Molly Toombs
At the beginning of the week Molly had
made an effort to go out with friends that went south quickly. Her
friends had tried to set her up with someone they knew, and the
gentleman they selected to introduce her to just couldn't be less
interested. Between that and the topics of conversation that were dry
and dull in comparison to the discussions and debates that she was
getting accustomed to instead.
For a second time, it was confirmed
for the nurse that she was gravitating away from her own world, and not
so slowly anymore either.
While the first time this realization
was made Molly had become drunk enough to spill a neat cardstock stack
of secrets to her friend, the second time was not so much the case.
She'd simply left and gone straight home to "cope".
But Molly
Toombs was no quitter-- at least, she wouldn't let herself be known as
one. The next night she had off from work this week circled around, and
Molly had taken herself out. Alone. To Federal. You see, there was a
particular dance club here that she'd heard things about. The
margaritas were inexpensive and strong, and the bartenders would
heavy-hand their pour if they liked you. Molly wasn't drinking alcohol
these days, but the atmosphere was supposed to be easy to get lost in.
She
wasn't much the dancing sort either, not typically, but exceptions
could always be made. This would explain why, when Molly stepped out
behind the club to the open-air patio, she had come out without her
jacket. She'd worked up her body temperature and needed to cool off.
Abe Sauls
You
notice certain things about places like these if you're paying
attention. Who's that guy? He doesn't seem to fit in. He doesn't seem to
have many friends here. He doesn't seem to know anyone. He's a rather
large thug who looks like he has been around Federal long before this
building was this club and would be here in its next incarnation because
the vice he provides is always necessary in a place like this. It helps
people have the courage to dance. It helps people have room for one
more drink. It helps people not be the persons they are and feel like
the persons they want to be.
The bounces never seem to bother him. He's out on the patio smoking a cigarette that never seems to end.
That
thug does have a couple friends here. They look like hangers on.
They're popping bottles and they're dancing and drinking inside and they
come outside where he's standing to have a smoke and go after talking
to him for the extend of their own cigarette. Then they return to their
other friends. He's large and all those muscles are stressed and
straining the satin-sheen black button up shirt he's wearing, the chest
unbuttoned enough to reveal the white tank top underneath, his jeans
sagging and his boots pristine.
Abraham isn't that man. Abraham is
simple. He's maybe six feet tall and doesn't look all that muscular. He
wears a blue wind breaker, something made by some street wear designer
with a chip on his shoulder, and the details are a neon orange (zippers,
drawstrings, buttons, eyelets and stitching). The hood is pulled down
and wild forefinger-length braids bundled into little squid stick out
from his like antennae.
He looks detached. His face doesn't seem
to know it's alive or should care about what's going on in front of it.
His eyes are gazed over and his eyebrows shift slowly like a lapping
tide when he talks. It's the only ghost of a real expression on his
face.
Abraham's hands are behind his back. Unlike those before him
and those that will come after this brief interaction he hasn't got his
hand out in greeting palming some wadded up bills and he doesn't look
the least bit nervous. He smiles and says a few words muted beneath the
music that dully thuds through the brick walls and glass windows. Then
he nods and walks away.
That large drug dealer with the pockets full of drugs makes a few last drug transactions after nodding back and leaves.
Abraham
makes his way to the other side of the patio and leans against the
fence looking out from where he's penned in with the rest of the
patrons. He's alone and doesn't seem to mind it. He doesn't have a drink
or a cigarette, though his nostrils flare as he enjoys the night air.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and looks at it once he's punched
in the passkey, paging from screen to screen, and then its light dies
and it goes away.
Molly Toombs
Attentiveness had
always run deep in Molly. It was a part of being a single woman living
alone in the city, even if that city was Denver. It may not stand up to
the behemoth settlements like New York City or Chicago or Los Angeles,
but Denver was big enough to contain its own special set of evils and
dangers. Molly knew that one first hand. This awareness of the evils
in the shadows only enforced that sense of constant vigilance in the
woman.
