Advice - 8.29.2013 [Tommy]

Molly Toombs

It had been a week and a half since that encounter on the southside of Downtown Denver, long enough to let an event get tucked into the past and fade away, to become forgotten.  That night Tommy had shielded a young woman from harm, he'd taken a bullet in her stead because she would have died and he, simply, did not.  The woman had not fled the scene or dissolved into tears from the trauma of the night, but rather stayed square on her feet and made sure that her unanticipated savior was okay and didn't need medical attention.  The night had ended with them parting ways, as was appropriate, but Tommy had left the woman with a way to find him if need be.

Ten days later, that need for help boiled up enough that Molly Toombs came calling.

The International Cocktail Lounge.  This was the place that the giant of a man had told her she could find him.  So earlier today Molly did her research and found an address on the internet.  There was one Google review, but it didn't feed her a lot of information about what to expect.  She had no clues as to what kind of a crowd she was going to be trying to blend in with tonight.  The fact that a man like Tommy apparently frequented there had her guessing it was going to be some sort of a seedy lounge with a lot of leather biker vests, but it would be presumptive to act upon such a conclusion.

So she dressed simply instead, falling back on a pair of tight dark-wash jeans that were tucked into a pair of black boots, and a black blouse that was flattering to the upper part of her torso, but kind to the softer lower half.  She wore scant make-up, left her hair down, and carried a wallet instead of her tote bag.  She came by foot and whatever public transit was necessary, depending on how far away this place was from her apartment several blocks south of the city's center.  Wherever it was, however seedy (or, on the other hand, impressive) it may be, Molly wasn't very deterred.  Her mind was made up.

She'd push the door open and step inside.  Straight away her eyes would skim the bodies within the place, hunting for one that would stand out thanks to size and familiarity alike.


Tommy Lynch

The International Cocktail Lounge is a dive bar amongst dive bars, a shoebox shape filled with the ghost of decades worth of cigarette smoke and the fumes of alcohol. Black leather booths line one side, their seats so cracked they look like the syphlitic lips of near-death addicts, the table tops veneered with so much wax that the wood looks a mile down from the surface. It's the bar proper though where the flotsam of society fetch up against, regulars so rough and lost that they look like wireframe mock-ups of humanity, sunken into their own pools of misery, buying their $4 whiskeys and nursing them no matter the hour. No beers on tap. No barfood. Just distant music coming from the back of the dark bar, and a welcoming stool for anybody on their own personal downward spiral.

Tommy's bulk is visible on an isolated stool, the large man leaning forward on both slab like forearms over a drink he's not yet touched. His black trench coat is the same as from before, and his buzz cut catches the dim overhead lighting embedded above the bar, ghosting white along the tips. The light catches the hook of his nose, the spread of his brow, some of his jutting chin, but his eyes are dark, hidden in their deep ocular cavities, and he seems to have settled into this spot with no desire to move or prove that he's more than a statue.

Molly Toombs

The place wound up being pretty much exactly what Molly expected it would be.  She was glad she dressed down in jeans and dark colors-- while she was a far cry from what regular customers probably tend to look like here, at least she didn't stand out too terribly.  She was smart enough not to dress in a skirt, or in light airy colors that would draw her into some stranger's focus too quickly.  With dark clothes and dark hair alike, and an understanding of how to tactfully avoid eye contact and look like you know precisely what you're doing, she figured her chances of going without harassment were pretty good.   She should at least be able to make it to the person she was hunting for.

Sure enough, just as he'd said, Tommy could be located here.  She spied him down at the end of the bar, with no bodies occupying the stools around him.

Perfect.

She didn't call out to him from across the bar, but instead she tugged the bottom of her shirt down to make sure her lower back wasn't showing, a nervous motion of habit, and crossed the smokey room on quiet boots until she found the stool by Tommy's large side.  She'd speak up as she came near his side, catching his attention and making him aware she was there before she simply siddled up alongside the giant.

"Tommy?  Hey, remember that, ah, invitation you left me last week?"

Tommy Lynch

It's impossible to tell whether Tommy notices her approach. She walks through the dim lighting of the ICL, treading on cigarette butts and worse, and the whole time he simply stares off into a private infinity of his own, fingers interlaced on the bar before him, forming retreating X's over each other. He doesn't look to have changed his wardrobe since they last met, or perhaps he's the kind of guy who just owns ten versions of the same white shirt. Either way, it's as if he'd come here straight after the incident last week, and not shifted a muscle since then.

Still, she draws close, and then perhaps wisely speaks before stepping right up. He turns his head smoothly, not blinking, and fixes his dark eyes on her. She can't see them, as shadowed as they are, but she can feel the weight of his gaze lay over her like a leaden cloak.

