Sometime when she had a moment to herself and jades were staring off at a glass covered wall of her lab, Jessica stopped to allow a memory to sweep over her. One for whatever reason she couldn't push it back and opened it up, letting it spill to the depths of her mind and swell up the tear ducks in her eyes.

You always did drag your heels for me dove.
Haven't you learned?

Dropping into the steel rolling chair, her bare heel hooked on the highest rung as her head dropped to the table top she had been standing at. The sobs echoed against the glass walls of her lab, (her soul), leaving dewy evidence against notebooks with her scribbling of formulas and ideas for various things in business. A side no one saw, no one that could speak at least, was Jessica's torn emotions over the past and the future that she knew was to come. Fingers smudged against the linings of her eyes, salt stains mixing with the droplets of sweat coming from the back of her neck to line her jaw.

Trapped like a rat, and while her heart beat faster in her chest, the nervous breathing was kept silent. Holding her breath. Waiting for him to move before he found--

Tap tap tap tappity tap tap. The whistling broken into the heated evening as well as the sound of his cane. Letting the sounds bounce off the walls of the alleyway while he followed the trail. He found her. "Haven't you missed me dove? You know it's been so long since we-"

"Stop right there or I'll do what I did to your leg to the rest of your body Da--" Her sentence caught off as he continued his approach, ignoring her words and lacing his palm over her throat, pressing with only slight force.

"Funny you bring that up. Because I'm here to finish up that experiment. The training isn't quite finished. The mistakes have been seen to. I know the one I made last time won't be. How is Nicademo by the way? Perhaps I should see about making a visit with him, remind him of the changes that were made." His chuckle was low, thriving in the fact that he's winning. And even expecting the sudden force she was throwing at him, trying to shove him off of her.

The gold handle rolled in his hand before the tip was snapped at her face, the wood as well slapping across her face as his grin widened. "You always did drag your heels with me dove. Haven't you learned?" Leaving her to answer the question in her head, rough fingers slopped down her neck and grabbed onto the chain around her neck. Wrapping and twisting it around his knuckles, giving light pressure to her neck as he tugged slightly. Leaning in to murmur quietly as hazels sparkled over her face, "I know I have." Kissing her fiercely and only pulling back until after she bit his lip.

Cutting off the memory before his laughter echoed in her mind any more, she slid her hand down over her face as she sat up. As if to wipe off the blood he had spit back at her, but just clearing away the last few tears.

Leaning back against the support of the steel chair, one arm crossed her chest while the other laid splayed at her throat. Fingering the chain slowly before sending a look out the doors of the closed lab. Like a fish in a fish bowl, only without anyone watching after her.


((Originally written Aug. 2005))

Once, home had been an old brown stone, hidden in a quiet and low key neighborhood of Rhydin. Which harbored several apartments, where one in particular carefully kept hidden away an ageing mobster on his deathbed and his granddaughter who cared for him, a woman who was more known for being a drug cartel queen and a ruthless psycho than anything else. After he had passed, the favored home became a thatched roof and makeshift hut on an island in another world, where tobacco plants grew in the tropical breeze and hot sun, where the same drug cartel queen became a queen of an Import / Export business that somehow suited every need ever asked for in Rhydin. There were other homes, each grander than the last, but the island was always where she found herself.

Until one day, the world shifted and went black. Unclear on if she couldn?t remember or just didn?t want to remember why, the island wasn?t forgotten, but she no longer slept in a hammock and under the watchful eye of the sun. Now she slept in an oversized loft, where her lab was still sterilized and filled to the brim with tools for torture, chemicals and formulas, and served as a suitable distraction for how she spent her nights and days.

Losing herself in the lab was the best choice; otherwise she could be losing herself by being elbow deep in a body of someone she had rendered into a corpse for merely looking at her the wrong way. The lab where the walls were lined with various specimens, mountains of research she?d conducted during her coherent stints in Rhydin, and even with a few gifts scattered among the glass incased room. Granted, gifts given to Jessica tended to be weapons or involve the morbid macabre nature of Rhydin in some way. Somehow, diamond necklaces and puppies never lasted around her. And it was best to never ask what became of them in the end.

The loft itself was fairly barren, what little furniture was there did not look as though it would last long and was hardly used with the exception of her bed ?which was still hardly slept in as she all too often would fall asleep in the lab, half leaning on the table or managing to balance precariously in a steel rolling chair. It lacked color, it lacked a lived in look, but one could hardly say that she was living there at all could they? It was hard to say how long she had been going through the motions, a few weeks? A few months? No, worse than that it had been a few years since she had dived into her reclusive ways.

In the end, it was probably best for the street pharmacist turned black widow to stay underground, someone had to sell creative munitions for the complicated creatures in town. She?d just do it with a snarl around a Cuban cigar.

The snow drifts in Rhydin left by the most recent winter storms served up no difficulty for the former Alpinista, her boots had seen more miles in snow than most and she moved over rooftops and chain-link fences with the greatest of ease. There was a mix of the flawless grace of a dancer and the hardened muscles woven in her motions as she could climb swiftly up a wall or ease down the side of an alley with her fingers latching onto the mortared grooves surrounding the stone and bricks of buildings.

Sometimes, just sometimes, she could be playful in the snow.

Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, the rucksack strapped on her shoulders jostled with every leap she dared in the chilly night. Any misstep would mean broken bones (or worse), but the true danger was kept tucked away in the army green pack on her back. Years ago she would have been decked out in pure white BDUs, thermals and able to blend in completely with the fresh powder, but now she was still half exposed to the elements with a black razor sharp skirt and white button dress shirt. Even in the low temperatures however, her skin still radiated a feverish heat to melt random snowflakes still falling from the sky.

Skidding down a slopping snowdrift alongside the last rooftop with the poise akin to an Olympic Skier, she headed around a corner for an abandoned and familiar property. The warehouse may or may not have been laced with booby traps, trip lines attached to explosives, and hidden cameras, but in truth she was only heading that way to pick up a few chains she had noticed on the ground the last time she was there and to lock the door after over a week of leaving it open. Few would be foolish enough to set up shelter there, but if there were any trespassers? The pharmaceutical pyro was always prepared for such a task.

Still several yards from the door to the warehouse and she stopped. Even as her nose twitched, wild green eyes were tracking the aftermath of tire tracks. Someone had been there. The snarl erupted as her nose filled with his scent and her territorial nature took over. Charging forward for the door, fingers twitching at the hem of her skirt before a razor dropped into her hand, she only stopped suddenly when she saw the canvas wrapped bundle on the figurative No One is Welcome mat.

With her ears keenly perked, trying to pick out if there was a ticking mechanism attached to the bundle, next her nose was brought closer to it as she crouched down to the ground. She didn?t smell any chemicals except?lacquer? Deciding that it wasn?t a bomb then, she removed the canvas from the hidden given inside. The wooden box was held and stared at for some time, but it was hard to say if she was admiring it, incredibly confused by it, or simply in shock that he?d left it for her.

Balancing on the balls of her feet in her couch at the door, it wasn?t until the wind rustled the fabric on the ground that she realized she was still staring at the box. The weight of it told her that something was still tucked away inside, so when whatever thoughts in her mind stopped spinning, she slid the top of the box off to open it and look inside. The cigar cutter was instantly recognized and picked up, her thumb and middle finger sliding in the holes at opposite ends as she opened and closed the cutter, testing that it was still usable.

Pocketing the item quickly, she was soon lifting out the velvet wrapped straight razor. Setting the box aside for the moment, the velvet sheath was dropped inside it before holding up the weapon. Rising to stand, there was a flick of her wrist as the blade popped out and wild green eyes were subdued and distracted by the reflective shine of the razor. Her thumb, scarred and rough was brushed over the edge and she felt nothing, but it wasn?t even a second before blood was spilling down to the base of her hand.

Pinching the pad of her thumb between her lips briefly, a sharp smile curved on her features for a moment before she was closing the blade back into the oak handle. Turning a look down at herself and to her skirt, the realization that a foot long blade would not fit into her pocket or a pleat hit her.

?Damn it.?

Her disappointment was brief though, and she was returning the gift back to its box as well as grabbing the canvas wrapping it was bound in before heading in through the open door. She still had a few things to get before her next deal.

(( Adapted from a scene between Jessica Lucino and Mad Knight. Edited for language. Contains: Violence, adult language, adult situations, humor, and racial stereotypes against goblins. Reader discretion advised. ))

Their raspy laughter filled her ears as two of them leapt forth and grabbed at her white shirt sleeves, tugging and pulling to get the pharmacist to hold still while fighting over who got to grab the rucksack from her. Jerking in their tight grasp as black nails were clawing at the fabric, she twisted her left arm to latch on to the sickly form at that side's throat. "Let. Me. Go." Growled up at him. Appearing to be ignoring the one on the right only briefly as she stomped her right boot against the ground to let the razors slide from the sole, and then kicking him square in the side of his thigh while they were distracted with her issuing threats. The razors sliced through his tattered clothes and flesh, leaving him to let go as he howled in pain. Goblins were so dramatic.

It was the long empty roads on the edge of the town that interested Michael in moods like this. Silent stretches he could walk and think, accompanied only by the sound of boots on crunching gravel, alone except the trees that bent over on themselves under the weight of vines and foliage and swampy water. In the winter not even the frogs croaked, all the lightning bugs slept, the lizards lurked in burrows, hibernating. He could be completely by himself. Tonight he'd dressed in the old war-ware; combat boots, grey fatigue pants, black sweater, old thick leather jacket that had been shot through and set on fire, pocketed bandoleer, and a sheathed long sword that looked too long and too broad even for him. The Knight had come out to find a spot free of prying eyes, somewhere he didn't know, to practice in the dead winter night. So imagine his annoyance when he'd been strolling, enjoying himself, eyeing clearings, when he'd heard the rasping voices of criminal conversation. He had almost just steered clear -- given the lurid monsters in the dark a wide birth -- when he heard a familiar voice. Smelled a familiar scent. You've got to be kidding him, Universe. Even in the middle of no where, doing nothing but looking to hit some trees with an old friend he called "the-oversized-friggin-razor", could he really not get away from .. her. She was distracted by the goblins, and the goblins were distracted by her, so no one had noticed him when he creeped closer. But they probably would notice when he snuck up behind the nearest goblin and tapped him on the shoulder.

Sometimes it was a small, small world. Leaving Gaxd on the ground, her hand was squeezing against Kagm's throat, surprising him with her strength but enough for him to let go of her arm and pull at the pack's straps. With a still free arm, a familiar scalpel was pulled from her skirt before the blade was held to a bit of exposed slimy skin on his chest. "I will cut out your heart and sell it if you don't let go of me." Another threat, though if she was really going to sell it, who could tell. Gaxd was still hissing about his leg and struggling to stand, while Numx was closing in on her back to latch onto the sack. Mox looked up at the tap, nearly snapping before the Knight was spotted. "This is a closed party." Turning around to try and keep his own slimy sack out of reach.

Michael blinked once, twice, then shrugged his broad shoulders. Goblins! You can't explain them! The knight had been convinced for almost a year that they were just fictional projections in his head before a war party had attacked him one night, thinking he had "gold" or "treasures", something of that nature. They had run him over with one of their ugly little smoke-spewing trucks made from the scraps and throw aways in junk yards -- he'd held a grudge against the species as a whole ever sense. He tapped Mox's shoulder again and waited for the goblin to rear it's ugly scrunched face at him and skitter away, trying to gain valuable distance between him and the giant Malkavian. Mox hissed, "Closed party. Are you stupid? Translation; screw off!" Michael smiled, nodded casually as if to say 'yes yes, I know', and swung his still sheathed sword from his shoulder to grip it with both hands. He tugged sharply and freed the blade, an impressive feat considering it's massive length. There was only a moment given for everyone watching to admire it's odd craftsmanship, a foot too long and a half foot too wide, yet too thin for any normal weapon, and entirely coated in non-stick black teflon except where the edge had been honed to razor sharpness. Then there was a demonstration of fangs and a vicious swing at face, missing only because he didn't want to kill the monster just yet. No, not yet. Better to drive him back into the Jessica-Goblin pile. Over the sound of Mox's squealing, Michael bellowed, "Having fun?"

Kagm wouldn't let go, but it may have been the sudden added weight of Numx's wiry body on the sack and her back that caused the metal edge to break into Kagm's chest and rip through his flesh in a jagged slice towards his stomach. That was enough for him to release her arm and clutch at his chest, as though trying to keep his fragile insides from spilling out. His cry of pain was not as loud as Gaxd's, which could have meant his wound was festering with some sort of chemical additive on the razors in the sole of her shoe. Even with Numx's hissing in her ear and Mox's squeals, she was able to pick out Michael's voice and it had her whipping her head around catching sight of him. Her surprise was clear, but it wasn't enough to leave her dumbstruck. She was too busy for a thing like that. "Yeah, I have them right where I want them. Can't you tell?" Even as she asked, she was blindly stabbing Numx in his shoulder with the scalpel and attempting to kick Kagm away from her while Numx on her back twisted and tugged, pulling her backwards.

Mox was trying to dart to the sides and avoid being treated like a random mook in an anime slasher, drawn into a scene just to let the spiky haired anti-hero protagonist demonstrate to the audience how impossibly sharp his legendary blade was and how he wielded it with impossible skill, but Michael wasn't having any of it. He held the sword casually with one hand and kept it trained on the bag-carrying, soon-to-regret-every-decision-that-led-to-this-mom ent, and very likely totally-utterly-screwed goblin, fetching something from a pocket on the bandoleer strapped across his chest with the free hand. There was a showy flourish as the Knight swathed the air with his razor and pushed Mox further and further back, pushing teflon death a half inch from his face at the crucial moment to spend him crashing blindly into Kagm - both goblins tumbled over. With a glance at his old dinner companion and struck at Mox without looking. A full second later a hand peeled away from arm at the wrist, blood sprayed, and there was a squealing like pigs being roasted alive. Bag sailed a few feet when Michael kicked it out of danger. "Hey. Count to ten." Whatever had been pulled from his bandoleer was dropped on the two deep goblin pile at his feet.

While Michael was waving around a sword that normally might have distracted her and requesting an opportunity for a closer look, Numx was successful in twisting and yanking her down to the ground on top of him with the pack between them. The force of their fall shoved the scalpel deeper and through him, and he howled while both arms let go the pack as well as Jessica. A quick kick up to get from her back to her feet, she was turning back around to Numx and yanking her scalpel free from his body. They were a gift, she didn't like to leave them in random bodies. Green eyes searched for the other bag after seeing the goblin pile not far away before shooting a look up to Michael, briefly wondering if there was a fire in the hole. Which reminded her immediately to check her watch and scan the ground. A sharp kick to Numx's side, this time breaking off one or two of the razors right in his ribs before she was jumping over him and heading around to get behind Michael. He was bigger, he had a giant sword, it made sense.