She's alone too, Molly is. The patio offers some chairs
and a few small wire tables for drinks and ash trays. Molly had taken a
chair at one of these tables that was hugged up against the wrought
iron patio fence. She had a plastic cup with something clear in it--
water, more than likely, since she didn't flinch or treat the stuff
delicately when she lifted the cup to her lips to drink.
She
noticed the man making his not-so-subtle deals, confident that no one
would run the risk of calling him out on his shady business. Because
she was observing this bulky muscly man, she naturally wound up noticing
Abraham as well when the two began to speak.
Molly herself looks
like a lot of the women in this club-- which is to say, she's dressed to
impress. Molly, though, understands balance and style. When she
dressed to impress it was not simply a show of pale and freckled flesh.
She never showed thighs and cleavage together, as this was something
she considered to be a chief rule in the Curvy Girl's Handbook for
Dressing Yourself. So tonight she had sheathed her bottom half in a
pair of clingy black jeans, and dressed her top half in a gray
sleeveless blouse with a neckline that dipped without swooping. Gray
heels to match. She also had a cropped black jacket, but that was at
the coat check. She felt too warm for it anyways-- thankfully her hair
was piled up on top of her head, so her neck and ears could breathe.
It's
with here-and-there glances that she watched the two, and then
eventually the one man after the other went inside. She didn't stare
openly, but would simply smile politely and look away promptly if
noticed. Apparently this works well enough, to the point that the man
wearing the neon-colored windbreaker felt no need to address her. He
seemed to feel no need to really pay attention to his phone either, for
the screen had gone dark after the first few thumb-swipes across the
touch screen.
Red eyebrows climbed a short distance up on Molly's
forehead, and she lifted her voice just enough for Abraham to hear.
"You're clearly a man in waiting." She'd pause, just enough to give him
a chance to glance up and locate where the words were coming from
(assuming that he would), then continue with a small, well-executed
smirk. "I don't usually see a man wait without his drink or smoke,
though."
Abe Sauls
Abraham does look over at
Molly. He looks her right in her eyes. They don't drift down to her lips
or anywhere else less sensual than those two windows. He doesn't seem
to be trying to look inside. He's not trying to figure out her
intentions or mine her inner toil, no, and there's nothing harsh about
it trying to provoke her, but the calmness of his face is an intensity
in and of itself.
"You watch enough men and come over to have a
talk, you might be what they're waiting for," but he's looked away
before he even starts talking. It's evasive.
Abe's not criticizing
her, no, because there's no sharpness to it. It allows him to dodge her
question about his lack of drink and smoke long enough to take out a
pack of cigarettes.
Newport menthol green and the pack's popped. Once's out and put to his lips.
"Got a light? Help me fit your archetype of a man waiting," he asks then qualifies.
Molly Toombs
"Might
be," she agreed. The eye contact didn't appear to shake her, and why
should it? Abraham was on the taller side of average for an American
man, but he was also just put side by side with a man with the build of a
minotaur. Whatever imposing image he might have cut before (though it
didn't seem he was going to any great lengths to appear as such) it was
gone now.
All the same, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from some
pocket or another and Molly blinked, thoughtful for a second, then
patted the pockets of her jeans. She had to lean back and straighten
her body out some to wriggle her fingers into the hip pocket of her
pants, but she does return with an only moderately crumpled looking
matchbook-- advertising this very club.
Rather than tossing the
pack to the man who stood up the fence from her, Molly rose to her
feet. She stood five and a half feet barefooted. The heels helped lift
her another two and a half inches taller, and they clacked soft and
controlled on the cement of the patio as she approached. Molly wasn't
known for being especially outgoing or seeking new friends, but there
were other people to seek besides just 'friends' now weren't there?
So,
she stopped a couple feet short and held the matchbook in front of her
as though she was getting ready to pull a match free and light it for
him. But, she was looking up at him with a quirked eyebrow that sought a
go-ahead. He could just as easily take the match book from her
instead.
Either way, whether she's lighting the man's menthol for
him or standing back while he did the job himself, Molly inquired: "Now
that you look the role, might I be so bold as to ask what you're
waiting for? Or who, maybe?"
Abe Sauls
"You may be," as he watches her light the match.