"Molly." His voice that same rumble, from deep in the chest, like rocks shifting deep in the ground. "Hey. Grab a seat."

There's a glass of whiskey set before him, two fingers full, untouched. It catches the amber light from above and glimmers like a lost treasure. 

Tommy takes a moment to examine her, as if looking for wounds, abrasions, or even puncture marks on her neck. Seeing nothing awry, he meets her eyes once more. "Wasn't sure if I'd be seeing you again." A wry smile. "With this ugly mug of mine, I'm guessing it's taken some serious trouble to bring you round these parts. You alright?"

Molly Toombs

The offer to grab a seat is accepted, maybe a little hastily.  She was glad that he invited her to join him.  His companionship alone, fleeting and flimsy a thing though it might actually be, would serve as a shield here.  If she was sitting with the big man, engaged in conversation with him, simply with him, then she would be left alone.  So Molly settled onto the stool to the man's right, putting him between herself and the door, and by proxy the rest of the bar as well.

He had a drink.  When the bartender came by she'd ask for a beer.  Whatever would serve fine.  If they didn't have beer, that's alright too.  She'd go with a scotch.

His cursory glance over the woman informed him that she was in good health.  Her skin was fresh, pink and full of life.  She hadn't lost weight, she didn't have dark circles under her eyes.  There were no cuts, bruises, scrapes, or punctures to speak of.  She seemed a bit on edge, but wouldn't you be too?  This wasn't a place for her.  It was a place for the rough, the downtrodden, the ones who didn't have much left to lose.  Molly still had plenty.

He asked if she was alright, and she shrugged one shoulder and offered him a small one-sided grin that pulled a single corner of her mouth higher than the other.  "Well, if I was wonderful I probably wouldn't have come calling, would I?"

Whenever her drink returns, whatever it may be, her hand curls around its container (bottle or glass) and stays there.  She examines it while speaking slowly, quietly, just above the din of the music that flowed from the back.

"I've got someone following me.  Maybe two someones, maybe three.  I don't know what to make of them, or how well I'm gonna be able to defend myself against them.  I was hoping for advice."

Tommy Lynch

It's a scotch that gets served, nothing fancy, in a beveled glass much like Tommy's own. He waits for her to get adjusted, for the drink to be served, and then looks straight ahead again, lips slightly pursed, waiting for her to explain the reason she's come calling.

Folks following her. Two or three. 

A grunt. "You gone to the cops?"

Molly Toombs

"No," is the answer.  He probably felt it coming.  If she was going to the cops, she probably wouldn't have come here at all, would she have?  Her tone is uncertain, as is most of her body language.  She sat with her shoulders rounded, leaned forward toward the bar.  The glass was cradled, as stated before, and brought to her lips for a small drink before she continued.  Her mouth twisted some when the liquor burned its way down her throat and into her belly, but she recovered quickly and shot a sidelong glance to the giant whose space she now occupied.

"They're not....  The situation isn't normal."  She frowned some, not sure of how to phrase this without sounding like a lunatic.
She tried anyway.

"This isn't something the cops can help with.  Two of the three, at least, can just work their way past 'em.  The cops can't help.  I just need to help myself.  You seem like a guy who's seen a lot in his days, and I thought you might have some advice for securing my home, or maybe if I should be doing something to cover my tracks and relocating instead?  I don't want them finding where I lay my head, if I can help it."

Tommy Lynch

Her words are absorbed, and with a lack of facial reaction that might indicate his response. Just a stoic wall, soaking up her uncertainties and questions. Finally he purses his lips and taps a shovel tipped finger against the rim of his glass.

"I might need a little more information, Molly." Said almost apologetically. "You say they ain't normal. That the situation ain't normal. How so? Before I can give you much by the way of advice, I gotta have a better idea as to what you're dealing with. How come you're so sure the cops can't help? These people got dirt on you or something? Stopping you from getting legal help?

Molly Toombs

"I know..."  The discomfort grew.  She didn't seem uncomfortable with the presence beside her.  Quite the contrary-- she seemed surprisingly at ease with Tommy's company (and this astounded even her as she came around to that realization on her own).  She glanced to the back of the bar, briefly took account of where the tender himself was, and then stared at her drink for a time.

Her gaze shifted back up to Tommy instead, and settled on him.  There was a flint of resolve on her freckled face, but that was the only thing to counteract the show of nerves that she was getting herself worked up into, even though she was doing a decent job of muting her nervous gestures to little more than subdued body language and an unsmiling mouth.

"You'll think I'm crazy.  We only met once, so I'll risk leaving you with that impression anyway.

"How real do you think monsters are?"

