By the time Flood and Molly were hitting the sidewalk again, the night hadn't aged much at all. In reality, they were only in the depths of that antique shop for about ten minutes, maybe fifteen but that would be stretching it. It wasn't enough time for the moon to change or even the clouds to shift dramatically in how they peppered the night sky. However, it was enough time for that last bus to drive by the empty bus stop and continue on its way.
This was the last of Molly's concerns right now, though it ought to top the list.
She was easy enough for Flood to usher out of the antiques shop, as she desperately wanted to be anyplace but. He urged her along like she was an old, forgetful, feeble thing that needed assistance across the street, a hand at her back or her arm to apply light pressure to keep her going and offer her direction. She didn't try to shake him off, didn't roll a shoulder or throw an arm to prevent him from touching her. She just kept her eyes down, unfocused on things within that terrible store, until they were outside on the sidewalk once more.
Outside, she looked at the bus stop for a second, then checked the face of the watch on her wrist without entirely registering what direction the delicate black arms under glass were pointing and what they were trying to portray. It was quarter past midnight, and she was stranded on Federal.
"Flood," she'd say quietly. Her voice trembled without cracking, but didn't accomplish much in the way of volume. Her face was pale, like she'd seen a ghost (well, if you put it that way), and her eyes were still wide, still shocked. She was struggling to process entirely what she'd seen, and to cement the images as reality in her mind so she couldn't deny them for the truth that they held. It was important, she was sure, what she saw tonight. The magic was something new and worth remembering, but every single thing that surrounded it made her sick to her stomach and weak in her bones.
"I've fought you on this plenty, but now I need to ask-- will you help me home, please?"
Flood
"Of course, Molly," is his answer, invoking the nurse's name as she had invoked his. The mandolin voice is playing a different tune. A solemn one. And though he hadn't skipped a beat in making light of the situation whilst they had been inside, now the monsters like him are behind them and amongst this human? Beside this particular frightened sheep? He takes on a different bent.
His very personhood turns on a dime.
Flood's demeanor becomes overcast, face scowled with concern and attentiveness, stormy and filling the form that bears down over her.
The car? Oh, yes, the car. A Duesenberg Model J, a beast of black painted metal and white wall tires with a hot rod engine that roars to life. If the interior of that antique shop had been terrifying, this might just be taking the night toward a more surreal turn as she gets into a car out of some gangster movie from the early decades of the last century.
Molly Toombs
The dress had made it out alive after all, without anything significant in the way of damage to be worried about. He balanced it on the end of his newly-obtained cane as he shrugged out of the suit jacket he had, less than a quarter of an hour ago, been offended that she'd torn a button off of in her attempt to jerk him out of the way of a bone-crafted statue that was suddenly, magically charging at them. That jacket, the dark one with the blue and white windowpanes in it, was then draped around Molly's shoulders.
Flood is in the process of pulling out of the parking lot, using the side gate as opposed to the one that opens up on the main stretch of Federal - even if it means taking the vehicle out into the grimier streets off the already grungy main thoroughfare. It doesn't keep him from answering the question she asks once through buckling herself in.
"That was proof the dead aren't the only devils in town," stepping on the gas as he throws the car into the next gear with a yank on the long stick shift emerging from the floor of the Duesenberg. "Just in case you didn't believe me when I said there are many reasons to fear the night, but I'm not one of them," he goes on. And then he begins to patrol his speech. Seems to notice how insensitive an answer that is in response.
"That was someone like you, alive and breathing, who made a dark pact with dark powers and decided to steal the lives of others to make that power his own. That was a honey pot. Meant to draw the living, more moths to burn up in a brimstone flame, but those kinds of magi like those like me for the strength of our blood in that kind of necromancy," and then, when he says the word, it's like he understands it's the best answer.
"That was will working necromancy," he finishes. A grim finality to it.
They're passing burnt out houses, half-built ones, foreclosures and the occasional bastions of residential life that manage to survive like weeds in this part of town. He spots a trailer park and leans forward to spot the street name its address sits upon.
"If you don't mind, we're taking the long way. Think of it like back when you didn't want me knowing where you lived," glancing over his shoulder like he's looking out that back window for a tail. "Extrapolate to all the other leeches back there," hoping that will seal the explanation and halt any protest at going toward this part of town.
"Plus, it'll give us time to talk," almost an afterthought, but with how composed and curated his speech always seems, it couldn't have been an accident.
She hadn't realized that she felt cold until the jacket settled on her and encased her arms. First she shivered, for the jacket was cold from being held against the chill body of a man with no heat. Then she realized, as the fabric of the garment began to warm from the heat that she produced naturally by the grace of being alive, that she was simply cold on her own. The scene she'd witnessed had taken its toll on her, and with her spiked-- nay, flooded adrenaline now ebbing down and leaving her system she was left chilled and feeling strangely numb. So the jacket was accepted, her arms were slipped through the arms appropriately (and, of course, they were much too long for her, as the suit was tailored to Flood's tall, long body).
