Molly Toombs
When you lived with your eyes open to
the things that crawled and lurked and slinked about in the shadows of
the night, the more mundane hurdles of life tended to catch you by
surprise more than they would. While Molly was prepared for monsters to
breathe down her neck when she stepped out of St. Luke's hospital at
two in the morning, she wasn't expecting to see her bike lock broken on
the ground and her bicycle missing.
What a pain in the ass.
This
explained why she was walking through the belly of downtown Denver at
half past two in the morning, unescorted and looking particularly
ruffled. This time of night on a Tuesday the streets were empty, save
for scraggles of homeless stuffed into corners here or there trying to
sleep or get high or forget their tragedies through any other venues
they could find. Molly Toombs didn't have the safety of the
ever-watching eye of the public to wear like a shawl, not at this hour.
This hour belonged to Them.
She came to a stop at a traffic light
and waited for it to change while meager traffic, a few cars here or
there, rolled past. She just got off work, and so was dressed in her
nursing scrubs-- a navy blue that looked uniform, not the cartoon
character prints that you'd see in pediatric wards. Her hair was red
and to her shoulders, but tied up in a ponytail to it from being tossed
into her face by the night's breeze. She wore a light jacket and held
the strap of her satchel-purse with one hand while the other hand rested
in her pocket.
No earbuds. She wanted to hear if anything was
creeping after her, but that was a habit. Her eyes weren't actively
searching for anything right now, but they were unfocused on the
crosswalk signal in front of her. Tired, maybe. Just wanting to get
home.
Finch
It's very early - or very late
depending on the way you looked at things. Those who say the glass as
being half full would term the hour as being early and those who saw it
half empty would scream that it was very late. The people that are out
at this hour are no good - any mother will tell you as much: The only
people out past midnight are all up to no good.
Except for Miss
Molly. She's riding the back end of bad luck that's cast her out on two
feet into a night full of sharks and predators, factor in the fatigue
from hours on her feet and hours taking care of the infirm and it's easy
to just settle into the rhythm of your own footsteps and move on
autopilot despite the knowing of how dangerous that can be.
When
she starts through the cross walk there's things occurring all at once:
the burn of rubber on pavement, four headlamps bearing down on Molly's
position at speeds too fast to gauge and a vice-lock grip on her bicep
jerking her back to the semi-safety of the side walk.
The cars
don't bother to stop, no one apologises, and Molly would find that the
owner of the hand that tore her away from possible injury still remains.
Lean and average in height, clothed in a neat charcoal suit with hair
that lays too neat, he is busy putting order to his lapels and his
slacks rather than looking at Molly.
"I don't think that they
would have been able to stop for you." He offers, crouching gracefully
to wipe a smudge from his shoes with the pads of one thumb.
Molly Toombs
Blame
it on the exhaustion, and someone will say that Molly should be
accustomed to working these hours by now and a long walk home that
would've been easier on a bike ride shouldn't be enough to make her that
much more tired than before. Blame it on the fact that the young woman
had plenty on her mind worth mulling over and getting lost in, and
someone will shrug and say that she simply should have been paying
attention.
When she had stepped off the curb and started to walk,
some small subconscious misfire in her brain mistaking the opposite
direction's green light for her own, and when those headlights bore down
upon her, someone may have just let it happen and called it Darwinism--
not risked themselves to help.
Someone Else, though, a man who called
himself Finch (but didn't call himself anything just yet), intervened.
He appeared seemingly from nowhere and grabbed on to Molly's arm through
the light tan fabric of her jacket and yanked her backward, back up
onto the curb.
Molly had only had enough time, really, to register
that the headlights were on her, to realize that she didn't have enough
time to dodge out of the way herself, but then her feet were stumbling
stumbling backward and she was up on the curb again. A free hand had
clutched onto the sleeve of the arm hauling her backwards, for balance
and support to keep from falling when being dragged.
He released
her, she released him, and Molly's heart finally remembered to beat
again. It slammed three or four hard notes into her ribs and she
realized she was holding her breath and exhaled with a quiet little: "Ohmyjesuschrist...."
Then,
wide-eyed and swallowing hard, she lifted a hand and slipped it into
her open jacket to press her heel against her chest, as though to still
her heart. She looked after the car that whipped past, not so much as a
horn honked, then down to the man who stooped in front of her to rub a
smudge away from his shoes.