Tommy Lynch

"How real do I think monsters are?" The question repeated back to her, partly in surprise, partly as if to ensure he understood her words completely. He juts out his lower jaw as he looks away from her at the near middle distance, brows tracking together, and then he shrugs one large shoulder.

"I've met my share." He speaks quietly. "You'd be surprised what you can run into late at night on the streets." A pause. "Things that can make that kid with the gun last week look all innocent like a lamb."

Another beat, and then he swings his head around to regard her. "But you're talking monsters monsters. Like... zombies, or werewolves, or... vampires."

His eyes on hers. "That what you mean? You got things like that following you?"

Molly Toombs

He said that he's met his share of monsters on the streets, but she didn't breathe a sigh of relief just yet.  Monster was a very broad term, open to interpretation.  She'd used that intentionally, as a safe-guard for now, because she wasn't certain how Tommy would react to her when she asked her leading question.  When he said he'd met many monsters on the streets, things that made kids with guns look harmless, she just looked away from him, down at the counter top and the drink she was nursing.

On that note... she took another drink, rode through the burning sensation more prepared this time, and circled the pad of her middle finger absently around the rim of the glass while quiet filled the air between them.

But then Tommy spoke up again, and pressed on for clarification.  He asked if she was talking about real monsters, and sought her eyes with his to pull her answer free.  Was that what she meant?  Were real monsters following her?  She resisted eye contact at first, staring down at the glass that she was sipping, at the fresh coat of dark purple nail polish on her trimmed nails.  She cleared her throat, reached up to tuck her hair back behind her ear, and spoke quietly.  He'd have to strain a little to hear.

"Yes."  There was defeat in her voice, like she was pleading guilty at a trial or agreeing with someone who was telling her that she was crazy, that this was all a dream.  She didn't like admitting what she was telling Tommy, even if she did believe these things to be true in her heart because she had seen them first hand-- because she'd been walked home by a man with no pulse and no desire to hide that fact from her.  Because this had been confirmed by a second man, met in a different part of town, someone else who had no heartbeat and didn't blink nearly frequently enough.  Because his hand had been cold as the grave and his words similarly chill.

"I can't explain it, but I know that two of them aren't alive anymore.  Not really.  But they walk and talk and..  They've given me their numbers.  I don't trust them, and I'm worried about what they actually want from me."  Finally she looked up to him and met his steady gaze.  "I'm crazy to even talk about it, but I don't know what else to do now."

Tommy Lynch

Tommy's gaze is intense as she speaks, as intense as she's yet seen it. She has his full and unadulterated attention, his body still, his brows contracted, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He stares at her the whole time she explains herself, as she looks down into her glass and finally manages to meet his eyes. There's a tension there that she's not seen before, not pressing and immediate, as if he might move against her or explode, but rather the slow coiling of a spring.

"You don't trust them. That's good. And you don't know what they want from you." His smile is bitter now, and he finally looks away, down briefly at his whiskey and then up at the wall. "Well, shoot. Molly girl, what have you done gone and got yourself involved with."

He lets that question hang in the air between them, not expecting an answer. Purses his lips once more, taps his glass, and then cuts her a quick glance before looking away once more. The large man seems to be trying to figure an angle to approach this at. A way to start. Finally:

"Well, let me tell you ya ain't crazy. Not by a long shot. Leastwise, I don't think you are. No more than the rest of us. There are monsters walking out there, and a few of them don't have a pulse. A few of them have been walking the streets for longer than they've been paved." Another break. "You're right not to trust them." He comes back to that again, nods his head with certainty. "Don't trust them, no matter what. Stay away from 'em if you can, thought... if they're interested in you now, you may not have a choice on that matter." A final beat. Then he shakes his head, and stands, shoving the stool back.

"We can't talk about this proper in here. We should go someplace private where nobody can overhear. I'll help you as much as I can, but maybe the best I can do is just tell you a few facts to get you straight. We can see what more help you might want from me from there."

Molly Toombs

In that span of moments, ticked by on some dusty clock with a smoke-clouded face, Molly's grasp of their interaction slipped and readjusted.  She figured that coming to Tommy was a hell of a stretch.  She'd remembered that he seemed to be a part of the streets, that he appeared in the right place at the right time like he came forth from the shadowy cement and then bled back into it once he was gone around the corner.  If these streets crawled with things in the night, surely he would know about them, and he would understand.  Or, at least, that's what she said when she talked herself into coming out here tonight.

The fact that his gaze fell heavy upon her and grew as serious as she's ever seen it had her uncertain all over again.  She didn't know what she was expecting when she came here.  She thought he might laugh and dismiss her concerns.  He might be kind enough to take the poor shaken woman back home, since clearly she didn't have her head on straight.  Or maybe he'd stay with her long enough for a friend to come get her and take her home and stay with her that night.

