There's a lot of screaming from one corner of the bar; and then River Tam hurries away from the battered figure huddled there, for the stairs
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That screaming was the sort that's impossible to ignore.
So Mary Anne (in that 'curiosity can't kill me now' way of hers) heads over to the corner in question.
They only spoke the once, some two odd years ago as Mary Anne counts time these days. Still--to put it bluntly--there aren't too many women missing their legs but knowledgeable about (violence) guns who frequent the bar.
"More'n I'd like," she says, then winces. "Take it back." There are flecks of grey in the red. "Wish't all was."
Catania Stevens majored in medieval studies at Smith College. She was a personal assistant, not a bodyguard. She was ROTC in college, and her father and three brothers were police officers--one of them was serving in Iran, National Guard--but she was a personal assistant.
Her gun is in Susannah's belt, and her brains are on Susannah's blazer.
And there is a one-eyed man in black (the kind of worn, comfortable black that suggests practicality over image), watching her back. Strange clothes - Elizabethan with doublet and breeches and high boots and a dagger on his belt.
If you stare long enough in the bar, the bar stares back at you.
And those who would go eyeing eyepatches should take care they don't wind up wearing one themselves. There's a nasty bullet graze along the side of her face, from the corner of one glittering eye.
This is a dangerous-looking white man. He doesn't have her whole attention. She won't make that mistake (again), not now that she's fully awake. But he's got his fair portion.
She's Moorish, bloodied and ready. Warrior-folk, at least how he thinks it.
"Need any help, mistress?" The voice is soft, well-educated although he'd never be mistaken for being from money. Soft voice, soft as a snake in the grass if you are inclined to think so.
She's fighting haze, and for a moment, she thinks it might be River coming back.
It's not a long moment, she's far from that far gone, but it's something--odd little white girl, dark hair, dancer's build and dancer's moves, with an overlay of a wary hunter.
She watches the girl, through slitted, glittering eyes.
Bev nods and hurries back towards the bar, light on her feet.
She comes back with a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel, and as she holds it out, her eyes flick over the blood on the woman's clothes, wander down to where her legs end--and then dart away quickly. Bev's parents taught her better than to stare (even if they might never have had crippled black women in mind for their daughter to show manners to).
Susannah breaks off a chip of ice and puts in her mouth; her mouth feels dry as hell, but she doesn't want to risk swallowing anything. The relief is instant.
The rest of the chunk, and the towel, she presses against the throbbing graze that runs along her cheek and has ripped open the top of her ear.
...To think, Crowley'd wandered down from the brothel party to see if he wasn't missing anything exciting here.
She's older, sure (say true, Crowley thinks unbidden, at the back of his mind), but hasn't Crowley spent six thousand years watching human faces grow older? He knows from aging. He stands, stupidly (and only a little drunkenly), at the foot of the stairs, processing the scene until a particularly virulent string of cursing snaps him out of it.
And then - something, oh something, where did she come from? swells up in his chest like a goddamn rose unfurling - and Susannah has had cause to see the demon move as fast as any gunslinger, once upon a time, and whilst she may be older -
"Susannah," he says. He's left his sunglasses... somewhere.
His hands flicker nervously over her, over where it's bloodiest - perhaps part long-ago and far-away instinct from what he once was, perhaps simply a more usual desire to help tempered by a healthy awareness of the fact that this is a woman with a gun who doesn't much like him at the best of times.
Are you alright?, he means to ask, but it comes out as "What the fuck?"
She doesn't mind; it's an Eddie (Dean) kind of thing to say.
"Honky mahfahs shot us," she says tersely.
Crowley does not count as a honky mahfah, just because he is stupid enough to want to look like. "River got me away, I guess." The truth is that she doesn't know, herself, what the fuck.
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So Mary Anne (in that 'curiosity can't kill me now' way of hers) heads over to the corner in question.
They only spoke the once, some two odd years ago as Mary Anne counts time these days. Still--to put it bluntly--there aren't too many women missing their legs but knowledgeable about (violence) guns who frequent the bar.
"...Susannah?"
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"That's me," she says, blunt and clipped. Her memory turns itself inside out and comes back with: "Mary Anne. Li'l white girl from 'Nam. That right?"
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"That's right."
She crouches down, the better for eye contact but not close enough to crowd. "Any of that yours?" she asks, gesturing at what's left of the suit.
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Catania Stevens majored in medieval studies at Smith College. She was a personal assistant, not a bodyguard. She was ROTC in college, and her father and three brothers were police officers--one of them was serving in Iran, National Guard--but she was a personal assistant.
Her gun is in Susannah's belt, and her brains are on Susannah's blazer.
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And that one eye he has left is tiger-bright.
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And those who would go eyeing eyepatches should take care they don't wind up wearing one themselves. There's a nasty bullet graze along the side of her face, from the corner of one glittering eye.
This is a dangerous-looking white man. He doesn't have her whole attention. She won't make that mistake (again), not now that she's fully awake. But he's got his fair portion.
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"Need any help, mistress?" The voice is soft, well-educated although he'd never be mistaken for being from money. Soft voice, soft as a snake in the grass if you are inclined to think so.
So many people in this place don't.
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"And--help is coming," she adds, in a voice that's the same, in that it's the same woman speaking, but different. Softer, itself.
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But they are all familiar smells and sounds to her, which is why she spins toward the door, body strung wire-tight.
She's moving a few seconds later, footsteps silent and wary across the floor.
Her claws aren't out yet, though.
That may change.
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It's not a long moment, she's far from that far gone, but it's something--odd little white girl, dark hair, dancer's build and dancer's moves, with an overlay of a wary hunter.
She watches the girl, through slitted, glittering eyes.
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"They are not coming through?"
Better safe than sorry.
Always.
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When River makes for the stairs, Bev hesitates a moment, then moves toward the woman in the corner.
"Ma'am?" she begins, voice low but steady. "I'm guessing River went to get help, but is there anything I can do for you?"
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She can do this because she is feeling remarkably light-headed.
"Ice, sug."
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She comes back with a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel, and as she holds it out, her eyes flick over the blood on the woman's clothes, wander down to where her legs end--and then dart away quickly. Bev's parents taught her better than to stare (even if they might never have had crippled black women in mind for their daughter to show manners to).
"Here you go."
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The rest of the chunk, and the towel, she presses against the throbbing graze that runs along her cheek and has ripped open the top of her ear.
"Thankee."
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She's older, sure (say true, Crowley thinks unbidden, at the back of his mind), but hasn't Crowley spent six thousand years watching human faces grow older? He knows from aging. He stands, stupidly (and only a little drunkenly), at the foot of the stairs, processing the scene until a particularly virulent string of cursing snaps him out of it.
And then - something, oh something, where did she come from? swells up in his chest like a goddamn rose unfurling - and Susannah has had cause to see the demon move as fast as any gunslinger, once upon a time, and whilst she may be older -
"Susannah," he says. He's left his sunglasses... somewhere.
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Well, naturally.
But demons vary, and this is by far the one she'd like to see best at this range. "Hile, Crowley."
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Are you alright?, he means to ask, but it comes out as "What the fuck?"
(It was a pretty stupid question anyway.)
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"Honky mahfahs shot us," she says tersely.
Crowley does not count as a honky mahfah, just because he is stupid enough to want to look like. "River got me away, I guess." The truth is that she doesn't know, herself, what the fuck.
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