Man out of nowhere. Nice suit,
meticulous care of his appearance. Molly should know these red flags by
now. Somewhere, someplace in her mind, she absolutely does. For now,
though, she just rediscovers her voice and finds it still moderately
breathless from the adrenaline that was too-late pouring into her
veins. "Thank you. Jesus, I'm such a--..." Well, no need to dwell on
what she was. She cleared her throat. "Good thing you were here."
Finch
Appearing
out of thin air wouldn't be exactly a correct statement, though for the
most part that seems to be what just happened. He wasn't there and then
he was, just like that. Truth be told, he's watching the drunk pair of
girls across the street and down the block. See? You can see them just
there if you squint hard enough. If you can fix their silhouettes it's a
simple thing to make out the drunk, staggering gait and the too loud
boisterousness of their voices that come from liquid courage. Finch had
been right there, all along, lingering in the shadows and waiting.
Watching. Biding his time like the (learning) predator that he is.
But along came Molly and the chase was broken just that easily.
He
stands up straight but his posture never reaches 'good'. People who are
skilled at reading others would pluck out all of his tells right away.
The overcompensation of the tailor made suit and too expensive watch.
The slouch in his stance that says he's never much cared or bothered to
sit properly with spine straight and shoulders back. He's well put
together but there's chaos just beneath all of that neatness that
threatens to destroy everything he's worked so hard to set up.
Finch,
now with hands in the front pocket of his slacks, doesn't look like he
belongs here - a fact that is probably sounding alarm bells somewhere in
her unconscious. He's alone, too relaxed, too well dressed and
seemingly unafraid of the thieves and thugs that might be able to fetch a
few hundred for that Tag Heuer watch on his wrist. His relaxed posture
doesn't reflect in his smile though. It's too tight at the edges, like
piano wire ready to snap. Thankfully though, she doesn't get a flash of
his pearly whites.
"Probably drunk." Says Finch with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, luckily I was right here
and grabbed you in time. Otherwise..." he shakes his head, clicks his
tongue and nods to the other side of the street where she was headed
before the near collision with bone, flesh and steel.
"Looks like we're headed the same way." And just like that the two drunk females are saved by one overly tired doctor or nurse.
Molly Toombs
The
nurse looked like her parents probably hailed from the Emerald Isle
themselves-- otherwise, they came from some neighborhood on the East
Coast that has been exclusively Irish for a very long time. She was red
of hair, light of complexion, and had freckles splashed over her nose
and cheeks alike. Her eyes were bright, blue, intelligent and
comprehending. They didn't like they were easily shrouded by wool. But
they were tired. And she was distracted.
She was built healthy,
with a pink flush to her face. Curved and padded, but not in any poorly
way. It was easy to see her in another time, or an ancestor perhaps,
running a farm and house with a herd of surviving kids and the kind of
arm that chopped wood and bullied livestock into compliance both. In
this world and time, though, she chose to bully the drunk and injured
and sick into compliance for their own good instead. She was a nurse.
Or perhaps a doctor who worked trauma or surgery, something hands-on
like that. She didn't have any name tag or identification badge
visible. This was a woman who walked or used public transit often-- she
knew better than to leave her name lying about for strangers.
All
the same, when he mentioned that they were headed the same way, Molly
flashed a shaky (but charming, in its way) smile for the man and turned
to stand at the crosswalk with him. Actually wait for the light to
indicate it was safe for them to cross, allow Finch to make the first
step to lead, and then walk along with when that time came. "I suppose
we are. I should be happy-- if I'm lucky you'll keep me from making
that same mistake a second time tonight." At least she tried to be
pleasant with this expensive looking stranger.
She was looking at
him suspiciously, though. She noticed the money in his clothes--
stitched across his shoulders and chest, gleaming on his wrist. He was
too much money to be out unprotected on the streets this time of night.
He should be even more of a target than she was-- nurses didn't make
much money, their wallets weren't often worth taken. This man looked
like you could pluck a couple hundred or more out of his wallet easily.
Yet
here he was, walking the streets alone at closer to three in the
morning than not, laying his worth bare for the world to see with all
the confidence of a man walking the floors of his own business. Like a
few other people she knew, whose name lay in rich inks on cardstock
stashed away hidden in her bedroom. Soon, her eyes would stop plucking
curious details from clothes and accessories and start looking at
throat, eyes, nose and mouth. Watching for breathing, for blinks, for
subconscious swallows. Clear signs of subconscious life.
