Miss Molly
At one in the morning there wasn't much going on along this particular stretch of street. The occasional car drove by, of course, as would be the case in all cities at any hour of the day, but foot traffic was virtually non-existant. People didn't like to take the chance of encountering one another, or any of the other anxiety-dreamed terror-fueled monstrosities that their imaginations may have cooked up.
The funny thing was, the actual monstrosity that was out on the street was far less harmful than the actual dangers that lurked (such as the shaky-jerky addicts that waited with sharp knives for the meek to walk past). The real Monster out on the Colfax sidewalk was hidden away from the eye, so as not to disturb the masses. The real Monster was fed, not hunting tonight.
Well, not hunting people at least.
One of many shops that lined this wicked street was a book store, one with many musty water-stained hand-me-down editions that smelled like mothballs and dust, as opposed to the chain stores that sold the same prints of everything and smelled like fresh press and coffee. Its windows were dark with dust and smoke from many years gone by (the shopkeeper smoked indoors for many decades before now) and faded old prints and posters for books that have come out over time. Out front there were two metal bookshelves with doors that closed and locked at night. The shelves were pushed up under the awning and against the storefront after closing time and left to be forgotten in the shadows.
Many things were often forgotten in the shadows, and that was why Molly had learned to like them so much. It was with shadows that she cloaked herself, encouraging the eye to be averted while she tinkered with the lock and pulled on the shelf to test how hard it would be to carry away vs. break in to.
Gray
East Colfax. Once upon a time, it was one of the worst streets in America, if not the worst. To suggest it's value has gone up since that reputation was lost, is a fallacy. The truth of the matter is, large portions of America have simply grown into worse conditions, leaving the 'fax behind to wallow in it's sub-optimal blight status.
The streets here don't have as much in the way of drug and gang traffic, because there isn't much in the way of to push. The surrounding landscape is a host of old construction sites and attempted gentrification. Along the outskirts and pushed in some, you could find trendy bars for hipster children of the mid-to-late eighties but beyond those pockets of 'threat-arousal' you got into territory that no one would think to go into because there just wasn't much there but graffiti, low-income housing and urban decay.
That is until you got to 5th and Board.
The four streets punching out in all directions from this one intersection seem to be clean. Debris and construction have been scaled back heavily and several empty lots line and dot the area just before the 'cleanliness' begins. One can notice the difference in the boarded up windows (no glass on the floor or sidewalk) and the run down cars (Stripped clean of all useful parts and pieces, their gastanks licked dry). Even the few shops and stores under what few lamps still work, are covered in enough security bars and heavy locks to make one second guess the income status of this particular area. Who the hell triple locks a used book store? Or steel door with a slide latch for eyeballing from safety, for that matter?
This particular corner. Barrel fires are distant but visible along the street. A single tenement building at the intersection's centre, is visible for it's lights throughout, a unique appearance to the rest of the buildnigs around which seem dark, dank or deserted.
Molly's picking the locks. Strung up in the sort of dark that comes with blood burnt for effect. She's also tampering with someplace she doesn't belong and somewhere just a little too prepared for vampiric intrusion.
The first padlock drops and with it, the thin string glued to the latch it was holding it place, unravels with the distribution of weight and sends a clatter of cans to the ground somewhere inside. The sound is magnified in the eerie silence of t the block, where no traffic disturbs the calm and no busy city noise occludes it.
Who the fuck attaches a string of cans to the first of three padlocks on a used book store protected by a steel security door?
Gray
(Perception 3 + Alertness 2: Diff 6 - 2 for Domain Security: Just to see his response time)
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (1, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Miss Molly
Molly Toombs never had reasons to pick locks. She didn't ever have reasons to snoop where locks would stop her, and if ever she did somebody else was there to pick the locks for her. There's a vast show of ignorance at play to find her fiddling around casually with a book shelf out in front of a rather locked up shop. She figured the locks were there because this part of town was trying to renovate among blocks of urban decay, and because the business owners were perhaps overzealous in their efforts to protect their shops.