As he led her to his car, she found herself made curious by the shift in her escort's demeanor. Every other time she'd met him he had been aloof, amused by her without being invested per say. Earlier, inside the antiques shop, there had been what she thought to be a flash of concern when he was hauling her so swiftly away from the women with weapons, but that vanished right quick when the supernatural flurry had come to an end and Molly was left speechless and revolted and Flood was himself once more.
But now, even as he was ushering the valet to hurry and opening the door of his (what the hell? this is ridiculous. the opulent motherfucker.) car to help her in, he looked invested. Concerned, not looking down from far back and high above as he typically seemed to be. She felt dull still to her own motions as she settled into the seat and buckled herself in (assuming safety belts are even installed in a car like this), and watched the valet man while Flood rounded the car to get in on the driver's side.
Once he was settled in behind the wheel, she asked a question while still looking out the windshield, passing it off as looking for pedestrians on his behalf.
"What the fuck was that?"
Flood
The cane and dress are stowed with care as he turns toward the backseat. The car sits there for only another moment before it begins rolling with the crunch of gravel and asphalt out of the parking spot.
Flood is in the process of pulling out of the parking lot, using the side gate as opposed to the one that opens up on the main stretch of Federal - even if it means taking the vehicle out into the grimier streets off the already grungy main thoroughfare. It doesn't keep him from answering the question she asks once through buckling herself in.
"But I guess my company isn't as safe as I thought it was," correcting his last statement.
"That was will working necromancy," he finishes. A grim finality to it.
Molly Toombs
While Flood explained what she had witnessed, Molly's posture changed slowly while what he told her set in.
Vampires are real. She'd accepted that. If they were real, that meant anything and everything else had the potential to be real. Potential she could cope with. There was a potential that Bigfoot was real and that aliens were real and that Chupacabra was real. Potential, possibility, these were all things that have always been, and so long as something wasn't proven to be real that meant it could not be real too. There was a comfort in that.
But now not only have Vampires been confirmed, but magic as well. Not like the 'magic', if you would call it that, that allowed vampires to exist. This was different. That man was a wizard-- no, necromancer. She remembered that word from some of the reading that she'd done on her big reading binge the other week. It was a side note in one of many books that she skimmed over, digested, but didn't put too much thought into. Necromancy was magic fueled by and focused around the dead.
Slowly, Molly leaned forward. Her elbows found and settled on the tops of her thighs, and her fingers laced into her hair to hold her skull. She sat like this for a minute, scrubbing the short trimmed tips of her fingers against her scalp and waiting for the dizzying urge to pass out and the weight of gravity on her chest to pass and let up. While she was this way, leaned forward and not watching out the windows, Flood chose a side street to go down and explained, with a glance out the back window of the stately old car, that he didn't want the other vampires that were there to follow them.
Finally, with a slow and deep inhale to push away the weight on her chest, she sat back up and leaned into the seat back. Her hands folded in her lap, one over the other, gripping fingers to stop the shaking. She glanced over at Flood, watched his profile while he drove for a second, then shifted her gaze out the windshield to watch where they were going instead.
"So." She started, but stopped. Took a second, tried again. "So, I guess this means they were the 'other group', then?" Gears were whirling in her head. She was trying to focus on vampires instead of the horrific scene that she had seen and the fact that a man sitting cross-legged on the floor had been doing magic with the power of dead people's blood. In a sudden, almost disheartening turn of events, Molly found herself thinking about vampires because they were the more comforting and familiar thought in her mind.
"I was told there's two groups of you. That you're in one, and the man that was there with the dark hair... that he's probably in the other. The women are in the other group too, then." There's a beat, then a question to follow the conclusion she'd come to outloud. "Is there some kind of war?"
Flood
"I'll be meeting with that gentleman and seeing if that name, Bertram, matches the reputation I think it does. If it does, we aren't as far removed as you're indicating," turning one last time and they're on a new main street, looking for an on ramp to the thruway and within a block or two it's evident they and the vehicle are quickly coming upon it. The Cainite stops at a light and its sign looms ahead.
"Two groups?" In a tone masquerading as a man toying with the idea. "I'd say each of us is an island with our own allies, enemies, and neutral parties, but their are bands of like-minded individuals working toward common goals. Or at least acting as if they are to serve their own ends," but here he finishes with a turn toward her.
Flood's eyes are narrowed now. Jade dagger points incising at her. "Tell me who told you that," and even if it had been worded differently, offered in the form of a question, there would be no question that it's not.
