Stand There and Hear me Cry [Open]

[Wil Croft]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=style, background: url(http://i41.tinypic.com/1037d53.jpg) center bottom no-repeat; outline: 1px solid #ccc; width: 500px; height: 600px; padding: 0px;, bTable] "I can't believe you're making me do this." Wil and his daughter were sitting on the big beachfront patio of one of the dozens of seafood shacks in Pismo. This one, like most of them, specialized in clams and they were eating fried clam strips and shrimp and curly fries, with big textured red plastic glasses of iced tea and little paper cups of cocktail and tartar sauce and ranch dressing that were already getting mushy from having fried nibbly bits dunked into them. Tish was popping new freckles after only a few days in the California sun and was wearing a brand new halter top and jeans that Wil had paid too much money for because he was an absolute sucker for his kid and had justified the expense by deciding she needed to blend in with the Cali kids. She was laughing at him as she tried a fried clam in ranch dressing, just to see. It turned out to be a failed experiment. "You're only saying that because you can't do it." Wil scoffed, with the actual hand motion and everything. No matter how much time he spent in the California sun, he wasn't going to tan. He was just way, way too Russian for that. Freckles, however, were a strong possibility. But the tank top he was wearing with his skinny black jeans put his tattoos on full display and he had on a pair of classic Wayfarer Ray Bans that he thought were all kinds of cool. "Please, of course I can do it. I've read more books in my life than you've even heard of. I speak eleven languages, I can kill anything that dies, drive a stick shift and make the perfect French omelette." His daughter lifted up her hand and pantomimed a duck's bill going as she squawked out, "Mwah, mwah, mwah. You're stalling." He gave her a haughty look, or at least as haughty as you can look when your fingers and lips are shiny with fried clam grease. "Try me." She watched him with narrowed eyes. "Eight Miles High." A snort, "The Byrds, 1966. Easy." "Uh huh." She didn't look impressed. "Pink Turns to Blue." It took him a beat longer, but only a beat. "Hüsker Dü, 1984." She ran him through a few more and then, "Love the Way You Lie." Wil blinked. "Huh?" "Hah!" It was a crow of triumph. "I knew it! Wil, that was like in the top ten songs of the year last year. Love the Way You Lie? Eminem and Rihanna?" He was forced to shake his head. "I got nothing." Tish gave him a smirky sort of look. "The video had that hobbit and Megan Fox setting each other on fire?" "Ohhhh." Yeah, now he remembered. "I wasn't really listening to the song, I was mostly concentrating on watching--" And maybe it was a blessing that that statement was interrupted by a scream from the parking lot around the far side of the building, because before Wil could finish the thought he was moving. Pure instinct, just up on his feet and launching himself over the waist-high rail fence that defined the patio seating, running toward the parking lot and whatever was going wrong. [style=padding: 0px 10px; font-size: smaller;] Location: Pismo Beach, CA Wearing: Jeans and a tank top, because summer on the central coast of California lasts ten months. Music: Love the way you Lie - Eminem ft. Rihanna Notes: Quixotic much, Wil? [/style]

[Edra Ogunlana]

Show me a barrel and watch me scrape it Faced with the music, as always I'll face it
Trouble loves me, Seeks and finds me Oh, please fulfill me, Otherwise, kill me

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Eddie looked impatiently at her watch. She'd been waiting for her client to come down and pick up her goddamn package for nearly 30 minutes. She was tired, hungry, and just wanted this job to be over with so she could finally ease back into some semblance of relaxation and enjoy what was left of a lovely sunny afternoon on the coast. Instead, she was stuck waiting in a dingy car park that was blocked off from the warmth of the sunlight thanks to the surrounding buildings.

She paused the music her phone was piping into her earbuds and tried the mobile number she‘d been given again. No answer. Sighing in frustration she rubbed at her biceps where the skin was starting to sprout goose pimples. Ideally, the shifter could have ducked behind the bins to whip up a fatter or hairier body that would’ve provided a bit more insulation, but if the client didn’t see the face she’d made the deal with it would look like something was up.