[Perception 3 + Medicine 3, diff +1 (dark, walking, all a fluster): Hey you're walking, but are you living?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (3, 4, 4, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Finch
They
walk and there's no racing, speeding sports cars to nearly plough the
both of them down. His profile doesn't claim to be any one particular
heritage, he looks clearly like a mutt because there's a dash of
Germanic and a little Irish, a pinch of Native American and a spoonful
of French Canadian. Light brown eyes take their time when they glance at
Molly, appraising and forming opinions in the quiet (sometimes empty)
spaces in his mind.
He can tell that she's watching him because
Finch is keeping aware of her in his peripheral vision. He certainly
isn't breathing hard even after that show of dexterity and speed just
moments ago when he saved her mortal life. In fact, it's not clear
whether or not his chest is moving but her gut tells her that it isn't.
His complexion is pale, but then again it's winter.
They pass the
two drunk women and he smiles wide for them and winks at the brunette
(the other being a flaxen haired beauty) but moves forward with Molly.
Sometimes the shark mistakes the surfer for a seal.
"I'm sure
you'll be fine. A good shot of adrenaline to the system is enough to
wake up anyone, no matter how tired they might be." his fingers push up
the sleeve of his jacket and he takes a quick look at the time. The
clean shaven square jaw of his clenches and flexes a few times but then
stops just as his hands find their place back in the pockets of his
slacks.
"You're a doctor?" He asks curiously, one lone eyebrow drawn high on his face.
Molly Toombs
It
hasn't quite been a year yet since Molly Toombs was stopped by a dead
man on her walk home and confronted with Truth. Since then she's done
what she does best-- put her nose to the books and put her eyes on what
they could find and tried to learn. Worked to understand. She had some
idea that vampires could play at life-- remember to breathe, remember
to blink, push some kind of health into their cheeks to deceive their
prey. She knew that it took some kind of focus, though, and that
sometimes they just didn't care or bother to do so-- either for personal
preference, or for trusting that humans wouldn't be looking close
enough to see.
Molly Toombs worked in medicine for a living-- she
knew these signs by sight. Plus she had plenty reason to suspect that
the dead may walk beside her.
She recognized him for what he was--
that moment showed on her face when her eyes widened, pupils
constricted, and heart clenched again. Then, she breathed in slow, cool
and calm through her nose, and turned her eyes forward. Looking ahead
instead of directly at the predator on the prowl to her right.
"Trauma nurse, actually. I work the emergency room."
Then,
smooth as can be, she put her hands into her pockets and followed up
with a question of her own: "Might I ask what you're up to, out this
late at night? I'm just getting off work-- did you pull a late night at
the office or something?"
Play it cool, Toombs.
Molly Toombs
[Manipulation 2 + Subterfuge 2: I said play it cool.]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
Finch
(Percept + alertness = what's going on here...?)
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 5, 8) ( success x 1 )
Finch
That's
the trouble with young Sabbat: arrogance. No one will notice, no one
will see - no one really gives one fuck about whether or not I'm
breathing or blinking. Stupid cows. Blind sheep. The list of
their faults in their own arrogance is too long to manage. So Finch
isn't really paying a great deal of attention to Molly's disposition to
notice the shift in it and by the time that he does, she's recovered
ever so quickly and he's left with a hmmm vibrating deep in his throat.
He
laughs at her question, again, too young and uneducated to remember why
the Camarilla thought the Masquerade a good idea. The humour in his
tone though is good hearted, as if her question was something he found
cute or endearing.
"No, no office." Shaking his head he glances
down the street the way that they came and then looks forward once
again. "I was at a few clubs. There were a few open mic nights I wanted
to attend."
Then, it's back to her.
"Trauma nurse, eh?" Now
both brows pull up. "Must be pretty bloody. "Honourable profession, but
the pays for shit." A pause before: "How come you didn't become a
doctor?"
Molly Toombs
Her brow flexed some when he
asked her why she wasn't a doctor. Something about the question struck
a nerve, but in a fairly superficial way. It looked like how someone
was tired of being asked why they didn't go to law school like their
cousin Bernie did. Because I don't want to, Mom, god, let me live my life.
She
recovered pretty smoothly though and cleared her throat. "Thank you.
And mostly because I haven't really decided what field I would go into
yet." Liar, you would go into trauma and you know it. "And because I
don't know where to go to medical school yet. I kind of like it here."