Abe
leans in carefully to put the end of his cigarette to it. A long draw
and the white paper catches fire. He continues until his lungs are
sufficiently packed and when he exhales it's with his head turning, lips
barely pursed, to blow the smoke up and away. The cigarette rests
between his index and forefinger and he leans back against the fencing
as it falls to his side.
The whole time it looks like he's coming
up with an answer. He's already shrugged once, when he'd leaned back,
and it's still a few seconds before he gives her one.
"He had to go somewhere," looking at the now vacant space that had held a hefty construct of muscle.
"Now I'm waiting for him to come back, which may never happen," and then he shrugs again.
"I guess I'm waiting to see," he finishes.
"Are you here to dance?" And he looks down at her cup and takes a moment before he ventures a guess:
"And drink water? Are you on Molly?" Looking back up at her like he's curious, but wouldn't be surprised if she said yes.
Molly Toombs
[Perception 3 + Awareness 2: Is that supernatural shit I smell?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )
Molly Toombs
Once
the cherry bloomed to life at the end of his cigarette Molly shook the
match until it was extinguished. While the flimsy gray smoke was still
twisting from the blackened twisted end of the match she tossed it
aside, aimed at an ashtray on a nearby table. She didn't make the shot,
but the match landed on top of the table rather than the ground at
least. She may or may not bother with finishing the discard later. For
now, she watched Abe while he breathed deep the nicotine and considered
his answer.
He was waiting for muscles to come back, it seemed.
Molly nodded, accepting this answer, and glanced down while she
maneuvered the pack of matches back into her pocket. Goodness knows why
she bothered, she certainly didn't smell like a smoker.
A laugh
bubbled up at the inquiry about ecstasy, and the woman with the rich red
hair and freckled cheeks and nose shifted to lean against the fence as
well. Beside Abe without being at his side.
"No, no, I'm not. I just kind of wanted to...."
She
trailed off because something had changed in the air. She'd sensed the
shift like animals sense electromagnetic currents in the air, how dogs
can predict seizures and horses will feel an earthquake five minutes
before humans will. This change was nothing so easily explained,
though. It was a sort of chill that started at the base of her neck and
crawled and fell down her spine, spilling through her skin from there.
It was a tingling, and the closest approximation she had for it was
pressing your hand to a particularly strong Tesla-thanked globe lamp.
When she'd sensed it, Molly's clear and blue eyes shifted away from Abe
and around the patio at first. But then, back to Abe. They were the
only ones there.
She made a concentrated effort to maintain the
same tone of voice when she continued, and to keep the suspicion out of
her voice and off her face.
"....get lost in a crowd for a while, I
guess." She followed up with a smile, bold Molly trying to drive this
conversation still. Her hand stuck out in the air between them,
offering a friendly shake.
"My name is Molly, though."
Abe Sauls
[ Perception + Empathy ]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
[Manipulation 3 + Subterfuge 2: I'm not suspicious of you, no I'm not]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )
Abe Sauls
The
hand that goes into hers is no doubt a bit larger and much darker
though not stronger and as sure. It's also got a warmth. This man is
breathing. This man's eyes are glazed, yes, but that is his detached and
dulled excuse for an expression rather than a lack of water and salt to
mingle into tears in his body.
"We're not even company, let alone
a crowd." looking around at the empty patio even as she looks back at
him. "You got more lost than you expected?"
"You should dance. An
old lady told me once, dance while you're still young, you'll miss it
when you're old," a vague reminiscing that sounds like it has hints of
truth in it. "We was at a wedding and she was trying to get me to dance
with a girl."
Abe remembers his cigarette and gives it a sucking on until there's enough ash to flick free to the patio floor.
"Unless
you want to get lost in conversation instead," a shrug, a moment's eye
contact, and then he's looking down at the ground where the ash
disappeared on the stones.
Molly Toombs
A name
failed to come along with the answering shake, but Molly didn't push for
it just yet. She felt the warmth of his palm and was less concerned
reflexively about his place among the Living or Dead or anyplace in
between. This isn't to say she's completely reassured by touch alone,
though, for that supernatural tingle still echoed in her skin and she
knew for a fact that vampires could feign life by using what life they
coerced and stole away from the masses.