Finally, a dark blue Pontiac pulled up and the Necromancer she’d been waiting for stepped out. “S’about time, Bingham.” Eddie scowled. “What happened to 2 o’clock?”

“It came and went.” The pale woman replied, unruffled by Eddie’s mood. “Do you have the Kuthun?”

“Depends if you've got my money, doesn‘t it.”

“I trust I’m not going to have to stand here while you count it.” The older woman reached back into her car, pulled out a small canvas duffel bag and threw it at Eddie‘s feet. A quick rifle through showed it was full of crumpled, genuine-looking twenty-dollar bills. Eddie never trusted the witchy-types bearing crisp and neatly bound rolls of fifty-plus. Cash like that usually turned into bundles of leaves at midnight or some such. There were no hex bags or explosive little gadgets in the bag lining either.

“Okay, fine. A midget sack with handles doesn’t really go with my outfit but I guess I’ll make-do.” Reaching into her own grungy little messenger bag she pushed past the tobacco packet and sunglasses and other bits of accumulated kipple to retrieve the 'Kuthun' Jenny Bingham had paid her for - a rusty knife stolen from a wealthy antique collector in Massachusetts. Eddie assumed it was a ceremonial thing she wasn’t going to actually stab anyone with because, honestly, the blade was so ancient it didn’t look like it would even cut through a block of butter without snapping.

The Necromancer’s eyes lit up as she took the rotten thing wrapped in an an old dishcloth, carrying it carefully back to her car like it was radioactive. It made Eddie feel a bit wary that it had been sat in her bag for days.

“Excellent work, Ms Jackson.” The client didn’t have her real name and, unless she’d done some extensive homework, didn’t know she was a shapeshifter either.

“We’re done?” Eddie asked dumbly. It all seemed a bit too good to be true, but the cash injection was desperatley needed.

“Very much so.” Bingham answered, lowering herself into the Pontiac without so much as sparing Eddie a glance.

Eddie heard the engine roar back to life and bent down to pick up her payoff with a wide grin on her face. The sound of the car suddenly seemed a bit too loud. Looking up the last thing she remembered seeing in full motion was the Pontiac’s fender rushing up to meet her. After that it was more like a series of still images swimming in and out of her vision. The Necromancer’s heels (how did she drive in those things?) with the canvas bag hanging near by as if she’d picked it back up. An empty parking lot. Blood spatter and all those cigarette dog ends she'd thrown down on the concrete. Her own hand with a bone sticking out between a couple of bangles at the wrist. That wasn’t good. And then came the screaming. Not her - because she was fairly sure there wasn’t enough air left in her lungs. Some other woman. A witness. Perfect…

“Bugger.” she tried to say but all that came out was a breathy gasp while her body started to reassemble itself.

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Temporary Face: Sticking to her own face here
Music: AC/DC - What Do You Do For Money Honey
Clothes: What's left of this with a mangled satchel made out of old green tarpaulin
Notes: Does Eddie know Will? Don't know, don't mind. I just suddenly felt the urge to see where this could go...
Word Count: Around 670