She shrugged her shoulders casually, dismissing the subject, and
adjusted where her hands were resting. One was at the strap of her
purse. The other was at her side, out in the open. Just in case she
had to do something like put fingers in his eyes and try to run for her
life.
But, back to him. She cleared her throat and asked:
"Open
mic? You look like a board member, not a comedian." She glanced
ahead, around nervously. It was beginning to dawn on her what he was
probably going to try. She was trying to figure out how to avoid it,
how to defend herself or diffuse the situation right away. She took a
breath, wriggled her free fingers in the air, and kept talking.
"I'm Molly, by the way."
Finch
Human
beings are skittish when you get right down to it. They know things
deep in their genes that they deny to themselves once the innocent
quiver of childhood has left them behind. But they know, and so when a
Thing like Finch looks a woman like Molly directly and deeply in her
eyes, there's something in that gaze - no matter the intended innocence
of it - that reminds her she is no more than warm, scented flesh
encapsulating the red liquid that sustains them both.
And slow flesh at that.
So
he has been careful not to bear down on her with his gaze or flex the
gift of his Presence upon her Will. It's only in quick flashes that she
sees his eyes at all. And in one of those quick glimpses of pale brown
she would notice (being a trained student of medicine and anatomy) that
his pupils are dilated. She's probably seen it enough in drug addicts
who've hurt themselves on a wild high or the kids that can't handle
their own addictions and hurt other people landing the both of them in
ER and possibly her care. Finch isn't jittery though. He doesn't talk
overly much or rub at his nose or itch at his pale skin.
"What
kind of comedian do you think I'd be?" He asks her, eyes flashing her
way alongside a lopsided smile. "I don't think I'm very funny..." Stated
thoughtfully.
Molly Toombs
"None."
Her tone
was flat, pressed that way due to the continued stress and effort she
has to make to keep her nerves and jangling, rattling, honest panic from
leaking into her voice or posture. She felt it flapping wild fragile
wings within her breast. But she was smart, Molly Toombs. She knew she
couldn't outrun even the youngest and weakest of them. She knew that
the strangers, like this, were the most dangerous. They had no reason
to differentiate her from the rest. She had nothing to offer them than
what they wanted to take.
"That's why I was asking in the first
place. You don't strike me as funny in the least." She flicked her
eyes in his direction and swallowed. She needed to find something to
offer him that would make her more useful intact than otherwise. She
didn't have any skirts to cling to, no one around to protect her. No
lumbering Tommy Lynch to take her bullet. No impressive Flood of the
Sabbat to be the long shadow to scare others away. She'd have to figure
this one out on her own.
They rounded a corner. Molly Toombs was
taking an intentional turn away from her apartments-- the walk there
was through a less populated, less open part of the neighborhood, with
alleyways a plenty. There were alleys here too, but at least here there
was no chance of being followed home and hunted later.
"Frankly,
stranger--" her tone shifted all at once. Now she sounded firm,
confident. Maybe just the tiniest bit out of patience. She was trying
something different. She had to. "--it isn't my business what you were
up to. I was just making small talk." Let's be honest here, after
all. She was just trying to buy herself time to think. "I'm really
just trying to figure out how it is people of your persuasion keep
finding me."
Finch
He doesn't seem hurt by her
estimation that he isn't funny in the least. He's not, really. Not in
any way that is humorous and not terrifying. Violence lay in his idea of
humour and it wasn't a sense that many held because it went beyond the
simple laughing at someone for falling or stumbling or hurting
themselves in some innocent way. When Molly turns, she has every right
to be nervous because Finch follows along with her. Coincidence? Maybe.
Or perhaps he just enjoys the company.
It isn't until she speaks
again that he stops and by the way he does it he expects her to stop
too. His head cocks to one side like a curious rooster and has a glance
at his watch once more. Quarter past three.
Christ.
"Molly."
Her name is said with some formality, like a boss or teacher preparing
to levy some kind of punishment. "I like small talk, don't you?" Hands
leave his pockets and he crosses his arms over his chest, studying her
now more fully with a deep crease at his brow.
"My ...persuasion?"
He asks, but he's smiling now. He's interested in this game or whatever
it is that Molly has opened up between them. He hasn't advanced on her
or become threatening to her, but that smile says he could easily and
quickly if the idea struck him.
