Nathan Marszalek
Nathan is fucking drunk and the game hasn't even started yet.
After
he left the restaurant where he met his father for dinner and accepted
what looked like a peace offering from the old man a buried hatchet a
reminder that one of them is actually trying he had texted Molly to let
her know that that was fun. Didn't expect to hear anything back. He's
locked into a pretty serious communications blackout with Carole right
now. Wouldn't have surprised him if Molly was not talking to him either.
But
she is. They were. The day started out well enough. Sun's out and
Nathan appeared in as good a mood as he ever does when she arrived at
the bar. He doesn't reek of cigarettes when she gets there. Maybe he
tells her at some point that he's trying to quit. Got a patch on and
everything. So he's coughing a lot more than he usually his.
First-week-in-the-hospital coughing. His lungs are trying to get rid of
years of abuse.
He could go back to dipping like he did when he
was in the service but he tries to stay away from shit he did in the
service. Tries to stay away from mentioning it or anything else about
his past or his life. Molly's known him for a long time and she hardly
knows anything about him. Knows his parents divorced when he was
thirteen and Mom took the kids and she's the reason they half-ass Jewish
holidays.
Maybe at some point for illustrative purposes Nate took
out his phone and pulled up the Sturm College of Law website to find
his father's faculty page while giving her the Cliff Notes on their
relationship. How Nathan moved out to the West Coast to be with his
long-distance high-school girlfriend after he got out of the service and
when he proposed to her she dumped him. His father suggested he move to
Denver to get his shit back together. Mom wanted him to move back to
Omaha because of course she did. She was still pissed off about his
enlisting in the first place.
Anyway: Nate doesn't look much like
his father. Maybe a passing similarity in their bone structure. His
father is in his late forties early fifties somewhere in there and he's
still handsome even if he's getting old. Hannah got her green eyes and
ability to tan in the sun rather than burn from him. Nate puts the phone
away and changes the subject pretty quick after that. Back to what
Molly's weekend has been like.
They don't talk about reflections
or ghosts or blood bonds today. It seems like it's going well. Then the
bartender goads Nate into his third beer just ignore the fact that he
already had a fucking shot of whiskey when they got here because the
bartender was all DUDE MY BROTHER'S WIFE HAD HER FUCKING KID I'M AN
UNCLE WOO LET'S DO A SHOT and Nate blows out a breath while he waits for
the guy to refill his glass.
"You know how I write fucking essays
about veterans issues on the Internet?" he asks Molly. An
out-of-fucking-nowhere quality to this question.
Molly Toombs
It's
Sunday and there's some kind of sports thing happening that people are
watching. Nate had texted Molly about dinner with his dad, and she was
late getting back to him because she was at work. She empathized, or
seemed to, and said they should hang out some time. Due to scheduling
conflicts on Saturday, they agreed to use The Game on Sunday as an
excuse to meet at a bar, have lunch, and have drinks as well.
So
they were sitting at one of those tall pub tables in the bar, not very
close to the television because who were they kidding they weren't
actually going to be focusing on it at all. Molly had a plate of nachos
on the table between herself and Nate and had made it clear that the
plate was for both of them ("because seriously, look at these portion sizes, it's insanity that one person would eat this alone").
Nate
was three beers and a shot in. Molly was halfway through her second
pint but was taking her time with her drinks and her chips alike. She'd
been in a pretty good mood, and they've discussed normal things like
family and dads and what have you. Nate had Molly's empathy, but she
couldn't actually relate. Her parents have been happily married for
almost thirty years and live in a nice house in a coastal pacific town.
Their oldest child was doing just fine (as far as they knew) out in
Denver, and their teenage sons were healthy and well adjusted. Molly
didn't have much for family problems, though she did have an
on-again-off-again uncle and aunt as an example.
All the same. They drink, he talks about his dad and Molly's weekend.
Then,
the topic of Nate's veteran's issues essays. Molly blinked at him from
over the rim of her pint glass and raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, I do."
Her tone and face both said 'go on' while she reached for a nacho and
crunched on it in wait.
Nathan Marszalek
She knows
about the blog. She might have its address. Might know the last thing
Nathan wrote before he almost lost his eye was a memorial essay about a
previous subject and the photographer he lost in the car crash. It was a
warm but professional essay. Went on at some length about the necessity
of visual imagery in journalism and how Shannon's passion was as
important as her technical skill.
"So, uh..."
Nathan is a
somewhat gifted writer. Could get better the older he gets. Plenty of
other writers get started by some confluence of military and journalism.
He's a terrible orator though. The alcohol doesn't help. He clears his
throat and chases the dead sentence with beer.
"My father
mentioned it was looking 'sparse.' I mean, he's right, I haven't touched
it. So last night I was doing some research, you know, and they update
the statistics more often than they used to. Nobody used to keep track
of this shit. But they updated the how many veterans on average kill
themselves every day, uh, the number, and it's gone up. Not like, a lot,
but if you break down the math, you know. More Vietnam vets are killing
themselves percentage-wise than civilians. So I was like, 'Oh. That's
interesting.' Because I'd just--" He hikes a thumb over his shoulder
like to indicate the past. "Last year, you know?" His hand goes back to
his beer. "Wrote about how the Denver homeless population numbers are
falling but there're a lot of statistical aberrations that made me think
the study they did was jacked up. And then the thing with Rodriguez,
did I ever tell you about what the coroner's report...?"
He scrubs his face. Looks surprised at his own stream of unfocused rambling and laughs a dry huff of a laugh.
"Wow. I'm sorry."
Molly Toombs
They
were talking about the blog and Molly was nodding along, clearly
listening as was appropriate. But then the conversation bled in to the
statistical number of veteran suicides and the warm good humor on her
freckled face started to seep away. Just a little, not dramatic or
anything.
He apologized when he'd finished, because she was slow
enough to respond that he had time to rub his face and laugh and
interject.
Molly ignored the apology, though, outside of just
flexing her brow at him to indicate that she hadn't missed that there
was something laying under the rolling waves of that stream of
consciousness. For the moment, she took up her beer and asked before
sipping:
"So I'm supposing that Rodriguez offed himself, then? I hope that's how that statistic came up."
Laurel Hensley
Laurel's been in a shit mood since--
Okay,
we can't even say that with a straight face. She's almost always in a
shit mood. But there has to be a relative level to this, you know? A
sort of First World (of Darkness) Problems thing. So if shit mood is the baseline, then let's call it a good shit mood. Laurel's been in a bad shit mood
since Friday night when someone made her to something she didn't want
to do with a simple word. She had fled that scene, looking like a caged
animal and reeling to comprehend what had just happened.