[Wil Croft]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=style, background: url(http://i41.tinypic.com/1037d53.jpg) center bottom no-repeat; outline: 1px solid #ccc; width: 500px; height: 600px; padding: 0px;, bTable] Wil came barreling around the corner, the only reason he didn't have a gun in hand was because he hadn't had a second to pull it out of the Uncle Mike's he had managed to wedge in under his skinny jeans. When he skidded to a stop he was glad he'd skipped the gun. You don't run around the world for as long as he had without picking up some basic trauma medicine, so Wil jogged over and ducked down over the bleeding young woman just in time to watch a protruding bone in her wrist pull itself back into place and the skin heal over it. Riiiiight. As delicately as a cat, Wil dabbled his fingers in the blood smeared across the woman's forearm and lifted them to hover just in front of his lips as he inhaled the scent of it. As soon as he had he wiped his fingertips clean on the injured woman's jeans and told the bystander, "Go out to the street and call an ambulance. You'll have to wait there to guide them back here off the street. It's okay, I'm a paramedic." While the woman took off running, apready dialing emergency, Wil crouched down over the fallen shapeshifter. "That buys you ten minutes, fifteen at the outside. You going to be able to pull yourself together by then? And just to be clear, if you even think about trying for me I'll plant a silver knife through your heart so fast it won't have time to crawl away." All said perfectly pleasantly. He was just establishing parameters here. [style=padding: 0px 10px; font-size: smaller;] Location: Pismo Beach, CA Wearing: Jeans and a tank top, because summer on the central coast of California lasts ten months. Music: Love the way you Lie - Eminem ft. Rihanna Notes: Altruism only goes so far, eventually caution kicks in. [/style]

[Edra Ogunlana]

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Eddie didn’t see her blood fail the Shtriga's scratch-and-sniff test but as fingertips were casually wiped off on her jeans she made an involuntary breathy whine of protest. Even reduced to roadkill she couldn’t help but feel insulted by the gesture.

“That buys you ten minutes, fifteen at the outside.” The boy said pleasantly. “You going to be able to pull yourself together by then?”

The shifter’s ribs withdrew from lungs that were already busy sucking in air. “Uh… aah! Bitch!” was all she managed as some part of the ball and socket in her right hip clicked back into place. If she saw that Bingham woman again, she’d put the cow through her own windshield.

“And just to be clear, if you even think about trying for me I'll plant a silver knife through your heart so fast it won't have time to crawl away.”

“Trying for me?” Eddie parroted, confused by the phrase. Her head felt muddled and, without meaning to, her voice was coming out as an exact copy of Wil’s in all but accent. “I didn’t… What…?” He looked young but sounded like a seasoned Hunter, expecting her to rip his face off or some other racist crap. Those pricks had a knack for popping up wherever you least expected them.

There was no mistaking the words “silver”, “knife” and “heart” but she didn’t see one in his hand. It took her a second more to remember to check her chest, panic flaring brief and bright in her bewilderment. Boobs, check. Necklace, check. Knife wound, nope. Well that’s something… So maybe he wasn’t a Hunter. Crowley’s cronies would have pinned her down and gotten out the ‘dragon wire’ that went through her wrists rather than around and- okay not thinking about that.

She dropped the last scrap of pretence, along with the brown pigment in her eyes, concentrated on pulling a ‘humpty dumpty’ as fast as she could. Covering up what had already happened was more important than figuring out the stranger’s agenda. Eddie knew she had a small window where shock would keep the pain at bay. The more she could shift back into its normal position during that time, the better. It was like racing against the clock to solve a gruesome rubix cube. To be fair, her body was doing a grand job of reassembling itself even without much guidance. Ruptures and tears re-knitted their intricate fibers while fresh plasma was pumped out by overly strained organs she could only feel as a dull gut ache.

The strange Samaritan’s ease with the whole situation was a little unnerving. Catching his eye, she blurted out “Christo!”, just to make sure nothing turned a nasty shade of oil slick. “Sorry. Just checking.” She struggled to wrench herself onto all fours, reached awkwardly for her handbag and missed. There were a couple of vertebrae that still felt… weird.

“If you’re a paramedic, I’ll eat my bloody flip-flops.” She grumbled, making the voice that came out her own again. “Do us a favour Babyface, gimmie a hand here?”

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Temporary Face: Sticking to her own
Music: AC/DC - What Do You Do For Money Honey
Clothes: What's left of this with a mangled satchel made out of old green tarpaulin
Notes: Altruism goes so far, concussion goes further!
Word Count: Around 450 are my own