"Two groups?" In a tone masquerading as a man toying with the idea. "I'd say each of us is an island with our own allies, enemies, and neutral parties, but their are bands of like-minded individuals working toward common goals. Or at least acting as if they are to serve their own ends," but here he finishes with a turn toward her.
Flood's eyes are narrowed now. Jade dagger points incising at her. "Tell me who told you that," and even if it had been worded differently, offered in the form of a question, there would be no question that it's not.
And like he has caught himself, again, he relaxes. His hands flex a little looser around the wheel. "You're making more friends aren't you? Were all of them after me, or were any of them before? And if so, I'd really like to know who, in the case they've seen us together and I've again mistakenly put you in danger."
Molly Toombs
His take on the social structure of vampire society was something that Molly soaked up as completely as she did the practical (or, well, most sensible) information that she got from her independent studies the other day. The impression that she was under previously shifted, adapted with the introduction of what Flood had to offer. There were two groups that had similar mindsets, yes, but apparently they weren't near so orchestrated as Molly had initially thought.
Then, at a stoplight, Flood turned his head and stared at her with a sharp, penetrating, demanding kind of gaze. He wanted to know who told her that, and didn't ask so much as insist that she tell him. She didn't answer immediately, but instead turned her head and looked at him, watched his face, waited for the intensity in those narrow eyes to shift in some way-- either to become more ferocious or to relax back under the blanket of this impression of unsteady kindness that he was portraying for her once more. Now he was asking, posing his questions as something more conversational and less of an interrogation.
She still looked at him, mouth pressed in an unsure line, then refolded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.
"His name's Tommy Lynch. Technically I met him before you, but I didn't find out what he is until after." She cleared her throat, and her body language turned uncomfortable. She wasn't sure if this was information she was supposed to be sharing, if it was something she wanted to discuss. Thus far Flood and Tommy had been separate things, they had no reason to bleed over into one another in her world. But it was inevitable, she supposed, that it would. She wasn't certain what territory she was walking upon, speaking of different vampires with those that hovered about her and snaked their way through her nights.
"He said--," and this is framed very cautiously, her words slow as though she were testing a rope bridge, making sure it wouldn't collapse and kill her if she tried to cross. "He told me that if you've taken an interest in me, I'm pretty well screwed."
Eyes didn't stay down, but they wouldn't find Flood's either. They were out the window again, and her heart was somewhere behind her collarbone. "Is that so? Are you building this up to my demise?"
Flood
"It's better to be well screwed than screwed badly," and he's watching her still once she begins answering, a flash of a smile as he plays with her words. Twists them into another meaning and reinterpretation.
That is until he can see that glow on the slick hood of the car and reflecting off the window turn from red to green. He turns back and focuses on shifting, gaining speed, merging onto a highway and joining the other cars moving northward.
That is until he can see that glow on the slick hood of the car and reflecting off the window turn from red to green. He turns back and focuses on shifting, gaining speed, merging onto a highway and joining the other cars moving northward.
"There are a lot of things that I could say about that coward. I'm more amused by what a man I've sat down with once and otherwise only seen in passing would have to say about me. I can say that I still have my principles, my conviction, and all that comes with them. I sleep well. I think all that is more than can be said about him," looking like he's finished with the discussion on Tommy Lynch.
"Your entire life is a buildup to your demise, every day until and after today a brick laid for your tomb, Molly, but I have better things to occupy my time with," and he reaches behind them. Into the back seat again. When his hand returns it has produced that flapper dress, with its fringe and aged but preserved silk, the gown still retaining the patina of another age despite its pristine condition. He drapes it over her legs. Another blanket.
He doesn't seem to mind the mausoleum it had come from. Doesn't seem to wonder at what the thread might be made of or the lining beneath where the breasts of a wearer would perch might be crafted from. In the old days the finest seamstresses might use whalebone. Or at least it doesn't stop him.
"There are many of my kind who hate what they are. Others who revel in it to the point of becoming nothing more than monsters. Both are shortsighted and both but those limits on themselves because they aren't up to the trial. Don't have the will to stand up to it. My intentions may not be entirely honorable; I look out for myself and have my own goals. But I don't want to see you hurt. I would have gone with a black dress if I were planning your funeral, Molly," he finishes.