Two days
later, she's not looking a whole lot better. She's not panicked
anymore--that wears off eventually. But she's...twitchy. Surprisingly
quiet, a little withdrawn as she walks into the establishment. She has
that pained expression that indicates an oncoming headache (or a present
one that's just sort of lingering there). She's dressed in her same
outfit from that night...jean jacket, jeans and a tank top underneath.
Her head ducks as she slips in, slipping a pair of sunglasses off and
rubbing at her eyes irritably to adjust to the different light scale of
being indoors. Nate may be quitting smoking, but Laurel isn't by a long
shot and she smells like she's had a pack or so over the last
twenty-four hours.
She looks around a moment, eyes shifting their
way across the room, and makes note of Nathan and Molly at a table. She
frowns briefly, hanging there for a moment of Do I even want to deal with conversation? But she doesn't feel like going outside, so she grunts to herself and makes her way toward the bar.
Nathan Marszalek
Both of Nathan's parents are lawyers. Were lawyers. His mother is a judge now.
He
doesn't expect most people to have much in the way of sensitivity when
it comes to discussing things like death or mental instability or war.
Molly is a nurse. She has seen him smashed up and bleeding and
incoherent more times than any normal person has had to see their close
friend in a state of helplessness like that.
When Laurel walks in
Nate doesn't notice her right away. One of the perks of being human.
Your senses tamp themselves down when you're shit-housed and other than
the fact that Nate flinches when Molly refers to suicide as offing
oneself he doesn't have a disproportionate reaction to it.
"NO, yes, that's... dude, I didn't tell you. Fuck. This was... I don't know, man, it was so weird..."
He's
got his hand to his forehead like he's trying to brush back hair from
it but he's had a haircut since he got out of the hospital. It's still
coarse and thick and wavy but it's not everywhere anymore.
"A John
Doe came over the scanner at work one night, right? So I went down to
see what was going on at the scene and it was like, this really junky
part of town. And I'd been looking for him, you remember? Like, the
second thing I wrote about him, I was meaning to follow up with him!
Because he'd gone back to rehab and was staying in a new place and la la
la! Thought he was going to have his shit together!"
Calm down, Nate. He hears himself getting worked up and takes a deep breath but not a deep drink.
"Okay. So, I wasn't really
thinking a lot about it because you know, John Does happen all the
time, but something one of the cops said was like... I asked if he had
any identifying marks other than, you know, that he'd died because of a
throat laceration. Cops thought he did it to himself. Took a piece of
metal or something and--"
He pantomimes cutting his own throat.
"Alright,
so maybe he was on drugs or something, people do things on drugs all
the time, whatever. Went to the ME's office and - it was actually pretty
weird. The ME who was doing his case, she was in the service too. She
recognized me from Helmand. I mean, I didn't, but she was like 'You are
one lucky motherfucker I'm surprised to see you walking' and I was like
'Uhhh, who the fuck are you...?' ANYWAY, listen: his tox screen came
back negative. Nothing was in his system. And it was him. It was
Rodriguez, he had tattoos that you can see in some of the pictures
Shannon took, they had to call Sandra in to ID the body and it was
really fucked up and that's why we were there talking to Sandra the
night, you know. Because I wanted to see how she was doing. But I really
don't think Rodriguez killed himself. And I was starting to wonder if
like..."
He trails off. Still coherent enough to recognize that they're in public.
"I feel like I'm talking really loud right now."
Molly Toombs
Molly
met Laurel once, and that was on a street corner. It was brief, and
they didn't interact directly. Molly was sitting facing the door while
Nate was facing her, so Molly got a glimpse of Laurel when she walked
in. Clear blue eyes clung to the woman's face and body for a lengthier
couple of seconds, expression distant in a way that anyone's face tends
to be when they're trying to place a face.
When Nate pulled her
attention back and said 'man, it was so weird' to begin his story, Molly
let Laurel's recognized face but unidentified source of that
recognition slide away. She listened to Nate for now instead. It
seemed like what he was about to explain about this Rodriguez fellow was
going to be worth hearing.
She listened careful, attention rapt,
as Nate explained the story of how this Rodriguez fellow's body had
turned up. How there were no drugs, but his throat was sliced with
something metal. Self inflicted, supposedly, but Nate doubted it.
He
paused and announced that he felt like he was talking loudly. The flat
expression that Molly gave him confirmed that concern. She glanced
cautiously about, then folded one arm on the table in front of her so
she could rest her chest against it as she leaned forward. She was
dressed in a comfortable gray T-shirt and dark wash jeans and a zip-up
hoodie that she felt no need to take off. This wasn't one of those
outfits that showed things off when you leaned forward over the table--
this wasn't that kind of a lunch date.
"So." She said the word in
what she hoped would be an example of what volume Nate should mimic.
The way she looked at him further expressed that. "You think someone
else did that to him? Because he knew something, maybe?" She took
another sip of beer, then followed up with: "Or do you think someone made him do it?"
Nathan Marszalek
"I know someone made him do it! He wouldn't have done that to himself."
This
is supermarket beer aisle levels of riled up. He never gets like this
unless he actually gives a shit about something. Like Molly's safety. Or
things skulking around in the dark manipulating people's brains and
shit. At least he's trying to keep his voice down.
Sober Nate is
plenty capable of roaring. Drunk Nate could get loud and belligerent
real goddamn fast if he weren't a sweet-natured individual underneath
the scars and the propensity to stick his foot in his mouth.
Molly Toombs
"Jesus Christ, Nate, will you calm your tits?"
Molly
flinched at how loud his answer was, and reached out to hastily push
the plate of nachos toward him. "Here, eat something." It'll keep his
mouth preoccupied with chewing, or at least muffle his words some while
he's trying to talk around food. And slowing the further absorbtion of
alcohol would probably be helpful too.
"I'm not gonna keep talking
about this with you over lunch if you can't keep your voice down. I
mean, really, it's like noon on a Sunday you lush."
This, followed by a warning look that pretty much tells him: Inside voices or mom's kicking the kids outside to play.
Then,
she'd ask quietly, taking another nacho chip with a jalepeno on it:
"So, we're talking about some kind of... hypnosis or mind control or
something." She already knew vampires could do that. She hoped this
wasn't related to any of them. "Any thoughts on, like, where to look
next?"
Laurel Hensley
[[Oh I should probably check
to see how much of Molly's last comments she heard before I post that
she heard it! Per+Alert, going +1 diff for a little drunk but spending
WP because she's listening at that point]]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (4, 4, 7, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) [WP]
Laurel Hensley
She
sits down, orders a drink. Nathan and Molly seem to be content to
leave her to her own devices for now, and she's actually glad for that.