She certainly didn't expect that he would cement her fears by agreeing with them, supporting her distrust of those Undead Men that she's been approached by thus far, and insisting that this was a conversation best taken elsewhere.  The fact that he wanted to leave the bar and go somewhere with fewer ears had her a little suspicious.

Oh come on, Moll.  If he wanted to do you any harm he would've done it the other night when you were shaky and he was your hero and he had all of your trust.

She'd been looking up at him, holding eye contact steady and strong.  It was no doubt a curiosity to find within a mortal woman, that she's able to look into the eyes of a Beast and not quail.

She was either made of steel, or she was just too stupid to know better.

Either way, she looked away with a grim set to her mouth and a nod of her head.  "Alright."  There wasn't much in her glass as she'd been nursing it steadily, but what was left she consumed in one big, quick gulp.  Just like taking a shot.  With her belly resolutely warm, and that warmth now beginning to crawl through her limbs and into her joints, the woman left enough cash on the counter top to cover her tab and rose to her feet.  Hands touched the back pockets of her snug jeans, ensuring her wallet and phone were still in place (she wasn't worried they were stolen, but they did have a habit of slipping out from time to time).

She wasn't too tipsy, the glass of scotch didn't make her waver and wobble just yet.  But she could feel the effects creeping up, and one hand lingered on the counter's edge while she waited for Tommy to rise as well.

"Lead on.  I think you probably know the neighborhood better than I do anyway."

Tommy Lynch

The stool groans as Tommy climbs off it, and he leaves his whiskey untouched, throwing a greasy ten dollar note next to it without glancing for the tender. He stops to take stock of the ICL, sweeping the windows, the recesses, and finally the front door with his heavy gaze, and then nods and moves forward, each construction site boot clomping loudly as he strides toward the door. Nobody looks up. Nobody turns away from gazing down into the sordid wells of their own misery to watch them leave. Tommy reaches the front door, pauses with his palm on it, and then shoves it open and steps outside into the night, pausing right in the doorway and preventing Molly from following through the simple feat of filling up the doorframe. He carefully studies the street, taking his time, and then steps aside, holding the door for her.

"Come on. We don't have to go far."

Their destination turns out to be just across the street. No spooky courtyard, no dark alley, no seedy apartment where she can work her paranoia up to greater levels. Just a recessed doorway to an abandoned church at the top of a stoop of five broad steps. He walks up them and then turns and sits before the weathered wood door, the ICL's neon sign flickering across the street. The steps are made of badly worn and stained marble, and are cold to the touch - Tommy doesn't seem bothered by this as he lowers his bulk down and sits, boots on the next step down. 

He waits for her to join him, to sit by his side. A touch of melancholic amusement on his face as he watches her adjust. When she's good and comfortable, he leans forward on his elbows and gazes up and down the street. "Nowhere's safe, not really. They could be listening to us right now, and you'd never know it. This way at least we can make sure nobody in the ICL's eavesdropping."

He rubs his callused palm across his chin, frowning. Trying to figure out how to grab this particular bull by the horns.

"Listen, Molly." He stops. Tries again. "If you've run into two of 'em, and they've given you their numbers, then you pretty much need to leave Denver. Move to Florida or something. That's the safest thing you can do, because you can't keep 'em away if they want what you got."

He pauses. Gauges her reaction. "These things. Vampires." He shakes his head. "You can't fight 'em off. If anything, doing so will only make 'em more interested in you. Only thing you can do that'll work is jump town, and hope you never run into things like them again." A slow shrug. "But... I'm guessing you're not going to want to do that. You're gonna want to figure things out here, where you've got a life. Maybe you'll say something about not wanting to run. About fighting for what's yours. Or... maybe some part of you is curious about 'em. You want to know more, about this whole immortality schtick, and that'll cause you stick around, like a, um, like a moth and a flame kind of deal. You know? Maybe you don't even realize you're curious yet." He shrugs. "Just guessing here. But that's my first piece of advice. Leave town, never come back. If you're willing to do that, we can end this conversation right here. I'll buy you another drink and wish you good luck."

His dark eyes on her the whole time. "But if you're gonna stick around, well. Then there's more advice I can give."

Molly Toombs

The behemoth is followed wherever he may go tonight.  Molly had gone out on a limb seeking Tommy out tonight, and he greeted her openly and confirmed her worries.  She wasn't crazy, he knew these things to be true as well.  It was good to have someone to speak to on the matter, someone with advice to give, someone who has clearly survived much of what the streets can throw at him.  So when he stands and says he'll find a place, that they don't have to go far, Molly just quietly hooks her thumbs in the empty belt loops of her pants and follows.