Joey @ 5:28PM
[ Manipulation + Leadership. Specialty: Cult of Personality. Blowing a WP. ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 3, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 4 ) [WP] VALID
Joey @ 5:28PM
[ Manipulation + Leadership. Specialty: Cult of Personality. Blowing a WP. ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 3, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 4 ) [WP] VALID
Molly Toombs
The flapper dress that had started the whole debacle (although it was easily argued that the flapper dress wasn't the reason, just the tool) was pulled from the backseat and draped over her bare thighs to serve as a blanket. It really was a pretty garment, a creamy off-white color at its base with stitching all along it, forming a pattern of lines that would, and was no doubt designed to, compliment the figure by enforcing the illusion of a slim waist and broad, flaring hips. The actual fringe did not start up until the bottom of the dress, lengthening the garment. Molly was not yet sure if the dress was even the right size, but that wasn't her concern right now.
"April 12th, 1897, Anno Domini. That's the night I was born. September 20th, 1928, Anno Domini. That's the night I became what I am. Nearly eighty-five years ago," and this probably confirms many of her suspicions.
Instead, she frowned to hear Flood speak of Tommy. A crease formed between her eyebrows, and even though he spoke his last sentence on the matter as though he were closing a book and moving on to the next, she spoke to the other vampire's defense even while accepting the dress to serve as a blanket and situating it over her legs.
"I wouldn't call him a coward. Thank you," the 'thank you' interjected when she accepted the dress back into her lap. "He stepped in when I was being held up with that gun. Chased the kid away, made sure I was alright, and went on his way. He said that he wasn't hit, but knowing what I know now, I doubt that. I think he took a bullet."
She lifted a hand and scrubbed at her face, fading the liner that darkened her eyebrows, reminding the world that she was a natural red-head by revealing their light copper tone.
But, said Flood, she didn't need to worry. He doesn't want to see her hurt, and while he admitted his intentions probably weren't honorable, he wasn't planning her death. This information was digested for a second, then she turned her head to watch out the window. There was a couple driving beside them, slowed down intentionally to continue checking out Flood's car. As she looked over, the man who was driving flashed her a thumbs up and a big smile. She sank further into her seat, so her head would fall out of view of the center of her window.
"That brings us back this question, then: What are your intentions?"
There's a beat, and a little color returns to her cheeks just long enough to let her flush, moderately embarrassed despite the lack of strength that she had to be.
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not... nearly so suspicious about you as I was. You're taking me home, you didn't let me get shot up by the red-head with the gun. I'm thankful for that. But I still don't know why."
There's a beat, and a little color returns to her cheeks just long enough to let her flush, moderately embarrassed despite the lack of strength that she had to be.
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not... nearly so suspicious about you as I was. You're taking me home, you didn't let me get shot up by the red-head with the gun. I'm thankful for that. But I still don't know why."
Flood
The Lasombra's eyes go up in a mockery of surprise and incredulity. They altogether say more than words could about just how impressed he is with the story as she reveals the identity of her savior.
Oh, yes, that has changed his mind about the Brujah antitribu alright.
Flood also has a response to the car that pulls up alongside them. It doesn't stay there for long as he presses the gas and shifts up yet another gear, leaving them and their vehicle far behind in a couple short seconds with a roar of throttle and power.
"I would not trivialize it to something as simple as boredom. But I've a nagging place in my heart for the trappings and ghosts of life past. To ignore a whole world - well, you see how you have all your questions about us? It is the same. There are many in my group who would say it's a weakness. We're often characterized as monsters and I've little love for most of the herds of kine roaming this world. But now and then one piques my interest and can be more than mere sustenance. Can be a connection to that world I left behind and still have some nostalgia for," he finishes, looking over to her as he does so to see her reaction.
"And someone of your profession can be useful," his tone losing that reminiscing air to it, becoming more practical. "When a pawn is tipped over, having someone who can get it back on its feet can be valuable."
Molly Toombs
There is something to be said for Miss Toombs. She was a tenacious thing, that was determined right out the gate. Even when she was... we'll call it 'Unenlightened', she was relatively unflappable. She greeted a gun aimed at her chest with still hands displayed to her attacker, showing no threat, dissuading him from needing to actually do her harm. She did not cry or tremble or yell. She did not attempt to run and guarantee herself a bullet in the back. Instead she spoke to the man, tried to leverage his friend against him (successfully, mind you, his friend had run away and would not help), and stalled him long enough for a pedestrian to come along and spy the scene.
She cried to learn that vampires were real, this was true. But she did not try to race away from Flood when she first learned of his nature. Even after it was revealed that he wasn't but a Man she wouldn't let herself be bullied by him. She'd dug her heels in and insisted that he not know where her home was, that he give her the independence she needed to walk home unfollowed and unharried. Somehow, she'd gotten him to comply.
But with all that strong will and firecracker determination, she was still able to be still and simply listen when prompted.
So that's what she did now, while Flood told her a story.
She had plenty to gain from doing so, he was answering her question to him after all and providing even more detail than that, allowing her the opportunity to better understand his investment in her well-being.