She doesn't have anything inherently against them (yes, she
occasionally wants to hit Nate but that doesn't make him special), but
now is completely not the time for her to talk. She picks up the double
screwdriver and downs a good swallow and a half of it, staring at the
bar surface as she lets herself fall into circular thought patterns.
Those
thought patterns are broken when she hears Nathan talk about some guy
who died by throat laceration and it was a suicide but not really and
who the fuck cares? But she does notice that it's...bizarre. And that
does perk her interest, never mind that Nathan is speaking more that
loud enough to be heard. And then they're talking about people making people do things, and she's no longer idly listening.
She
looks over her shoulder, taking a sip of her drink as she is actively
eavesdropping on them. And then she hears those magic works: hypnosis or mind control. And she stands up, walking over to their table with drink in hand.
"What
do you know about mind control?" It's said a bit more aggressively
than she might have intended. Or perhaps she meant it to sound that
way; it is Laurel, after all. She sets the drink down and puts her
hands on the table surface, looking from one to the other with
suspicious eyes.
Nathan Marszalek
Nate
doesn't start eating the nachos right away. He's one of those drunk
people who doesn't become a black hole of hunger when he gets to pouring
beer down his throat. Or maybe he's just under a lot of stress. Work or
whatever it is the things he hears have got him chasing. He doesn't
look like he's been getting much sleep lately.
But he does quiet.
Still hasn't picked up his beer again. Is very much focused on what
Molly is saying and is about to tell her where he's started to look next
when an interruption happens.
What do you know about--"
"JESUS!"
Nate says. That startled him. He doesn't have PTSD and he doesn't
struggle just to get through the day without having a panic attack but
that doesn't mean he isn't in a constant state of hypervigilance anyway.
He's
sitting with his hand over his chest and his eyes wider than normal by
the time Laurel is at the waiting for a response portion of her
question.
Talk about suspicious:
"Where the fuck did you come from?"
Molly Toombs
[Wits 4 + Occult 3: What do you know, Moll?]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
Nate
startled when Laurel appeared at the side of the table. Molly, though,
she saw her coming. That was the benefit of not facing the back wall
and pinball machines like poor Nate was. Plus she wasn't drinking
nearly as quickly as he was. She was sour on the thought of 'drunk' for
at least another few weeks after her episode several nights ago.
So,
while Nate shouted his surprise and held his hand over his chest to
settle the rapid thump-thump hammering of a startled heart, Molly just
looked at the taller blond-haired woman as she approached.
Initially,
Molly looked curious, if a little on edge as though she was caught
talking about something she shouldn't have been. But then Laurel put
her drink and hand both on the table and demanded to know what Molly
knew, and looked suspiciously between both Nate and Molly. Whatever
openess may have been on the woman's freckled face before shut like a
door slamming when a summer storm wind whipped through a house. Her
eyes darkened, her lips pressed together, and she reached for her beer
and stated, very cool in her tone:
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Laurel Hensley
Nate
jumps by Laurel's sudden appearance; Molly shuts down and puts up a
wall. Laurel couldn't care less. The woman has a lot of negative
traits, and Not caring is one of them. But one of the traits
that makes her a survivor (along with that lack of caring) is her driven
nature, and her refusal to back down. She gives Nate a narrow-eyed
look, frowns, then back to Molly.
"I came from the bar. And don't
bullshit me. You were just talking about mind control and hypnosis and
people being made to rip their own fuckin' throats out, and I want to
know why."
She's keeping her voice slightly down for the moment,
because she's on edge and a little buzzed but she's not stupid. This
kind of shit isn't normal, and she isn't ready to be anyone's laughing
stock. Especially when she was so recently made so for other people.
"Don't act like I didn't hear what I fucking heard. What do you know about it?"
Nathan Marszalek
Nate folds his arms on the table and puts his head down. Might groan a little. But he doesn't say anything.
Molly Toombs
Nate
puts his head down on the table and groans quietly, but says nothing
more. Molly cut a glance to him, and her eyes softened just the tiniest
bit. She was already sympathetic for what he was about to witness.
She wanted to reach out and fluff the mop of curly dishwater hair he
used to have, but it was missing and that was too affectionate to be
appropriate while this perfect stranger was breathing down her neck
demanding information.
So, Molly kept her hands on her beer glass
instead. And did not offer Laurel a chair to sit in, though there were
two empty ones available and tucked neatly under the table.
Instead
she took a deep and well paced breath through her nose, cooling the
fire of her own flaring temper and preventing herself from rising to the
provocation. Instead, she looked Laurel straight in the face and asked
her flatly:
"Who the ever-loving hell are you that I would tell you anything?"
Laurel Hensley
"Who the hell am I?" She grits her teeth, bites back a response. Don't lose it, Laurel. You know how to talk to people when you have to.
She shuts her eyes, takes a breath. Clears her throat of a frog that's
been hiding down there from too much smoke and alcohol over the last
couple of days, and when she opens them she's looking at Molly. The
expression is hard, even hostile. She can't keep that out of her gaze.
But she's not yelling or accusing. Because this person seems to have
something she needs. Understanding.
"I'm someone he knows," she
says, dropping her voice to a low and gruff mutter so as not to carry to
the others who are probably looking their way at this point. "I'm...a
bounty hunter." That's the best she can do at the moment because
introductory pleasantries just aren't on the menu. "And the other
night, someone told me to do something I would never in a million years
do, and I walked across a room and did it without fuckin' realizing what
I was doing. With just a god damned set of words.
"So I really
need to know what you might know about it." She forces a smile, and it
looks exactly as forced as it is. She doesn't intend it to look this
way, but it's more like a predator baring teeth than anything else. "Please."
Molly Toombs
[Humanity: Do you have a sense of it today?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 5, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
Nathan Marszalek
When
the fight abates and Laurel reels it in he keeps his head down. It
isn't making the world go away but it's helping him pull himself
together. There was a reason he started ranting about suicide statistics
and a dead man to Molly earlier. Hard to pin it down on just one
reason. Maybe she thinks his own mortality is staring him in the face
now. He hasn't seen much of his father in the thirteen years since the
divorce. Maybe he visited a couple of times while Nate was in the
hospital last.
Nate doesn't tell her that he was looking really
tired the other night. That he's worried about his father because of
everything that's happening in his own life. That he told him he still
hears dead people. That he's starting to wonder if his father's renewed
attempts at getting him back into his life aren't because of some
lurking menace that has nothing to do with mind control and
blood-thirst.