Though nobody could see her (as far as she knew) to know this, she was quietly surprised and a little delighted with herself when the first padlock fell. She caught the lock in an outstretched hand to prevent the sound of it striking pavement, but a clatter arose anyways.
Molly startled, shoulders jerking up under her cloak of clothing and shadows both, and looked frantically around for half a second while trying to determine where the sound came from. Then it occurred to her-- inside, somewhere. Something attached to, associated with the lock no doubt.
But why cans? Why not an actual alarm system that would notify the police?
Oh, shit, she thought to herself. With the padlock still in hand, she began to slink back away from the storefront with her bloody little gift of stealth active still.
Gray
"...Normally, moment's like these make 'emselves clear.'
Voice like gravel. It is not particular deep, or layered like a growl might be, more just something rough, like the throat it belonged to was not used to so many words uttered at once. It arrives on the winds over Molly's head, the creature standing atop the storefront she had attempted to break into swathed in a long dark green wool coat. A simple t-shirt (white with black sleeves/shoulders and a pair of dark cargo pants complete the outfit, a pair of simple black boots finishing it up.
His hair is a wild nest of barely tamed roots, jutting in all directions and tamed backward by some miracle of growth. Maned, one might be tempted to call it. His features are grim, lit only by the moon and the vague ambient light coasting off the city.
One hand is on a knee, crooked with a foot settled on the ledge of the rooftop. The other is wrapped snugly around an intrusive and very obvious louisville slugger bat, gripped at the quarter point above the pommel. He is staring, unamused. Not particularly angry, mind you, but amusement yes. In short supply.
"Body comes into yo' hood uninvited, you put it in the ground or on the chain." The bat's business end, taps the roof ledge. "Ms. Crumsley run this shop for the kids here. Put some literate in their futures for free. I admire that...which makes you on the opposite end of my admiration right now."
There is a grunt that is more like a rumble.
"...And you lookin' dark. Black man in a cop car, dark. I seen that shit before. So you got ten words of freedom to prove you ain't a Shovelhead or I'ma come down there and take my time pulling you apart."
Miss Molly
When a voice sounded from overhead, Miss Molly went very still. She didn't know whether or not the speaker had a distance weapon of any kind trained on her, or if they were a hair-trigger waiting to pounce, so she was still and she listened. Listening was something she was incredibly good at.
It was only around the second sentence, about being put in the ground or on a chain, that Molly finally did lift her head and look upward to the roof. Down below Gray would find, visible to him through a wreath of shadowy skulkery, a figure that looked easy enough to dismiss as a homeless person swathed up from the cold. Layers upon layers of clothes, the most prominently visible of which were a long dark coat, a similarly long green skirt (whose hem dragged heavy on the ground) and a cavernous hood supplied from a sweater underneath the coat. The figure was female, presuming by the shape at least, and of average height. Nothing else could be gleaned, except that it was a gloved hand that reached up to hold the hood and shelter the face as she glanced skyward.
Couldn't get a good look at Gray without revealing her face, so for the time being she'd have to live with the fact that neither knew what the other looked like.
It took a couple of seconds, but not long enough to test Gray's patience for Molly to answer. When she did the voice that rang out from under the hood was clear and cool and calm and smart. Generally, precisely the opposite of what one would expect a bundle of rags skulking in shadows to sound like.
"Doesn't speaking ten words together stand as proof that I'm not a Shovelhead on its own?"
Gray
Thump
Not two feet separate, but a single landing sound as Grey simply steps off the roof and lands on the sidewalk. The padlock is plucked up from where it sits and he climbs back to his feet, free hand fitting the lock back into place with a clip of the latch and a
Snap of the cheap steel piece. Good as new, minus the cans inside but he'd probably take to those when he had decided how to handle the intruder.
"I've known all types. Three different newly dead, eager to shave their heads and eloquate at me 'bout my place under their boot heels. Most of 'em can't shut up long enough to breathe. Being dead made 'em all fuckin' shakespeare in the end."
The bat sldes through his grip, pommel striking the back of his pinky, a lazy rolling pendulum started while he regards the obscured figure in front of him.