"Handsome, well dressed men approach you and save your life at all hours of the night?"
Molly Toombs
Finch
stopped walking. Molly did too, but only after continuing forward
another three or four steps. When she stopped, she had to turn around
to face Finch. Her hands were out of her pockets, at her sides, ready.
Ready for what? She wasn't precisely sure. She knew the odds of
defending herself. That's why the switchblade that she kept in her
purse (more for threat than use, honestly) was just left right where it
was. It would serve her no good here.
"Well, all of those things, yes."
Her
eyebrows went up. An idea, fleeting, had shown on her face. That, or
she felt her phone buzz, left on silent, because immediately after she
was reaching into her coat pocket and pulling her phone out and glancing
at the screen.
"But the part I'm more focused on is where you
don't breathe or have a pulse." She looked up at him-- in his face, she
hasn't yet learned that lesson about avoiding eyes entirely. This was
brief, though, because she was glancing back at her phone soon enough.
Thumbs flying across the screen. Probably answering that text that
she'd probably just received (but did she, really? was she just trying
to find a way to text someone in particular for an assist?).
"More
than that, I'm worried about what happens when you get bored of this
small talk and decide you're done just tailing along with me. That's
the part that I'd like to just skip."
Finch
He
laughs. Watching her now with more than a little spark of interest
because before it had been a fleeting thing. The cat paws at the string
drug across the floor. The dog slaps at the ball hoping it'll throw
itself. But that was simply all it was. Finch is a man that is easily
distracted and given he's flush and full from an earlier meal, Molly had
been a very easy distraction at that.
Now though she has peaked his interest. Aroused his curiosity. Bounced that ball. Drug that string a little too enticingly.
"What the fuck
is with this city? You know I've ran across at least two just like you.
This city must be bursting at the seams with 'people of my persuasion'."
Eyes
flick down to her phone and he is content to watch. Again, will all of
the over confidence and arrogance of a nothing man brought into a world
where he's a little bit of a something man.
"What are you doing? Texting? Seriously
Molly?" Because if she knows what he is then she must know what his
kind are capable of. Quick. Cunning. Manipulating. How quickly could he
snatch her phone and then her throat if he really wanted to? Probably
before she had the chance to regret being so blunt with the stranger in
the fine charcoal grey suit.
But he doesn't. He watches her while uncrossing his arms and stealing a quick glance to his watch.
Not quite 3:30am.
Molly Toombs
When
he laughed and spoke next, Molly looked equal parts caught off-guard
and tense. She wasn't sure what to make of him entirely, nor was she
sure what to do with his statement either. She then looked at her
phone, not guiltily though, not representing a child caught with her
hand in the cookie jar. She just put the phone back in her pocket and
put her hands up in front of her, fingers splayed, palms forward.
Showing that she was unarmed.
"Alright, sorry." And she'd leave
it at that and just not mention it again. Hope that it slides under the
radar and is left forgotten as they continued on. Her phone was on
silent, but if he was paying enough attention then Finch would know that
it buzzed twice-- once as soon as it hit her pocket, and again about
four minutes later to indicate she was getting answers to whatever text
she had sent. She didn't reach to check them, but kept her eyes careful
on the man in the suit, checking the time on his watch.
"This
city really is something different. Storms brewing and everything."
She sounded a little ominous, but intentional. Like she was trying to
keep that string pulling, keep him distracted by what she was saying
long enough that he'd want to know more. Want her to be able to keep
talking and do nothing to hinder or damage that capability. That was a
lot of what she relied on to keep herself alive.
"There are a few others."
Then,
her lips pressed together and she stood up straight and tucked her
elbows near her sides. Looked like she wanted to continue on, to keep
walking and get away. But all the same, unwilling to turn her back. "I
appreciate the company, but I hope you understand why I can't walk
myself home with you alongside."
Finch
The phone
is slipped into her bag and it buzzes once and then again while Finch's
eyes slide down toward it and then back up to her face. She's kept
distance between them and he doesn't bother to close the space. He lets
her keep that bolstered sense of safety it creates while he knows
better. The apology is met with a nod, but he's not really interested in
that. He didn't have many feelings left to hurt, or so he'd like to
think. He was Toreador, after all.
"Storms?" Eyes flick up to the
night sky and then he scowls at it and then her because for a flash of a
second the fact that he isn't as smart as he might like her to believe
shows. "What storms? What are you talking about?"