She learned that he was actually 116 years old, and that he had been a vampire for 85 of those years. She learned that he was a man in the 1920's (which explained his love for his suits, as well as the flapper dress with its tassels and careful stitching that lay in her lap), and that he was invested in her because she stood out from the rest of the human crowd that she was pulled from. Because she provided him with a fond nostalgia for the world he'd left (or been pulled from screaming, she couldn't be sure about how he became what he was just yet, and was not comfortable asking for that story at this time).
She learned that he was actually 116 years old, and that he had been a vampire for 85 of those years. She learned that he was a man in the 1920's (which explained his love for his suits, as well as the flapper dress with its tassels and careful stitching that lay in her lap), and that he was invested in her because she stood out from the rest of the human crowd that she was pulled from. Because she provided him with a fond nostalgia for the world he'd left (or been pulled from screaming, she couldn't be sure about how he became what he was just yet, and was not comfortable asking for that story at this time).
Then the whimsy left his voice, and he looked back forward. He said she was useful for her profession, and it was handy that she was able to get back up on her feet after being knocked down as well. Molly appeared modest and looked back down (she had been looking his way while he spoke, of course).
"A pawn then." She wasn't trying to devalue her place, or make it seem like he was attempting to do so either. She spoke the words as though she were still musing over them, trying to decide what all of that implied. When she couldn't, she opted to ask instead. The conversation was keeping her mind off what she'd just witnessed, after all, and it would be much nicer to have her full breakdown when she was home and in the shower, where no one would see or bother her.
"Alright. Supposing I'm compliant with this-- supposing that you need me to do something for you, and the benefit justifies those needs... What would you have me doing? What value does a nursing degree have?"
Flood
"Not a pawn. Maybe more of a rook or bishop," because she seems to have misunderstood what he meant and who would need getting back on their feet.
"If you want in on the metaphor, that is," like she actually has a choice in the matter, no sarcasm there.
"Pawns fall and nasty things like bullet wounds and stabbings can't always be reported to the police. Living outside of the law means not having it's protection - I think it was Capote that said that, though just what that queer little bird knew about it I'll never know. I think he hit the nail on the head though," he nods like he's accepting of the kernel of truth there.
"I'm sure you get a lot of thugs," saying the word with an altogether different inflection than is commonplace today, but with the same meaning, "Ended up on the wrong side of a gun. Those are people I like to keep tabs on. Things I like to know about. Who needs help. A little support for a mutually beneficial arrangement," adding another possibility to the practicality behind that metaphor.
"And more than all that, you live within the law, and at times when I need to disappear you could help me did shelter in a world those who might mean me harm might never think to look," said like he's barely scratched the surface of what use her and her nursing degree could be.
Molly Toombs
Oh, she had her usefulness confused. She couldn't keep her hands still in her lap anymore. The less she focused on them, the more her nerves found release in making her fingers tremble. She realized that the odd vibrating sensation she was feeling wasn't the rumble of the classic car's engine, but her own hands shaking where they rested on her thighs, underneath the dress-blanket. For half of a second she looked like she might start to cry, frustrated she was at the fact that her hands wouldn't quit shaking, upset as she was with the reason why they shook in the first place. She just wanted to forget, just let it be for now, to wait for time and distance to numb the shock and horror and disgust before she could look back on it again.
"The mafia?" He repeats himself, this time with the inflection of a question. "It's an appropriation. But with the appropriation and calcification of the term, it came to represent a world of traditions and principles that govern those who take such power without the sanctification or sanctioning of the social order of the day: nobility, aristocracy, the rule of law, or socioeconomic class. Apply a code of honor to a group whose soul means of furthering their ends is the application of force and see how often they break that code in favor of strong arming others and saving their own hides."
When he finished, she switched her gaze from the windshield to his profile once more, and asked quietly:
"Those are some lofty aspirations, Flood. How far have you made it in your eighty-five years?"
Maybe he understands she needs to be the one to make it be alright. Or as close to alright things can ever be again.
They are nearing that stretch of sidewalk where they'd met and soon passing it in a blur as they cross underneath a footbridge and continue toward that next place where she had insisted they part ways while he had walked her home. Nearing the point where he will need more definite directions about their destination. He stops at another red light and waits for them without asking.
Then the rumble of the engine took over and filled the air between them to replace conversation. Molly was perfectly fine with that, for she'd taken enough information from Flood to last her the rest of the evening. He was open to her questions, and had not much reason to doubt that he had been dishonest in the answers he gave her. Not necessarily because she trusted the integrity of his honor, but because she figured he had nothing to lose in being honest with her on these matters. Would he gain anything by lying to her? Not at all. Did he have something to gain by drawing her closer to comfort in her consideration for him? If you were to trust his words on the matter, then yes.
