I
am..." Flood's voice trailing off as her own had. He hadn't even
breathed in to say that, the void simply refilling itself when he
speaks. Oxygen isn't the necessity. Simple gas is.
Yes? The
dead man's expression seems to beg that she continue when he finally
sees the way she's reacting and the way she has completely lost her
composure in the span of a few short seconds. He can most likely guess
why. Now that he knows her profession it should come together like two
seems in a tailor's hands, but he seems intent on hearing it from her
own mouth.
Molly Toombs
[Intelligence 3 + Occult 1]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )
Molly Toombs
He wants her to say it. Of course he fucking does.
She
wracked her brain, sifting through what was pop culture and what she'd
actually read in real books that gathered dust in libraries, trying to
decide what might be the case here and what television was just trying
to jam into her head. But nothing manages to sort out. Rather, she's
frazzled with the realization of the fact that the man was now turned
around, in front of her again and facing her with his hands folded in
front of him, looking patiently like the Grim Reaper in a detachable
collar.
She failed to decide what he was exactly. Failed to be
sure of what to do or where to go. So she took one slow step backwards
and edged her hand into her tote bag. It was a pretty easy guess what
she was going for.
"D-... no. Undead."
Flood
"Oh,
you almost said it, and I was going to have a little fun," holding his
hands up in a mockery of a song and dance routine, his voice taking a
stage-borne tone:
"And so are you, you died last
night, and I am here to shepherd your restless soul to the promised
land," Flood does on, and such a large man having so much fun with this
must be nearly as unsettling with what she's said. He puts one hand on
his chest and raises the other up to the sky, "In the name of the Lord
our God," barely able to contain his amusement. In fact, absolutely
refusing to do so.
Flood watches her go for the gun and barely
stifles a laugh with the back of his hand. It's for her sake, this, like
laughing at her instead of the situation, as he had been before, would
be impolite. Drawing a line. Making a distinction. The other slapping
his thigh as she slouches forward just a bit, but then he straightens
himself to speak.
She already knows he doesn't need to catch his breath to do so. "Oh, I hope those bullets are blessed. Or is it silver?"
"Come
along now. There's no need for hysterics," and this time it's his head
that jerks along the path they had been walking before her realization.
"You won't be going gentle into that good night." He does not recite the
next verse, the refrain, instead leaving it at that without further
stoking her fear-that-might-become-gun-wielding-rage.
Molly Toombs
The
poor woman clearly didn't know what to do with herself, but at least
she didn't fall to pieces. In this same situation most people would
have spun about on their heel and run away as fast as they could. They
would have gone back they way they came, hunting for people to keep them
safe, or they would have gone home to put their head under their bed
covers and wait for morning, so that they could pretend this was all a
nightmare and it didn't change a thing.
But none of these were
Molly's style. She was a thinker, a Smart Girl. Even when all of the
gears in her brain had jammed up from being confronted with something
that her entire world declared to be impossible. She studied medicine,
for Christ's sake, she knew not only that she shouldn't be seeing what
she was, but why as well.
He made light of the situation,
and joked about how he was going to try to convince her that he was
escorting her to heaven because she actually died on Monday night, and
Molly reacted with a physical snap of her body but no words. The hand
that wasn't reaching for the gun jumped up to her face, and she pressed
the side of her index finger firmly against her lips. This kept her
from shouting incomprehensibly, and it stopped them from trembling.
He
said there was no need for hysterics, but she was still curling her
hand around the handle of the gun inside of the tote bag. Not removing
it, not brandishing and aiming. Not yet, anyways. But definitely
holding it, wanting to know that she could have it out and ready to go
if she needed to. It was a comfort.
Even still, her eyes grew
glassy and wet with stressful tears that she wasn't letting fall down
her cheeks. She was quiet, shaking her head, weaving her weight between
her two feet, and glancing around as though checking to be sure that
the rest of the world wasn't going to grow teeth and eat her.
When
she finally spoke, she did so after taking a sudden sharp inhale,
breathing deeply as she had done before. This time she didn't exhale it
out to cleanse her stress, but rather she held it for a few seconds
before exhaling slowly, her words carried on the outword breath. Her
finger moved from her lips and the hand dropped to her side instead,
palm out, fingers splayed, looking helplessly lost.
"You're toying with me," she announced tremulously. "What happens when you're done?"
Flood
"Who knows?" That's his answer. A foreboding question that the Lasombra offers in return.
"You
had better keep yourself very interesting," he begins with a smile,
though he's managed to regain his composure and sense of decorum. He's
no longer shaking with laughter.