Or maybe Nate is reaching the same kind of depressed
and hopeless as the men and women he's been reading about lately. As
some of the men and women he's interviewed in the last three years, four
years. Maybe that's what his father was worried about. That his son's
going to become a statistic.
Anyway:
He sits back up once
Laurel starts to explain what happened. His cheeks are flushed from the
blood rushing to his head and his eyes aren't glassy yet. He's not that
drunk. But he looks distracted and uncertain. Thoughtful. Obviously
feels bad for Laurel. Nate has an easier time empathizing with people
than Molly does.
"Shit," he says somewhere in the midst of her explanation. "You wanna sit down?"
Molly Toombs
Laurel
could at least be assured of this: Molly was listening to her.
Despite the fact that the blue eyes locked onto her may as well be chips
of ice for how little give or warmth could be found there, she could be
sure that Molly was hearing what she was saying, not just waiting for
her to stop talking.
When the whole spiel about what happened to her was concluded with a forced smile and a sharp-edged please, Molly's eyes narrowed.
For
a couple of seconds, she stared hard at Laurel like this.
Considering. The blonde woman may look like a predator, but Molly
looked like the person with control. She had the thing that the
predator wanted, and it couldn't simply be taken. It had to be given.
This was no doubt what had the hunter's teeth on slicing edge, and it
was precisely why Molly was still able to breathe level and act like she
could set the terms.
Because, really, she kind of could.
Nate
invited Laurel to sit. Before she had the chance to accept, the
red-haired woman leaned forward, toward where Laurel stood, and gestured
lightly with one hand while she spoke.
"I'll tell you what, Someone He Knows: I'll make you a deal.
"I
get what it's like. Where you're coming from." To an extent she did,
anyways. She knew the wide-eyed panic of witnessing something that you
knew knew knew shouldn't couldn't be real but
walking on and continuing your life after knowing what you saw anyways.
She hasn't had her mind hacked into, though. Not as far as she was
aware. "But I'm going to tell you this right now: I don't help people
that are disrespectful of me. So far you've given me absolutely no
reason other than my own personal sense of humanity to help you out.
I'm not even entirely convinced that I want to help you yet either.
"So
let's start with you cooling your jets and starting over with a fucking
name." She didn't smile sweetly to end it, but she did look a little
more open, even if it was kind of aloof a way to be as such. She stuck
out the hand she'd been gesturing with previously for a shake. "I'm
Molly."
Laurel Hensley
[[Aw, Laurel, you're being
such an Amber right now. Self-Control to behave! Setting diff low-ish
because Molly's meeting her impatience somewhere in the vicinity of
halfway and Laurel doesn't have Short Fuse.]]
Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (5, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
Laurel Hensley
Normally,
there would be options for Laurel. She is not averse to beating
information out of people; she does it for her work. But that's when
she's trying to find people who have skipped bail and broken the law.
There is something in the way that Molly phrases her
words--confrontational yet open--that makes Laurel's hands clench. It's
habit; she expects people are shitty as a rule and when individuals try
to play games, they're usually doing it (in her mind) because they
don't plan to give her what she needs or are just playing mind games.
She's had enough of mind games this weekend.
But she's in
control. She lets in a slow breath, forcibly relaxes her hands. They
lift off the table and run over her face and scalp to compose herself,
and she nods.
"Yeah, I know you. We met once, with f...with
Kragen." Yes, control your words. "Some creep in a suit came up and
sort of spooked you off, and I got in his face after over it." It was
her first experience with the undead--a Sabbat, no less--and she didn't
even realize how lucky she'd come. "And then you were with Nate at that
nightmare of a karaoke bar that Amber and I walked into, before I fled a
rabid flock of sorority gashes."
She pinches her nose, and sighs,
then looks at her. "I'm Laurel." And she does move to take the seat
that Nathan had offered. Her drink is picked up and another swallow
taken. See, she can behave.
Nathan Marszalek
When
Laurel mentions the night of the karaoke sorority nonsense Nate starts
to think about Carole. Molly can see the moment it happens. That was the
night they stopped pretending they weren't interested in each other.
Then he had to turn around and fuck that relationship up a month into
it. Which was admittedly a month longer than he has managed any other
relationship since the one whose termination brought him to Denver. But
still.
He doesn't look gutted. Just: Oh yeah. That was that
night. Wow I'm drunk. I don't want to get any drunker. Focus on what
they're saying man come on. Yeah. If you don't talk and just watch their
faces you'll be totally golden.
I miss Carole.
No. Fuck. Focus.
"Wait,"
he says. This to Molly. He has words to say! Then, at a respectable decibel
level, to Laurel. "Are you okay? Like... you're not hurt, or..."
He's hung up
on someone forcing Laurel to do something she would never in a million
years do. That is something he's having trouble processing. Not the mind
control aspect. The that aspect.
Molly Toombs
Laurel
takes a seat, and expresses that she knows Molly from a brief chance
encounter with Kragen and some other creep in a suit. The way that
Molly's pupils constricted and then went back to normal suggested that
she was finally placing where she knew Laurel's face from, and the rest
of the scene as well. She'd been bantering with Kragen on a street
corner and Laurel had perceived them as talking about things not meant
for the public ear.
Then Bertram Kohl had sauntered up to join the
party. Molly had very much disliked his eyes on her-- this was recent
to when he'd found her behind an art gallery and smoothed his business
card into her hand. When he'd expressed that she was interesting and
she had already known how much trouble that meant coming from the lips
of the breathless.
Laurel was right. Molly had fled that scene.
If she was impressed to find out that Laurel had gotten into Bertram's
face and survived to tell the tale, it didn't show, though. Instead she
picked up her pint glass and nodded, accepting of what Laurel had said,
including her nap, and took a drink.
Before she had a chance to
continue with saying anything else Nate cut in with a 'wait' to quiet
her. She didn't argue, didn't appear to really want to argue either.
In fact, she seemed all too happy to go quiet and let Nate and Laurel
clarify what happened for her.
Laurel Hensley
She's
tired, Laurel is. She hasn't gotten any sleep since Friday night,
because how can you sleep when you have something like that eating its
way around your grey matter and walking in circles trying to figure out
how it's possible and suspecting that you might suddenly start doing
something else and maybe you're just losing your mind and what if there
was something in her drink and was she roofied and what else might have
happened if she doesn't remember it because if who knows if she lost
time she never pays attention to time because she keeps her own schedule
and doesn't have anywhere to be and she has no friends to meet and
what's going on what the fuck...