Soon enough they're at a traffic light, and realization dawns upon Molly that she is intimately familiar with the intersection they were at. They idled, waiting for the light to switch. Flood waited for directions without asking, and he didn't have to wait long for Molly was quick to realize that he needed them.
"Take a right, and mine is the apartment building on the end corner. The five-story brick one. You can just pull up to the curb in front of it."
Molly then unfastened her seatbelt (again, if there was one at all) and leaned forward in the seat, stretching her arms back behind her. She worked to slide the jacket off her arms and shoulders without straining the seams or stretching it. She was certain that a popped button didn't actually affect him so negatively as he'd made it seem back in the antiques shop, but it was still worth something to be considerate if you asked her. The jacket would join the dress in her lap until they were parked, or unless Flood took it and moved it elsewhere for her.
Flood is dressed like a gentleman, sometimes acts like a rakehell, and though he is wholly neither gives a devilish smile as he reclaims his coat and folds it, stashing it on the dashboard in a ball of silk, buttons and tailored lines to wait for cleaning and repair after the night's adventure. When that is through he looks over at her and then down at the dress.
"You still have my card, don't you?" No, he is not going to invite himself up. At least at this point it does not sound like that is what he is planning. He is content to slowly peel back the layers of the onion. For now this is enough. This and a reminder of his invitation.
"My offer still stands. The place of your choosing and a proper night out. I can't promise it will be nearly as exciting, but..."
And maybe he had noticed it all before. That it wasn't as much excitement as fight or flight. The way she had reacted, even with that stiff upper lip, her unsettled heart and the lump in her throat had set her hands shaking and put her on the verge of something. Tears she fought down. That meant they still welled within along with all those other unresolved emotions.
Flood glances away from her. Down at his watch, a simple thing of black leather and gold except for the small engraving and crown on in that said it was nothing nearly so simple as it seemed. It's fastened tightly on his sinewy and pulseless wrist. But he's not appreciating the craftsmanship when his cuff peaks back to reveal it. He's checking the time.
"It's still early," if one can believe that.
"Will you be okay for the rest of the night?"
Pause.
Unfortunately, that's not really how things work.
Fortunately, Molly manages to keep her shit together with a hard sniff of a nose that got a bit runny from the sudden welling need to cry that she'd clamped down on. Her eyes were glassy, but tears hadn't formed or fallen. She lifted a trembling hand to touch the corners of her eyes with a knuckle, one at a time, just to be sure.
"So," the word was strained on a heavy voice. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time with more success. "You want me to keep record of all the dumb fools that I dig lead out of every night. So that you can help... I don't know, protect them? Pay their medical bills in exchange for their.... whatever it is they have that you want, I guess.
"And you want me to be an emergency hide-away to put you someplace safe when you... go to earth?" She looked unsure at her own choice of words there, and glanced toward him to see if he would provide confirmation as to whether she was accurate about what happens when the sun starts to crest on the eastern horizon or not.
She rubbed at her face again, this time dragging her hand over the entire lower half of her face, scrubbing at her neck thoughtlessly for a few moments.
"You sound like a one-man mafia, first of all."
The second of all didn't follow. She left it there.
The second of all didn't follow. She left it there.
Flood
First of all, and Flood seems to expect a second and possibly a third to follow it. It is apparent in the way he sits there for a moment, as attentive to her next words as he is to the act of driving, weaving through traffic and toward the downtown home she'd asked him to deliver he to.
But they never come and he is left in contemplation of her statement. All those that had been turned to questions, when she is rattling off what she can surmise from his litany of requests and possible uses for her? Well, they all get ignored. Either because she is spot on or the Lasombra is not in the mood to elucidate, but whatever the case may be, when he speaks again it's on that final subject.
But they never come and he is left in contemplation of her statement. All those that had been turned to questions, when she is rattling off what she can surmise from his litany of requests and possible uses for her? Well, they all get ignored. Either because she is spot on or the Lasombra is not in the mood to elucidate, but whatever the case may be, when he speaks again it's on that final subject.
"The mafia is a name for something older than me, older than this country of the country that brought it over on a boat when it was already here, and older than civilization itself. It's a name for an attempt to monopolize power. To organize those with it and rule those without it."
"The mafia?" He repeats himself, this time with the inflection of a question. "It's an appropriation. But with the appropriation and calcification of the term, it came to represent a world of traditions and principles that govern those who take such power without the sanctification or sanctioning of the social order of the day: nobility, aristocracy, the rule of law, or socioeconomic class. Apply a code of honor to a group whose soul means of furthering their ends is the application of force and see how often they break that code in favor of strong arming others and saving their own hides."