They don't go far, just up the sidewalk and across the street to a church that doesn't seem like it's been used in quite a while.  Tommy settled his bulk onto the stairs and waited for her to get comfortable herself.  The stairs were cool, but the night was warm, and Molly had no argument against sitting down beside him.  Her heels rested tucked close to the back edge of the second step down, and her knees spread outward so she could hook and rest her elbows on top of them.  He'd leaned forward to look up the street.  Her posture mimicked his, but only so she could look down at her hands.

She should leave town.  That was the advice that he had to give.  But, without skipping a beat, he led on to give any number of reasons or arguments that she might have against doing that.  Maybe she wanted to forge her life here, maybe she didn't want to leave home.  Maybe she wanted to fight, or she was just curious.  He watched, maybe looking for whatever answer she would give in her body language, to see if he hit the nail on the head at any point with his statement.

If he listed her reason for staying, she didn't confirm it.  She just said, quietly:

"I'm not leaving just now."  And then she swung her eyes back up to him and spoke in a voice just a little less soft, and a little more resolved.

"I've done reading, but I don't know what to trust.  Garlic and crucifixes won't do me good, will they?  I doubt they will."

Tommy Lynch

Tommy laughs. It's a sudden sound, deep and sharp and he cuts it off as he remembers the gravity of the situation. He's still smiling though, and he shakes his head. "No. Garlic and crucifixes don't do shit. Nor does running water. Nor do they need to be invited into your house, or any of that old baloney."

He watches her, a smile still on his rugged features, and blinks once or twice as the smile fades away. A car slowly works its way down the street,but doesn't pause, doesn't stop. He watches it go, and then looks back at her. 

"Molly. What can I tell you." He thinks. Takes his time, frowning again so that a vertical line creases between his brows. Purses his lips, and then studies her face. "You ain't leaving. A couple of them have taken interest in you. Given you their numbers. You get the names they used?"

A beat. "You still got that gun I gave you? You been learnin' how to use it? If you got to shoot one, aim for the head. Hitting one in the body don't do much. Oh - fire. Fire'll make them run. They're scared of fire as much as anything. Get yourself a bottle of gasoline, maybe. Or wait, get yourself a bottle of hairspray and a lighter. You ever do that handheld flamethrower trick with one of those? That'll do in a pinch. Fire will keep 'em back, maybe make them run, but it'll piss them the hell off. If you got to, scare 'em off, and then run. Go some place where there's people. Being public can help. Not always, but they might hold back from doing something if you're around other people. Specially if there are security cameras. So, like, an ATM is a good place to stand. Point out the fact that there's a camera, and they'll grow more cautious."

He slows down, stops his rambling, thinks. "Get a cat, or a big dog. Put some new locks on your door, and put plenty of bottles of hairspray and lighters around your bed, in your bathroom, in your kitchen. Go to the gun range every day, and maybe get a gun permit and a bigger gun. Don't go out at night." He snorts. "That's your best bet. Be home before dusk, lock your doors, get your dog close, and don't go out till past dawn. If you got to walk home from a shift, try and take a cab. Don't walk the street. Don't walk alone."

A weary shrug. "But all that won't do shit if they want you. It'll annoy them, but might make them chase you all the harder for the challenge. So. If push comes to shove, well. Tell 'em Tommy Lynch of the Sabbat is watching out for you. Don't worry for now what that means. Just tell 'em they'll have to deal with me if they fuck with you, and that might give 'em pause."

He's not showing off there. Not bluffing. If anything, he grows more hesitant, quieter, as he extends his protection over her.

Molly Toombs

His laughter was a deep noise, like the rocks in his chest that rolled over one another to make his voice.  His face was a rough, scarred thing, like it was cut from stone but by a utilitarian rather than an artist.  His smile didn't seem to much suit the structure of his face itself, but a mix of that and his laughing at her question about garlic and crucifixes did coax a smile out of the woman.  She brushed her hair back behind her ears, then laced her fingers together in the space between her knees.  "Shit," she said.  "Here I was hoping that the 'invite them in' myth was based in truth."

But it wasn't.  And he went on to explain the best ways to defend herself.  Bullets to the head, a big gun, a big dog.  Fire, and plenty of it.  Don't go out at night.  Keep hairspray and lighters near your bed.  Keep to public places.

As he went on, she shook her head slowly.  The very idea sounded exhausting, and the tone of her voice when she spoke next reflected that clearly.

"I don't want to become a recluse or a hermit.  I'm just a woman, a human woman, and there's only so much I can do.  I can scratch out a meager existence here or elsewhere, hiding behind a shield of fire and a concealed carry permit, and I can be nervous and stressed and get thin and gray over the stress of it all.  I could do all of what you just said?  But what kind of a life is that?

