Oh my beautiful liar...
Despite the sub-freezing weather, there are still a few people out and about in Chicago.
There's a whore walking the streets of Chicago, but not for the reasons you'd think. A blue-haired demon who goes by Indigo Jones has spent the day shopping, and is in a pretty good mood. She's locked her bags in the trunk of her car, and now she's searching ( Read more... )
There's a whore walking the streets of Chicago, but not for the reasons you'd think. A blue-haired demon who goes by Indigo Jones has spent the day shopping, and is in a pretty good mood. She's locked her bags in the trunk of her car, and now she's searching ( Read more... )
Comments 38
"Doesn't keep you as warm as it should, but is fun, yes?" She does a little hop-skip to indicate that was what she means just in case that's not immediately clear.
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She grins broadly at Anka. "Yeah, there's always that. I'm Indy. Short for Indigo, not Indiana. Want some sugar?" She offers the Pixy Stix tube.
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She eyes the Pixy Stick tube curiously. The poor, little depraved demon has never actually discovered the wonders of Pixy Sticks, so she's completely confused by the prospect of just eating what she assumes is just plain sugar. "Sugar? Like for baking? You... Can eat that by itself?"
Looks like you'll have to enlighten her, Indy.
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"No, no, not the kind for baking. It's flavored. Really good. See?" She tips her head back and pours a thin stream of green powder into her mouth, then offers it to Anka. "Try some!"
She bounces a little on the balls of her feet, still grinning.
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He stood her up.
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He's not going to approach her directly, but a few minutes later, the bartender slides her a much nicer (and more expensive) beer her way with a murmured, "From the gentleman," and a discreet nod in Eric's direction.
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"I hope I'm not intruding," he says, voice soft, "but it seemed like you'd had a disappointing night. A few good drinks do seem to help sometimes, though."
There's a subtle emotional current under his words: I just want to help. Trust me. You're all alone in the world -- wouldn't it be better if you had a bit of company?
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She doesn't notice Schro because of his bodybeats, mostly because she's been keeping her walls way up lately, so he was just part of the background noise. But he looks interesting, and that is more than enough reason for her to wander over, clutching her own peppermint mocha, and peer over his shoulder.
"Language of the angels," she says, giving a quick little nod as if to convey her approval. "You don't feel angelic." Well, he doesn't!
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"I'm Schrödinger, by the way. And you're clever."
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She flops down in the chair across from him, slurping her mocha for a moment and leaning over the table to peer at his napkin. The writing doesn't so much tell her anything, really -- she can recognize the language but doesn't know what he's doing with it, specifically -- but she wiggles anyway. "I'm Babel," she continues with a little sharp-toothed grin that would look predatory on anyone else. "And you're magic, then."
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Babel may be able, if she's paying attention, to notice something a bit... off... about his bodybeat. It's not that he's undead, but there's something about him that isn't quite alive, either. It has the unfortunate side effect of making animals nervous, at any rate. No word on how it affects tiny girls who feel bodybeats.
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She's surveying the bar in a way most would mistake for a girl looking for someone to take home, which isn't exactly inaccurate but isn't quite right either. She's sure she can have the bar or anyone in it in the palm of her hand. She's just waiting for an attractive mark to present itself.
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If she was a little less sure of herself, or had a little less reason to be, he'd offer to help bring someone in. A little nudge here and there, and her prey would be more than happy to go home with her. However, he really doesn't think that'll be a problem, and the offer would be presumptuous of him in this circumstance.
So, he just announces himself in the subtlest of ways: a moment of eye contact -- just a moment, not enough to be a challenge. He smiles faintly and raises his glass, silently wishing her good hunting.
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A glance over him doesn't give her much of an idea who or what he is, but she has guesses. He's not quite built like a rakshasa, he's too, too quiet for most behemoths. Possibly a charun, but he doesn't ring quite right. No, probably one of the Callings less likely to breed fighters. Not exactly her type, but a night's a night.
She raises her own glass back to him, letting her eyes flick to an empty seat at her table. She might have a rakshasa's learned disdain for the less violent castes, but one thing the Organization has taught her is that there's quite a lot more to most people than there seems.
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He makes his way over with that same faint smile, which warms slightly as he approaches.
"I hope it wasn't presumptuous of me to wish a lady like yourself good hunting for the evening," he says, with just the slightest lift of an eyebrow.
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At the moment, though, as he's letting himself into Shepherd Book's room, it's the former. Nice, quiet room, doesn't look or smell like anyone's died in it, removed from actual Torchwood people and the monster that ruined his morgue and their hallway and Jack fucking Harkness dropping in from nowhere like they weren't doing just fine on their own ( ... )
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