Let's be honest -- Michael didn't expect Mox to count. Michael wasn't even entirely sure Mox could count. The goblin mind mystified and confused even the greatest psychologists across the many planes of existence that contained them. A whole race of psychopathic idiot savant terrors with more teeth than brain cells. But even if goblins could be trusted to string a few digits together in the right order and a timely pace, they certainly couldn't be expected to do it while gushing sickly green fluid from a stump where good ol' righty used to be. Kagm violently rolled Mox off him with all the grace of a hyper active cat trying desperately to avoid landing in a tub full of water, more afraid of the mysterious ball sticky-glued to Mox's chest than worried about the gaping highway that had been scalpeled from chest to stomach just a moment ago, shouting gruntal curses in Goblinese that punctuated Mox's own continued mindless crying. As Jessica neared, Michael swept her behind him with a long arm and chuckled, "Truth be told, I can't remember what that does." Maybe he's just trying to scare everyone. Maybe he isn't. But boy was he taking steps backwards while shielding the chemist.

"How fast can you run? Because even if we don't know what that does..." Trailing off and not explaining, she didn't want to give any time for the goblins to somehow realize that had been several patches of the dirt road that had been disturbed, and that they were surrounded by them. Since he was acting as a shield and already moving backwards, she only grabbed his clothing to tug him with her briefly to hint that she was not joking about questioning his running ability. The bag that had been kicked out of the way earlier? She wasn't forgetting that behind and was hauling it up in her arms and set to run a good fifty to a hundred yards away. If the ball in Mox's chest didn't explode, there were still going to be some fireworks!

Laughter. Okay, admit it, Knight. This is more enjoyable than trying to cut trees down with one swipe and playing around with forgotten gadgets from the bygone age of turf war with fantasy rejects with fancy little =DETH= badges. All around him the goblins were scattering, Mox was screaming, and he was following Jessica in a lopping side skip, falling behind but totally incapable of not watching what was about to happen. Perhaps if he'd been more concerned he would have sprinted as suggested, or even violated all the non-spoken rules between the two and picked her up to clear miles by the minute, but it was a little known fact that the Malk didn't play with fire or explosives. Family hadn't armed him with toys that risked the Beast. Sometime around "10", right as Mox was standing and feebly squeezing an arm with a slack-jawed shock of a look plastered on his face, there was a very loud balloon sounding POP and then dry mechanical whirring and whizzing and the sort of FFFF & ZZZZ high tensile nanofibre cable makes when it's whipping through air..

..and a moment later, a hundred or so different pieces of Mox just fell into a soupy, clumpy mess. "Oh. Right." THAT toy.

When she reached the approximate distance that she deemed should be safe enough, she turned around to catch sight of Mox tumbling to the ground in pieces. The sack in her hands was lowered to the ground gently, and she was just about to ask what THAT toy was (because she obviously wanted to know the specs of it) before the buried charges started going off. She crouched down immediately and slammed her palms over her ears, but kept an eye on what was going on down the street. While the two of them were certainly clear of the blasts, most or all of the remaining goblins were most certainly not. Dirt and shrapnel scattered about in a circle, along with stickly green mess that remained of their bodies. But before Jessica could say anything to him, or realize that she was bleeding underneath her shirt due to Kagm's claws, she was counting the blasts. "One...Two...Three...Four....." And when the fifth one didn't go off right in sync, she looked rather confused. "Huh. I know I buried five. I always bury five." Lowering her hands from her ears and frowning at the destruction down the street. Maybe it was a dud.

Seemingly immune to the loud cracks that split the night air (and the ear drums of anything within a quarter mile), Michael continued to walk towards Jessica in an action movie segue, quadruple blast waves reaching him and producing a stylish 'I'm too cool for school' blowing of grit and frost past him -- god, if only he had a trench coat or a cape, she would surely fall in love with instantly, valiant muscled hero here to save the day. He was still chuckling when he reached her, still laughing as he jammed the razor alla sword into the earth point-down, and still sniggering when he started eyeing her for wounds. Blood was in the air and it wasn't all goblin. "Should I be careful where I walk? You're not going to blow me up, are you?" Poking and prodding her carefully to see where she was hurt, oblivious to danger. Give the Knight a break, he was on a violence induced high. Seeping blood through fabric was spotted as -- BOOM! -- the fifth finally went off. Delayed reaction. Must be the cold. Michael caught her with a skeptical smirk, amused at her minor little mistake. Still, "You're hurt."

"No they're all over there." Gesturing behind him and still keeping watch on the road before he was starting to paw at her. "Sto--" And then she smiled at the final blast, watching over the scattering remains for a moment before looking back to him. "Huh?" Her ears weren't ringing, but she was looking down at herself before spotting the blood stain on her left arm. "Oh. Tis but a scratch." The response came out before she had time to think of it, but she was quick to follow it up with another, "I've had worse." All the same, she was soon sliding the ruck sack off and to the ground with the other bag, before tearing her shirt open and off to get a better look at her arm. The black tank top underneath kept him from getting a free show. "Yeah, though, really, just scratches." Claw marks where he had gripped her and broken open her flesh. "No stitches I think." Mildly grateful he had missed the tattoo.

Michael was watching while he started searching through the various pockets stretched across his chest that ran from one shoulder to the opposite hip, digging out items and returning them as he quested for something specific -- about "yay" big, sort of shaped like this, with a thing, a button, nozzle. He found found something that matched the description and pushed her hand out of the way (slapped at lightly when she inevitably tried to replace it) and showed her a small aluminum can with a thin spray tube and wide trigger, that looked a bit like someone had taken spray cheese and weaponized it. Just as he was about to spray her wound, they simultaneously noticed the giant skull and crossbones on the side. "Er." Hehe! He frowned, embarrassed, turned the can away from them and test sprayed -- no, no, that was the foamy acid stuff, not the foamy wound-sealing glue stuff. Even tanned, he turned a few shades of red, put it away, and produced a different can, tested it on the back of his hand, and then offered it to her instead of simply applying it to the scratches. When you almost spritz a pal with high grade acidic sticky glue, you give them the options of applying random-stuff-in-a-can. "It's a foam. Hardens quick, disinfects, good until you get home and wash it off. Not acid." Really. He put that one way. "What was that all about, anyway? Is that all there is of them?" A finger jerked over his shoulder at the various floating clouds of blood they'd left over there.

"Uh --" About the time the large warning label was noted before she was grunting and punching him in the arm as the beginning payback of what the hell were you going to spray on me?!?! She didn't care if he was embarrassed, she was turning her arm away from him and watched him test the second can he pulled out. Leaning to double check the back of his hand before she accepted it and sprayed the scratches on her arm. "Like liquid bandaid?" After she applied it, she looked around behind him to the mess that was left. "There might have been a take over or something. I only sell to Tabs. And I didn't get a warning that he wasn't going to make it. I'm not a real fan of last minute change of plans." That is to say, no Tabs, no deal. Her shirt, and the spray, were soon both shoved into her ruck sack. Pausing briefly before she grunted, looking down to the bags. "Thanks by the way."

"You're welcome. Not every night I get to revenge myself on those things. Last I heard they were still using me to scare their children." You run over the Knight, you better make sure he's dead. Otherwise he's going to get up, heal, chase you down, leap into your death-mobile, crash it, and slaughter all of you. Then he's going to find the local bar full of people like you and he's going to kill them, too. Then he's going to go on a rampage in that stinky little shanty town you lived in, sparing only women and kids. Because really -- what about an overly tall, broken nosed, blond haired vampire screams 'rob me, I'm rich!' No species that stupid should be allowed to live. At least, that was the old Michael. The new Michael needed better reasons to engage in murderous mischief. So when he rephrased the question and looked her good and dead in the eyes, he hoped she got his meaning, "Are you *sure* there aren't more of them? Maybe we should go say hi to Tabs." Hi was Michael-speak for sticking things into other things until something died or broke. Greens followed her look at the bags, but he wasn't particularly interested. It was easier for him to not ask what she was doing.

Closing up the sack, the spray making the third item she'd pocketed from him now, she rolled a look up to him and shook her head. "No, I meant for....the box and stuff." Gesturing slighting before she was sliding the scalpel on the ground back into a pleat of her skirt. She didn't have the grudge he did against the goblins, so she was shaking her head. "No, Tabs and I have an agreement. So I don't have any urge to burn a bridge if its not gone. Besides, they're one of the only ways I can get a hold of Orc heads." Without having to do that herself. Which she could do, but having goblins do it was so much easier.

He blinked a few times. There were not many things he thought she might thank him for and the box hadn't been one of them. Having a complicated head that could be described both as worryingly psychopathic and troublingly guilt driven meant that he had a relationship with reality that was tenuous at best. She had been wronged by him. He had to make it up. The Monster had come out and the Knight had to make up for it. It wasn't something you thanked him for. ..still, he smiled faintly, because it had felt good to hear her say that. Scratching his head and nodding an 'okay', he let both subjects drop, while the talk of orc-heads was unpursued. "Um. All right. Are you hungry? My night is sort of open, now." She probably had stuff to do, you awkward creature. Stop fumbling and let her go. The sword was being unearthed and carefully returned to rest on his shoulder, since they'd left the sheath back there in their run over here.

Chewing as she considered his question and only offering a shrug before she swallowed and could reply, "I guess about twenty feet or whatever. So I guess not soooooo big." A slight smirk for his air quotes then. "Creative is one of my selling points. Besides, nah. I can climb up one of those mother f--" The rest of her sentence was lost as the blender behind the counter churned out another milkshake for a customer and Jessica took another bite and neared the end of her burger.

For his own part, Michael was temporarily content to continue supplying himself with fork fulls of spicy fries, chewing thoughtfully. As the blended whirled and wharled and whizzed, he looked outside and considered -- twenty feet tall? That was three Michaels (a perfectly acceptable unit of measurement). This meant the knees were about head height, but he could, with effort, attack the lower abdomen and spine. There was jumping, too, but experiences had taught him that he made a tempting targeting while he hung in the air. Finally the blender relented and he returned to her with a grin. "Yeah? Makes sense. Mountaineer. What's the biggest thing you've killed?"

"There was a zombie cave troll once a few friends and I came across this one time. Cemeteries in town have all kinds of things you know? Anyways, gave my buddy some grenades and --so he's a Werebear right? He climbed on his back and shoved those things down the troll's throat for him to swallow. Cooper was airborne for a solid five seconds at least. Troll burst like a balloon." Making her lips pop at the end of the story. "There was a Vampire bunny once that would visit this bar I used to go to. About the size of a Volkswagen beetle? --Oh, but Tyg I think actually took that home as a pet. I guess we didn't kill it." Thoughtful as she finished off her burger and picked up her shake to drink. Hmmm.

"Zombies?" Yes, he perked at the word, much like he was a young kid still. Burgers and fries and shake were a special kind of magic that regressed his age some unknown number of years, until he was 12. Right now he was in a Blockbuster, horror section, reading titles. 'Zombie Cave Troll vs. The Dreaded Werebear'. It sounded good and the back had pictures of graphic violence and B-Movie gore. Michael continued to eat red drenched fries, pausing for a gulp of shake through straw. "You know what I miss? I miss zombies. I miss a lot of things, but I miss zombies. No one cares if you kill a few dozen. No one puts up wanted signs, no one comes looking for revenge, no children are left without parents. Just good simple killing fun. .. There used to be a lot more zombies." Wet brains look good spread over dry cement, warm butter across toast.

"Probably because the winter though, you know? Ground is too frozen solid for the necromancers to dig up the graves, cast their spells, etc. I mean, that's what I would think an issue would be. Could be just too cold for them in general, unable to find enough of a food source, so could have like...migrated to the south or something." Zombie migration cycles, leave it to Jessica to bring up something like that. "But you're right. It's been a while since I've found a mess of zombies." The considering look in her eye was suggesting that she go hunting sometime soon.

He snickered, he smirked, and he nodded agreeingly. "Mm. Can you imagine, though? Maybe out in woods there's just a whole... bunch of zombies. Frozen stiff. Waiting to thaw. Do you think frozen zombies are as much fun to kill as the squishy sort?" It was a serious question. Michael wasn't really sure of the answer -- there were benefits to both. "I wonder if I can find a necromancer willing to part with some of his horde. Two, three dozen. Imagine the fun if you could prepare beforehand. Swords, axes, chainsaws, lawn mowers...?

"Not nearly as fun. They're unmoving targets. I mean I guess if you wanted to test out a weapon or something fine. But I like moving targets. Plus the spatter. Adrenaline would be higher." Stirring the shake a bit with her straw in one hand and picking up a pair of fries in the other. "What like a zombie farm? Oh yeah, they totally have those. I don't know about the quality of those though. Wild is always better." As if they were discussing the superiority of different cuts of meat. Which...okay that wasn't far from the truth.

"Wild, caged, it all dies the same. Unlike you, I don't really have to worry about any bites." Another perk of vampirehood. You're already undead -- you can't become more undead. He added with a bit more gravity, "I also don't get adrenaline rushes. Not like you. So why not? I can go down, pay some pale tall skinny guy with a weird name like 'Meat Hanger' a couple of nights personal protection or something, and it's instant zombie safari time. It's like saying you won?t eat store bought fish because the stuff you catch tastes so much better... when you live hundreds of miles from a good body of water." He poked a finger at the air in her direction to underline his point.

"You still get highs though, I saw you back there. You were getting your kicks off and more than eager to swing around that oversized....machete thing. Huh, that reminds me, I need to sharpen mine." Distracted, but only for a second and shaking her head as he started finger pointing. "But the point is that we live close to the water. So do you go fishing, or to the store and just buy them? I don't know. I'm not saying it?s not a bad idea, I'm just saying that I don't know what the quality of the farms products are. Are they just crawlers? Can they run? Are they smart enough to use tools? Am I going to have to haul them around to a secure location and make sure they're all tagged and accounted for? Are they biters? Is their strain of the disease airborne?" These were important questions to ask and to consider.

If he were more in line with modern technology, 'hip', younger, Michael might recognize that this would be a good opportunity to start a blog reviewing zombie suppliers. Instead, "We should find out who has zombies and write reviews. There's a newspaper, isn't there? We can't be the only ones with these questions. And we have two different styles to bring to the table. .. We might need someone to write for us, but... " Good lord. He was serious. Michael shrugged broadly while he finished off the ice cream and milk in his shake, meaning now was the time for the spoon. Those strawberries weren't getting away. With a mouthful, "Need a catchy name."

"My name's not going anywhere near that. That's all you." Throwing her hands up instantly at that as she couldn't back away further from it physically since her back was to the wall. Grabbing another napkin or two as she started cleaning her hands off. "Yeah, you can deal with the Post, not me." Shaking her head, she couldn't be more adamant about it if she tried. "If you need help killing stuff, fine, but as far as half this town is concerned, I'm still dead." Dropping the balled up napkins to her plate then as she looked back over to him. "I can find the farmers for you though." Offering.