Yeah, that's what's been going on
in Laurel's head right now. So she's tired, but Laurel isn't someone
who drags around. She'll coffee up and energy drink up, and let's not
forget adrenaline. So she's edgy and jumpy, but not passing out in
front of them. She sits back, staring at the door--she picked a spot so
she could see it--and sort of loses focus before Nate's question brings
her back into reality.
"What?" She blinks at the reporter then,
looking confused by the question for a second. "Oh, no." She scowls,
reddens a little. "It wasn't anything like that." Pause. "I don't
think. I dunno, maybe. No. It was just something stupid and trivial."
Which
makes it even weirder, and a little embarassing. She would have rather
been told to do something that got her hurt. "I'm fine that way, at
least."
Molly Toombs
"If you ask me."
Molly
cut in here, but her tone wasn't nearly so sharp or chill as it had been
before. Really, it wasn't all that sharp before either. Firm,
absolutely. She'd sounded cold and unmoving like an iceberg a
skyscraper deep beneath the water's surface, but not sharp. Now she
simply sounded... Well, professional was probably the best way of
putting it. She was far more polite, at least, and seemed to at least
be trying toward empathy if nothing more.
She was at least relaxed
enough to help herself to another nacho. It was unclear if the
invitation was opened to Laurel or not. It would probably be up to
Drunk Nate to open that door.
"And you kind of did, to be
fair..." She raised her eyebrows expressively at Laurel, as though
begging for agreement, and munched the chip she'd selected before
continuing.
"I'd have to know more about this person, what they
asked you to do, and then what you did to have any idea of what to tell
you. Are you sure you wanna talk about this here and now?" Her eyes
hopped over to Nate. Oh Nate, you got drunk at noon. This is Lunch,
not Brunch. She looked back to Laurel, silently encouraging the other
woman to consider their mutual friend before starting inquiries into
such uncomfortable matters.
Nathan Marszalek
He's
resting his head in his right hand so that he can give Laurel his full
attention which is already somewhat diminished because of the beers and
the shot or maybe it was shots Molly did leave him unattended for five
minutes to go to the bathroom.
His scar is still very pink and
very loud in the daylight. It's a warm day. He's wearing a polo shirt.
The scars on his arms don't look much better. Has to seem like every
time Laurel sees him he's somehow more of a mess than he was the last
time she saw him. Drunk Nate shares Sober Nate's empathy and his active
listening but Drunk Nate also looks as if he'd be very easy to knock
over right now.
Does she wanna talk about this here and now.
Nate does a slow double take.
"What?"
he asks. Sits up straight. "What, are you not supposed to talk about
weird shit when you're at lunch? Did I lose the game? Fuck."
He thinks he's being funny even now. Nate takes another swallow of his beer and sits back.
Laurel Hensley
She
furrows her brow deeply when Molly presses for more information, and
the hand around her drink tightens. She's not sure she wants to talk
about it at all, much less talk about it in public. It's something that
she's incredibly uneasy about...the act, how she was made to do it, all
of it wound up into one single ball of "WTF?" She shoots Nate a look,
but it's not a I'm going to hurt you or even Shut up look. It's more an examination of him as he talks, and then a decision that yes, he was trying to be funny.
She doesn't laugh or smirk, but she gets the joke.
"Yeah,
fuck it," she says with a shrug. "What do I give a fuck? Here's
fine." She's quiet for a moment as she replays the incident in her
head. "There was this Eurotrash guy at a strip club down on Colfax who
was making this girl I was talking to there uncomfortable by looking our
way. Not a dancer," she says, as if it even matters. "He was off in
general...wasn't looking at the girls. More like he was waiting for
something or someone. So I went over and confronted him over it. One
thing led to another, the girl I was talking to left and this other
chick across the room was giving Eurotrash a look like a damned deer in
headlights. I pointed it out and..."
She frowns again, pauses
there. She's super hesitant on this one. What did he have her do?
Attack the girl, do a striptease, what?
If finally comes out in a hurried mutter. "He told me to hug her, and I did. For like, a full minute. I couldn't stop."
Nathan Marszalek
[do not laugh nathan i swear to god]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )
Molly Toombs
Nate gets cut a glance. It reads: You snide ass, you're drunk.
She
then looks to Laurel and frowns thoughtfully. She had acquiesced to
this impromptu consult on things supernatural. Some part of her brain
screamed at her to shut it down shut it down. These were the kinds of
things that waved brilliantly colored flags over her head in the night
to call attention. Shit like this was the reason that the shabby Archie
Lightner had huffed and puffed and chased her down up a few street
blocks to try and invite her into his cult of studying the supernatural,
or some weird shit like that. She really should burn the business card
he gave her, but she was simultaneously terrified and thrilled beyond
belief by the very notion.
But more on that later.
For now,
she listened to what Laurel had to say and when she was finished talking
the trauma nurse looked flatly surprised. She didn't know what she was
expecting exactly-- perhaps having been told to walk ten blocks away
and go get deliberately lost? Perhaps to stand very still and forget
everything that happened then wake up tired and lethargic and just sick
and cold and achy? Certainly not that she would be forced to hug
anyone. For a second something flashed in her eyes-- a reactionary
desire to laugh at the idea. But it was squashed down politely, before
it even had the chance to reach her mouth, and she cleared her throat,
finished her pint, and asked:
"Describe Eurotrash to me?"
Nathan Marszalek
Nate
doesn't laugh. Doesn't look like he wants to laugh even. Admittedly he
looks a bit horrified at the thought of Laurel hugging anyone and then
his brain imagines her being forced to hug someone that she didn't want
to hug and if anyone has ever looked at Laurel with that much sympathy
and understanding in their eyes she might have trouble thinking of it.
The drunk fuck has big stupid doe eyes even when he's sober and minding
his own business.
"I'm so sorry," he says when the reflexive urge to laugh passes.
And then Molly asks her to describe Eurotrash.
Elsewhere, René Jacobs gets a cold chill on a warm day and has no idea why.
Verna Gardner
So
it's in the middle of the day when Verna arrives at the pub, and she's
not there to watch the game. She looks like polished Hell. Like she
didn't get much sleep last night, and has put in a lot of effort to hide
that fact, but it still shows through the immaculate makeup and perfect
clothes.
She's making enough money to drown her sorrows in steak
and beer and whatever harder fare this place offers. She looks like the
type to unflinchingly order something frou-frou and girly. Something
with chocolate liquour perhaps. And you'd be nailing that first
impression.
The waitress comes by and she holds up a finger to say
'yes, just the one'. Jesse, by the nametag, says to take a seat
anywhere, and Verna smiles and slips off to a table by the bar. The bar
patrons are talking about 'Eurotrash' and Verna sniffs. Eurotrash.