Molly is good at
this and Finch is just learning. He stands there, still, pupils wide
and dilated and hands coming to sit at his narrow hips. "What others?"
He asks again but she's excusing herself and writing him out of the
equation without so much as a fuck you very much sir.
"What about
the storm, Molly? Who do you know?" He asks her, stepping up once and
twice to keep the space between them a distance that he could quickly
close if he wanted.
Molly Toombs
Oh shit. Molly, goddamn your hide, you said too much.
Jerked the string too enthusiastically. Threw the ball one too many times.
Her
eyes widened and her hands stayed up in front of her, palms out, but
now tucked nearer to her chest. Defensive, protective. He stepped
forward two steps, she moved back one. Showing that she wanted her
distance kept, automatically backpedaling from this wild-eyed young
piece of Death in the charcoal suit. One step, though, not two. She
clearly already knew that she couldn't enforce anything with this man,
nor could she outrun him.
"Easy, there, stranger. You could at
least buy a girl a drink before you start drilling her." A pause, a
flash of gallows humor in those clear blue eyes spurred on by delirious
spinning that can sometimes tip its hat and visit just long enough to
remind you that you really can't just keep pumping adrenaline all hour
long it's not healthy.
"Or offer her a name. That sounds fair, doesn't it?"
Finch
(percept + subterfuge (true motives spec) = what are you really up to Molly)
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 2
Molly Toombs
Finch
is new, but he's got his strong points. Everyone has them. When he
looks at Molly, wide-eyed and backed into a corner though her back met
open air, he could figure a few things out. He was good that way.
Molly?
She just wants to get home in one piece. She's worried that he's going
to prevent this, either by snacking on her (she has no way to gauge how
hungry they are, how badly they need to feed) or deciding now that
because she seems to know things that he doesn't that he's going to keep
her and squeeze the information from her like toothpaste from its tube.
He
can tell she doesn't want to give that information away. He can tell
she knows something-- that she knows more than she probably should.
That she could tell him things, but she absolutely doesn't want to.
Probably for fear of her own safety, knowing how his own kind worked.
Finch
His
eyes focus on her and pluck out the bits about herself that she doesn't
want him to really know so for a moment or two he just stands there
weighing his odds. His entire body is torn between a panic born of self
preservation and a heaviness born from the promise of rest.
"Hey."
Is what he says first, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just saved your
life back there, right? Why would I hurt you now? I'd really like to
know about this storm brewing Molly and it'd be really good if I knew
who else you knew." He smiles, canines threatening to bleed into fine
points.
"We could actually benefit from a mutual relationship. I
can do things for you, you can do things for me. I promise to not even
bite you - that sounds like a good deal doesn't it? It's not like I'd be
sniffing around your bed or asking for special favours. Just ...a
little of this and a little of that. There must be something you want?"
Hands
slide back into the pockets of his slacks but he doesn't move any
further toward her. "Ex boyfriend who deserves to disappear? Money? An
easy 'in' to medical school? The chance to live forever?" The questions
weren't any real promise of anything for Molly. Her answers are to Finch
what inkblot answers are to shrinks.
"Come on. What is it Molly really wants?"
Molly Toombs
That
look? The look on Molly's face while Finch smiled syrupy sweet and
sharp and tried to negotiate? It's pure distrust. She's seeing what
he's selling, and clearly she's not interested in buying any of it.
But,
all the same, she slowly eases her hands down, no longer looks so
obviously defensive. They go back to her sides, but not into her
pockets. She doesn't check her phone despite its follow-up buzz to the
first one. She just keeps looking cautiously at this man while he
offers her things like a doctorate's degree, money, and immortality.
All in exchange for what she knew about storms, in exchange for a few
names.
Her spine stiffened, her chin leveled with the ground. She
looked cautious, a little haughty-- just a little. The power of
knowing something that someone else wants was a delicious drink to sip,
no matter how scary.
"Molly would particularly like a name, to
begin with." Skepticism was written all over her face, but at least she
was listening. He could tell that much-- she wasn't trying to walk
away from him anymore. He had her interest, to a degree, whatever good
that was. "I'm not looking too deep into you pulling me out of traffic,
grateful though I am that you did. Blood's probably easier to drink
from a neck than it is to lick off the pavement." Not quite dismissing
that he'd pulled her out of danger earlier, but making it clear that it
wasn't going to cloud her perception of him either. She had to think
smarter than that to keep her own pulse going.