"Ha! You think you're the only one dead to everyone?" Oh, little did she know. If certain someones knew that a certain someone was not dead, then a certain serious of violent events would most certainly happen. Michael was snickering, leaning back to tip the glass over and have the last of the cold fruit. Then he was cleaning the table and pushing the dishes to the side, wiping the surface clean with a napkin and stacking dishes politely. The she-devil that served them would probably still hate them by virtue of existing, but the Knight wasn't going to be rude. "Could you do that, though? Really? I can pay you, or we can work out a trade. You find em, I knock em down."

The look she leveled on him indicated that she was not amused by his snickering in the least, and while he stacked up plates, she was pulling out a thin pack of matches and leaving a bit of money on the table. Picking up the cigar finally, she was pointing to him with it as though it was an extension of her own hand. Scoffing them at his offer for a trade. "If you think I'm not going to want to kill some, then you obviously don't know me at all." Which...well that was true, but it meant he hadn't had his eyes open at all since he first met her. "Might have to have you deal with the farmers themselves. You're....more polite...ish." Aware at least that her manners were lacking according to the average society.

Another ha! She couldn't help but amuse him. He was insane. Sometimes, everything amused him. That didn't stop the knight from absently checking that the food had been paid for and then some -- and he smiled, counting a healthy tip on top of all the food. His chin was set into the palm of a hand that lead to the table at the elbow; when he rested his weight on the table, it creaked a little. That also amused him, but he was a little busy being happy. "Okay. You find them, I'll talk to them. We can split the costs. This way it's a partnership and we don't owe each other. How does that sound?" Curious, he watched her go through the process of smoking.

Not smoking just yet, but it was clear that she was going to start soon. The cigar cutter was pocketed and she shifted a bit in the seat like she was suddenly uncomfortable. It might have been the way he was smiling, amused and leaning on the table. Or it was the fact that she realized she had offered to help him. Grunting with a nod then, she could have been about to retreat to her old ways, but she tucked the cigar between her teeth then. " 's fine." Tearing out a match to strike and hold up to the end of her cigar, focused on lighting up.

Even he could sense the unease, so he changed the subject to something else that was on his mind. He waited patiently for her to finish lighting before asking, "What's that like?" Hand tucked chin nodding at her cigar, one blond brow raised. In a setting like this, under fluorescent buzzing lights, in a sea of plastic and fake leather upholstery, the Knight looked less handsome and dashing and more like a beaten old boxer or a war hero. Rough, tough, experienced in hardship. The sort of man who would know the taste of a cigar and the calming effect of nicotine. But he didn't.

It took a moment or two, but she shook the match out and discarded it to the ashtray as green eyes watched him. She didn't answer, not because she had retreated into her shell, and not because she was being rude. But she wasn't often poetic, or didn't voice anything as such, so she couldn't answer. Smoke billowed and wafted upwards before she plucked the cigar from her mouth and held it out to him. "Try it."

The exchange was delicate and ginger, long fingers taking the cigar from her and turning it over -- he was looking at closely, inspecting, without necessarily taking too much time. It was rude to waste. But the paper did burn beautifully, and the smoke curled from the tobacco in seductive twists and turns. He even took a long sniff before finally putting it gently between his lips. Over the cigar, he could taste her. There was a slow inhale and smoke filled his mouth. Eyes shuttered. He tried to focus on the sensation, the taste...

..He could only taste her. He passed the cigar back and blew the smoke away from both of them. "Interesting. Thanks."

"What?" Turning her head away, eyes squinting without her sunglasses shielding them, she wasn't picking up any of the details he was. "How can you --" The rest of it was cut off as he reached out to latch onto her arm and spin her backwards, switching places with her as though they were in a violent dance. Bouncing her shoulder against the building and dropping the bag in her arms to the ground as she stared back at him. And then he was gone in the blink of an eye as the truck continued on its erratic way down the street before it would crash into a corner of a nearby building, half spilling into the alleyway beside it. The shout can sudden and unexpected, rolling off in an Italian tongue before she saw the sword at her feet. Then it was decision time, and she didn't have a half a second to spend on it. Grab the sword and the bag? Run towards the crash or away? Put out her cigar or continue smoking it? If she lights the napalm that she was going to sell the goblins, can Michael get away from the wreckage fast enough to avoid the flames? Did she pack any barbed wire in her rucksack, or at least enough to execute plan W? The sack was left on the sidewalk out in front of Sam's and with a swooping reach of her arm, she was snagging the sword off the ground at her feet and heading for the wreckage. Her other hand was already going into her pocket for a not so random trick for whatever foolish creature she was coming into contact with first.

One rear wheel was continuing to spin and push the mangled truck slowly, inch by inch, to the right, until axle snapped and dropped the truck two feet. Flood lights flickered and the radiator was hissing. Whatever had survived the impact was moving around inside, confused and hurt and trapped by damage bent door. The crash had not been kind to the machine -- it was a known fact that goblin vehicles were susceptible to complete and utter failure at the slightest bump. The roads that ran through their towns and villages were wide, and a common punishment for local criminals was road clearing. They also didn't believe in safety belts; at least two of the half dozen offenders had flown out onto the street and tumbled until they were runny green streaks. Something was moving in the back window, which suddenly burst out as a goblin went full bore with an automatic submachine gun in the general direction of Jessica. The gunfire was off target and sloppy, spraying into the diner before ever coming close to target. Something else was working on a door, metal creaking as it pushed the frame out with frightening strength, finally giving way to the troll followed by the remaining three goblins rolled out in a heap. Michael himself? That was probably him messing around under a leaking fuel tank.

Her dive to the ground could have looked graceful if anyone had dared to pay attention to that sort of the thing. But she had to get temporary coverage from an over sized garbage can as the goblin was sending bullets somewhat in her direction. Notice however, that she had not given up her cigar just yet, but instead was muttering in Italian to herself as glass shattered nearby from the diner and scattered. Pulling out a handful of what looked like small red bouncy balls, she was running her thumb around the center to set their surprise in motion before chunking them in their gunner's direction. She wouldn't be as careless in her aim as he was, upon contact with his face, body, arms --the balls exploded and burst their acid filling onto him. His screams hitting the air was her cue to come back out with the sword swinging.

Who hasn't wondered, in some idle moment, what a goblin must look like when exposed to acid? Do they melt like one of those disappointing green ice cream bars left outside on a hot day? Or do they foam and bubble, hydrogen peroxide on an open cut? The thought must have crossed Michael's particular mind at least a dozen times and now it was happening just a few feet from him! If only he wasn't so occupied with a little dirty warfare. Normally this wouldn't be so bad. Just a quick bit of sabotage any mechanic could whip up in a few minutes with just a well place lighter. But the Knight was broken and twisted and working through a fog of pain and deep, deep need to get away from fuel, to clean himself of it, to discard soaked clothes. One hand appeared entirely useless when he reached into a bandoleer pocket to fetch a tiny source of flame; the other wasn't in much better shape. It would take too long to wait for him to mend, so he simply fumbled with and forced the old zippo out into a palm, opening it, and rolling to the side opposite of troll and goblin gang. The next part was hard -- causing fire. Ignoring the howl to flee that roared up in him. He was hesitating, even shivering, before old training surged back over and everything again went still and became calm. The Knight thumbed the zippo, set it down near to the growing puddle of gasoline, and then he was rolling away further and further. His questions about goblin acid exposure would have to wait, but very soon another question could be answered; what does a goblin look like when set on fire?

This one seemed to foam and bubble, nearly frothing as he cried out and the acid spread on his slimy wrinkled green skin. His hands released the automatic and moved to his face when the acid clawed at his eyes and began to burn them out. Deciding that he was less of a threat then the other four that remained, Jessica stopping when the troll was within the giant freaking razor's reach and she pointed it at him with her left while her right was pulling the cigar from her mouth. "You know that guy you idiots ran over? He was kind of alright. So though I would love to tear you guys apart and harvest your organs while you're still alive, I'm afraid I'm going to have to just kill you quickly. I need to save my energy for hauling his giant ass away." As she spoke and continued on, she was collecting razors from the pleats on her skirt. Mindful to not slice her lip open when the razor filled hand returned the cigar to her mouth, the end clamped between her teeth as she nodded to the troll. "You understand right?" Grunting in return to the troll's grunt --who knew if he understood her at all in the end, she was then slashing the sword at his arm. The same arm he was holding up to attempt and grab the sword with his hand. Though she didn't have Michael's strength to punch through steel, or slice through the bone structure of a troll, she did, with the help of the very sharp blade, filet his muscle and flesh right off of the bone. Then she was whipping out razors like death dealt cards to the other scrambling goblins. They may have still been disoriented from the crash, or their brains had been fried long before tonight because they were like a bad horror version of the three stooges, tripping over each other as they were.

Foaming, bubbling, wailing like a child force fed helium and then beaten, and now... on fire! The tank went up all at once with a bright flash without exploding -- whatever the goblins used for fuel, it wasn't at the volatility required by action movies and disturbed pyromaniacs. It did burn hot blue and pop tires, and it did send the half dead goblin toppling through the window to avoid the first of the heat, but the real results came a few seconds into the conflagration. The car may not go up in a bang, but the bullets sure did. Blinded, aflame, skin boiling from fire and acid alike, unspent ammo tore through the truck and goblin alike. Another stray bullet struck another goblin in the head and sent him crashing to the ground like a string-cut puppet. The troll took a few to the back, too, but if it noticed over the missing length of his arm, there were no signs. It merely moved outside Jessica's range and clutched its wound, howling at her. Meanwhile, our wounded hero was forcing himself up, through the pain and malfunctioning limbs. Bones were setting and muscle mending, albeit at a cost. The Knight ignore the popcorn like popping going off to his left as he stumbled forward and into the fray, frothing blood with an angry growl.

The rush and flare new heat nearby was warming and while normally might have drawn her in, the bullets going astray were not. In another time, she may have toyed with the troll and sliced his chest up in a Z formation and spun around with a flourish, (as she was dressed in all black, but lacked a mask) but she said that she was saving her energy. So when the troll was backing away and out of reach, she veered closer. Much closer in fact before whacking the edge of the blade diagonally across his chest. The idea was to send him closer to the line of fire and the dead bodies already around him. The growling had her sudden attention and she was turning a look to the stumbling Knight, reborn from the undercarriage of a tattered truck. Attempting to judge and see if he had the current ability to hold the sword, much less swing it. Not that she really thought him to be unarmed at the moment, all things considered.

You were never unarmed when you were Michael. Not that he was going to make with the claws tonight -- you don't waste blood when you're leaking it from two dozen different places and burning it up to fix your body -- but that was fine. With a ragged motion that gave hints of a broken shoulder, the Knight was slipping the bandoleer over his head and awkwardly tossing it over the troll to the girl in black on the other side. Gifts. Who knew what he had in there, bygone weapons from a forgotten age. Stumbles, the flaming melting blinded bullet ridden goblin, continued to shuffle awkwardly, tipping forward and falling to a heap that attempted, and failed, to crawl away. The two healthy green skins were still too afraid of the raging Troll and Jessica to get anything done, instead choosing to try and hug the wall like they might be able to sink into it. Silly goblins; you aren't earth Fae! Training and experience continued to drive the mad Malkavian forward, continued to bind away the worst of what was happening, continued to set a goal in front of him. Try not to imagine what it's like to hunker down and fling yourself forward on wobbling legs torn through to bone and broken -- just accept that Michael Kilcannon can do it, with much fury and purpose. He slammed into the Troll's backside and wrapped two long arms around him, dragging it down.

Since he was throwing gifts at in her direction, her arm outstretched to snag it out of the air and hang it across both her and the rucksack still attached to her. Considering it was sized for him and not her, it looked terribly oversized, but that didn't matter, it had surprises inside! With him taking charge of the troll and taking the two of them down to the ground, she swung a look around to the pair attempting to melt into the walls of the alley. Let's see now, what was in all of these different pockets? Though she could have distracted herself with the contents, now wasn't really a good time for that. But she did have something in mind, and when she found that spray can from earlier with the skull and cross bones on it, Jessica was aiming it to the two unscathed along the wall. Spraying in their direction as she pressed forward to them, looking a touch annoyed for the peppering of gunpowder still going off and random bullet still flying out to graze exposed skin. Don't mind her as she empties the entire can on the two scrambling goblins, she wanted to watch their skin bubble off underneath the acidic foam.

Troll strength was a ferocious thing. Even Michael was being pressed, broken limbed but determined. The troll was roaring and forcing itself up and dragging the violent Malkavian for the ride. Something was gibbering on the inside of Michael's ear, issuing mad orders, pointing out details, blinding him to pain -- the troll had to go down, it was a simple fact. He grunted with effort and as the two rose up, he hooked both legs around the beast's wide body and tucked feet into the space between thighs. Arms unwrapped and found a neck to squeeze, left hand behind right elbow, and right hand behind the troll's head. It would go down eventually. Again the troll attempted to roar, but this time it came out only as a wet, unsubstantial choke. Behind them, Stumbles the flaming melting bullet ridden goblin was making another attempt to move, managing to roll off into the road...

.. where a car ran over him with a gut churning crunch, teenager driver stunned by the spectacle of a woman spray two goblins down with string-cheese-like death and a giant of a man choking an even larger monster.

Their flesh was boiling and bubbling off, their screams mixed in with the shattering bones in the road, and the gurgled choking troll. Jessica sprayed them up and down like they were cockroaches and it was merely a can of bug spray, but really this was so much better! Was it melting through bone? Could it melt through bone? Every step closer to the acid twins filled her head with another question, and she wouldn't stop until the can ran out. And when it did? She was dropping the canister and turning back around to the rest of the scene, counting bodies and tying up loose ends. One dead in the road. Two liquefied messes. One troll wobbling about with a giant man attached to his back like a monkey. One dead by merely a bullet that she was currently stepping over. One completely dead half out of a window of the truck. Let's see, was that all of them?

The troll-Michael hybrid was staggering around as blood failed to reach a tiny, under used brain which was struggling to continue sending nerve signals to muscles through the body. The front of the joint unit reached up to attempt to break the grip around its neck, but the rear wasn't having any of it. Grip tightening, legs squeezing, ribs snapped and the troll fell forward. Light was only reaching the beast from far away, down a long and dark tunnel. Michael grunted and the internal whispers continued; 'wait until its unconscious, snap the neck, shatter the skull'. The troll snorted and struggled one last time before passing out. Michael sat up without release the leg lock, grabbed troll head, and pulled back until something snapped and cracked in the neck, and then he started driving his face down against cold pavement over and over and over, growling. He didn't stop until cracks started forming and insides were spilling out. The surprise teenage driver stopped some ways down the road, peered at the scene through a mirror, and decided (probably for the best), that nothing that was happening was his business.

A glance cut down the street to the stopped vehicle, but when it took off again down the road and left them be, she was coming up alongside the neck popping, skull bashing fury on the ground. "Michael." Another slam of the skull into frozen ground. "Michael." Cracking cement under her boots. "Michael!" Trying to call him back to the here and now and when he stopped she was attempting to grab a part of him that wasn't broken at the moment --if there was any such place. "Come on, we need to get you out of here." Well, the both of them needed to get out, in case there were any other surprises ready to explode in the truck. Even if it was just down the street to give him a moment to recollect his thoughts, silence the whispers or turn out the light of a monster he wanted to keep in the dark. If he was able to move, she'd leave him to grab the sack of heads on the sidewalk. If he wasn't? It was about to get very comical if Jessica was going to try to drag him, the sword, her rucksack and a sack of Orc heads to a less volatile location.

