Claire enters the Wasteland in two efficient steps, striding up to the bar and placing an order for two drinks, one for her, one for Les who's trailing behind her.

Leaving him to carry them, she finds a table with a good view.

Claire Pullman is in the house!

Ok, so without any bling, just a business skirt and high heels, her shirt casually unbuttoned down to here. She's sitting at the bar, a book of accounts in front of her.

Who knew operating a business in a barter-based economy would be so difficult!

Opening the door, Beth looks around tentatively.  She doesn't come here often enough to quite be confident ( Read more... )

Fitting in here is bizarrely easy ( Read more... )

Les is sitting on the steps of the Field Museum, nursing a plastic cup of something dark red and a little sticky. His shoelaces are untied. He's enjoying the mid-July heat.

No one was happy. Claire wasn't happy and it was possibly the cold calculating control that kept anyone from questioning whether she was weak, not going to war over the murder (non-donor humans dragged into the museum to be dinner for the vamps living there, their bodies were sacrificed on the altar of city harmony, although they didn't know that ( Read more... )

Claire is sitting at the bar, her legs crossed demurely. She looks open for conversation.

She's even wearing pearls, a small necklace that makes her look like the Playboy version of Betty Cleaver.

[OoWL: McKinley has a change of residence.

... You were expecting elaboration?]

Marisela's heard of the place, of course. It's become something of an icon in the new Chicago. So when she breezes through the door of the Wasteland, her long, flowing skirts swirling about her legs, her face lights up ( Read more... )