"Then you won't ever have to
find out," he almost looks like he's going to go on when he notices the
tears that had begun welling eyes.
Has anyone simply broken down
in such a way when faced with the unnatural power that is Flood before?
Well, yes, they have, but never one who reminded him of his mother. It
halts him for a moment. The kind of moment she might be able grab onto
like a lifeline, if she notices it for what it is. But she's not
breaking down. Not entirely. Oh, she's wavering. Almost there. But then
she is buttressing herself and she has managed to give out that question
he is still considering when he notices the watering of her eyes. The
shaking in her voice.
"Now, there, there... There are far less
interesting dangers that could rear their ugly head, and I hardly think
mine's ugly." It all sort of happens at the same time, the realization
and the questions and the answers and his reaction and then he's putting
his hand out like he's going to put it on her shoulder.
Perhaps
not the best course of action when faced with a women facing her own
mortality with only a snub nosed revolver to assert herself, but that's
not what he's thinking of when he does it.
Molly Toombs
So
Flood wasn't just teasing alone when he said Molly reminded him of his
own mother. She'd assumed he was just being an ass, and still operates
under that assumption, although rest assured that's far from the first
thing on her mind right now.
Yet, that simple fact might work to
her advantage without her realizing. She probably didn't share his
mother's hair color tonight-- Molly's dark auburn came from a bottle,
but the color of her eyebrows (not penciled in tonight) betrayed the red
that she was born with. But other things-- her mannerisms, the way she
got frustrated, the freckles across her nose and cheeks-- did.
So
when tears wobbled in her eyes it struck some sort of a chord,
somewhere within Flood. Or it seemed to, anyways, because he ceased his
half-jested gifts of advice that she keep herself interesting because
he wasn't sure himself how he wanted the night to end. Instead, he
reached out to comfort her.
Did she trust it? No. But she let it happen anyways.
Somewhere
between terror denial and exhaustion she let the cold hand come to rest
on her shoulder, and with a small sniff two fat tears fell from her
eyes and rolled briskly down her cheeks and neck. She reflexively moved
the hand that wasn't (still) cradling the gun within the tote bag to
smear the tear trails away.
She wanted to tell him that she just
wanted to go home, but a lingering sense of pride had her biting her
tongue. Instead, she was silent.
Flood
"You're
doing well," as she wipes away her tears and Flood's hand does not have
some sort of impossible strength, only a believable one that turns her
down the path with a light pressure to the back of her should. He is
trying to usher her along. Less a wolf or other predator and more a
shepherd to this almost-familiar sheep that has presented itself to him
in its wanderings.
He does not know it is what she's thinking, but
he says it anyway, "Let's get you home. In one piece," his voice an
attempt at that same gentleness he had administered to her back. It is a
command, yes, but there is nothing violent about it.
Molly Toombs
He
began to guide her, that hand on her shoulder moving behind it rather
than on top and pushing gently to encourage movement. He met some
resistance at first, like she either took a second to catch his hint or
she was seriously considering rejecting it at first.
...It was the
latter, let's be honest. We've established that Molly isn't a slow
girl, so she immediately understood that he was trying to guide her
forward. She knew this man was a... well, vampire was the word her mind
was summoning although the word itself left an awful taste in her
mouth. She still didn't trust him, not even a little bit. She was
pretty sure he was going to take her back home, then reappear in her
room later that night (because that's what Dracula did, right?) and slay
her where she lay.
But he gets the better of her, and as she was
wiping the tears from the palm of her hand onto the thigh of her scrub
pants Molly started to walk.
Let's get you home.
"Yeah...
Yeah," she started, nodding, and letting him move her along up the
sidewalk. She was staring ahead, struggling with shell shock no doubt,
barely blinking herself. She let him take her a full two and a half
blocks of her journey this way, turning around a corner to start toward
her apartment building, before she stopped quite suddenly. Her hand had
long since fallen away from the gun and was now habitually holding the
bag strap. Rather than blustering at him or snapping herself back to
her senses, she said in a voice that was soft and clearly still working
to cope on its own with the fact that she was walking beside a corpse.
"I
don't want you to know where I live." A simple want, and one that
Flood would no doubt understand. As to what he would do about the woman
halting the escort as it was halfway completed might be less
understanding, though.
Flood
[ Are we getting warmer? Perception + Empathy. ]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )
Flood
[ Intelligence because things. ]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 7) ( success x 1 )
Flood
"Of course you don't." Again the thing she is sure is a monster returns when she stops. Halts their journey again.
Flood
doesn't look annoyed, no, his face is even and he does not brandish any
aggression in her direction when he asks. It is genuine curiosity. How
inherently malevolent such curiosity is, though, Flood seems wholly
detached from as he watches her.
