There's a familiar-looking sandy-haired man at a table near the door -- a seat with a good vantage point of the whole bar.
Will looks up automatically when the door opens, as he always does. The sight of the woman stepping inside catches and holds his attention more than the wall returning to blankness.
Jasmine starts to smile, small and faint and cold.
Establishing control is delightfully easy.
She doesn't bother with any further words before turning away towards the lake door, setting in place the standard orders against attack or escape and adding in one against speaking for good measure.
When she takes her first few steps, he rises from his seat and follows.
Somewhere outside, a Will is cursing under his breath and trying to stop his hand bleeding.
Inside, a Will who rarely has to worry about bleeding too much is at a table (the bar is full) with a cup of coffee and a book. (It's poetry, by Arrow, a contracting student he's been getting to know. They're mostly not to his taste, too free-form and obscure, but he promised he'd take a look at it. There's been a villanelle or two he liked, though.)
Once she's gotten out her door (thankfully open), control cuts out. Something about the door interfering. Jasmine doesn't really care.
She cares slightly more when the door reappears and dumps her back in the bar half an hour later; the first thing she does is look around for signs of Chainsaw.
There is, however, a young woman at the bar, bent over a notebook. Pale parallel scars on her forearm flash as she brushes her hair back behind her ear.
It actually takes Nita a second to figure out what's going on. She's up on her feet and moving before she has time to notice Jasmine, and once up, she doesn't immediately connect the tattooed figure she's following to the woman from the cells.
And then she does.
And then she takes a breath to scream for help, heart pounding panic in her ears.
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Will looks up automatically when the door opens, as he always does. The sight of the woman stepping inside catches and holds his attention more than the wall returning to blankness.
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"Will."
The way she says his name is the way she's always said it: abstract and conceptual, a Downsider title to the last.
She wears her skin unselfconsciously, decorated as it is with scenes of various tortures in stark black ink.
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Who the hell is this?
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No.
Jasmine starts to smile, small and faint and cold.
Establishing control is delightfully easy.
She doesn't bother with any further words before turning away towards the lake door, setting in place the standard orders against attack or escape and adding in one against speaking for good measure.
When she takes her first few steps, he rises from his seat and follows.
Reply
Inside, a Will who rarely has to worry about bleeding too much is at a table (the bar is full) with a cup of coffee and a book. (It's poetry, by Arrow, a contracting student he's been getting to know. They're mostly not to his taste, too free-form and obscure, but he promised he'd take a look at it. There's been a villanelle or two he liked, though.)
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Frustration. Incredible frustration.
He heads for the stairs without sparing a glance to his surroundings.
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--Oh, shit.
"Chainsaw--"
He's not thinking, just reacting, standing before his brain can object.
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Not stopping. Not even slowing down.
"Fuck this shit. Is there one of you anywhere I haven't pissed off somehow?"
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She cares slightly more when the door reappears and dumps her back in the bar half an hour later; the first thing she does is look around for signs of Chainsaw.
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There is, however, a young woman at the bar, bent over a notebook. Pale parallel scars on her forearm flash as she brushes her hair back behind her ear.
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She just establishes control and starts for the lake door. No-attack order, no-escape order, and finally an order to follow.
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And then she does.
And then she takes a breath to scream for help, heart pounding panic in her ears.
(So much for the practice. Sorry, Chainsaw--)
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