"I can move away, but from what I was told they're everywhere, all over the world, by the thousands even in some places.  I feel like now that I know what to look for, I'm just gonna see them everywhere anyways."

Her posture shifted and she cleared her throat a little.  "The fire's not a bad idea....  But I don't think antagonizing them will do me any favors."

He said that she should use his name-- Tommy Lynch of the Sabbat-- if push came to shove.  This caused her to raise her eyebrows, penciled darker than what was natural on her face, as is her norm, and look at Tommy more carefully.  There was suspicion on her face, but not much in the way of caution or hesitancy.  Her eyes raked his neck, settled on his chest to try and pick out the natural swell-and-shrink of breathing that should move his chest and back and shoulders, even through the big coat he wore in the summertime.  She made a more bold choice (because she was already in this deep, and because alcohol helped make meek men brave) and-- if allowed, of course-- pressed the back of her hand to the outside of his leg, feeling for body heat through his pants.

She wouldn't need that physical touch to confirm her suspicions, though.  She was a nurse, she studied medicine in college to obtain a full four-year degree, and she was good at her job.
Tommy Lynch was not among the living.

Oddly enough, she didn't quail from him.  She didn't scoot away or rise to her feet.  He was offering her his protection, and whatever advice he could offer.  As it stood, she had no reason to really fear (although she had plenty to be wary).

"...I don't want to kill anyone, or start any wars.  There are monsters, sure, but I figure there are people among them too."  Then, she remembered that he had asked for names, and she delivered them in case they were important.

"The men called themselves 'Flood', and 'Bertram', by the way.  I can hope they're friends of yours?"

Tommy Lynch

Tommy watches her run her covert checks. Doesn't recoil, or suddenly start breathing, or any of those decoys. Instead, he simply waits for her reaction, and when she confirms his nature to herself, some measure of relief washes through him. He listens, face grave, as she states her position, and then, finally, gives her a weary smile.

"Molly. If you don't do what I'm suggesting, you're probably going to end up dead. Or worse, undead. It's a fact. People like you don't go long under their attention without getting caught up in their shit. You'll be taken in, step by step, and then one night either you'll end up with your throat torn out and drained of your blood or you'll end up like... us, drinking blood and living forever in a dark hell hole of unlife. It ain't pretty. I know you don't want none of this, and you figure you can maybe walk a fine line, but I'm telling you straight: if you don't leave the city, or if you don't follow the advice I just gave you, you're gonna end up dead."

It's that bone jarringly simple. He holds her gaze until she drops hers.

Continues, a bit more softly. "What do you want, Molly? You didn't ask for this, but it's the hand you been dealt. You want to live free of monsters? Move away. You want to live with as little to do with us as possible? Follow all my advice. Cause if you don't, what you're saying is that you're ready to be killed or brought in deeper. That what you want?"

Molly Toombs

Some kind of relief settled into Tommy's big bones when his nature was discovered.  That it didn't phase Molly much was a curious thing, but considering the run-around that she's been going through for the past two weeks it's unsurprising that she'd take the news so well.

As far as she figured, he's had plenty of opportunities to do her harm.  If he had malicious intentions he wouldn't be telling her how to defend herself, or if he was he'd be misleading her (and frankly nothing sounded quite so honest a way to defend oneself as shooting something in the head or dousing it with fire).  She had concluded before now, when she spent time inside of her own head mulling over her discoveries about the world's underbelly and what crawled the shadows at night, that not all of these Vampires were necessarily evil.  They weren't men, because men lived and breathed.  They weren't human for that reason as well.  But them not being men didn't mean they weren't people, as far as she was concerned.

People could be monsters, so could the Undead.  The difference was how terrible those monsters had the potential to be, and (logically) the frequency at which these people would become Monsters, considering the circumstances that were their very existence.

Tonight she banked on Tommy being more a Person than a Monster.
Or at least a Monster that liked her enough to keep her safe.

He gave her hard facts:  Either she took his advice and became a Crazy Recluse, or she wound up dead.  It was her call.

Her answer to what she wanted was to lift her hands and scrub at her face with both palms.  Afterwards, with her fingers run back through her hair, she looped her hands together at the back of her neck and leaned forward.

"I don't want to join you guys, it doesn't sound at all as glamorous or exciting as the movies have been making it out to be.  I don't want to die...  Clearly."  She was exasperated, more with her own inability to provide any clear, logical reasoning to why she was digging her heels in and refusing to flee the city.