Perhaps it's the word that draws her attention to the three, draws her attention to Laurel, in other words. And the look on her face is such a mix of pity and disgust when she realizes who's here.
Laurel Hensley
[[Dooo I seee yoooou? +1 diff again 'cause some booze and discomfort]]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (2, 3, 4, 4, 6, 8) ( success x 1 )
Laurel Hensley
Molly's
in luck when she asks for a description; Laurel's been on the other
side of this questioning many a time. She knows what kinds of details
are important (just about everything) and which ones aren't (conclusions
drawn by personal, likely stilted observations). So when she talks,
it's surprisingly lacking in her usual attitude, profanity or snark.
"About
six feet, six one maybe. Blond hair, blue eyes. Cleaned up well;
trimmed facial hair, short combed hair. He was wearing a three-piece
with nice shoes. Couldn't place the accent, it's not one of my fortes.
Very blase about things. His sentence structure was slightly broken,
the way that a non-native English speaker who's been here a while but
hasn't shaken off their old sentence structure has been."
She
looks over at Nate when he gives his sympathies, and he looks legit.
She snorts a little; not at him, specificially, just in reaction. And
then she looks down at her drink and shrugs.
"It could've been worse, I guess. Still, that was some fucked up shit."
She
almost misses the girl, she does. It's oh so close. But it's like she
can sense someone feeling bad for her, feel those eyes of judgment on
her. She looks around and sees Verna then, and her eyes narrow.
"Her," she says under her breath. "That's the girl I...that the shitfuck made me hug."
Molly Toombs
[Manipulation 2 + Subterfuge 2: Don't Let Them Know You Totally Know That Eurotrash Guy]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )
Nathan Marszalek
[perc + subt: NOTICING THINGS DON'T LIE BEST FRIEND -2 dice because he's crocked]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )
Laurel Hensley
[[Per+Subt w/+1 diff again]]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (5, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
As
is the case when any information is being offered up, Molly is still
and attentive and listens well. She sipped her beer and kept her eyes
on Laurel while she was talking at first, but then they slipped to the
wayside, unfocused, while picturing the person that Laurel was
describing.
Then, there, Nate catches it and Laurel does too.
There's a flexing of her eyebrows, a small widening of her eyes. They
know that what she's experiencing is recognition. Nate couldn't gauge
how (Laurel would gain more insight), but he knew that she knew this
Eurotrash man. The one that cast some kind of spell over his bounty
hunter friend and forced her to hug--
--oh? That woman over there?
Molly
blinked, her expression purely interested, masking over any sort of
reaction she may have had to the description of István Andrássy, and
switched her focus to the well-dressed, well-dressed woman sitting at a
table not too far off, by herself. This woman, who was staring
blatantly at Laurel.
Molly Toombs
Laurel sees
something a little bit more to the recognition. She can tell that
there's something personal attached to this man. Molly doesn't just
recognize him, she knows him.
She could probably even get in touch with him.
Nathan Marszalek
That
description could have fit plenty of people. Aspen is a world-renowned
ski resort and it's close to Denver. This European gentleman could have
come from anywhere. But the description Laurel gives rings a bell in
Molly. They both see it. Nate doesn't know what to do with it any more
than Molly knew what to do with his trying to pocket her business cards
last week.
But he doesn't say anything. Doesn't even blurt out a
question. Just turns to try and find the girl Laurel hugged in the
crowd. If Verna's paying attention she can see a young-faced guy who has
to get carded every time he goes to buy cigarettes even though that
face scar is going to make him look grizzled when he gets older and
starts going gray.
When he first met Molly she said he looked the
part of a rumpled noir detective. Then he told her he was a reporter.
Took some pride in the noir part of the description. That was before she
knew he was psychic and had been bitten by a vampire. Before he wound
up in her fucking emergency department twice because of accidents
happening to him.
"Oh shit," he whispers.
Verna Gardner
Suddenly,
it seems, everyone's looking at her, and Verna averts her eyes. Drug
addicts, all of them, probably. They do tend to flock together, don't
they? Or whatever it is that addicts do. One of them looks smashed
already, and it's only noon.
Poor wretches.
She
turns her attentions to the menu, trying to ignore the eyes upon her.
Doesn't like being the center of attention this one. But she is listening, oh yes. Listening to the quiet, as they all talk together in hushed whispers. They're talking about her, she knows it, even if she can't hear what's being said.
The
waitress comes by and asks what she'd like to drink, and she ponders
for a moment before ordering a pumpkin pie martini. Because in a place
like this, the sports bar, that's what Verna would order.
Laurel Hensley
She
notes it. Oh yes, she certainly does. There's something in the knit
of the brows, the twitch of her eyes, that Laurel sees. And she
snatches upon it, clings to it like a starving wolf would to a wounded
animal that's trying to get away. The bounty hunter's shoulders bunch,
her neck tenses and then Verna is forgotten because Molly is getting all
of Laurel's intense attention.
"Who is he? What the hell did he
do to me? How..." She cuts herself off there, her eyes shifting to
Nate now when he breathes out a quiet curse. Just like that, they're
back on Molly. This is what Laurel does; she finds the hidden things
people don't want to talk about so she can find people and deliver them
to justice. She does it with a cynical standpoint, but that's beside
the point. Catching someone who she's set her sights on is like
breathing and in this moment, she's jarred out of her tired paranoid
frantic mode to settle into confidence and a rut in the road that she
knows.
"Tell me." It's said a little louder than the rest,
more demanding than pleading. Laurel doesn't plead for answers, but
there is a need in there. It drops down to a quieter tone then, with,
"You know."
Molly Toombs
Nate looks to Verna, Laurel looks to Molly. Verna looks to her menu, her waitress.
Then
Laurel, not wasting a second, was upon Molly. Not physically, no, but
turned toward her, facing her, staring her down intensely. Drilling her
for information. Who is he? You know. Tell me. Tell me.
Molly
looked like a deer in the headlights, just for a second, and snuck a
frantic glance to Nate as though she expected that he was supposed to
help her. Then she decided for whatever reason (because she did this to
herself it wasn't Nate's fight, because Nate was shat faced and
couldn't be a protector anyways) she dropped her eyes from him, cleared
her throat, and stepped down from the tall pub-style table they'd been
sitting at.
She wasn't keeping a purse today, but a money clip and
her phone in her hoodie pockets instead. She pulled a twenty from the
clip and tucked it under her pint glass.