A growl for every time she said his name, continuing the work until he was absolutely totally sure the troll was dead. Of course, it had been dead a long time ago -- but with things like this, you had to be sure. But then she was reaching out to touch a shoulder and tug, grabbing an ear for attention, and he came back to the world with a slump and a grumble that bordered on a whimper. Now he felt the pain. Now he felt the broken bones and torn muscles and cracked skin. Most of it was healed but healing does little for the pain. Both hands, bloodied from the effort of braining a head the size of a large watermelon, clung to her sides as he used her to stand himself up. "Jess." It was code for 'lead the way'. He was in no shape to argue. He'd lost a shoe in the impact earlier and the fact made him frown (they were old favorites), but the burning truck meant he wasn't about to go digging around to find it. Anyway, who knew what kind of forced policed Rhy'Din these days? The knight painfully made his way to the bags and picked them up, slung them over shoulders, and eyed her. Right now? She was the boss.

Sometime after they had walked off, Stumbles twitched. His mother had always said that he was a hardy goblin and quite difficult to kill (she had tried so herself). The fire had sputtered out when the car had driven over him, though quite a few things had broken and some organs had burst. He was also going to be blind for life and ugly even for a goblin. But he would live! The thought of it filled his very cold and stiffening body with enough purpose to raise one tiny, triumphant fist into the air. "I have fought the Knight and the Chemist, and I have lived!" he thought. Oh, what a hero he would be. Alas, poor Stumbles was blind, and actually quite deaf, so while he savored the moment he had no idea that he was about to be run over a second time by Rhy'Din's own fire services.

(( This scene was brought to by the letter G and through the noble effort's of Stumbles, Rhy'Din's unluckiest goblin. ))

The very same night that Jessica had managed to squeeze a deal out of the drow businessman, she had a gift being left at the front entrance of an abandoned warehouse. No doubt he had made a rushed delivery in attempts to keep her from ?accidently? blowing up any of his properties. ?Little did he know that she apparently had decided to take the weekend off due to an earlier deal with goblins that had turned into a more complicated matter.

With the scent of wolves in the air, the street pharmacist was already snarling out grunts and growls as she came up upon the warehouse. Shoulders hitched and fingers twitched as she stalked towards the trio that was bound and waiting on her designated delivery doorstep. The bow that Cianan had added was a nice touch, but her particular favorites to the bundle were the silver needles punctuated through their muzzles.

He had strung them up like a catch of fish for her; he was much more thoughtful than she had realized. Perhaps that was how Cianan had managed to stay off of her extra-long ?To Kill? list. He hadn?t made it to the short list of those she was fond of however; those people could be counted on one hand.

She stood there for several moments, fingertips normally laced with razorblades drumming along the curve of her mouth, thoughtfully considering over a dozen scenarios of what she would do with the trio. When she realized that there was snow fluttering down collecting on them, it melted instantly on her the brewing furnace that she was, she shook her head to clear her mind and focus on the more important task at hand. Getting the incapacitated werewolves inside and to a makeshift lab.

The chemist might have been small in stature, and lacked the ability to simply tear off car doors or choke giant trolls with her bare hands, she was incredibly stubborn. So she wasn?t calling on anyone?s aid to help her, but those oversized moon howling canines were getting dragged inside and without being chopped up into pieces before-hand.

?Your dog days are over.? Grunted with an obvious razor sharp smile to her monthly offerings.

This may have been one of the best deals she had struck up to date.

"Follow me into the desert as thirsty as you are. Crack a smile and cut your mouth and drown in alcohol. Cause down below the truth is lying beneath the riverbed. So quench yourself and drink the water that flows below her head." The music played with the plastic static of a cassette player set into the dash, a crackle-pop lo-fi after market number that had once been the pride and joy of a now long forgotten owner in the 70s, dials wobbly and labels smudged into unreadable white on black gibberish. Operating it required experimentation and fiddling -- naturally, Michael left it to the Chemist to play with it. The mysteriously unmarked mixtape started off with Soundgarden. As he switched gears and went roaring down a side street, he found himself humming along and drumming on the steering wheel. "No, no. They have to be drained of blood first. Then the drink the blood of a vampire. Humans almost always turn, unless the vampire was very weak. Same with mutants, you know, the x-gene type. Other stuff gets tricky." He was coming up to a corner a little too fast, forcing a bit of clever braking and down shifts to keep them from going off the road, absently returning to following the song while his brain was otherwise occupied. The car took the turn with gusto, though at the apex the Knight put them up on two wheels for a single life-flashing heart beat. He wore a maddening grin.

Was she supposed to mess with the tape deck? Because she was leaving it alone and focused more on the conversation at hand. "So you'll drain him of what's left, but he's got to drink how much again?" Eventually she might be reminded of the detail that he wasn't sure or didn't know since he hadn't done this before. "Do you turn a lot of other stuff?" The last bit was either perking her interest or started her memory up of the giant Vampire bunny. But he drained absinthe fairies, that was different. Thoughtful and distracted with that very idea, only to have it suddenly yanked away from her as he turned sharply and she was up in the air. Perhaps she should have been wearing a seat belt! She didn't yell, she didn't scream or even break off into a rant (which she was prone to do if she was angry or frustrated), Jessica only raised the bottle of bourbon still in her grasp once they were back on all four wheels. "You know I'd be really pissed if this broke right?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? I'm not drinking from a werewolf. We'd be up all night if I did that." Not that they hadn't stayed up all night last time, of course, but there had been rest breaks and waffles. "You can bleed it. Keep the blood. Use it for something or sell it to someone." Greens were focused on the road as revealed by high velocity high beams, but he stole a look at her that was equal parts curious and predatory. At some point in the very near future he was going to have a long talk about the nature of of her vampiric partner in crime -- she deserved to know what she was getting into. Besides, he wanted to know her take on it. Michael slowed and down shifted once and the car dropped from an insane speed to just a reckless one. Warehouses flashed past on either side. "And no, I've never embraced anything before. Don't want kids."

There was a rough snort in response to his words. "You're nocturnal. You're supposed to be up all night." Like he needed a science lesson on what he was. "Good good." Pleased however, that she'd get to keep it and he wasn't ingesting it all. She wouldn't be selling it, but she did have plans for it. The mention of kids, though it was a joke of sorts and not the same thing, turned her expression sour and her attention focused on outside the vehicle. Since the bottle was in hand, she opened it to drink straight from it for a swallow or two before closing it again. Mouth clamped shut while the fire of the bourbon spread down her throat.

Michael blinked, but now wasn't the time to follow that particular thread to whatever knot it led to. Kids -- he wrote down on note and thumb tacked it to his mental bulletin board. "Up all day, then." A subtle frown curled the corner of his mouth as he tried not to pay attention to the fact that he'd stumbled over himself again. The Chemist was a mine field and he felt clumsy and blind. Thankfully, they were saved from too long of an awkward drive with the arrival at the Import / Export warehouse she'd taken him to before. Rain had fallen and melted the snow down to wet slush and hard brittle ice. Pulling in, Michael coasted the Mustang to a stop near the front. The car's head lamps played over the building like two sweeping stage lights.

He felt awkward, while she was on the edge of snarling, not at him but for the memories that were tangling up in her head. She'd leave it though, there in the slush and ice as soon as he managed to stop the car since Jessica was quick to bolt out of the vehicle and towards the front door. "Pull into the bay when I open the door." Managing a few words before shutting the door. Keys were already jingling in hand long before she reached the door, unlocked it and disappeared inside for a few moments. It didn't take her very long to open up a previously sealed steel garage door and wave him to drive through and inside. She didn't take the time to hide the tire tracks in the slush, but it would at least keep the Mustang out of the worst of the cold and avoid attracting too much attention should anyone ever happen to be curious about an abandoned warehouse.

Michael rolled in and parked, taking time to turn off the radio, lights, and near useless windshield wiper before killing the engine. The car continued to ping and pang for a few moments, cooling off without the heat of the V8 greedily burning gasoline. A long limbed stretch was had as he got out -- an attempt to bleed off nervous energy -- and he was opening the trunk to pull out a small duffel bag. "Clothes. Don't want to walk home half naked the next time I'm at your place after being run over." Or shot, or stabbed, or basically any of the common things that happened to him on any given night. Twitching fingers scratched at his blond beard and he grinned awkwardly. "Not to be too forward, but I had planned on leaving it your place. Might as well as use it now, since .. well, you know." It was his one suit!

After he had pulled in, she could be seen climbing up along a wall to be able to reach the chain to pull the door back down. The steel hitting the concrete again rumbled through the mostly empty warehouse and she looked down and over to him showing her the bag. Jumping down to the ground and dusting her hands off, she snagged the bottle of bourbon and pointed to him. If she thought he was being forward, she didn't voice it. "Why are you wearing a suit?" Having not asked why just yet, the confusion about his clothes returning again. "Are there lots of pockets? Can you carry a lot of weapons?" She didn't see the giant sword at the moment, but really didn't think the suit was good enough to hide that from view. And if it was? --Then she wants a skirt made out of the same material.

The question brought a laugh up from deep in his stomach, though he was still shifting weight from foot to foot and back again, clearly uneased. He glanced back further into the warehouse, talking to her without looking. "Just to dress up. I brought the Mustang out, I figured I should take this out, too." Grin summoned, he turned back to her and tilted his head to the side. "You don't like it?" He tossed the bag down to free his hands, using one to do his tie and then the buttons on his vest and the other to hold out for the bottle. At least he could pretend to be drunk before he second guessed what they were planning to do with the monster chained up somewhere out of sight.

His unease either didn't register with her, or she wasn't bothered by it. "Are you trying to impress me?" Responding with a question as she tipped her head to the side before she realized he was reaching out for the bottle. Offering out the bourbon, but holding up her other hand to get him to stop. "No, I like the vest. And no, I didn't say I didn't like it. I almost feel underdressed." Almost being the key word. She wasn't the one worried about getting blood on her clothing, he was. Then again, this wasn't her only skirt.

"Later." The wink was meant to be disarming .. and distracting. He was reaching past the bottle to circle her wrist in fingers and tug her forward into a kiss. Another hand was on her shoulder soon after. He kept her there for a moment -- taking courage from the contact -- before he pushed her playfully and snatched the bottle from her hand, offering a grin and a snap of fanged teeth as payment. Michael went back to undressed as he took a drink, pointless from a practical point of view but entirely enjoyable. At some point he was really going to have to look into an easier way to get drunk. The bourbon was returned with a thankful grunt and he was leaning down to grab new clothes, wife beater and jeans and old sneakers. Actually getting out of the suit took longer than getting dressed, the former requiring folding and care, the later requiring just a bit of tugging. "Excited? Want to take a bet on what happens?"

It was difficult to distract her when she was blankly staring at you, but he had succeeded in confusing her instead. Dragged forward, kissed and pushed back, a growl followed his snapping teeth before she was shaking her head of the strange game they played. Taking the bottle back, she was moving backwards while he was getting undressed and answering his question. "Will he burst into flames or explode? As in --innards raining down and scattered across the entire room." Obviously she's much more interested in the explosion or fire. Not that she'd be disappointed in a pending bloodbath, but still. A pyromaniac to the core.

"Don't know. There's no books on this." There was, actually, a delightfully dry series of lectures by Dr. Douglas Netchurch released under the title Embracing Non-Humans: A Guide, famous for the cover that featured the world's only known vampiric alien, which was humorously giving the Vulcan salute. But Michael didn't know about it, and thus, wasn't really sure how the night was going to go. He was carefully setting his suit into the bag, hoping he'd remember later to take it out and hang it instead of leaving it there to become wrinkled. "Stuff like this, there probably isn't a hard rule. Maybe it'll just smoke and burst into flame. Or maybe it'll spontaneously pop like a meat balloon. Maybe it'll explode in flames and blood. Or, you know. Unstoppable killing machine." Michael tugged on the pants, a tight number that had been worn so many times they fit him like a second skin. Then he was tugging on the black wife beater with a chuckle -- she was the pyromaniac, but he was the violence addict. "I bet whatever you want it becomes an unstoppable killing machine. If I'm right.. " .. okay, he hadn't gotten this far, but he had some ideas. He was giving her a mischievous look. "..you have to wear something nice. A dress, suit, something fancy. To a dinner date, my place." Ha! Quick thinking, you crafty Malkavian.

"I don't think I'll be disappointed in any of those turn outs." She enjoyed fire, though the idea of a meat balloon bursting caused a special light to ignite in her wild green eyes. "Almost unstoppable. If they're actually unstoppable there won't be any dinn---what's wrong with how I dress?" Stopping in her walk backwards then and looking down at her clothing. She thought she looked just fine. "If I win, I want gumdrops and you have to clean the lab downstairs." Pointing to the stairs leading down that she had been headed to.

"And some of those edible gummy eyeballs that they sell around Halloween." Quick to add that in.

"There's nothing wrong with how you dress." There wasn't. The Chemist was walking, talking, grunting, growling sex, as far as he was concerned. He could slip into one of his fugues and just watch the way her skirts swayed too and fro with every step, counted the hidden razors, watched her skin shine with sweat, and be sublimely happy. But -- "I still want to see you in something nice. Expensive. Less combat ready. Something you would go and dance if, if you danced." Michael set the bag on the car with a lazy toss and bounded after her. "Gumdrops, huh? Okay. Deal. What's your pick? Meat balloon?"

"Like the salsa or the tango?" Wouldn't he be surprised to learn that she could do both. "I can still be armed though, right?" Just looking less combat ready. Clearing up details before she'd agree to it with a nod. "And the sour gummy eyeballs." Don't forget the eyeballs. "Yes, meat balloon explosion." Mimicking an explosion with one hand then. By the time he reached her she was bouncing once in place and turning to head down the stairs to the hidden lab underneath. Or rather, the basement that she had turned into a laboratory. More keys and more unlocked doors.

Underneath the smooth hull of the machine, beneath the clockwork programing, gears were turning punch card details into relevant output. He pulled things out of the mental vault, "Silver, fire, super natural attacks -- like magic, or the claws of another monster. Or fangs." Michael's lips peeled back in demonstration. Then a return to the steel faced calm. "I've heard stories that affronts to nature are also useful. Pollution, deforestation. I haven't seen any evidence, but I wouldn't be surprised. The wolves always 'Gaia this' and 'Mother earth that'." Height and long limbs went far in a situation like this, the Knight moving in behind her to pin the drip bag to the web work intestines strung above them. The tubing and needle dangled haphazardly and dripped faintly pink saline. Still distant, "And no breaking me, Jess. No biting, no breaking."

