Post by Eira on Oct 16, 2015 21:58:06 GMT -5
The sleek lines of her silvery white hair flowing from beneath a black knit beanie, the setting sun's last rays touch on Eira as she rounds the corner to the little café, leaving the brisk fall breeze behind for the humid warmth within. She blinks a few times to clear her gaze, belatedly realizing the autumn sun hadn't dazzled her eyes - it was just DARK in here. Striding forward with as much dignity as one can muster with $150 heeled boots squeaking on dingy linoleum, she takes a seat while avoiding the curious gazes of the regulars. Picking up a grungy menu to
All of whom were still staring at her.
Christ. Reminds me of being "back home" in high school. At least then I could mine them for everything they had with the promise of some jailbait punani.
A montage of remembered sensations flood her mind, memories of rough, grasping hands accompanied by demanding voices. Slobbery kisses from stubbled faces, stale men's deodorant and the rising stink of unwashed arousal. A shiver takes her, Eira's eyes closing - snapping open just as quickly at a nearby voice.
"Cold, honey? Need some meat on those bones. Try the pie. What're you gonna have?"
A voice that could only belong to the waitress of a greasy spoon like this, full of tough resilience and chain-smoking rasp. The grimy nametag said it all.
Doris. How apropos.
Smiling, Eira meets the woman's eyes, located midway up her sagging face yet beneath a quarter pound of blue eyeshadow. Holding the notepad in gnarled fingers, Doris stares at Eira with a timeless sort of expectation.
"I'll just take a coffee for now. Meeting someone."
"Sure thing. If you want anything else you just holler for Doris. Roger in the back makes a great burger if you're hungry."
Doris bustles off for the coffee and a mug, Eira shortly presented with the standard-issue thick walled cup (chipped, of course), promptly filled. She thanks the woman and watches her toddle off, the barrel shaped woman swatting away a wandering trucker hand with a good natured sort of resignation.
Meeting someone... whenever he gets here. Take your time, buddy. Got plenty to think about, seeing what gold I'm gonna try and grab at Trauma. If, you know, there's any kind of gold to grab
Altman had requested a meeting with Eira at this little diner, having called her from a number she didn't recognize. He hinted at having information for her, but of what variety she had no idea.
Something about the Black Hand? Did he finally figure out what Sadistic is? What Grimm can do? What the hell is Showtime even doing with those two, or Stormm? Not that they're my problem this Trauma. Relevant as ever, but not my problem.
She takes a careful sip of her coffee, jerking back with a wince. Setting it down she goes about pouring a Murdoc-worthy amount of sugar into the acidic, bitter brew. Peeling back the little paper lids of a couple creamers, Eira pours them in and stirs, watching the white cream swirl into the deep black.
So, Trauma. Non Compos Mentis, Kaard and I get to scrabble around for whatever Foley deigns to leave us after Showtime acted the tool. Some kind of bullshit about contracts and wording and legally binding? Not sure that I understand it, but I don't have the financial clout to make the fed do what I want. I mean, he's a damn good competitor, but fuck's sake... he's like the quintessential primadonna of PCW. Since Whitey left, anyway.
A judicious swallow of sugary warm coffee flavored creamer meets her tongue, her thoughts continuing.
Whitey Ford, another dickhole that kept that title from me. Though really at this point I'd much rather have the International than anything else being as a Triple Crown achievement would be pretty awesome. I need to let go of this asinine quest to "prove myself" to people that don't actually question my ability. Serious war between ego and self doubt, two extremes... no sense in doing half a job though, right?
Another brave swig of saccharine ichor later and Eira's gorge rises, setting the mug down with a sharp clack of heavy ceramic
So first things first. I've got Kaard, the squidgy-faced spider monkey of erstwhile Adrenaline King fame. I suppose he's still the Adrenaline King, but I dunno if he's gonna take this or not. Or even which one we're taking. Fuck this cryptic bullshit the brass is doing, anyway. Then we've got NCM, who... well... haven't beaten him yet. Hoping I do, but doubt I will. With us trying to help each other and all, maybe this time he'll keep from trying to bash my brains in -
She looks up, distracted from her thoughts as Michael Altman finally makes his appearance. His genteel disdain for the grease-stained countertops and dully gleaming table surfaces is clear, but he takes a seat across from her without comment. A strangely intense smile on his face, he leans in a bit and looks her straight in the eyes.
"I've got something for you."
"Really? You found him?"
Altman smiles. "Her."
He pushes a bit of paper across the marred surface, Eira picking it up to read it.
NAME: Adalina Gatti
LOCATION: Chieti, Italy
LAST ASSIGNMENT: Reprogramming
"This is more than I was hoping for - thank you so much. I have to ask, though..."
"Why am I helping you with this?"
"Yes. This isn't quite in your job description, is it?"
He leans back against the ratty cushions, his eyes scanning their surroundings before replying. "It is, if you think about it."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You see, my duties are to not only manage you, but help you." He holds up a hand as she opens her mouth. "As former Cleric Veronica did not, yes yes, we all know. The point is that this is important to you - and so it is important to me."
He nods as though this settles the matter, a closed expression on his face, Eira scanning his countenance for any hint of cracking.
Nope. Fuckin' Brits.
"Thanks for your help. When's our next meeting?"
"We'll be in contact."
Altman nods, brushing his magnificent ginger mane back from his shoulders and rising, adjusting his coat and walking out. Eira drops a $20 bill on the table and follows for a chilly walk home, but her thoughts warming to the man awaiting her at home.
**Sorry for the poor quality RP, folks, did my best to put SOMETHING up.
It's been a miserable, fucked up week and I just couldn't dig in.
Props to both my opponents for putting up great work!**