"I actually think I need
to be going." She knew Laurel wouldn't like that, so she cut
immediately to the chase and looked the woman in the eyes. Not
averting, not dodging or trying to sly away. She looked sympathetic,
almost, just around the edges there while she said: "Look, you gotta
understand that other people have their own ground they need to keep. I
still need to stand on my patch, you get it? I'll do what I can, but I
can't just keep talking here, okay?"
Her tone is hushed, and rushed. She was trying not to make a scene.
Nathan Marszalek
If he had to.
Not
that he does have to. This is a fight he doesn't know how to win. Even
when he's not drunk at noon on a Sunday Nate is not a social wizard. He
learned how to argue from having a judge for a mother and he learned how
to hold his ground from staying in the military until he was too
banged-up to keep going and most of the rest of what he's learned he's
had to learn from trial and error.
But if he had to he could step
in. Molly doesn't need him though. Molly's been fighting her own fights
this entire time and she's learned to keep herself protected by using
information and her feminine wiles as currency.
This may be the
last time any of them see Nathan Marszalek alive. He kind of has that
look about him. That not-looking-forward-to-this look people get when
they're up against something they can't actually conquer.
He
doesn't finish his third beer. He wants to sober up. He wants to be
present and alive for however much longer he's got. That's the kind of
aura coming out of Nate. Not irresponsible drunken white male idiocy.
Hard to tell the difference half the time though. And now Molly's getting ready to leave. Apparently he intends to go with her.
Verna Gardner
Verna's
waitress arrives with the froufy drink, and distracts her from the
ongoing hushed conversation going on at the bar. It's just as well,
really.
She then goes on to order some expensive steak for lunch, because this is supposed
to be a treat for herself, see? And tomorrow, there's work to look
forward to. Or look toward in fear that her employer is going to grill
her about what she was doing at the Rapture. He wouldn't do that would
he?
Perhaps she could slip a note into his inbox. Something like, 'It never happened.' And leave it at that.
After
the waitress has left, after she glances over at the others -- a mere
flicker of the eyes, suspicious -- she sips at that pumpkin pie martini.
Laurel Hensley
Molly's
getting up and making like she's going to leave, and Laurel's not
surprised. She's back in her element after all, and no one ever wants
to give her the information she needs. She's rising up to stand and
just like that, Laurel's stance toward the woman shifts. In her own
worldview, everyone is the problem; it's an impossibly rare few that
actually do the right thing. And when you're not doing the right thing,
you're part of the problem and completely undeserving of sympathy in
her eyes.
"Yeah, I'll bet you do." It's her response to I think I need to be going
and said with a gruff tone, practically a growl. Full of disdain.
"Well listen, it's like this. We can talk elsewhere some time--and very
soon--and you can give me actual answers instead of yanking all of my
information out of me, going 'Hmm' and 'Haw' and then skittering away.
Or I can find your blond little friend or whatever the fuck and beat the
information out of him. Don't think--"
And then Nathan's looking
like he's going and she stares at him, hard. She might even be a
little sympathetic to his plight in another situation, but everything in
her stance suggests she thinks she's been made the butt of some kind of
joke. Get the girl to talk and then run away so you can laugh at her
where she's not in striking distance. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"
She
shakes her head and stands up. "Fine. I know someone I can get
answers from." Which is when she starts striding over to Verna's table
with intent.
Nathan Marszalek
Nate reaches out to try and grab Laurel's wrist. Nope. You're not going over there.
Molly Toombs
Molly
stared at Laurel as she explained that either she would get the answers
from Molly or she would beat them out of István. She'd blinked at her,
then laughed. The sound was hollow and disbelieving, far from
humored. A little bit sad. What she thought was you poor
headstrong thing, you have no idea what you're getting into and you're
too brash for me to attach myself to, you're going to burn in their fire
and I won't have stopped you.
What she said was: "Yeah. You find me and let me know how beating him up like a schoolyard bully works out for you."
Nate
was standing like he was going to leave too. This had earned him a
grateful look from Molly. But then Laurel, a little drunk, started off
toward Verna, intent on wringing information out of her if Molly
wouldn't speak up herself. Nathan, very drunk, reached out to grab the
blond hunter woman's wrist and stop her.
Molly stepped back and flagged down the bartender.
Verna Gardner
Verna's
been covertly paying attention to the trio, although all three of them
probably know very well that she has. Verna's not very good at this, you
see. Still, it's not difficult to come to the conclusion that they are
about to start a fight, right here in public.
See, this is what
happens when you do drugs, people. This is what happens when you let
yourself go so far as to be sloppy drunk at noon.
Verna looks up
at the three, not even hiding anymore, and her brow raises at the sight
of Laurel trying to reach her, Nate trying to stop Laurel, and Molly
flagging down security. Uh oh.
That woman is trying to hug her again.
Laurel Hensley
[[Self-Control at...let's say 7? That sounds good.]]
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (1, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
Laurel Hensley
There's a snort when Molly spouts off her sarcasm, and she's still rising, stepping forward--
And
then there's a hand on her arm. With his fingers encircling her wrist,
Nathan can certainly feel the sudden rise in her tension, the muscle
flex under her skin. He knows that something's coming, and maybe he
even anticipates an attack. Molly's a very smart woman (for many
reasons than just this) and she starts to wave employees' attention to
the situation. She probably expects a fight; she has no reason to think
otherwise. Verna just thinks she's about to get hugged again.
They're
all wrong, against the odds. She whirls to go nose to nose with Nate,
staring at him with a barely-restrained fury. There is someone
underneath there, fighting for control from the angry, hurt whirlwind
that wants to know answers. She knows this is Nathan and while she
hasn't ever seemed that close to him, he's never actively done anything
against her. And Amber likes him and she certainly doesn't want to do
anything to make that awkward. So she just stares for a couple of
moments before saying, though forced calm,
"Let go of me, Nate. I'm serious." And then, after a pause. "Please."
The bartender is making his way over by now, almost surely.
Nathan Marszalek
He's
sobering up or at least his inebriation hasn't hit a level where he's
absorbing alcohol faster than his liver can churn through it but Nathan
is still drunk enough that he's making decisions with a five-year-old's
grasp of consequences and his coordination is completely shot. There is
no way in hell he would not get his ass beat in a fight if one broke out
right now.
This is the closest she's ever been to him physically.
They've sat on barstools together and she has seen how dweeby and weak
he looks fully clothed. No finesse in his technique but Nate has cloaked
strength to him that she only feels when his hand is locked around her
wrist.
He's drunk but he's not an asshole. Laurel doesn't have to
plead with him to get him to let go of her. He nods and releases her and
gives a pointed look over her shoulder at the girl who thought a repeat
of the other night was about to happen.