Both hands curled around
her water cup now that they had no other place to be. She had a sip and
shrugged one shoulder dismissively when he encouraged her to dance.
"I
have danced." He could tell-- the sweat smell on her wasn't just
rubbed off from others, but generated from her own flesh. Impossible to
detect were Abe breathing through a nose of average sensitivity, but
that wasn't the case tonight. The flush had long since left her cheeks
to support this, though. "A girl has to take breaks, wearing shoes like
this." Leaned against the fence as she was it took no effort or feat
of balance to lift one foot several inches off the ground and indicate
what she was wearing-- clearly, she meant that she wore high heels.
He's certainly seen much more uncomfortable and dangerous looking shoes
here tonight, but it's an excuse that most men can't really argue.
"When
given the choice between a crowd and a conversation, I'll typically
choose the latter." An eyebrow quirked when she added: "But there's
really only so much to be shared with a man that doesn't even share his
name to begin." Ah, there it is. The tone isn't pointed or negative,
but angled in the effort of good, somewhat sly, a little flirtatious
humor. Contrary to her statement, she seemed more invested in the man
as time and words pressed on.
Abe Sauls
"Oh, it
starts me telling you my name, next thing I know you're finding all
sorts of things out about me, miss," his focus shifting again to his
cigarette and after a moment over to he.
"What the Hell," said as if he's resigned to his fate.
"My name's Abe," a look and a nod to her as if it's meant to avoid the repetition of another handshake.
"Not that I'll admit every conversation got to be about sharing things like names and birthdays and favorite drinks and what do you do? Oh? Yeah, well I,"
trailing off with another look down her cup, like at least one of those
were a dig at himself before he started down the road of general
diatribe.
"What am I waiting for, though, that wasn't a bad one,
I'm going to steal it. What are you waiting for me to say that's going
to get your motor going? Make the walk over her worth it?" Half-shut
eyelids drifting over to her curiously.
Molly Toombs
A
wry but engaged grin answered much of what Abe had to say. She had
nodded along with him when he provided his name, both in agreement that
there's no need for a second shake.
She has no cigarette to smoke
to make it look like she's doing anything, so Molly's taking more
frequent sips of her water just for the sake of having something to busy
her hands with. Soon enough the flimsy plastic cup is empty and Molly
holds it in front of her stomach, crosses her ankles and stands against
the fence. Her eyes down at her shoes while listening.
The final
question, to the point and wanting to know why she bothered to come over
to talk, had Molly's eyes climbed back up from the toes of her shoes to
Abe's face once more. She looked like she was mulling the question
over, or deciding which one of two responses she'd already felt to go
with.
Ultimately, she says...
"You don't get approached
much, do you?" Eyes searched his face, beyond just eye contact, but
only for a moment or two. "I mean, consider that perhaps I'm not
waiting for you to say or do anything in particular. Maybe I was just
curious to see what you say and do." Next, though, she pushed
away from the fence so she could stand upright and straight once again.
Her body language suggested that she may be retiring back inside to
leave him to wait for the man that may not return.
"I can be on my
way," she informed him plain and simple, though there was some
invisible edge that kept her from just walking. She really was curious
about him, that much was certain.
Abe Sauls
"Or I
can keep saying and doing things, and you can stay and see what they're
going to be," and this time he doesn't shrug. It's a decided lack of
ambivalence compared to what he's shown so far. It looks as close as
he's going to come to asking her not to walk off and away into the mass
of people a popular-this-month place like this gets on a Friday night.
"You're
done dancing and done drinking, so I guess I have to consider you're
just here for me," mining the facts as if he's just realizing she's
interested in him. Invested.
Abe probably doesn't get approached
much, though that's not surprising, as there doesn't seem to be anything
impressive about this book's cover.
"I guess I've kind of put
myself on the spot, though, crossing off the usual suspects when it
comes to questions. I guess I'll have to do something," and he
straightens up and reached out for her hand. His palm is up for her to
put hers in his.
"I don't want to feel so old. I want to dance," ready to pull her off back into the club.
[[ End Scene: The two dance the night away and no one gets bitten or hurt and then they go home the end. ]]
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