"I can't help but want to know more.  I mean, this opens up the entire world, you know?  I thought life was just a straight march--" and she moved her hand, held it shaped like a spade with her fingers together, and drove it through the air in a straight path through the air in front of her, from left to right.  "From cradle to workplace to grave.  The end.  No allure, no excitement, no adventure or magic or change.  Just... black and white and gray.  Now I know that's not true."  And her hand closed, dangled in the space between her legs as she sat on the stairs, and the other joined it soon after.

"To forget would be to start from square one, and I wasn't happy there.  To hide is to stop living.  So my options are to challenge and fight-- where, let's face it, I don't have nearly as much of a chance as we'd like to believe, even with all of your advice--, or, to try and make some kind of...."  She spoke with her hands a little more, and this time swirled one in the air to indicate she was searching for words.  "...alliance."

Tommy Lynch

"Alliance?" Again Tommy laughs, a guffaw this time, amused, tickled, at her expense but not unkindly, at least, he tries to modify it as quickly as he can, clamping down on the eruption of humor. "You're hoping to enter into an alliance? With the ranks of the undead? Oh Molly."

Shakes his head. Leans back against the church door, which groans beneath his weight. "Sweet heart, you don't know what you're talking about. Sure, some of us will talk to you like you're a human being. Listen to you, respect your space, even enter into a relationship of sorts, a give and take. But fuck."

His smile is tired. "There are real monsters out there, Molly. I'm talking inhuman. No humanity. Monsters in human shape, that won't blink if they decide they like your skin and want it as a cloak, or they want to see how long they can make you scream before you tear your vocal chords. Who might treat you like, like - like a fuckin' walking smoothie, and just drain your dry and toss you aside. You can't enter into an 'alliance' with them. You can maybe make yourself useful for a little. You can maybe make a couple of friends. But you got nothing - nothing you can offer most of 'em other than your blood, and maybe some sorta... amusement. 'Cause maybe you remind them of their mother, dead these three hundred years, or an old lover. Or a challenge, to see if they can break you after making you trust 'em. Or maybe... fuck. It's too long a list. But they ain't people, Molly. Maybe a few of 'em are. Most of 'em? You got it right the first time. They're monsters."

He subsides. That all came out fast and furious, and now he closes his mouth and blinks as if surprised at himself. Lowers his chin to his sternum. Looks out over the street. Not speaking, but clearly with more to say. 

Finally: "Adventure and magic. Excitement. It's what always brings folks like you in. I knew it when you came up to me in the bar. If you really wanted out, you'd of left town already. But here you are. Alliances and magic and adventure." He's talking slow now, quiet. "Molly, there is some magic to it. Adventure. I won't deny. It's a wide and wicked world. You want power? You want control? You want to see the world like you ain't never seen it before? Shit. You can get all that. But what you're calling grey and... what did you say? Boring? That shit's normal, but normal can seem so good once you've been gone from it long enough. You don't think you'd ever miss normal, but hell. Trust me. You can come to miss it something fierce."

Molly Toombs

There's a momentary thrum of aggravation about the woman.  Just a bit, she didn't have the energy or desire to actually get angry.

"Well, clearly I didn't mean all of them-- all of you."

She straightened up when he leaned back against the church doors.  It would be awkward to try and continue a conversation with her leaned completely forward and him rested backward instead.  It would be harder to hear if she didn't turn her head for him, and doing that for any extended period of time sounded like a good way to get a kink in your neck.  So she sat straight, placed her hands on the step on which she sat, and stretched her legs out in front of her.

"I have no plans to go out seeking anyone.  I don't wanna go shaking hands and giving out my information-- 'Hey, hit me up if you need a favor!'  No, nothing like that.  Just.... the ones that arefollowing me.  This Flood, and this Bertram..."  Her nose wrinkled up at the bridge, and she turned her head to look over her shoulder and back to Tommy where he rested against the old wooden doors.

"This Flood guy puts me on edge.  If I'm lucky he'll just get bored and forget about me, but I don't think that'll happen.  I think if I put up a fight he'll just get more interested.  So, I think I need to get some kind of... level ground with him.  Find a way to, I don't know, figure out what he's after and meet him on it halfway so I don't have to worry about building a cage of silver and fire around my bed.  This Bertram guy I think is gonna want something, though.  He thinks I owe him a favor for his not killing me for my knowing what he is.  Maybe he's right?  I don't know.  But these two I need to figure something out with."

She seemed almost hopeful, like she wanted to hear some kind of reassurance from the big boulder of a man who kept her company tonight.  But Tommy could tell, as it was written all over her freckled face, that she knew her own hope was a flimsy thing that had no right to be there.  "I mean, you haven't murdered me yet.  That means there's a chance to make that happen once or twice more, right?"

Tommy Lynch

"No, I haven't murdered you yet." He agrees solemnly, and then gives a single shoulder shrug. "I've never gone in for the random violence thing. Well." He looks up, thinking. "Only when it served a greater purpose."