Crimson liquid pooled into various jars and canisters and she would pause once or twice to switch out the full ones for empties as he spoke. Otherwise she was moving weapons out of reach, or collecting her notebooks and setting them on the stairs to keep them away from the potential destruction. The wolf would ready fairly soon. His last comment however, had her stopping completely, frozen with a jar full of wolf's blood in her hands. There was an internal conflict before she finally shook her head and turned back to her work at hand. "I don't know that I can promise that." Honest at least, even if it was unfair to him, as she continued to put things away.

The growl came out low and sharp, the predatory Beast unhappy with her response, but if he was anything other than annoyed, he didn't show it. But then the moment passed and the Knight took control of himself, hard earned willpower seizing the dark passenger and tossing it back into the dark portions of his psyche it normally lived in. "Then try." And now humor, "Who else is willing to go get you sour gummi eye balls?" He almost managed a smirk. Together they would escape the situation at a good velocity, "Anyway; the best way to kill a werewolf, in my experience, is to hit it quick and fast. Car bombs, long ranged arms fire with silver ammunition, hit it with a large truck. Anything less just gives it time to tap into tribal magic, heal, or call it's pack mates. One werewolf might be doable, but a war party is another problem entirely." This was good advice for almost anything supernatural, but Michael applied it more seriously to the skin changers.

The air in the basement had shifted rapidly with their conversation and only in the span of a few words that neither one of them liked hearing. It was a miscommunication, which shouldn't be surprising considering the two of them. He could change out psyches, but Jessica couldn't. Her hackles raised, tension laced shoulders locked and she slowly set the jar down on a table. Her fingers didn't rapidly twitch at her hem, they were slowly moving along the edge of the material, double jointed digits straining against something as her jawline tightened. But she didn't growl, she didn't snarl, she didn't even move while she just stared at him. It was a conversation for another time, but considering she wasn't often a skilled conversationalist, it might not ever happen. He tried for humor and it fell on deaf ears. He changed the conversation, and most of it was still missed. She turned her leg to him, pointed out at the massive scars that looked like a set of jaws had clamped down on her and grunted. "I'm not a virgin to werewolves. Break his hands, do whatever you need to do."

Greens flicked to her, read the body language -- she wasn't going to kill him -- so he ignored the tension. It was a conversation for another time, Michael simply being unable to pursue the emotional or situational conflicts between them. Unless she was going to draw a weapon and come at him, the best they could muster is to try and bring it up another time. His blond head shacked a negative while shoulder shrugged. "Don't see the point. He's almost out of blood." The next part was all mess and awful wet noises, coupled by quiet grunts and an uneasy face; fitting a needle tipped rubber hose down the throat of a racial enemy was never an enjoyable task. Arm vanished down past the elbow before he was satisfied, wolf muzzle opened wide. Whatever life that was left in the wolf went out with a tortured roll of eyes. Finished, Michael withdrew and motioned, without touching, for the Chemist to do the same. "Off chance this works and it comes back and attacks, get behind me. And if you use a grenade, please don't aim for me."

Back to more grunts than speech, she kept her eyes on what he was doing and the way his arm disappeared inside the opened jaw. A sudden realization hit her, and she reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out her sunglasses. Though they were inside, with no sun in sight, she slipped them on all the same. She didn't need any meat balloon getting in her eyes. A fire extinguisher was in sight and she took a couple of steps back, but otherwise didn't want to move much further away than she was. She wanted a front row seat for this! Picking up what looked like a doggie bone (which did squeak), she showed him how it worked. Once you knew where the pin was on these things, they were easy to use. Grrrunt. "I promise I won't aim a grenade at you." That was a promise she could make and keep. Her attention was back on the wolf in the chair, curious to see how long something like this would take.

Of the hundreds of things they had to talk about, Michael's place in the vampiric hierarchy was in the pile. Not far removed from source of the Great and Powerful Curse that covered the whole of his kind, Michael was heads and shoulders above a great deal of kin in more ways than his height (or devastating good looks). Relevant to now; within moments, there was a great change in chair chained wolf. Freshly dead flesh twitched at the ends of arms and legs and a mighty muzzle, festooned with drool strung teeth, curled involuntarily. The Knight tensed and his head tilted. "Curious." There was another stir of coldly alien unlife, a throaty rasping sound as malfunctioning lungs tried to draw unnecessary oxygen that was half blocked by rubber tube. New vampires always tempted to breath even as lung cells were dying and organs sloughing off inside them. Michael frowned and sniffed the air. What was that smell? "..steam?" The werewolf was.. steaming?

She didn't manage to keep herself still when he started stirring in his chains and rasping out wet sounds. Bouncing on the balls of her feet slightly with excitement as her nose twitched and her nose filled with the smell in the air. Michael was frowning, but Jessica? Her tone was absent, almost distracted away from the task at hand as she realized, "I'm hungry." Then turning her focus back on the now steaming wolf, she was tossing the bone back and forth between her hands as though it was a hot potato. "Hmm. I should have shoved one of those snake cameras down his throat so I could have filmed what's going on inside." Though, she didn't think she had one of those laying around in the basement here.

"Waffles later?" --Was there a diner that was safe for them? They were two for two so far. Michael moved to put himself between Jessica and the Abomination, stretching out his arms and leaning forward to brace for a fight. Motions in the rising wolf continued to build, muscles contracting and relaxing at random as an electric storm rumbled around the undead brain. Wild eyes looked around without comprehension. Steam rose from it's mouth, ears, even seemed to pour from eyes and wounds inflicted by silver. A flashbulb idea clicked -- "Oh. So that's what silver in th" -- but the words were drowned out beneath a wolfish war cry, a noise that was equally enraged and soullessly sad and bitter. When it spotted them in it's mad wanderings, it snorted and roared again. Steam issued forth like a frightful dragon's breath. Muscled swelled and chains snapped, wood cracked. The Knight grunted and flung himself forward with a wild right hook only to find his arm caught in the freed monster's jaws. Bones snapped, and then the wolf was on him and pushing him to the ground.

"I've been in town for thirteen years myself. I tend to go under ground, under the radar for long periods of time." She understood the hermit bit, and she looked up at him at the mention of family and stared, the bubble and bounce starting to fade for a moment. "I don't get alone with most people." Her rules tended to get in the way first, her charming personality and attitude came in second. But she shrugged and left the spine in the sink to soak in some hot water for the time being. Then she was pushing a stool over underneath the intestine display on the ceiling. "Yeah, I'm hungry Did you forget what it's like to be human or something? But this stuff'll really reek if it's left too long." Which was why she was starting the clean up now. Climbing up onto the stool and reaching up to the ceiling, yanking out pins as she looked over to him. "So Ventrue have specific eating habits? What types of people? Tall? Fat? Babies? Virgins?"

"How old do you think I am?" The look he gave her was curious and intimate, the question being serious and important. He wasn't sure why, but it mattered. Regardless of her answer, "It's been a long time. I don't think I ate much when I was alive, anyway." Michael started moving around the lab again, drifting further and further away as his grid like search for bits too big to be moped up compelled him into new unexplored regions. At least at this distance there were less bits worth bothering with. "I've only known a few and they were all secretive with their eating habits. The whole clan is like that. But from what I understand, it's all something specific to the individual, and generally something that'll remind them of their cursed nature." Hey, he found the other eyeball! Squishy. "You know. Torment from the guy above. If a man was a serial adulterer in his life and his sire seduced him into a hotel room, he might only be able to feed on people committed to their partners. You know. So he never forgets what he did. Or if they were a cop, they might have to feed off innocents. Punishment. Biblical. Old school, that sort of thing."

One cheek puffed out like a half blowfish as she considered his question, staring at his features before a shrug of her shoulders and the air escaped her mouth. "Mid to late 30s? Early 40s? But that's just appearances, and here you can't really judge someone by what they look like. So many are ageless, like you. So I mean you could be 700 or 70, and I'm not going to really be able to hazard a guess either way." She looked up in time to avoid being hit with a falling piece of small intestine, which made a wet splat sound against the concrete floor. "Sounds complicated to find something to eat." But he did say they had very specific eating habits. "Glad I don't have that trouble." Even if most people were under the assumption that Jessica was something dark and twisted, cursed and cannibalistic, when in actuality, she wasn't.

Unless she was a hereunto unknown evolved waffle monster, Jessica was no cannibal by his experiences. "Mm. Old, either way." The frown was there, if brief, before he shrugged the nagging uncomfortableness away. Michael was on a return trajectory down the other side of the room -- at least they'd be able to break out the mop soon. "All of the 13 clans have specific curses. All, more or less, to make our lives worse than they already are. Ventrue have the eating habits of a fussy child, Gangrel become animalistic, Nosferatu are uglier than sin, and so forth. Only the Tremere come out curse free, but their situation is bad enough, anyway." Oh, a hand. Mostly intact! He waved at her. "Do you want this?"

"Are you like some 7,000 year old ancient vampire that can't be killed?" Said half joking before she paused to consider the possibilities of that. But instead of wading through a mountain of what ifs, she opted for the direct. "How old are you anyway? Is that rude?" Would that stop her from asking? No, it wouldn't and didn't. "I'll be 36 next month." A random slip of information, two fold if he was paying attention. She went with the subject change anyways, listening to the different classifications of the clans, only looking over at his question. "Nah, their hands are too big for me." Answering with a shake of her head before she was grabbing a hold of the ceiling with one hand to hold herself up and stretching her other hand to pluck a few more feet of gore decor down.

Blink. Frown. Cough. Murmur, "Um. I'm not sure." But if she expected more out of him on the subject, he was entirely unwilling to discuss it further. Here, a new topic, "Maybe I'll try making a knife out of the claws. They're good against, you know. Everything." Oh, and another subject. "What day? Unless you want me showing up every day of March with a present and a cake." Having finally made a good sweep of the lab for anything of serious size or weight, two bags of work were tied and set in a corner. Now he was eyeing the bucket and the cleaning agents with a bit of confusion -- sorting this was going to require he read the label. .. right, right, uh-huh, nod. He was off to the nearest sink to acquire fresh water and measure out careful amounts of lemon smelling sanitizer, feeling a bit like a wizard or an alchemist. "Safe to say you don't want a party? I don't know if you have any friends. I could ask that necromancer." She knew the one. "And his partner."

If he didn't know or was just unsure, then she would simply let the topic drop as it obviously wasn't a concern of hers. At his questions involving her birthday, her outstretched hand dropped and she hung from the ceiling via one arm just staring at him in utter disbelief and shock. Maybe because she was envisioning an incredibly awkward scene involving party hats and colored streamers. "Uh, it's the fifth and no. I don't really have many friends." Edging the stool out of her way with the toe of her combat boot before she dropped down to the ground. "Meathook? No." That went for whoever his partner was.

Pink everything. Walls, streamers, napkins, plates. All pink. There would be a frilly froo froo dress, also pink, for her to wear. All the Inn would be invited. Even the cake would be pink, a gigantic number that would tower over her like God's own cavity-in-wait. Michael would pay some two bit DJ to come out and play pop songs. There would be soda, and party games. Everyone would be sober. Maybe even some spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven. --No. Michael couldn't even keep imagining it without breaking out into a deep and honest laugh. His face flushed pink with guilt, a man having thoughts that would easily see him staked and left for the sun if he voiced them. "The fifth. Okay. I'll sort something out. No parties." Still laughing, a storm impossible to calm. "Oh, hm. Heh. I think .. yeah, I've got an idea." She liked Barney, right? Was that still a thing? He could get a Barney. The laughing got worse, meaning the bucket was left to over flow in the sink while he lost attention of it.

If she had been a mind reader, then he would have been dead in seconds, tossing away all theories that he was unkillable into the sewage with the rest of the werewolf bits that were going to find a new home there shortly. Coiling up the pieces of intestine like rope, even though it was going into the garbage with the rest of the pieces of gore, she paused and stared at his pink cheeks along with his telling laughter. This is why you never tell people Jess. "Whatever you're thinking, no. I will wrap your testicles with rope and razor wire and then ignite it."

"Uh-huh. Before or after the cake cutting?" He grinned at her, courting the danger. There was even a wink. Michael distracted himself with fixing the over flowing bucket situation while she bored holes into the back of his head with green eyed stares. "Don't worry, Jess. I'm not big on birthdays. It'll be something low key and appropriate. If you can think of anything you want to do or people you want to see in the next week, just say something." In some sense, they'd wandered into a second date. This one wasn't even earned through torture and spontaneously exploding werewolf. Mop went into the bucket and he started working on cleaning the floor. ..he still snickered.

A flash of birthdays past streamed through her mind, and she only shook her head and said nothing else. "Just...stick with low key." Not adding anything else, she could only hope that they had the same understanding of the phrase. Bagging up the rest of her woven web, she planted herself on the chest freezer along the wall and out of the way for him to mop. "So what's your curse? You're not picky about what you eat, you're not covered in fur, and you're not hideous." The closest thing to a compliment from Jess. "What's wrong with Tremeres?"

"Low key. Promise." What he was really planning was not at all low key, but he suspected she would approve. In truth it had been in the planning stage already -- now it was just an accelerated time scale. Michael bent over and pushed the mop along the floor, back and forth. This was going to take a while. "Tremere blood bound their children to their leaders, making them completely obedient and unable to act against the clan wishes. Slaves. Frightening, powerful, blood magic slaves, but slaves." Pausing so he could look at her. She didn't know? "Dear. I'm Malkavian. We're all completely insane." There were other ways to put it; they had a special insight into the world, their clan founder talked to them, they saw the truth, etc. If there had been a time he had believed any of that, it was long past. "If you aren't insane before the embrace, you're insane afterwards. Malks are all absolutely crazy. We got it worse than most." Back to cleaning.

"So free will is gone." Slavery and pets stirred up other thoughts and linked other memories that she was trying quick to shake. The pet name, since she noticed it this time, caused a quirk of her brow, though brief. Malk. Insane. She stared at him, still, but it was hard to say if it was out of surprise or not. Once he went back to mopping, her eyes trailed around the basement, the blood pools and spatter, the weapons, the glass jars of blood, the freezer she was sitting on, the chainsaw on the floor, the spots of blood on her legs and arms and hands. She sat in complete silence for a long while, the only sound being the hum of the freezer and the slap of the mop against the concrete floor until she finally spoke up. "I guess I'm a little crazy too." More to the point, she hadn't realized he was crazy since it meant that she was too.

"Mm. Sometimes I forget I'm crazy, but .. " He shrugged. Even though only a small corner of the lab had been washed down, the water already needed exchanging. Michael grunted, glancing at the room, then at her. "Hey, look. This is going to take me a long time. Do you want to get together when I'm done, if it's, you know. Not sun up already?" She didn't need to wait around for him. The Malk was a man of his word. Or vampire, as it were. "We can have waffles, maybe?" Grin. If he was at all bothered by her questionable sanity, it didn't show. And he was the world's worst liar.