"Ain't proved anything yet though, and you had your moment to bolt soon as I started talking. That's done now. Shovelhead or no, you on my turf. In my hood. Breaking into my Herd's living and causing my footwork to stop. That's a lot of strikes and you're cutting jokes." The bat in his hand squeaks under a sudden pressure of fingers.
Miss Molly
Again, the figure's shoulders jumped a little as though startled when the loud thump of boots on pavement announced that the one confronting her had dropped down from off the top of the building here he'd been before. She looked at him from under the shadowy shelter of her hood, analyzing his overall appearance but paying particular attention to the bat. She could imagine any number of skulls being cracked or smashed with it. Decided she would really hate if her own met a similar fate.
The bat squeaked and a rough threat was made. Molly's hands sprang up in front of her, palms forward in a clear signal of submission. Hey, guy, I don't want any trouble those hands said. He'd note that her fingers were much longer than they ought to be, alien and masked away under crudely knit mittens that clearly had to be specially crafted for such hands.
"Okay, okay," she conceded in a tone that begged for the situation not to escalate. "Look, I wasn't planning to take any cash or anything worth any particular value." He thankfully couldn't see her eyes shift under the hood, but she all the same added as a second thought. "I mean, I would replace the value even if I actually did..."
Not helping yourself there, Moll.
If he listened close he'd hear the sigh-- the intake of breath down wind pipes that didn't get much work anymore, and the exasperated blowing out of that air that followed. It was something of habit. It may belay her age since Death.
"I just... I don't know what you want me to do to prove anything to you."
Grey
"We're done past the proving line..."
Grimly spoken, the bat swinging round in a lazy arc, held clutched between fingers with the pommel serving as a fulcrum. He doesn't make bones or spades about approaching, moving with a casual and careful sort of step. His gaze pins her in place and his eyes seem less angry, upset or rage-inspired than they do annoyed. It's the voice though. She might well recognize it from...years ago? Was it years? Months?
A hospital scene. A tall dark man, come in after a gunshot victim. Pushing his way through the doors and dragging her along like she was a sac of feathers. A quiet walk down the street, 'escorting her home' (or using her to escort himself back to a comfortable area). It wasn't the sort of thing that spoke volumes of memory but mayhaps a bit of the offness about that exchange ages ago, would come to mind in her new state. Make sense of that evening just a little bit more than it had when she was...more human.
"You come into my hood. Onto my turf. Lucky you didn't run into any of the boys who call this place home. Mighta dropped lead into you for tampering with the locks. Mighta had to get busy with some of them yourself and then you and I wouldn't be talking now." A pause. In both movement and words.
"It's a good sign you and I are talking right now." An assurance. As if maybe she didn't know.
"...Why you want the books?"
Miss Molly
He couldn't see through the shadows under her hood. As a Nosferatu, she's gained practice in where she should be holding her head and how far forward that hood has to remain in order for the shroud of shadows in the night to mask her visage effectively. Still, though he couldn't see them, he could feel her eyes intensely upon him. Studying, striving, combing memory from years (was it years plural?) ago to try and place the familiarity.
Much has happened since then. He had no chance, no hopes of recognizing her. The voice was the same, but he had no reason to hook the voice to the figure before him, not without the face and body to match to what he might recall. Still, somewhere around the mention of how she could've been shot up if she was caught by the wrong person, the light bulb flicked on.
Why do you want the books, he asked?
"It's yo--," she started, and the cadence and wonder and revelation in her voice spoke clearly that she wasn't thinking about the books at all. However, his question processed halfway through her exclamation of It's you, and she cut herself off to silence.
After a few moments of careful consideration, she explained herself:
"I'm a student of the occult, so to speak. A studier, a collector a historian, whatever you wantt o call it. I'd heard whispers that this bookshop came into possession of a couple of transcripts that I'd just... love to have a couple of hours with."