One of the side effects
of being friends with Shannon as long as he was is Nathan knows a lot of
the bartenders in this section of town. This particular bartender knows
who he is. Maybe feels bad for him because Shannon's only been dead
what five months now? But the Sunday crowd is a mellow sort of crowd. He
isn't coming out from behind the bar unless it looks like Nate is
actually going to start trouble. He's not getting paid to break up
fights.
"You two wanna play grab-ass, take it outside!" the bartender calls from his post.
"Sorry!"
Nate calls back. He looks back from Verna to Laurel's face. That look
of contrition still written all over his face. "Don't go over there. She
prob'bly doesn't know any more than you do."
Molly Toombs
Nathan
was a nice man. He just wanted to stop confrontation and fights from
happening. He knew this bartender, kind of, and didn't want there to be
trouble in the establishment. Molly had waved at the bartender
anxiously, who had in return simply squinted at the situation between
Nate and Laurel and the nicely dressed woman who was minding her own
business and paying money for a steak so leave her alone damnit. He
simply called over to them to stop, and Nate was kind enough to let go
of Laurel when she got in his face and to apologize to the bartender on
top of that.
Molly, in the meantime, stood quietly with her lips
pressed together in an expression of worry. She had moved to stand
beside Nate, but angled more toward the exit. Waiting for when they'd
be able to leave.
Hoping she could just skim under the radar long
enough to get the hell out, but unwilling to just leave Nate here
fending for himself as many sheets to the wind as he was, Molly touched
his elbow.
"We should get going anyways, Nate. Come on."
Verna Gardner
Verna takes that martini and downs it. Oh but she needs to do more than sip right now, ugh. She looks around for her waitress, tries to wave her over. Lunch is not happening today, apparently.
When the waitress arrives, she explains, delicately, but still within earshot, that there are hooligans over at the bar making a scene over her, and she has to leave. So please do cancel the lunch order, and she is so sorry.
The
bartender yells that if they want to play grab-ass, they should take it
outside, and Verna blushes. Is that was this hugging thing is all
about? Playing grab-ass?
Then, she's fishing around in her purse to grab her wallet, leave money for the drink, and get the heck out.
Laurel Hensley
Nathan
lets go, and the bartender doesn't come over. Laurel takes an
immediate half-step back once her wrist is free, putting a bit of
distance between them. Whether it's for his assurance that he's okay or
his sake so that she doesn't lash out, that's probably hard to say.
She hears what he has to say and she glares at him, because he's
standing in the way of something she needs. But she nods, slowly.
"Fine.
I'll find out some other way." She looks at Molly now, her wits
somewhat restored...even if the fire still rages behind her eyes.
"A
schoolyard bully beats on the weak and the innocent, by the way. That
shitheel certainly isn't innocent, and doesn't seem weak. He'll do
something worse to someone else. If you can sleep at night with that,
then..."
She shakes her head and drops a ten on the table for the
drink (plus whatever's left for a tip) and moves to go now, to get out
ahead of them. Mostly because she's worried that if she follows them
than someone will think she's going to attack them. Which, she's not.
And she's not staying here.
"Watch out for that guy you knew at
the titty bar," she says as she brushes by Verna, who's going for her
own purse. "There's something ain't right about him."
Nathan Marszalek
And
Molly is going to have to physically lead him out of here. He's staring
at Laurel like he ought to say something and can't think of what that
something ought to be. Like he wants to warn her to turn the fuck back
now before she gets in any further over her head.
She passes by
Verna's table on her way to the sidewalk. The bartender turns away from
them to finish wiping down the bar and dealing with his other customers.
Nate
just lets out a breath that sounds like a plea with a god he's known
was a lie since he was old enough to ask his first question and scrubs
his face with his hand.
Molly Toombs
With a word
of warning and clarification, Laurel expressed that this person that she
could tell Molly knew, though Molly would say nothing and would stand
wide eyed and apologetic but still refusing to spill the secrets of, was
no innocent victim. She was worried he would hurt someone.
Molly thought bitterly that she could confirm that. It was in Their nature.
Then
Laurel walked away and Nate relaxed, sighed a breath that may or may
not carry words. Molly frowned, and the expression was lost someplace
between sympathetic and worried. She knew Nate had seen through her
too. That they'd need to have that conversation.
But her mind was already ahead on other conversations she'd be having in the future.
For now, she patted Nate's elbow and cleared her throat. "We should still go..."
Verna Gardner
She's
fishing around in her purse when Laurel comes by -- not to hug her,
thank goodness. But the words she says only wrest the most confused look
out of Verna. "Excuse me?"
Because, look, lady, you are the one who screams that there is something not right about you.
And
well, that look of utter confusion is mixed with something else. She's
still blushing about being caught at the 'titty bar' of all places. Oh,
those others at the bar, they must know too. That must have been what
they were all talking about just now. The horror!
Nathan Marszalek
Nate
opens his mouth to try and come up with some sort of a plausible reason
why they shouldn't still go. Why he should do something. But there's
nothing he can do. He couldn't keep Molly from careening headlong into
something she had no business getting involved in. He can't even talk
himself out of it.
"Okay," he says. Their drinks are already paid
for and she just left a huge fucking tip on the table. No reason to stay
anymore. So he turns towards the door and takes her hand like he's
afraid of losing her in broad goddamn daylight. "I... am so sorry. Ma
always said she couldn't take me nowhere nice."
Laurel Hensley
"You
heard me," is all she says to Verna before the door shuts behind her,
and then she's walking down the street with those sunglasses coming back
on. She needs to beat something up, and she's out of jobs right now so
she knows a bag that will suffice.
Molly Toombs
There
was a brief exchange between Verna and Laurel while the blonde-haired
woman was making her way out, but Molly wasn't going to be caught up in
any of that. She was on her way out, away from this. She noted Verna's
face, noted that there was something that tied her to that vampire
she'd spied in the parking lot, the one that Dr. Jacobs was associated
with. She noted, but didn't say anything or even so much as look toward
the woman apologetically. Molly wasn't responsible for anything that
Laurel did, after all.
Nate apologized and put his hand in Molly's
as they navigated through tables. Molly just sighed and squeezed his
hand, as to reassure, and didn't shake him loose after that. She wasn't
going to make it weird.
"Don't worry about it, alright? You just
got a little... excited, is all. We can totally still talk about
Rodriguez and all, but let's just take it back to my place. Too many
people around here anyways."
Her apartments were just six blocks away. It would be an easy enough walk, Nate wasn't that drunk after all.
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