"But at its deepest meaning is a reference to a single individual. A boastful, pride-driven and self-serving individual. A bravado who acts without fear in enterprising as an agent of his own ends. Many of these things could be said about me with varying degrees of truth. I think they could be said about any one and even any of my own kind. I try not to be anything more than what I am: An agent of my own destiny. I exist outside the laws of man and the laws of God or His Creation, and seek to make my own kingdom in its absence."
Molly Toombs
The second and third of all never come. Molly expected that there would be more presumptions, but they fell flat in her mind before having the chance to be articulated at all.
So they both sat, quiet, for a time. Him waiting for her to talk, and Molly not sure what to do next exactly. Her mind felt numb. She wanted to sink back into her seat and close her eyes and let this day be done. She didn't want to try and handle anything new. She was almost unwilling to make the climb up the stairs of her apartment building to get to her front door. Stripping off her clothes and going through the shower was sounding like more of a chore than she wanted to go through. She wanted to sleep, and keep on sleeping until the memory of tonight had been purged from her mind.
But this wouldn't be an option, she knew that for certain. She wouldn't lay in her bed until the bone dust and stink of that room had been watched from her hair and skin. Even then, she could only pray that she would be able to actually sleep. Beyond that, she wouldn't be able to control the nightmares that were bound to come to her through the dreamscape. She didn't have anything in her house that she could take or drink or otherwise consume to fall into a dreamless sleep (Molly wasn't one for sleeping aids, and she didn't keep much alcohol in her house either).
Her contemplations of how the rest of her night would go once in the (false) security of her apartment were set aside when Flood started talking, explaining to her the origin of the word 'mafia' and his interpretation of it.So they both sat, quiet, for a time. Him waiting for her to talk, and Molly not sure what to do next exactly. Her mind felt numb. She wanted to sink back into her seat and close her eyes and let this day be done. She didn't want to try and handle anything new. She was almost unwilling to make the climb up the stairs of her apartment building to get to her front door. Stripping off her clothes and going through the shower was sounding like more of a chore than she wanted to go through. She wanted to sleep, and keep on sleeping until the memory of tonight had been purged from her mind.
But this wouldn't be an option, she knew that for certain. She wouldn't lay in her bed until the bone dust and stink of that room had been watched from her hair and skin. Even then, she could only pray that she would be able to actually sleep. Beyond that, she wouldn't be able to control the nightmares that were bound to come to her through the dreamscape. She didn't have anything in her house that she could take or drink or otherwise consume to fall into a dreamless sleep (Molly wasn't one for sleeping aids, and she didn't keep much alcohol in her house either).
Flood
"I'm still in Denver, aren't I?" There is an amusement in the vampire's tone. It's self-effacing and self-deprecating in a way that seems foreign to the manner he normally carries himself, so whether or not it is the truth is not so easily discerned. "But I like to think I'm doing well for myself. I am behind the wheel of a nice vehicle with a lady in the passenger seat who has asked me to take her home," turning the tone upside down as he comments on where he is and where they are going.
When it comes to discerning emotions, if he had noticed the knuckles to her eyes, the trembling fingers when they were bent into that gnarling grip to probe for water there, wiping away at even the ghost of tears she wanted to shed, it's not obvious. But he had, just as he had notices that thousand yard stare and how she wills it into something curious - not strange, but driven by curiosity and questions and a mind, while perhaps not open, ready to sponge up what he is sharing. Finds ways to occupy herself even if she can't forget.
If she can't forget she can try to understand.
Maybe it seems hard the way he allows her to forge her own resoluteness. Summon her own strength of will. Doesn't even seem to notice these things when he looks over and instead stoically offers a treatise on the nature of power as he understands it. He had given her a blanket and his jacket, but in no way does he baby her or try to make it all seem alright.When it comes to discerning emotions, if he had noticed the knuckles to her eyes, the trembling fingers when they were bent into that gnarling grip to probe for water there, wiping away at even the ghost of tears she wanted to shed, it's not obvious. But he had, just as he had notices that thousand yard stare and how she wills it into something curious - not strange, but driven by curiosity and questions and a mind, while perhaps not open, ready to sponge up what he is sharing. Finds ways to occupy herself even if she can't forget.
If she can't forget she can try to understand.
Molly Toombs
The tone that he used to respond to her was something that she hadn't heard from him before. It wasn't aloof in the same way that most of what he had to say was. There was a spark of humor at his own expense there, and for a moment the Undead Man seemed simply like a Man. But then she would glance over, see his pallor, his still throat (he had no pulse, did not swallow), and remember that he hadn't been 'simply Man' in quite some time. Longer than her grandmother had even been alive, for that matter.