"To be frank,
Stranger, I'm a little more worried about what happens when I start
talking than I am about anything that you're going to try to give me.
Some of these people I know could very well not appreciate having their
business spread around."
Finch
She isn't moving or
trying to back away and even the buzzing in her purse stays where it
is. His smile remains, charming and attractive the way the devil
probably is. She's asked for his name more than once and each time he's
skirted it. Now though she gets what she asked for.
"Finch." And
he shrugs as if to say that such a name could not be helped. It is what
it is. "Who has to know? I'm not one of these idiots that go around
slipping their blood on the tongues of every pretty or semi-useful face
they see." He begins with his eyes lowering to the watch again. Molly
has time on her side while Finch is cursing the sun and the God his
mother said made it rise each day.
"I don't want in your bed or
your pants. I won't turn you into a slave like some of the others would.
I won't even feed off you." Hands go back into his slacks and he nods
deeply. "You look like you don't trust me, but that you can believe."
"Hey...you
know that we can do that, don't you? Slip a little of our blood into
your drink...or your food. Into a sweet innocent enough kiss. If you get
enough of it, kiss your life good-bye. You're no more than a slave
after that to whatever vampires blood you drank. It's addictive too. No
going back after that."
His eyes judge her reaction before he moves on.
"But
you're not my responsibility, see. And I don't play by the rules that
everyone else does. I need a leg up, Molly. I need someone who knows
things to tell me those things so I'm not going at this whole thing
blind. I'm offering you a working relationship. You give me information,
I give you ....whatever your heart desires." Arms spread wide to
indicate the entire world if she wanted it, and then fall flat at his
side quietly.
Nathan Marszalek
This time of night
it seems as though the only people on the road are those whose lives
have them living at the bleeding edge of society. The burnouts and the
insomniacs and the graveyard shift workers who have completely forgotten
how to function when the sun is out.
Whoever Molly was texting
was either still awake or had just woken up or else doesn't sleep deep
enough for middle-of-the-night texts to hinder his ability to function.
They have been hearing sirens and passing traffic for the last several
minutes but this is the first time since she put her phone back in her
pocket that a motorcycle engine starts to roar its way in their general
direction.
Molly Toombs
"Finch."
She tried
the name out. A single word that didn't much match names. Single
syllable. Started with an F. It fit a pattern and Molly's nose
wrinkled up a little, but she accepted the coincidence for what it was
and affixed the Toreador with a flat stare.
Let him talk.
Listened. Did not sway, did not move to flee. But her expression
didn't budge. She looked like she didn't trust him, and that remained
the fact even when he spread his arms to offer her the world. Slowly,
she folded her arms together in front of her, criss-crossing under a
bust ample even under the boxy scrubs visible under her open coat.
"Yeah,
I know about Ghouls." She said this as flatly, simply. He was
offering her information, but she already had it. This might be another
blow for the young vampire-- finding one of the flock who was assured
in her knowledge, aware of what was happening in his world even when he wasn't himself. The impetulant thing was refusing to work with him. He could see it happening.
"Look. I could give you information and you could give me money or a sip of power."
Somewhere,
a motorcycle rumbled. The sound caught Molly's ear. She glanced up
the street, then looked back to Finch and continued. "But what happens
when I give you this information is the people whose information I just
gave up come down on my head hard enough that it comes right off my
shoulders. I'm not sure how you felt about it when it was your time,
but I like living.
"I'm not worried about my bed or my pants as much as my neck with you people."
Finch
The motorcycle arrests a good portion of his attention though he still tries to focus on the conversation at hand with Molly.
"Like
I said, no one worth knowing the secrets of a city goes around telling
the secrets they just learned right? I'm not going to go blabbing what
you tell me all over the city."
Another glance around at the
sirens and the rumbling of the motorbike. "You know about ghouls." A
nod, "Do you know how to protect yourself from us? Do you know exactly
what we can do? Not just guesses, but know with certainty? For example, I
could get from here to you before you could think about it. If I wanted
I could make you like me a whole lot more than you do. I don't think
you want any part of our blood...do you?" Another tugging up of his brow
in question. The clock is rounding 4 and now Finch is getting antsy. He
speaks a little faster and shifts his weight from one leg to the other.