Grey
If he notices her exclamation and self-interruption, Grey doesn't give any indication. Merely waits for her to finish what she has to say and collect herself accordingly. When she's done there is the subtle shift of weight, from one foot to the other, the bat swinging low to handle between two pinching fingers. His other hand vanishes into a jacket pocket, the sharp tines of his hair ruffled by an invasive wind coming in from the north.
"...And you made no bones about coming into poor hoods, with your wants and thinking ain't nobody notice, so it'll be just fine..." A 'tsk' clucks off his tongue, the flash of white teeth easily visible in the night-darkened street. The street lamps around here were few and far between, only a couple per block working to provide any illumination, most of the others having been smashed out. The city had yet to come down to repair any of them, probably because they'd been replaced before and been smashed out again. It made the 'hood uninviting and mugger friendly. Easy prey and hunting grounds that.
"You know some shit then..." A statement. She was a historian afterall. "So you know what I mean when I say 'Shovelhead'..."
Miss Molly
"What?"
The entity sounded distracted, but more than that confused by the question. Like he had, apropos of nothing, asked her if she could recite the alphabet backwards. The hood crumpled to show that her head had tipped quizically to the side at first, and then moved to show that she was shaking her head instead.
"Of course. I mean, I only just had a run-in with a couple of them a few days ago, I would hope that I know what they are."
Her elbows tucked nearer to her body, hands twisted around loose twines and ends in her coat pockets. She shifted her weight around subtly under her shelter of clothing layers, wanting to be elsewhere, to escape the scrutiny of being caught, to stop being watched, to go back where she didn't need to worry so much about hiding her face or seeing reactions if it was glimpsed.
"Maybe...," she started, hesitated, then decided why not and to try again. "Maybe you have some questions? I could try to help if you could perhaps.... look the other way tonight, and then again tomorrow night when the books leave and return again unharmed?"
Miss Molly
"What?"
The entity sounded distracted, but more than that confused by the question. Like he had, apropos of nothing, asked her if she could recite the alphabet backwards. The hood crumpled to show that her head had tipped quizically to the side at first, and then moved to show that she was shaking her head instead.
"Of course. I mean, I only just had a run-in with a couple of them a few days ago, I would hope that I know what they are."
Her elbows tucked nearer to her body, hands twisted around loose twines and ends in her coat pockets. She shifted her weight around subtly under her shelter of clothing layers, wanting to be elsewhere, to escape the scrutiny of being caught, to stop being watched, to go back where she didn't need to worry so much about hiding her face or seeing reactions if it was glimpsed.
"Maybe...," she started, hesitated, then decided why not and to try again. "Maybe you have some questions? I could try to help if you could perhaps.... look the other way tonight, and then again tomorrow night when the books leave and return again unharmed?"
Grey
"You making deals?"
Incredulous. Humoured. Borderline angry. All at once. It was a unique sound that escaped him, a snort that wanted to be a laugh and a growl all at once. The bat becomes a firm thing in his grip again, another step, this one heavier, taken toward her. A threat in reflex.
"Cause this ain't a time for deals. If one's going to be made, it's to make sure you get to walk out of here with both legs and a throat, girl. That's your bargaining chip right now."
There's a pause, that scrutiny scanning her over a moment. Then-
"Tell me what you know 'bout where they come from? Why they do what they do?"
Miss Molly
The combined sound that he made, adjusted grip on his bat, and heavy step forward had Miss Molly tightening up under her baggy shroud of clothes. All he'd see is that her shoulders squared some and a large chest under the coat pushed out further when she straightened up. Stiff-spined, still of breath (though that was just the way things were now), and still of body as well.
She said nothing. He wasn't going to give her anything but her ability to 'live' another night if she was lucky. But he did want to know what Shovelheads wanted and where they came from.
"They come from the same place any of us do. They're embraced, but the process is different and fucked up. Full of abandonment and war. They're created hastily, sloppily, and out of cruelty-- shock troops for war usually. As for why they do what they do...."
She paused, sighed quietly and unnecessarily. "They're driven a bit mad through the process. They just want War and Mayhem and Hurt. It's how they're made."