"There's a cot back there," gesturing to the part of the basement that disappeared into darkness. There really was all kinds of stuff back there. "If you get stuck and need it." Jumping down off the chest and heading for the exit, her boots leaving blood colored tracks behind her. Grunting as her response, along with a nod, she picked up her notebooks on the way out. She didn't shut the door behind her or lock him in, but he could tell that she left. Her scent was gone.

It was a day known for catering to romantic fools and lovesick puppies, for harboring windows full of chocolates and flowers and oversized stuffed animals and heart shaped balloons. It was not a day that Jessica took weeks to prepare for in the past or dropped hints for gifts. But this year she realized that it fell in line with the same night she had been tricked into a date. One where she had to ?dress nice? for.

The silver lining was that she was still allowed to be armed. (Not that she would have agreed to it in any other way.)

The stolen tape out of his mustang played on the stereo in her lab as she worked on her own version of a handmade valentine. Just because she wasn?t known for being all candy and flowery romance and prose, didn?t mean that she didn?t celebrate it in her own way. What would have been creepy to most would hopefully be either amusing or fascinating, but the chemist worked hard on her handmade valentine.

When she finished, she wrapped it up in a white box and tied it with a red ribbon, but not without a simple note which read: Don?t worry; it will not explode upon opening.

Inside here two hearts stitched together and slathered in a coating to keep the heart shaped present from decomposing. And when it was squeezed? Blood dripped out and pooled back into the gift itself. The chemist was nothing if not creative.

Hopefully he liked the gift.

Though it was well know that the razor sharp soul that was the Chemist favored the chance to kill and collect wolf carcasses like some collected coins or comic books, she was not completely disappointed that Cianan had left her a dead body to play with as opposed to one she could have tortured and killed on her own. Hovering over a flat table with the half man, half wolf laid out on it, Jessica could be found humming quietly to herself, with both hands shoved into its mouth. After a jerk of her hands apart and in opposite directions the jaw ripped after with a crack and snap of bone. Flesh tore apart and leftover blood coated her hands, but didn't fly about. Nothing was pumping inside him. Well, not right now at least.

And you will know him by the trail of dead, all broken skin and shattered bone corpses left in the wake of his ship. Michael was a monster with scar tissue where there should be a soul. A deathly thing, living in the shadows of a planet turned away from the sun. He navigated a dark and hostile ocean and all those who crossed his path were violently and irrevocably changed. But for every ship, there was a light house. A port. A safe stretch of land. For Michael, it was Alpinista. Jessica. Jessica. What a funny name. So simple and so common, but radiating with power in his mind. Vibrating. Electrified. Even beneath the threat of conspiracy, Michael was driven to see her, to be around her. To fill himself on her scent and her taste. To watch her move and hear her talk.

He was in the door way, leaning shoulder into the wood frame. New clothes had been purchased on the blood money of a job; a simple black t-shirt fitting tightly to his tall and lean body with gray jeans held up by suspenders. His brown leather jacket was slung on an arm. Somewhere in the hall way behind him laid boots, too dirty for a lab. He leaned and watched, slowly turning lips into a smile.

They were too dirty for an underground rat trap that was at times scented with chemicals and smoke, wet earth and mildew? That is, it was like that when she left it alone for too long, but the drains in the ground were helpful when you wanted to spray down the guts and gore to the sewers down below. If she was aware of his appearance (no doubt she was), she didn't let it interrupt her work just yet. With the jaw removed, she let it hang haphazardly as she reached further into the creature's mouth with one of her hands. Wrapping her grip around the thick muscle of its tongue, another tugging jerk was given to rip it out. As she was facing the doorway, Michael would easily see the sudden and pleased expression on her face as she held the tongue separate, and even waggled it around with what could be considered an amused grunt.

The turning of lips became a subtle smirk on the verge of a smile. Eyes of absinthe green shone in the dim light. "Another gift from the Drow?" he asked, scratching scalp shorn to a faint blond buzz. Michael had not yet remembered how to live with a shaved head. What had once been a habit was now an awkwardness. With a push from the door frame, Michael moved in to the work space, peering and collecting details to store in his vault like memory. Somewhere in the back of his skull there was a rambling Voice, identifying things with strange names he didn't know. Chemicals and tools for mad science. Components to the machine that was the Chemist. Nodding at the wolf, "Looks like this one didn't go down without a fight."

"I told him I wanted another one." Ask and you shall receive it seemed? It had been a way to change a subject, and to remind him that he if wanted her to stay out of certain areas of town, then he was going to have to remember to pay the toll. "Eh, was dead when I got it. He's only missing a leg though, so I'm guessing he had a trap sprung on him before shooting him in the head." Opting to not waggle the tongue at him, she dropped it onto the corpse's chest and soon picked up a scalpel. "You want to remove his kidneys?" Look, she was sharing! Sort of. She really didn't care much about kidneys.

"Pass." It was difficult to say if Michael appreciated the offer or not. Lupine kidneys were not in high demand from him and there were, given that she was offering a pair, ample supply. It was a simple law of economics; supply and demand, demand and supply. "The wolf is the last thing I want." Still -- the things that drove the Malkavian were many and complex. Though he himself, the Knight proper, was far more interested in the short skirted woman that filled his head with heavy, hot thoughts, the Voice that sat on his spine wanted to see more. Michael moved closer, bare feet a whisper beneath the sound of her working, and gave his jaw over to the second monster in his body. Cold and monotone, "Cause of leg loss the result of the subject removing it itself. Tears in skin and muscle and integrity of bones indicate a trap, likely a snare, was used to slow the subject. Removal of leg by subject was a hasty if likely intelligent course of action; one leg alone moves faster than two legs, one pinned in place. Loss of blood plus wound left subject unable to defend itself properly." Michael didn't gesture while he talked -- the Voice was not in control of the body. It was a unique rental deal tonight.

The scalpel aimed itself downwards then when he didn't appear ready to take it from her while ears perked to his assumption to what had really had happened. In the end, she only gave a shrug of nearly bare shoulders, the straps of the tank top damp with sweat from her own radiating heat and her working effort it took to get the body where it was. "What is the first thing that you want?" Curious with a bit of a frown, she didn't want to have to share the intestines. Then again, wolf organs were never high on Michael's list of know desires. She jabbed the scalpel into the torso harshly like he was a pin cushion and wild green eyes turned up to him. Pausing in her planned course of action, her hands, coated in bits of gore and blood lying flat on the metal table she stood at.

"You." Immediately. As always. Never, ever was there a different answer. Whatever it was about her, he was deeply infected by it. Like a fungal growth in his brain, leading him to a cliff. But she meant the body, so he pointed as he talked. "I like the teeth and claws. Fur. I was stitching the last hide into a jacket when my place burned down, so if you can part with it, I could put it to use." Polite but to the point. Michael would only select the bits he could use and his skill set was -- practical. A rough skinned finger flicked the scalpel protruding from the wolf, making it bob. Attention drifted between it and her. "Imagine me in a fur lined leather coat. I would be so handsome." A joke.

At the mention of the teeth, she reached over and toyed with the freshly broken jaw as though the corpse was a demented puppet. "Yeah, I can skin it for you." One moment she was looking over the body as she pulled her hand back from her gift or current form of amusement, before her attention turned back up to him. Her expression was flat as he made a joke, her humor was different from his and it would show. "I would tear it off of you." Which --well, while it was a joke, her words may have indicated the desired response he'd have hoped for.

When she moved her hands, Michael tracked them, sharply attentive. It could be the guarded respect he had for what she could do to a person, or it could be the way he respected the way she worked. Maybe he just liked her hands. Who knew? His mind was a jumbled mess of thoughts. It was easier to just put his head down and accept things. When she talked, though, he looked her in the eye, one shade of greens for another. "Is that a promise?" --not that he needed the help of a jacket. He took a few steps back and hooked thumbs beneath black suspenders. A slight change of subject. "Cianan. Right? That's his name. He wanted me to tell you that he was there for you, if you needed it. Last time you were at the Inn." Just in case she forgot, if the memory hadn't taken to the brain lost in alcohol.

It wasn't a bad idea to keep an eye on Jessica, especially considering that she had so many various toys within reach. Capable of turning rabid at a moment's notice, as for far too many she was a field of landmines just waiting to explode shrapnel if they spoke or acted 'wrong'. "Yes." Simple and to the point, while he eyed her for lewd measure and she was not thinking of the aftermath of what would follow if she tore his clothing of. A sneer curled her lips then as though she could smell something foul interlaced within his words. The night he was speaking of was a blur, but she was aware that there were things she had not recalled. Cooper claiming she hugged and crooned to him was still filed under disbelief. "What?" It wasn't feigned ignorance, but it was also discarded with a shake of her head. "You can't trust that f*cking Drow, that's a crock of horse sh*t."

"I told him I'd relay the message, no more." And Michael did what he said he would do. It was core to his character, belonging to a set of rules that kept him from descending into the true darkness, the deep darkness, where only animals lurked. Hands curled into fists around the rubber fabric stretched across his chest, shoulder shrugging. What Jessica did with the information was none of his business, unless she wanted it to be. And then? Her decision on the matter of the Drow would be followed. The realization was not new, but it still surprised him how willingly he gave himself over to her judgment. Hard lined jaw twitched into a smirk. "He seemed sincere, but he didn't know what to make of your singing, either. And always with that bag at his hip."

Another blank stare was offered up to his face, as he was now bringing up nonsense and rumors. "Whatever." Her complete and total disregard for the matter was cast aside as though she was wiping dirt off the soles of her boots and she turned her attention back to the body she was now thinking of skinning in addition to playing with its insides. "I saw him pull a baseball bat out from that little thing once." Looking more amused than fascinated by the idea. "Like a bat would scare me." Like a bat would stop her. Changing the subject then as she had no interest in continuing the previous ones. Grrrrunt. "Do you wish to help any or are you here to tell me that I should take a break?" His answer would indicate if she was to stick her hands back into the corpse or remove her gloves and clean up.

Wizards and witches and warlocks were not amongst the Knight's strong points, but something deep in the machinery of his skull clicked into place. Bigger on the inside. Years of war and fighting had shown him objects like that before. It put the Drow into context and simplified the matter. Michael may have been wary of him before -- now, with a great shift in his countenance, it was obvious that it was turning into open dislike. The fragile elves that turned on his family had armed themselves with such trinkets and artifacts. With a sneer, "So that's what it does. I know how to handle that." The solution was messy. Jessica would love it, if it ever came to that. Quick comment, "It's almost insulting he'd use only a bat on you." The Chemist deserved knives and swords and guns and chainsaws. You come to kill a monster, you better come armed.

Eyes narrowed and moved from her to the corpse and back in a sweep of mad green. A hunger stirred in him, down in the pit, where things were dark and alien. Grunting and nodding. "Could use a few bags and a break. Been working hard lately. How about food and a movie?" It almost seemed like a normal thing for a normal man to ask of a normal woman; a normal night in, popcorn and Disney. Like a couple. A real, normal couple. The humor wasn't lost on him and came out in a tiny smirk at the corner of his savage mouth.

"He didn't use it on me." If there was affection there, it most certainly was only one way and moved from Cianan towards the Chemist. Her brow suddenly furrowed as she tried to race through her distorted memories and figure out if they had ever even fought since knowing each other. When nothing immediately sprang to the forefront of her mind, she turned her focus and attention back on Michael and his request. "Yeah?" A single word question as though that would translate into what have you been up to lately? It might blow right past him, and if it did, then Jessica wouldn't ask further. "There's probably a bag or two in that fridge over there if you haven't emptied it." Jessica waved her hand to the nearby wall before she was taking a step back from the table. "I want to watch The Sword and the Stone." Then she was picking at her wrists a moment before peeling the thin gloves off and discarding them in the trash. "And the one where the chick saves China." A double feature.

It didn't go past him. Michael turned on a foot to head to the fridge, snagging the door and opening it to peer inside. His stomach would have rumbled if it could have. That might be as much her doing as the lean way he was running himself. Slow to answer, clearly considering what to say and how to say it. The fake fridge light made his tan bronze skin glow. A hand vanished into the fridge to pull out a bag. "Been looking around for anyone with a bone to pick with me. Had a talk with a few goblins the other night. Long story short, wasn't them." Which was really too bad. That would have been an easy problem to solve. Michael closed the fridge with a hip. "Leaves old enemies. Most are dead or gone, but I have a few names to look up yet." Beyond that, he either had no updates or no desire to talk about it, as he was changing the subject. "I think I've seen the first one. Merlin, right? I think I liked that one. Is the other one Disney, too?" The Malkavian took a deep lean against the fridge and tore a hole in the corner of the bag with his teeth, like an animal, or a kid.

If she had thoughts or suggestions, she didn't share them when the subject changed. As he busied himself with filling one aspect of his hunger, her hand disappeared underneath the thick metal table harboring the dead body. Seeking out a particular switch which once was flipped allowed the body to sink into the table itself. Another grunt. "Yeah." A simple answer and she veered for the sink to wash up. Her hands might have been under the protection of the gloves, but it was to clear off any additional spatter that had managed its way onto her arms in the midst of her work. The table hummed quietly as the mechanics of it set into motion and the remains of the wolf corpse disappeared under the newly formed tabletop. A question itched at the tip of her tongue as she glanced his way. She didn't hesitate to ask and let her curiosity run wild. "You get the same amount of strength from a bag as from a fresh vein?"

She cleaned and he watched, quiet with a bag in his mouth. This was not a juice box, or a squeeze bottle. Michael's whole body went into drinking; muscles rippled, his chest expanded, his throat rolled in deep swallows, and his face turned hard, hungry, bestial. A slim rivulet of black-red rolled from the corner of his mouth to mix in the blond forest of his beard, staining it a bright copper. All the while, he was fixed on her with his hungry, needful eyes. Sinful, dirty eyes. Long fingers worked the last of the blood from the bag as he tipped his head back to get all of it, maintaining eye contact. Grunnnt. Then, done, and with a rub of forearm to his mouth to clean what had gotten away from him, he shrugged. Michael finally looked away to find a trash can and toss the bag away. "Yes and no. It works. Gets the job done. But it pales in comparison."

Aware of his eyes on her, she only turned towards him once she had shut the water off and shook her hands dry in the sink. Drying her hands further and aiding in cooling her neck off, she palmed the column of her throat and then shoulders before cascading her hands down opposite arms. "You're eying me as though you're ready to shove my skirt up and press me up against the wall." It caused a slight tip of her head to the side thoughtful before she continued. "Pales why? Do you feel the other?s heartbeat or heat and pulse when it pumps into your mouth?" He wouldn't have to answer, but the thought was entertained in her head as a possibility. "I guess freshness matters. Like the taste of a fresh tomato versus a canned one."