But, he digressed. While he might not have gone far geographically, he liked to think he was doing well where he was in this moment. After all, he had an impressive car and a woman to drive home this night. She cast a somewhat skeptical glance in his direction, but the grim corners of her mouth softened enough to show that she could at least appreciate, and maybe even piggyback onto his display of good humor for that moment.Molly then unfastened her seatbelt (again, if there was one at all) and leaned forward in the seat, stretching her arms back behind her. She worked to slide the jacket off her arms and shoulders without straining the seams or stretching it. She was certain that a popped button didn't actually affect him so negatively as he'd made it seem back in the antiques shop, but it was still worth something to be considerate if you asked her. The jacket would join the dress in her lap until they were parked, or unless Flood took it and moved it elsewhere for her.
Flood
Flood grips the wheel and leans forward to spot that building coming up on their right. The woman had tried to hide the place the first night they had met, probably would have done the same that second night they stumbled upon one another whilst heading in different directions - especially if he had offered her another escort home. Luckily he had business to attend to and it hadn't come to that.
The vampire might have pressed the matter if denied a second time. All the good intentions and at-least-they're-not-lethal intentions might have fallen under the bucking of the beast within.
The vampire might have pressed the matter if denied a second time. All the good intentions and at-least-they're-not-lethal intentions might have fallen under the bucking of the beast within.
And Molly might have never asked Flood to take her here, as she had tonight - as he has tonight. Tonight the place she rests her head is revealed, even if she won't be getting much rest tonight with all the skeletal remains of a fallen necromancer dancing in her head. Tonight that curb Molly indicates becomes the home of the sleek black and whitewall-tired killer whale that pulls into it. The freedom of the open ocean, the wide world, desert and mountain expanses and metropolitan mazes suddenly becomes that much smaller for both of them now that he knows this place. He wrestles the stick shift into park and leans back into his seat now that they have come to a stop.
It is a reminder, evident in that way Flood's eyes narrow just a bit on it, not so much predatory as mindful of the memory is stirs. Where he had hoped to see it when he snatched it off that mannequin even when faced with a gun-toting criminal and her slasher sidekick.
"It's still early," if one can believe that.
Molly Toombs
The building they pull up to is both modest and forgettable. It's, as described, five stories tall. The front of the building has a double-door entrance at the top of a stoop of four stairs, and the sign over the door says, simply: Brookstone. Faded black letters on similarly faded white wood. The layout of the place is clear, with a balcony on either side of the door, each story up. Molly didn't point out which one belonged to her, if any of them. She just looked out the window and struggled momentarily with the fact that she had willingly led a vampire to her home. The struggle didn't last long-- it was abandoned quite promptly, as a matter of fact. She didn't have the energy to feel bad or stupid over it right now.
Tommy told her that you didn't need to invite a vampire inside for them to enter her home. Now, she was sure, Flood would have no problem picking out which apartment belonged to her if he got it in his mind to do so.
Tommy told her that you didn't need to invite a vampire inside for them to enter her home. Now, she was sure, Flood would have no problem picking out which apartment belonged to her if he got it in his mind to do so.
Molly told herself that if Flood wanted to do her any harm, he'd had ample opportunity to do so in less incriminating places than her own home.
She wouldn't worry about it.
She wouldn't worry about it.
He asked if she still had his card, and she nodded affirmation. Content with that, he expressed that his offer still stood-- he would like to take her out on a more.. formal meeting, we'll call it. A date? Maybe. She wasn't sure about that title, and again couldn't be bothered to think too hard on it at this moment. She didn't quite have the chance to muster up her answer to either accept his offer on the spot, tell him to wait, or shoot him down before he was speaking again, asking if she would be okay for the rest of the night because it was still quite early -- not quite one a.m. just yet.
She looked back over to him, eyebrows furrowed just a touch with thought. She was clearly examining his face after he asked if she would be okay, searching for motivation, for emotion, hunting to determine if he was genuinely concerned or if she could even make that much out. Regardless of what she may find, though, her answer is the same:
She looked back over to him, eyebrows furrowed just a touch with thought. She was clearly examining his face after he asked if she would be okay, searching for motivation, for emotion, hunting to determine if he was genuinely concerned or if she could even make that much out. Regardless of what she may find, though, her answer is the same:
"No. It'll be a little while before 'okay' is a thing again. But I will live through the night, if that's what you're asking."
She chose that moment to open the door of the car. Mercifully the street wasn't a very busy one, so there weren't pedestrians about gawking at the car, at the woman climbing from it, at the well-dressed man behind the wheel. She didn't much care if her neighbors thought she was an escort even if there were people staring out their windows, though. The dress came with her, carried thoughtlessly over one arm. She'd stay stooped enough to speak through the open car door to say something more.
"I think I'll call you, Flood. I'm in too deep not to anymore."
Pause.
"Goodnight."
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