"Why
don't you think it over. Give me a call when and if you make up your
mind." He tugs a card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. It
doesn't say a name or anything, just has a local Denver phone number
printed in black ink.
"I'm not the one you gotta worry about when
it comes to your neck." His smile spreads wide again, "You're not really
my type and a promise if a promise, right?"
Nathan Marszalek
The
motorcycle is neither flashy nor built to travel particularly fast. The
person driving the thing is paying as much attention to the sidewalk as
he is to the road and as the bike draws nearer it slows.
While
the slender stranger is reaching into his suit jacket the bike is
approaching the curb a few feet away from Molly and Finch. The rider is a
tall young man who when wearing denim and leather appears well-built.
When he puts down the kickstand and takes off his helmet he reveals
himself to be pale and cursed with a boyish face that makes pegging his
age difficult. Old enough to drive but probably gets carded when he goes
to buy cigarettes still. Has a prominent scar on his left temple.
"Hey,"
he says. Like this is the most normal fucking thing in the world.
Doesn't even acknowledge Finch. "Sorry it took me so long, babe, I'm not
used to driving to General from your place."
Molly Toombs
"What
all I've learned about your kind, it's really for the better if I
simply presume that I'm going to lose in any attempt I make to try and
keep myself protected." Her eyes dropped down to his hand, to the
business card he'd produced. "It's really just better to avoid the
situation as much as I can in the first place."
He'd told her that
he could control her, make her like him-- want him, even. She knew
these things, all of them. This was probably why she hadn't tried to
threaten him off or simply run away from him-- all things she was likely
to do if the person trying to give her a hard time was just an average
human man. No one liked knives. No one liked getting tased either.
She needed a taser.
But she did have a cellphone, and thankfully
the recipient of the text she'd sent while trying to keep Finch
distracted arrived. The distant rumble of the motorcycle turned to a
roar, and Nate pulled up beside them to drop his kickstand and take off
his helmet and call her babe and apologize for taking so long. Molly
looked over at him, her expression some weird blend of thankful and just
a touch of sad. Relieved to see him, certainly, though.
All the same, she still plucks the business card from Finch's fingers and tucks it away into her purse.
"It's
alright," she tells Nate. It's okay that he took so long. She looked
at Finch again, though, not yet walking over to this perceived
boyfriend's motorcycle. "I don't know how much the promises of
strangers weigh. But I will think on it."
And, unless stopped in some way, she'd take a few steps nearer to Nate than to Finch.
Finch
"Yeaaah..."
He says to Molly, letting the middle of the word drag out longer that
necessary. He's talking to the red head but he's looking at Nate.
There's a not rightness about that look that's half predator and half
psychopath. It's a hard thing to explain though or to put a finger on
but if the eyes are the gateway to the soul then Finch's is very, very
dark indeed.
"No...they don't weigh very much.." He says quietly,
assessing Nate just a little more before looking back to Molly and
smiling. "But, you got to start somewhere."
"I really need to be
going, but hey, thanks for the conversation and the small talk." He
starts back the way that he and Molly came, saying nothing more to
either of the two he's leaving behind.
Nathan Marszalek
And
Nate watches Finch with something like detachment on his features. That
may be enough to arouse the Kindred's suspicions but from the look of
him he doesn't give two shits. He's here to collect his woman and get on
with his night.
He sits his bike until Finch has left and Molly
has come to his side. No need to continue the boyfriend-girlfriend
shenanigans after he's left. Nate stares after him for a moment then
turns around to undo the flap on the saddlebag where she can find his
spare helmet.
"If that guy gave you a card," Nate says, "I'm going to throw up."
Molly Toombs
Finch
conceded that his promises couldn't weigh much, but they had to be
someplace to start. He'd looked at Nate like a predator in the trees
with a floodlight, like he'd been caught in the middle of his prowl on
the Savannah, only to be chased away for the time being.
He
twisted about, all neat suit and neat hair, and was on his way. Molly,
in the meantime, looked to Nate and smiled but looked exhausted about
it. He'd flipped open the saddlebag, and she reached in to take out the
helmet-- a little more familiar with where it was stashed and how it
was supposed to fit. She'd make sure it was secure on her head, then
accept whatever help Nate had to give to let her climb on to the back of
his bike.
"Don't puke on me," she warned him sagely, then put her
arms around his middle to give his back a hug before fingers politely
found his belt loops instead.
"Thank you for coming. Some asshole stole my bike."
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