It was a light bulb flash in his soft brain -- yes, that was something he could do. Wet skin on wet skin, savaged over a table. Roughened, mauled, scratched. Breathless moans and skin sweat kissed with rolling tongues. Michael's head tipped and he took steps in her direction, blood smeared hands dangling dangerously at his sharp hips, thumbs hooked in hem of jeans held up only by the twin bands of elastic suspenders. There was never anything under her skirt. Just the slick softness that kept him at her place for hours. But her question stopped his advance and reminded him of the moment. She might be drying, but he was going to take his own turn to wash. He wanted to be close to her, anyway. Her heat invaded his space, just like he liked. Turning on the water and washing blood from his hands, "I do. All those things. When you feed on someone, they share themselves with you. Their life." Soap, now. Michael tried to put it into words with a mouth that was not made for talking, "Each person is different. Everyone tastes different. Stuff's in the bag for long enough, and it just tastes like ? f*cking plastic." Shrug. A sideways glance at her. "It's more like sex. You know. You can f*ck someone, or you can make love to someone, or you can -- do it yourself. Which is boring."

"So the bag is like you masturbating." It was a statement and not a question. No readable expression etched on her face as she followed along his logic and comparison. She was still lingering by the sink as he washed up, though she may have taken a step aside out of conditioned need to have personal space the majority of the time. But even at a foot or so distance her natural radiating heat could likely be felt by someone so sensitive to it, namely him. "Why don't you just take it from the vein then?"

"You told me not to feed from you, so I don't." Washing was a ritual of old programming, thorough and detailed. He got through it at speed and dried digits on his jeans, leaving wet spots on the outsides of his thighs and where he scratched at his flat stomach. The red painting of his jaw remained, as if he'd almost forgotten it was there. Head tilt, "Or do you mean, why do I come to you for blood, instead of feeding on other people?"

A fingertip tapped on her own cheek as a silent indication that he had missed a spot before she was reaching for him instead. Rare for her to move first, but she didn't move at a speed that should make him recoil and fear what she was up to. Reaching up to coax him in a slight slouch in her direction, her hands laid on his jaw after her thumb smeared and cleaned away the missed paint. "Why do you come to me for blood instead of feeding on other people?" Reconfirming that was what she meant, though there had been a flash of pleasure at the mention of a kept promise. Clearing up the confusion and the blood, she released his face and let him go as he saw fit to stand.

Surprise lit up in the scar-line face, but not shock. No, not shock. Her touching him was not so wildly out of their modus operandi that he reacted with much beyond a brightening in the eyes and a softening of frame. There was a lean into her hand as light as a whisper, a minute turn of jaw into fingers that applied the barest of pressure of Michael into Jessica. She wasn't imagining him smelling her, either. When she pulled away, Michael followed the touch for a brief frame of time, purely by reflex. But the moment was gone. Michael summoned up a thankful smile and then shrugged. Without looking her in the eyes, almost embarrassed, "It.. would be like cheating. It would feel like cheating." The Knight was looking at his feet for once. That was new.

It was an intimate touch, just uncommon and unexpected. His surprise, inhale of her scent and lingering press were all noticed, but it was the embarrassment that flooded his face and actions that would cause her to comment. Jessica didn't follow his actions or look down to the ground, she openly watched him a moment before speaking. "It doesn't bother me. If you do it. To other people." A series of short sentences, though clipped where not sporting any falsehood or underlying hidden nature or meaning. Finally she shrugged and turned away to head towards the now cleared metal table. "It's your nature to feed. If you were to feed on me only, then what would happen to me? You try to drink me dry or something? Seems worse to me if you tried to turn me into a blood doll or your own walking personal blood bank." Hence the very early issued promise and her preference to not be fed from.

What was a shy moment got worse under the rain of her look, but improved when she went away, vanishing like a puddle beneath the sun of his own thinking and will. Michael faced down dragons and tilted and monsters. Whole species of creatures told tales of terror about the stalking monster on a motorcycle. What was Jessica to all of that? -- A lot. But he was standing up straight, fingers rubbing the back of his shorn scalp. "It will probably happen. In a fight, or in a pinch. I'll let you know when it does." She had been there for the one time, but that had pre-existed their relationship proper, and the cook had tasted like dust and mud in comparison to Jessica. If Michael would have voiced the truth, he would have told her everyone paled against her. But that was something difficult to say. Michael followed her at a short distance, unsure of where she was going but content to let her lead. "I won?t do either of those things to you. Anything that makes you less will make me less by proxy. And it would be an injustice. The bags get the job done. Not that I don't think about it." The voice in his head put a question before him, and he let it out with a vague flat line of voice. "You're pretty comfortable with being with a vampire. Have you known any before?"

"My point is Michael," looking over at him as he approached and she blindly reached underneath the table once more for a hidden keypad. "That I don't want you to use the promise as an excuse for not feeding how you should. Obviously if it bothers you to feed on other people I can't stop that." Grrrrunt. Pausing a moment to punch in a code to lock the table up for future use before she was pulling her hand out and continuing on. "But I don't see it the same way you do." Then again, she wouldn't because she wasn't him, and wasn't focusing on the memory of the euphoric nature of the kiss. "You don't need to tell, I'm not going to hold it against you that you needed to feed." The shift of his tone didn't go unnoticed, but she regarded it in the same manner that the voice spoke in. Vague and flat. "This is RhyDin. Vampires are everywhere." As if that wasn't obvious. Likely she needed him to explain the meaning of the words ?known? and ?with? that he was intending.

"I'm in no danger." A lie, but he was only talking about the specific focus of their conversation; namely, feeding. "I've got it under control. I appreciate that it wouldn't bother you, but it would bother me. When I need to do it, I'll do it, but if there's no need, the bags are fine." And he waved that conversation off with a roll of his hands and shoulders in a broad and lazy shrug, one that made his suspenders stretched tightly across his shirt. Michael hooked thumbs in empty belt loops as he followed her footsteps. Though he had intended something else, she satisfied his curiosity. It was completely feasible that all she knew of the dead-yet-living was owed to the abundance by which they flocked to the city at the center of the multiverse.

"It?s on you then." Agreeable to the change in subject, but he didn't offer anything more to the question he had asked. In the midst of the silence she raised a brow and stared back at him. Waiting.

Michael stared back, blinking. Gears turned slowly behind that thick skull, slowed by cobwebs and run down by disuse. Finally, a spark. She was waiting on him to ask, "Have you been with other vampires?" There. The relaxing sign of relief that spread from his face and down his back was as much about having picked up the cue and asked the question as it was about getting it out. In truth, a 'yes' wasn't going to bother him in the slightest. It was just a curious note.

They could have had a stare off, but that was not in the plans for the evening that he had previously suggested. When he got the question out, she was giving him the answer twice. First it came in the shaking of her head no and second in verbalizing a detailed, though vague response. A specialized talent of Jessica. "No, not like," gesturing her hand back and forth between the two of them as she spoke, "this. I know several," leaving out that one knew her longer than her own father and protected her just as fiercely, "but never anything like this." Letting her hand drop, she appeared to be finished with the lab in general so she was walking around him for the entrance. "I had never even been bitten until you did it."

The gesturing back and forth seemed to quantify their relationship quite well, as he nodded with a thin smile to the movement of her hand. They were just -- well, they were. If they were wordsmiths or poets or writers, Michael doubted they could have explained it. And being that they were far from... "I haven't been with someone in years." A confession, since that was the theme. "That's probably obvious. But even back then, I wasn't interested." Leaving out that Michael had never gone as far as to call any woman 'his'. There had been flings; violent and explosive and over quick. But no one like Jessica. A soft grunt for her comment about his bite during their first fight.

Quietly, "Still can't get the taste out of my mouth."

(Taken from live play between Mad Knight and Jessica Lucino.)

July 4th

Out through the hatch, she even pressed the heel of her boot against the wooden door to offer up a split second of resistance to his potential push to climb out after her. Taking that moment in time she had to spare to shove the bottle of bourbon in her hand into the rucksack on her back before getting to use both hands to finish the short climb onto the roof of the Inn as opposed to the roof of the porch. Aware that Michael was going to come up behind her, she'd play up the distraction further with a sway and swing of her hips to let the hemline of her razor sharp skirt flutter before climbing over the top and standing on the rooftop victorious. Turning around to face him, her hands were up in the air, as if there was any doubt who the winner was.

Say what you want, from where he was looking? Michael was the one who did the winning here. The trip up through the rafters and onto the roof had been the -- second most enjoyable chase in recent memory. Funny how both involved Jessica. To be fair, this one had been less a chase and more a race, but it was hard to convince the dark impulse in his breast otherwise. He came climbing out after her with a roguish grin, the weight of his body carried entirely in his chest and shoulders. Lacking all of her grace, he made up for it with raw, unending strength, dense muscle making up for all the coordination in climbing he'd never quite acquired. Immediately he was moving towards her with all the ill intentions of grabbing and kissing her. Fireworks indeed.

"Do you concede defeat?" Proud as a lioness, her teeth showing after a smirk twisted on her lips, all before he continued to move forward and grab onto her. While not out of breath due to the chase, she'd still end up breathless when he stole it straight from her mouth, hot and hungrily in the midst of that kiss. Nothing exploded except the sharp and quick bursts of passion as she latched onto his face with a pair of empty hands. Tasting the bourbon from his mouth and letting it linger on her tongue before reeling her head back just a touch to catch his answer.

"Yessss." The following nod was enthusiastic and agreeable to defeat. What better for a lion than a lioness, queenly in her realm? She was the faster climber. She would always be the faster climber. Michael's beard brushed her forehead in the line drawn from her mouth to her ear, where she could better hear his words. "I concede. You win." And what of her prize? What does she claim? Hopefully, it's the tall Malkavian, whose hands tangled themselves in the fabric of her clothes in a clear display of how distasteful he found them. Not that she dressed poorly, oh now. Simply, she was far too dressed in general. Michael dropped his hungry mouth to her neck and shoulder, excluding teeth from what was, in their absence, a journey of tongue. "Guess I don't get to play with any fireworks tonight." Drat! "Will you set some off..?"

He'd likely cut his hands if he tangled them in her skirt for too long, but the tank top if tugged on and pulled would shift to expose more and more of a breast or both though the rucksack would hinder any attempt he could have made at removing her top. Her eyes narrowed as she let her hands slide on down off his face and over his torso before fingers hooked into the front of his jeans and the backs of her fingers were up against flesh. "Oh, are you chicken? You normally don't mind playing with fire." Her tease was clear in that husky tone, at a level meant for bedrooms and private moments just like this one.

Gladly would he bleed for that skirt, where more danger than blades lay. But what part of her wouldn't he suffer for? Clarity wasn't one of his strong points, but surely, there must have been a time where she wasn't worth the fire he'd walk through for a kiss, a few words, even just that look they shared in the quiet, fragile moments, like this one. Just her taste. God, it still rumbled around in his head, a song he could never forget. Hours had become days had become weeks had becomes months, and now it threatened to become something far more substantial than passing time. Michael roamed around the sharp edges of her jaw, and as if to say words he didn't know the shape of, he pulled her upwards into another kiss. Slow, so slow. So very slow. In its afterglow, forehead to forehead, he blindly smoothed out the fabric he'd so characteristically disrupted in his passing. He ignored her question, because they both knew the answer, and instead smiled contentedly. "I'm serious. Let's set some off. I want a big one."

While he was being slow and sweet, masking his groping with the guise of smoothing out wrinkles in her clothing, Jessica had no excuse and groped with clear intent after he said he wanted a big one. A brow quirked up and a glance down were both given, but she didn't say a thing as she pulled her hands from him and backed away. A twist and roll of one shoulder to allow the pack on her back to slide off one arm and she coaxed it gently to the ground. The bottle of bourbon was pulled out first and offered to what she hoped was an open hand of his for him to take while she searched through the contents of her sack to select which ones she wanted to fire off.

It was hard disconnect to make. Her body fit so well against his, especially, particularly, assuredly when she was doing the thing with her hands that made his animal eyes roll back into his head and killed the higher functions of his brain. That's what he gets for wanting to play with gunpowder. Long fingers wrap themselves around the bottle and he takes it from her, immediately using it to quench a thirst. Bourbon escaped from the corner his mouth and rolled down his chin. Not that the alcohol did anything to mask the need, but the burn was distracting, at least. Walking over the ledge, he peered over into the street while she sorted through things.

He could distract himself as she set to work, pulling out several canisters and lining them up on the far side of the rooftop. Though she knew several who would argue this, Jessica would not intentionally blow up or damage a building on a whim. Bess's tavern she had in fact defended from an onslaught of attacks more than once, not out of self-preservation, but because she actually liked the tavern. Aiming away from the tree line and no nearby taller buildings, she squatted low behind her set up and peered upwards to the sky to make silent calculations in her head. Once everything was done, she was heading back over to him by the ledge with her lighter, a tiny little blowtorch, out in hand. Grrrrrunt. "Ready?"

She got a grin from him, an affirmative wet stretch of mouth, drying it on the back of a lean forearm. Capping the bottle, he offered it to her with an out stretched hand. Not that the fire was scary -- something that small he could handle. It was just that only some distance was going to keep him from getting quite off track again. The Voice was speaking to him, but none of it made sense, and though he was sure Jessica would love to hear the coldly calculating sub creature in his head, tonight was Michael's night, and Michael's only. Jessica wasn't being shared with the other things tossing around inside him. It was His. She was His. The other things would just have to deal with it. "Ready when you are. Amaze me."

The lighter was tipped back and forth as though to seem enticing before she was setting the pack at his feet and shaking her head at the offer of bourbon for that moment. "Sure you don't want to light them?" It was his last chance to do so; otherwise she was backing up on her own and heading to the arrangement on the far end of the roof. Stooping to take the flame to the fuses, she remained until she was certain that they were all lit and then headed back over to him and the ledge with an obvious bounce in her step and brightness in her smile. Though they wouldn't go off in a sophisticated and lengthy display, there would be a stagger of explosions, some big, some less so. Some were red, some were white and crackled as they trickled apart and dissipated, but they all fired off with a bang and as intended against the black backdrop of the sky.

"If I want to set off fireworks, I'll just have to beat you next year." Beware; he might go into secret training when she doesn't know about it. Spend long weeks in the mountains, perfecting his climbing skills, pitting himself against hard rock and cold stone until he could beat her up to the roof. It would not be against his nature to do so. But for now? Now he's content to watch. And space be damned; from the first moment one launches until the last burning flair burns out in free fall, Michael is standing behind her with both arms looped over her shoulders, chin on her head, and the bottle dangling in his hands. Each explosion of color and sound is a subtle squeeze, though he isn't afraid. Not with her. Every firework is an ooh or an aah, and there's a clear bias betrayed by his reactions. The bigger? The better. When it was all over, he kissed the top of her head affectionately.

It may have been suddenly clear when he rested his chin on to the top of her skull, that she didn't care for the action and she instantly tipped her head to the side and back against his chest. She was intentionally laying it there at a more uncomfortable angle, but in the end, not pulling away from him. Leaning against him seemed to provide her with a more relaxing view upwards to the sky to watch the brief showing of her work, all of which was flashier than your average homemade firework, but she also wasn't the average person in the lab either. Proud of her work as it finished, there was a sharp exhale at the notion of him beating her. "Short of you growing wings, you won't best me in climbing."

