Life is short, but this time it was bigger than the strength she had to get up off her knees...

[thrillofthekill]

Early this morning, one of the residents reported to one of the junior archangels about strange smells coming from one of the rooms. One look at the basement manifest and Vincent knew who the room belonged to

Comments

[nowinprint]

Dmitri has moved back into the Conrad. It seems like her timing couldn't have been better

[thrillofthekill]

"Dmitri," Vincent nods right back at her. "And a smoke," he adds, his agreement in the need for drinks abundantly clear. He hasn't smoked in awhile- he quit sometime after that four months he spent in a coma. There's a good way to break you of a nasty habit- four months in stasis from a gunshot to the head.

Occasionally, being in Chicago makes those habits necessary.

"Her name was Jo," he explains, because he knows Dmitri's probably wondering. "Shy kid. Angel of Vengeance." He chuckled grimly. "I figured I was supposed to look out for her. Kinda sucked at that, didn't I?"

[nowinprint]

Dmitri nods, at that - and winces, a little, because why shouldn't she? Angel of Vengeance. Like their lives don't suck enough getting them to the point that particular evolutionary trigger fires, they have to get the shit end of the stick when their Callings kick in, too. and Chicago does love taking people's callings and breaking people on them.

"Bitch of a life," she answers, then turns to look at him. "And also not your fault, old soldier. I could be the cliché and tell you the fault really lies on the bastards what turned her out this way, but hell. We know it doesn't change anything this late in the game."

[thrillofthekill]

"Nope," Vincent drawls. "Gimme a tic." He wanders off, gesturing to one of the archangels standing nearby. They vanish off down the hall and a few minutes later, over the quiet, somber murmurings of the people gathered, there's a muffled cry of pain and some minutes after that, Vincent and the other archangel return, Vincent cringing in pain as rubs his shoulder, an unlit cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

Gotta love that archangel resilence. You dislocate your shoulder in the battlefield, you ask someone to pop it back in and keep on fighting.

"No sense in harpin' on it, anyway," he continues around the cigarette, like there was never any break in the flow of the conversation. "It's done. Hope to God she's in a better place, too."

[nowinprint]

Dmitri may raise an eye at that - hell, she could have offered him a bullet (or at least a titanium pen case) to bite, or something - but he's an archangel, and if they need to be tough, well, it's not all that different than her responding to everything by composing extemporaneous public orations. Calling is what calling is.

"They making you fill out paperwork?" she asks. "The Board still loves me for my brains, so I've got a bit of extra cash tucked away. And it's not like there's a shortage of bars in this city."

[thrillofthekill]

Vincent cringes violently at the paperwork and pulls the cigarette from his mouth. "Eventually, yeah, but I don't wanna be sober for it, so if you can pick a place, I'm game for it."

As soon as he finds a lighter. He snaps his fingers at another archangel who tosses him a lighter (it's good to be the Captain). He pockets it, at least having the decency to wait until he and Dmitri get outside before he lights up.

[nowinprint]

And, swinging her coat on over her shoulders, Dmitri heads for the stairs. (Stairs. Glad those got put in.)

"You looking for the sort that's nearby, or the sort that you can get kicked out of with no regrets?" she asks. Demon bars, of course, would be right out, but she knows a few where the odd barfight garners raised eyebrows and not much else. Sometimes, it's that sort of a day.

[thrillofthekill]

Vincent follows her, rolling his shoulder a bit, despite the pain, to make sure its functional. He'll live, but damn that stings. Teach him to break down doors without his wings out.

"I'll settle for what's in walking distance. I don't feel like drivin' and I hate cabs." And it's not that cold outside- not for an angel, anyway. "Got one like that?"

[nowinprint]

Dmitri glances back with a sidelong smile, reaching the door and holding it open for him. "When don't I?"

There are a few things she makes it a point to excel in, even here. Knowing her way around the bars is one of them. (It's not just a part of her ongoing fascination with recreational alcohol. They're also great places to get information, if you know how to mine them.)

"So what was she like?" she asks, more quietly. "Other than shy." She is, Rift, bloodcolor, bodytemperature, metabolism and winglessness be damned, an angel of knowledge at heart, and if there's anyone supposed to know and remember these things, it's her. She might not be able to bring her back to life, but she can put her in the history books. She can see that some record exists somewhere.

[thrillofthekill]

He actually smiles at that. "You're a saint, Dmitri."

He steps ahead of her and works his way up the stairs. "Mousy, quiet. Couldn't get a full sentence out of her if you handed her a script. She was abused when she was a kid, I guess. Scared like a wounded puppy. Every time I'd get around her, I worried like I was gonna break her or somethin'." He pauses, thoughtfully. "First night I met her, she went on a rampage in the slums. Robin and I followed her out. I tried to sedate her and she OD-ed. I had to break into someone's drug den to get an adrenaline shot. I kinda felt responsible for her after nearly killin' her."

[nowinprint]

"That's me and St. Jude, watching over the city," she says.

She listens to that description, mouth quirking up in a sort of black-humor smile at a few of those descriptors. "Know the type," she says, as they head up the stairs. "'course, mine tend to be wanderers." It's who she studies. Correspondingly, who she spends most of her time around. "Same story, though; Rift fucks 'em up, the world doesn't care much. Whole classes of people falling through the cracks."

Because the history of the supernatural world is that of Neqa'el and First Angels, Archangels and Rakshasa, Angels of Knowledge and Behemoths, and the occasional human mage or vampire who makes their way up on through. They're the ones who make and keep history.

"But, you know, times are a'changing." And whether that's meant to be reassuring or a statement of fact...

[thrillofthekill]

Vincent grunts an affirmative, pulling the lighter out of his pocket, so he can light his cigarette as soon as he gets outside.

"Brave new world," he mutters, in agreement. Strong, silent type has always been Vincent's style, especially when depressed. "It's been the end of an era since Romana died. Who knows where this one's headed."

[nowinprint]

"Thataway fast," Dmitri says, gesturing vaguely at... Chicago. "Like it always does." And like it'll do if all the rest of them, angels and once-angels and Conrad residents and everyone who's ever shaken their fists at the Rift all slit their wrists one day. Cheerful thought, that; it's why she doesn't voice it.

Instead, she jams her hands further into her pockets and heads for the bar, stepping neatly over the various patches of ice.

The bar really isn't far; Dmitri has this area cased pretty well. She hops up the steps and gets the door, waving in at the bartender.

"Booth or bar, big guy?

[thrillofthekill]

Vincent stays silent, smoking quietly as he walks and stomping the cigarette out on the pavement when they arrive at the bar. He actually debates whether he wants the instant service and social opportunity the bar gives or the solitude of a booth, and then decides that most miserable sons of bitches drink at the bar, and, therefore, he shouldn't break with tradition.

"Bar," he says. "Thinking tequila shots until I keel over."