He rubs his hand across his lower face, and looks back at her. "Look, if Flood's interested in you, you're pretty well fucked. The best thing you can do is make him thing you're boring and stupid. Then he'll think you're not interesting enough to mess with. Though if he sees through that, it'll only make him more interested in you."

He scritches at the side of his head. "Honestly, your best bet is to just tell 'em to come talk to me. I'll set 'em straight."

Molly Toombs

"Oh, good," is Molly's answer to what Tommy had to say about Flood.  Her tone was flat, and her expression fell to match it.

For a minute she was quiet, just sitting in the dark shadows that the church entrance created for them, keeping company with a dead man that, for reasons beyond that which she could completely justify or identify without arguing against them right away, she trusted.  She wasn't worried to turn her back to him.  She didn't think that he was pulling her strings and playing her like a puppet.  She didn't feel like he was trying to lull her into a false sense of security, not how she did when she ran into Flood or when she spoke to Bertram.  She had faith that if she turned her back to Tommy, he would watch it without attacking it.

She could only hope that such faith wouldn't be her downfall.

"He gave me his number the other night, and said he wanted to have a more formal meeting.  I'll deny him, and tell him to talk to you, then."

There was a pause, a lengthy one, and she looked to him once again.  "...Tommy, look, first of all thank you.  For all of this-- for saving me before, for telling me this now, and for not, I don't know, sucking my blood I guess.  I want to stay in touch with you, if you're okay with that.  You've made yourself a rock in this storm."

Tommy Lynch

It's easy when you're not looking at him, when you're gazing out at the street, to almost forget just how large Tommy is. The sheer bulk of him. Almost seven feet tall when standing, and built like a garbage truck, with that sense of density and strength that comes from corded muscle and bones as heavy and hard as iron. Cavernous chest, hamhock hands, thighs as thick as her torso, a neck so wide she wouldn't be able to get both hands around it. Face bludgeoned and beat down by years of abuse, nose a tomahawk, eyes almost lost within the ocular cavities.

"Best if you don't call him. Let me do it. The less you talk to him, the better. As for this Bertram. Name don't sound familiar. There's two groups of us. Roughly. One group plays at being human and likes things quiet and orderly. The other group don't give a damn about being human, and just want to prepare for the end of the world, even if it means burning it down in the process. Flood's in my group. Bertram must be in the other."

They both subside into silence, and then she speaks her last. When she does so, he almost gets bashful, shifting his weight uncomfortably, scowling almost as he looks away. At the last though he looks back at her, and then grimaces and looks down once more. "Shoot. Don't thank me yet. We don't know how this is all gonna turn out just yet." A beat. "But you're welcome. Good kid like you. Don't deserve the shit comin' your way." Another uncomfortable shift. "Though... I ain't got a cell phone or nothin'. You can find me at the ICL most nights. Leave a message with Louie the bartender if I'm not there. He knows me as Tommy, and has given me some messages before."

Molly Toombs

Alright."

The answer is simple, plain.  She conceded to what advice Tommy had to offer, because she had every reason in the world to take it and none (aside from odd bounds of curious thrill and wonder that were squashed before they could turn from impulses to ideas to plans) to act against it.  He would call upon Flood, tell him to step off and leave Miss Molly alone.  This Bertram, though, he didn't know.  He told her not to thank him yet, and she answered that with a smile before pushing herself up onto her feet.

"I'll probably come calling.  I need to figure out more about this Bertram guy.  He almost worries me more than Flood does-- you say if Flood wants me I'm in heaps of trouble, but at least he seems pretty forward about being a smarmy, conniving thing.  This Bertram guy is all business and smiles.  I distrust that more."

She wasn't sure what she'd do about him just yet.  She had a phone number she could call, but she was afraid to do even that.  She felt like the phone number had been left as a token-- he'd offered it for her to call if she found herself in trouble, but she knew the instant she reached out for help he would come down upon her demanding things in return.  She couldn't venture to guess what things, because anything obvious he could have just taken that same night behind the gallery, but that wasn't the path he'd chosen.  That business card felt like a contract written in Arabic, and she had no idea what she was in for with it.

"Anyway.  I'll be on my way home.  Tommy, you have a good night."

And again she'd be bold, reach across the barrier and make physical contact.  First it had been to touch his leg, to test if he produced body heat.  Now it was to pat her hand against a shoulder she couldn't get her fingers wrapped all the way around.  The gesture was simple, but genuine.  She appreciated all that he had shared and done, and she saw no reason to hide that fact away from him.

"See you around."  And with that same show of faith that was mentioned before, the woman gave Tommy her back and turned to leave, trusting that he would not follow behind.