it won't be wrong it won't be wrong
"I was hiding in the back yard," Kat is telling some stranger enthusiastically. She has a plate of cookies with her. If you know Kat, you would know that this is not a good thing. Dan especially could tell you the dangers of one Katherine Kirschenbaum and culinary adventures. But these are not cookies that she made. Not that she couldn't make delicious death cookies with extra chocolate. Katja was just so much better at it, though. She munches on one happily, powdered sugar getting on her upper lip. Oh, the taste of tetra chlorides breaking down in the evening. Or something like that. Whatever it is, it's nasty.
"No, I wasn't actually," she rambles, spewing diseased cookie crumbs in this unfortunate Kashtta resident's face. "I was actually -- what was I even doing? I don't know. But I found myself a tiny thing, and it was -- where am I?"
This probably should have been the first thing on her mind. Kat does not live in the Kashtta. As she works for Torchwood's favorite terrorist organization, the Organization, that might cause some issues. And besides, the O pays well enough that she doesn't need to live off anyone's charity. That, and the millions of millions of dollars she made selling chemical weapons on the black market has made her anything but destitute.
"I don't think I live here," she informs the person, putting the plate of cookies down. "In fact, I don't believe I've slept since before New Years. But really, that shouldn't be so bad. I mean, I've gone much longer without sleep, as I have the ability to... stuff. I shouldn't talk about that. Maybe it's food I need? Well, not Katja cookies. Those really take more from my system than give back."
In a completely different part of Chicago, one Molly Satomi Fuchizaki is desperately trying to get a cup of coffee from a barista. There seems to be a communication barrier; the barista has a heavy Greek accent, and well, Molly's English is moderately accented, too.
"CAH-POH-SHEE-NOH," Molly says, hoping that if she's louder, the person on the other side of the counter will magically be able to understand her.
The blank stare she gets in return tells her that despite finally getting her Masters in Psychology, she doesn't understand people enough to get them to understand her.
Guess who's being an adorable faily alcoholic? Well, he's not really addicted anymore, as those parts of his brain were ... fiddled with ... But anyway, Francis Barnam has been on a bender since New Year's Eve and hasn't really stopped drinking since then. Things have gotten a lot more stressful since someone took out Granddaddy, and Ashley took over the family. Inter-family fighting is never pretty. Then again, pretty's not really what the Barnams are so concerned about.
So it may only be noon, but our local asshole archangel is already drunk in a bar, staring at sports on the television vacantly.
This isn't the time to be thinking about Katja. That fucking bitch, she screwed up everything in his life. His head hurts as he thinks too hard about it. It was about this time of year that she died, wasn't it? The past is so hard to remember. Dealing with current politics is so hard. Why can't he just go back to being in a war?
He knocks back the last of his whiskey, snapping at the bartender for another. Things are so much simpler when there's an actual war, instead of this stupid political bullshit. Keep an eye on Chicago, Ashley says. What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway? Is this another mission to keep him out of people's hair, or does this relative actually see something in him?
Dear Chicago: Don't mind the black-blood spattered archangel standing on the side of the road, wearing a rainbow wool coat, lime green pants, and a purple sequined hat. Do not question why she is holding up a sign that says, "WILL FUCK FOR HOUSING."
In fact, Chicago, it's generally better if you just don't question Sunshine at all.
On the way back from the pool, Ami Mizuno is having the bad luck of running into a parade of Lickers running down the road towards her and other civilians. The problem here is the civilians. There's no cover nearby where she can transform, and she's still shoddy with a gun.
People will probably have questions why the girl is packing heat in the first place, considering she's a tiny sixteen-year-old, but she holds up the gun, her hands shaking slightly. What did Jack tell her again? It's so hard to remember.
Suddenly, she's wishing she paid better attention when he told her she needed to learn how to shoot.
"No, I wasn't actually," she rambles, spewing diseased cookie crumbs in this unfortunate Kashtta resident's face. "I was actually -- what was I even doing? I don't know. But I found myself a tiny thing, and it was -- where am I?"
This probably should have been the first thing on her mind. Kat does not live in the Kashtta. As she works for Torchwood's favorite terrorist organization, the Organization, that might cause some issues. And besides, the O pays well enough that she doesn't need to live off anyone's charity. That, and the millions of millions of dollars she made selling chemical weapons on the black market has made her anything but destitute.
"I don't think I live here," she informs the person, putting the plate of cookies down. "In fact, I don't believe I've slept since before New Years. But really, that shouldn't be so bad. I mean, I've gone much longer without sleep, as I have the ability to... stuff. I shouldn't talk about that. Maybe it's food I need? Well, not Katja cookies. Those really take more from my system than give back."
In a completely different part of Chicago, one Molly Satomi Fuchizaki is desperately trying to get a cup of coffee from a barista. There seems to be a communication barrier; the barista has a heavy Greek accent, and well, Molly's English is moderately accented, too.
"CAH-POH-SHEE-NOH," Molly says, hoping that if she's louder, the person on the other side of the counter will magically be able to understand her.
The blank stare she gets in return tells her that despite finally getting her Masters in Psychology, she doesn't understand people enough to get them to understand her.
Guess who's being an adorable faily alcoholic? Well, he's not really addicted anymore, as those parts of his brain were ... fiddled with ... But anyway, Francis Barnam has been on a bender since New Year's Eve and hasn't really stopped drinking since then. Things have gotten a lot more stressful since someone took out Granddaddy, and Ashley took over the family. Inter-family fighting is never pretty. Then again, pretty's not really what the Barnams are so concerned about.
So it may only be noon, but our local asshole archangel is already drunk in a bar, staring at sports on the television vacantly.
This isn't the time to be thinking about Katja. That fucking bitch, she screwed up everything in his life. His head hurts as he thinks too hard about it. It was about this time of year that she died, wasn't it? The past is so hard to remember. Dealing with current politics is so hard. Why can't he just go back to being in a war?
He knocks back the last of his whiskey, snapping at the bartender for another. Things are so much simpler when there's an actual war, instead of this stupid political bullshit. Keep an eye on Chicago, Ashley says. What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway? Is this another mission to keep him out of people's hair, or does this relative actually see something in him?
Dear Chicago: Don't mind the black-blood spattered archangel standing on the side of the road, wearing a rainbow wool coat, lime green pants, and a purple sequined hat. Do not question why she is holding up a sign that says, "WILL FUCK FOR HOUSING."
In fact, Chicago, it's generally better if you just don't question Sunshine at all.
On the way back from the pool, Ami Mizuno is having the bad luck of running into a parade of Lickers running down the road towards her and other civilians. The problem here is the civilians. There's no cover nearby where she can transform, and she's still shoddy with a gun.
People will probably have questions why the girl is packing heat in the first place, considering she's a tiny sixteen-year-old, but she holds up the gun, her hands shaking slightly. What did Jack tell her again? It's so hard to remember.
Suddenly, she's wishing she paid better attention when he told her she needed to learn how to shoot.