There was another hesitation, and her posture relaxed just a little bit-- shoulders rounding down only so under the coat. "I didn't realize people didn't know that." This was spoken softly, quietly, like a realization.
Grey
"People probably do. I don't."
No bones about his ignorance. No bones about being ignorant. He seems comfortable with that fact and her re-telling of how a Shovelhead was made. How they were just like both of them only...less, somehow. Fodder born to hate and harm. It was like it settled something in his mind. A firmness that didn't have anything neat or tidy to say. A confirmation of his own thoughts, or a correction. Either was valid.
"So they run 'round plucking randoms off the street or out of their homes? Pull from the homeless? Drug addicts? They stick to those who ain't gonna be missed or do they go for anyone in reach?"
Miss Molly
"I don't know? I presume the rhyme or reason that exist sways from command to command-- whoever sets out to make these gangs does so with their own minds and resources."
He showed no shame in his ignorance, and Molly wore her library of knowledge like it were obvious as a pocket protector and horn-rimmed glasses would be.
"The Sabbat is not well-renowned for consistency or transparency."
Grey
"Which makes 'em disorganized at a street level. Mobs not armies."
Grey's assessment is another firm thing. Another bit of confirmation that's got him nodding. He's pacing now and the weight of his scrutiny vanishes with it, as if his eyes were a headlamp that turned to illuminate elsewhere. His steps are measured, boots finding gravel here or there to crunch underfoot. The bat is gripped again, a quarter up the shaft. A poke-grip (poke the chest or head to off-balance the victim. Slide down to the pommel for a full-swing in the poke-retract. One fluid in and out motion.).
"Angry, Nuts 'n Pushed to it, makes a mob sloppy. Makes 'em easy to herd."
His attention turns, regarding the street they're on- No. The block they are on. He follows the barrel fires in the distance, the strange cleanliness of his territory. The tenement building which is the only structure for some distance in all directions still standing tall and well-lit in this neighbourhood.
"...What do you know about the Sabbat in the city? Where they located? Where they put their throne?"
Miss Molly
The entity that was Miss Molly finally moved from where she had been standing. Took one slow and smooth-quiet step backward, followed by a second. Her skirt dragged quietly on the sidewalk as she did. Her hands came from her pockets and one raised in front of her, palm forward, as she shook her head.
"I don't know that much, Gray. They don't exactly invite kids like me to their sermons."
This followed by a small pause.
"Can I go?"
Grey
"...Conditions."
He raises his hand. The free one, that isn't wrapped up in baseball bats. A single finger is raised on that hand.
"You come back here, you announce yourself. You find me first and don't go spooking 'round."
A second finger joins the first.
"You make sure no one sees you. I don't need my herd and my turf collective, wandering their mouths off about some odd little skirt in shadows or getting spooked themselves, thinking you some first step in a new Shovelhead invasion."
And a third finger of course.
"You come back with new information that I can use."
The hand finally drops, Grey's eyes firmly mincing the landscape of the his neighbourhood.
"You do all those, I'll see 'bout your books."
And that. Seemed like that. He didn't move but he didn't offer anything more than that. Lost in thought would be the best marker for it.
Miss Molly
Conditions were provided, and Molly listened carefully while they were laid out. When he finished laying them out and ended on the note that he may even be able to let her get a glance at those books she was after, she nodded enough that the hood would bob visibly.
"I think I can make something like that happen," she said in that clear, cool voice, sounding rather pleased with the terms. She didn't sound stupid. She probably realized she was getting off good without having her head and shoulders beaten with that bat.
Truth be told, she'd realized she used a name that he gave to her two and a half years ago when she was a different person entirely, and was elated with the fact that he was too wrapped up in these revalations about Shovelheads to have noticed.
"I'll come find you sometime, then, announced and unseen both."
He can't see the grin there, but it's bitter and toothy and lurking in the shadows as it tasted the irony in being announced and unnoticed at the same time.
"Goodnight. And happy hunting." And though he could still see her well, for this was His Turf, he knew that she pulled the shadows around her and melded in with them once again. They would escort her to the nearest nook cranny alley to vanish away into.
