you are alert as a tigress at a common table with her fate
Life for the past year has been a series of motel rooms, cheap bars with hollow carvings in their jukeboxes telling stories she doesn't care for, and empty beer bottles lined up on the counters she uses later for practice. There's the occasional postcard to her mother and traveling down the open road from one middle-of-the-fuck-nowhere town to the
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Fortunately for all involved, Leona is not doing anything particularly demonic. Her wings aren't showing, she's not all bloody, and her expression is more mild annoyance at the weather fading into curiosity with a fine veneer of concern when someone bloody and armed does step out of an alley in front of her.
Wanderer. They're practically falling into her lap, these days.
She adjusts her umbrella, clearing her throat softly. There's no need to startle the girl, especially as she's got that Where the fuck am I and why? look common to new arrivals. "You look a bit lost, honey," she says, voice all amicable concern. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
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There's a moment suspending itself in time, and it happens every time she's in a bind, in which Jo asks herself what Bill Harvelle would do in her place so she can follow in his footsteps. It kills her that she can't be sure. It kills her that for all of her stubborn attempts to cling to the memory of her father, some things are fading.
Jo angles her chin upward when she's asked if there's anything that can be done to help. "You tell me."
The annoyance isn't directed at the woman. She's just, you know, pissed she's not where she was five minutes ago and the sonuvabitch got away because of it.
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"Chicago, Illinois," she says. "I'm going to take a shot in the dark and guess you were elsewhere, a bit ago. Welcome here. It's April 7, 2010, and you've fallen through a rift in space and time."
She tilts her umbrella hand toward the alley.
"Or a tear in the fabric of the world, if you'd prefer, or a portal leading here from another plane. I've heard just about all the descriptions. And if you'd like help, I can see you to the people who handle this sort of a thing for people who fall through, like you. Unfortunately no one knows how to see you back home."
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Jo has seen and heard all sorts of strange crap throughout the years, from the time she was little and hunters at the Roadhouse would cough up stories about everything that went bump in the night.
Her life has never been normal, and Jo's a little twisted for the fact she's more than fine with it. Still. There's never been anything like this. While she's reluctant to believe the woman, Jo did see the damn vortex close right up.
"Great." Jo studies the woman for a moment's pause, fighting to curb her annoyance. She needs answers, and driving off the woman that's giving them to her isn't gonna help. "There are people who handle this sort of thing? You're telling me this happens often?"
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She arches an eyebrow. She's had the opportunity to give this speech, or a variant thereon, a number of times. She's got a good eye for tells and cues.
"By the lack of gaping and gibbering, I'm guessing this doesn't sound that farfetched to you. Good, that; gives you a leg up on most of the others."
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Jo hears the word demon and her grip on the rifle tightens imperceptibly. "That's one helluva rundown," she says once she finds her voice again, the inner turmoil she's experiencing never showing up on her face. Jo's got a good poker face--she's snatched up a lot of cash with her bluffing that way. "You a hunter?"
It makes sense to her if she's informed about angels and demons. She wonders if it's the same in this place. After she's done talking with this woman, Jo fully plans on checking out the story and doing her own research.
"Yeah, see. I'm not big on hysterics." No, really. Last time a girl went drama queen on her Jo decked her into unconsciousness. "No point in bitching and moaning about whatever the hell it is that happened."
Jo looks to where the rift was once more before turning to the woman again. "You got a name?"
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She's certain they're not using the same definition for hunter. She finds herself fine with this ( ... )
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And Jo's gonna go for noncommittal on the rest. She wedges her arm into the rifle's sling, eyes seemingly on Leona's face while she keeps track of the woman's hands. "And yeah, I can take care of myself just fine."
Let them come, she thinks, the same as with everything else. Let them come.
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Jo answers with a near snort. People who are completely unaware of the dangers of the world--she can understand that. Her job is to protect them. Those who choose to be delusional about it don't have her sympathy. "No matter where you are, there'll be plenty of assholes who don't like lookin' the ugly things right in the eye."
Better to look away and pretend they don't exist, isn't it?
"Why not? I'm not a stranger to fucked-up," Jo says at the offer of coffee. She thinks there's still a catch, but there's always a catch. She does believe she can take care of herself, and the first thing she was taught to do and do well is research--thanks Ash. This woman seems ( ... )
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She glances down the street, calculates the distances to various coffee shops, and motions to one not too far away and not too shabby. "There's a refugee camp smack downtown," she says, starting toward it. "The Conrad Hotel. Run by a Wanderer herself, Martha Jones, looked after by a man named Vincent. Cool cat. Purple Heart'd in the big war, the one that forced angels and demons to finally make a treaty so they wouldn't kill each other and everyone else around. The Conrad's all fine and good if you want a place to sleep and food to eat, but it is what it is."
She shrugs.
"Now, I don't want to come across too pushy - not before you've gotten your sea-legs, doll," and at that she casts a smile back at Jo, "but if you wanted work - looking out for wanderers, for one - I could introduce you to some coworkers who are always hiring." Like Aaron Islington. Or even the net of Black Decemberists still working in the city. Not exactly honest work, but nothing a Wanderer ( ... )
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