"So we're close. And you're
terrified. I should be frank, because I think you're the kind of woman
that would appreciate candor: It would be easy for me to find out where
you live. To find out all the details about your life," a pause. Like
he's considering continuing before he does.
"If I asked and wanted
to know," his voice steady like a metronome, even and sure the way he
parses together the words, builds his sentences and delivers them
beautifully. "If I asked, you would tell me," and it's like a mandolin,
highs and lows, but there's a clipped staccato between the words.
They're enunciated in a way that says not only was English not his first
language, despite his complete fluency in it, but also that reveals a
vintage quality to his grasp that language. Like a crackled radio clip. A
different way of speaking from a bygone age.
"If I followed you,
you would not know. If I stopped you in your journey from this block on
to... Is it St. Luke's? St. Joseph's? The Children's Hospital? Dentists
and orthopedists aren't open this late," and he gives the information
like he is saddened by it. By how easy it is. How it takes the mystery
out of it and the way it will in no doubt frighten her.
"I want
you to know these things before I tell you that I am not a reason to
fear the night. There are many, but you shouldn't count me among them," and then, almost as an afterthought, but there is a
near-imperceptible insinuation that after all these revelations he
deserves one in return...
"May I ask your name?" Holding out his cold hand to her as inquires, dexterous despite the pallor and chill.
Molly Toombs
He
had explained evenly that if he wanted to know about her, to find where
she lived and follow her, then he could. He even went so far as to
tell her all the ways that he would, and she believed every word of it
because he didn't have a heartbeat and didn't breathe and even when she
could feel his hand on her shoulder, she strained for a sense of a pulse
or organic twitch in the apendage but couldn't find any.
He said
that he could get her to answer anything? She believed him. He said
that he could follow her without her ever knowing? She sure as hell
believed that too. While he spoke she looked evenly up at his face.
Her arms had crossed over her chest, but not how one will cross their
arms when aggrevated or impatient. Rather, she hugged them loosely
around herself and watched him while he spoke, listening carefully. She
was trying to figure out why he sounded like he spoke with an accent
but could only summon to mind the video game Bioshock as anything close
to an answer.
Then he was trying to explain that he wasn't the one
she should be worried about. He could do all of those things, but he
hadn't. He wasn't the reason for her to be afraid. Wide blue eyes
dropped down to his hand, and she hesitated before accepting the
gesture. Her fingers loosely curled along the bottom of the extended
hand, and her arm participated in the shake weakly.
"Molly," she
said simply, quietly. When her eyes were back up on his, she had a look
of inquiry on her face that was borderline childlike in its
simplicity. "What should I be fearing, then?"
Before he can
answer, though, she drops her eyes from his face, shakes her head, and
disengages her hand from his so that she can wave it in the air between
them like she were clearing smoke, though she was actually clearing her
own question from the air instead.
"Nevermind. I don't want to know just now. I just want to lay down."
Flood
It's
probably a good thing that he doesn't need to answer that. She might
never get to bed. And he would have to begin lying. Because in this
moment she doesn't need to fear him, that much is true, but if he
started talking about the future... Well, who knows?
He might, but he wouldn't tell.
"Flood,"
he returns as easily as he has turned her world upside down in as many
nights. Maybe it was a game of one-upmanship after hearing that story of
a knight in shining armor. "It was a pleasure," and then, a moment
later, he hesitates.
"If you would prefer, this could never have
happened, Molly," and his face goes blank. If his skin is paper pale,
this might as well have been a test. And examination where he answer
matters, but he isn't about to let on in which direction he wishes her
answer to go. Nor which direction is the safe one.
Molly Toombs
Flood?, she manages to think. That's a weird name.
But
she accepts it, and has turned to head back to her apartment, resigned
to the fact that if Flood wanted to know where she lived then he would,
and there was nothing she could do about it. If she was lucky that old
tale about how vampires must be invited into a home was true. She
wouldn't count on it, though.
She didn't get a chance to actually
walk away, though, because Flood was looking at her seriously as the
grave he ought to be in and letting her know that this could have never
happened. Her eyebrows furrowed a little while she studied his face
after that offer was made. He was serious about what he said, she was
quite sure, but she was also fairly certain that he was very interested
in her answer.
"No," she said after a solid five seconds of
consideration. "I don't want you tinkering with my head. I know, you
could if you wanted. But that doesn't justify inviting it."
He'd said to keep it interesting anyways, right? Apparently that was what her fate hinged on.
"Flood, I can't say it was lovely meeting you. I'm going home now. Good night."
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