"Something else, then. Bit more both our styles." Which excluded motorcycle races, crafting swords, making explosives, or climbs, among other things. Her change of head location had immediately been followed with a subtle shift of posture, giving her the room to lean against him comfortably and not require his head rest on hers. That didn't stop the kiss, though, or the carnal way he smelled her and returned to the capture of fabric in his free hand. Fingers danced along the bottom edge of her shirt, and as an idea dawned on him, he pressed his grin into her temple, so she could feel it. "Another bet."

"I'm listening." A brow quirked up at the suggestion, and though she peeled herself off of his chest, she didn't escape the wrappings of his arms and only turned to face him with a look up. Her competitive nature was eagerly tuned in, her ears were perked. This is assuming that the shift in her posture, now turned around to press chest against, didn't distract or derail his train of thought. Her hands began to idly wander, though she was not concerned with the contents of his pockets, her fingers were dipping into his back ones anyways.

No, no, there was quite a brain derailment. Train went off the tracks and crashed. Right now, all he wanted to do was resettle where his hands were laying, and remind himself of how she felt against his chest when he was kissing her. Free hand found a stretch of skirt that wouldn't cut him when he squeezed, and though the other might be tasked with holding a bottle, it settled against the base of her spine with an urging pressure. A while after his tongue found hers, he tried to regain the lost footing of his idea. "Mmm. What's something we're both -- good at?" Other than the obvious.

Her hips shifted in his squeeze, pressing her body firmly against him since he was urging her closer with the bottle and placement of his palm. Chest to chest, hips to hips, lips to lips while she took another lingering taste from his mouth and nipped at his lower lip and then jaw line. A slanted and low lidded look given to him, "Don't be crude." An accusation and assumption, all as though she could read his mind and guess where he was going (or trying to avoid), before she was pulling something from his back pocket, a weapon of some sort. Holding it up then for both of them to see as she spoke, "Planning on using this later?" As though she wasn't weighed down herself with weapons.

The cold iron nail was as long as it was heavy, more unfinished crude black rock than real weapon. Still, it had its uses. "S'for trolls. The big ones are a pain to kill. One good bolt of cold iron to the brain, though, and it's all over." The words were coming out with a tumble of a quiet gasps, since she'd just found that spot beneath his chin and neck that made him shiver, right before she stopped working her chemistry to ask him a question. His composure recollected itself in the shape of a bottle as he uncapped it behind her and pumped it for another drink. The kiss that followed was heavy with the taste of alcohol and his hands were returning to her curves. Growl.

"This would be fine for a one headed troll maybe, but you still have to get close enough for it." Her hand wrapped around the length of the crude nail, gripping it as he interrupted her statement, but not in a method she would argue against. Though she didn't return it to his pocket just yet, her empty hand gripped at his ribcage underneath his shirt, keeping the space between the two of them limited as she drank in his taste and the leftover bourbon spit from his mouth. The growl was good to distract her, but not completely derail her train of thought as she considered other options to kill a troll. "While the ones with two or three or more heads are just as dumb, a few explosives would pop their heads off the shoulders and then...it's all over." Grinning against his bearded cheek after the kiss was broken off.

Jessica's lips lost in his beard were yet another diversion on his path to -- somewhere. Hard to say where he was going. Head dipping, a whiskey mouth found her shoulder again with a brushing of lips. When the loop of her tank top got in the way, he dragged it off between his teeth. Exposure, beautiful exposure. He marveled at the way her skin glowed in the night. A smirking kiss against the length of shoulder her top was no longer protecting preceded his reply. "Explosives are so messy. Give me a good sword and I'll cut them all off. Carve its heart out. Not saying you should leave the big stuff to me, but..." It was a joke, but it was also a taunt. A playful one, but still.

Her flesh was beaded up with heated droplets of sweat, there for him to smear or kiss away with his wandering mouth. His joke, the taunt, and the way he trailed off without finishing his sentence had her rolling her eyes and then smoothing her hand from his ribs to his chest to push against him. It would tear his mouth from her skin and allow her to level a look up at him. ?Excuse you, but I haven?t had any trouble killing anything, no matter what size it is before I met you. I?m not leaving anything for you when I can handle it myself.?

But the shoulder! He liked that shoulder. In the loss of it beneath his mouth, Michael chewed on a lip and took his own look of her. Hands, even, behaved themselves. A little. ?Oh yeah? What?s the biggest thing you?ve killed?? Like the stories of their scars, now was a time for past glories to be brought into the light. Michael was honestly curious, even if he was caught up the game of teasing her between plays of animal need.

"Before you?" Just to be clear and so as to not repeat a story that he would have already known. "That I remember...." Trailing at the end of that sentence and not bothering to explain just what that meant either as her eyes narrowed in thought. She was tracking through memories, the bits and pieces that were there amongst the moments of horror and violence in her lifetime before managing an answer. "There have been hell hounds and werewolves, all kinds of zombie creatures." Indicating that not only were they of a certain size, but unique to the realm and hardly easy kills.

"Before me." Confirming, though the play on words amused his smile into a slant. Not that she had ever killed them, but their fights -- oh, their fights. Michael kept holding her across the new distance, even using her lean at chest level to pin her hips more firmly against him. Face, scar-filled, illuminated how much he enjoyed the pressure. But, there was thinking to do, and some talking required, so not too much. And hands needed to behave. Lips pursed in thought. "I've killed -- lots of trolls. Few as big as cars. Dragons. Didn't you say once that you've killed giants? Ice, right?" The Voice remembered, but he was doing his best to ignore it.

"No, I planned on killing them if they proved difficult to deal with. I am completely capable of killing Ice giants though." Correcting the confusion while still not looking concerned that it was a slight on the size of the creatures she had killed. "I don't kill things unless they attack or harm me." A rule was voiced, one that was etched deep in her psyche.

"Are you?" He believed her, but there was more teasing to be had. "Well, it's not that I believe you, but ---" The words trailed off into a slant that grew into a mischievous twist.

Even with the expression he wore, she was now pushing against him with both hands to break free from his hold and to gain some additional space. Her temper flared like a roaring fire with his tease serving as a bellows to increase the flames within it. "You doubt me? Of course I am. Anything you can kill, I can kill it, or something bigger." Still clutching the iron nail, she spoke with gestures so at least the weapon wasn't flying out of her hand at him.

The grip went with reluctance, as his hands didn't feel right without her in them. In her absence, they busied themselves with another swallow of bourbon and lazy flip of the bottle. "Sure. Just because you can climb faster, doesn't mean you can kill better. You don't specialize in it like I do." Greens swept from her into the open air, where smoke from discharged fireworks continued to hang in long, running ribbons.

"You don't specialize in killing better. You specialize in not dying according to you." Pointing at him now with the iron nail and stepping closer to tap it right against his collar bone as she spoke. It was to force him to look back down to her. "You wanted a bet right?" Referencing a comment from moments ago. "I bet you by the end of six weeks that I will have killed something bigger than you have."

Something about the nail against his chest set off a change that her words exaggerated. Humor left Michael's face, starting at the edges and rolling inward until his mouth flat lined and green eyes went cold. "Fine. I accept. What do you get if you win?" The empty hand was reaching up to take the nail from her.

She relinquished the nail with no trouble, since it wasn't hers to start with. Though...well it may be lifted from his pocket and added to her collection of things at a later moment in the evening. "Hmm. I want the head of a Gorgon." Thoughtful for a split second before replying with a swift answer. She wanted the eyes; she wanted the venom from the snakes... No one ever said that gifts for Jessica were easy. Truth be told, she's wanted to study one for a good while.

The nail was lost into the nest of items he carried in his pockets. In exchange, he gave her the bourbon, having suddenly lost a taste for it. Michael sneered in consideration before nodding roughly, "Deal. When I win, you find me a new firehouse. And help me move in." He neglected to ask her to buy it, even if a Gorgon's head was worth far more than the price of an old building.

A brow quirked up at the mention of his prize before her teeth flashed in a sickle sharp smile. "I'll even help you do that when you lose." Jessica was a generous soul it seemed. Especially on a holiday. To seal the deal, she lifted the bottle of bourbon to take a long drink from it before tipping the neck of the bottle in his direction even if he had recently lost the urge to taste it.

"I won?t. And I want a nice one. Bigger than the last." Which had been a nice size, before -- well. Michael's frown caused creases to fold where old scars sat on his face, digging out valleys from cheeks and forehead. If they were sealing the deal on bourbon, it seemed unfair to her, but he understood the meaning behind such formalities. He snatched the bottle quickly and downed an equal portion, eyes remaining on her. Where she was generous, he was filled with heat and fire. When it was time to hand her the bottle back, he offered it from within his own sphere of person, leaving her to step closer.

"Bigger. With a large workshop." Stalking forward and closing the distance again, drawn back up against him if he allowed it as she smirked up at him. "Your own inner sanctum. Private and secure. With two poles for you to practice climbing or watch me use." Rumbling out details that she'd either see to or put into place for his comfort or enjoyment as her empty hands dipped back into the top inch of his jeans to skim her fingers against his flesh.

There were the secret words she needed to pass through his iron wall: 'watch me'. It was a short cut to the monster, the one that liked to watch her move and swallowed up her taste. Oh, they could have their little game, and win or lose; he was going to kill so awfully many things in her name. It was for the heat of her body, the sweat on her skin, and the hollow of her mouth, among oh so many other bits of her. There was more to him, this time, where her fingers dwelled, just like there was more angry passion to the kiss he caught her with. A bourbon grind of tongue and he was growling out, "Going to kill you a whole fucking dragon if I get to watch..." And with that, he was dragging her to the ground.

Her fingers curled into the jeans he wore, tugging him closer as if there was any question where he would go when he was in the midst of dragging her down onto the rooftop. Her eyes were long closed as she took in the flavor of his tongue and breathed heatedly against his mouth in response, "Promise me that I get the organs?" She'd be full of requests for them for the duration of the bet now and she didn't expect him to disappoint.

"I swear it." Words said in a murmur so quiet, he had to press them into her ear. The rest of him was engaged in fitting against her, hips for hips, stomach for stomach, hard for soft, and heat for -- Michael's mouth fit across her jaw, and he repeated the words. "I swear it. Everything I kill is yours." He had rarely said anything so true.

(Taken from live play between Mad Knight and Jessica Lucino.)

Night of June 11th

The address was an innocuous string of letters and numbers leading to the corner of No One Lives Here Street and We've All Forgotten What This Was Called Road, somewhere in a corner of the city that had been given over to the lost, wandering souls who needed strange, nameless places to live. Street lights worked sporadically at best and the Watch visited too infrequently. The gutters were all full of trash and the roads were a dirtied, dusty, drab gray. Over the years, rain had softened all the hard edges and muted the colors until everything ran together with the same boring flat look. Most of the businesses had fled long ago, followed by the institutions and public services, until finally it was a few blocks of wasteland, a dark dot on the map where no one with good intentions tread.

So why, exactly, had Michael asked Jessica here on a date? Especially one that involved dressing nice. This section of town was more an 'army boots and razor blades' than 'dress and heels' kind of place. Michael stood under the one working lamp on the block he'd asked Jessica to meet him at, dressed sharply in dark slacks and a sky blue button up shirt, blond hair combed finely and beard trimmed close to his animal maw. A watch dangled off his wrist and he was holding a bouquet of opium poppies, stark red. A large building loomed behind him, occupying most of the block. It had been shut down and boarded up, but someone had recently worked their way in the front doors and got the powering working, as light leaked out and pooled in the empty parking lot. A single sign above the entrance read: RhyDin Science Museum. In some of the windows, there were advertisements for a new body exhibit.

The places of business in RhyDin so often exchanged hands or fell down only to be built back up again, that sometimes even addresses that she recognized after her many years of living here weren't enough of a clue as to figure out what Michael's plans were. But sometimes Jessica would play along with the suspense and allow a surprise to fall into place without hounding for hints and tonight she just followed a simple set of instructions. Besides, she never heard that she wasn't allowed to be armed. The black and white dress held touches of black leather that gave it an aesthetic edge, while her heels were spiked and could easily be turned into a weapon if the situation should arise. Then again, there was very little that Jessica couldn't turn into a weapon of mass destruction. More or less on time, her only hold up being the cat calls that were cast her way as she spilled out of the shadows and stalked the streets. Teeth flashing as she sneered to the drunk and clueless before they fled from her sight. Maybe she was recognized. Or maybe they noticed her twitching fingers. Who knew what she would reach for when her clothing didn't look razor sharp? She could have just been hiding her weapons under an extra layer of subtle tonight. It was easy to spot the lone giant figure underneath the street lamp, if the sight of him didn't give him away, the smell of him would. The flowers were a scent that she picked out even quicker than his and it led to the slight and curious head tilt as she made her approach to the spotlight. Taking in the details behind and around him, a smirk was setting on her lips as she read the signs. Grrrrunt. You could dress up the woman, but you couldn't change her. "You know I won't be allowed to touch them," referring to the bodies in the exhibit inside.

Michael's smile splayed slowly across his jaw, starting at the middle and stretching sweetly to the corners, simple and sublime and yet so very, very savage. It wasn't her fault she'd been made to be the way she was, and it wasn't his fault that she was just the sort of woman he'd been missing all his life. Even watching her walk was enough to make his night. She was gorgeous to a fault and twice as deadly, danger poured into a dress and sex in a razor blade package. Speechless, Michael had to will himself to look away less he be drawn beneath a spell he had so many times been bewitched by. A sandpaper hand offered her the flowers while he turned to face the museum. "Nah, it's abandoned. Some necromancers were -- are -- squatting in it. They're not going to care what you do." A playground, Jessica. It's a playground for you. For her birthday, Michael had given her zombies. For a date, Michael was giving her a whole museum to do with as she pleased. Just wait until an anniversary, if they live that long; he might have to give her the moon. His freehand gestured to the front door. "I told them to get lost for the night. Paid ?em handsomely and threatened to kill them and everyone they knew if they gave us trouble. It's all yours tonight." And that's not all! "It was the only place I could find with a photo booth."

He couldn't look at her and thrusted the flowers at her as he turned around? Empty hands were suddenly full and wrapped around the stems which were bundled and tied together as wild green eyes spun over red petals and her nose drew in the all too familiar scent. "Oh then I can touch." A simple reversal and noticeable pleasure taken in by the story he told of the arranged evening. Lowering the flowers from her view and in time with his gesture to the door, her feet set into a forward motion at an easy pace. That is, until she caught the very last detail and her eyes widened at the flash of a memory. "There's a photo booth?" Not necessarily needing confirmation that she heard him correctly, but suddenly she was grabbing at a watch covered wrist and moving faster as though the building would fade away in a matter of seconds. Was it apparent that she liked how this evening was playing out so far?

Laughter started out in a nervous surprise and ended heavy and warm, following behind them as she pulled him into the building. This was the opposite of what he'd been trying to do a moment ago, where he focused one the Things-Not-Jessica to keep himself from needing to touch her, kiss her, and taste her, as with her leading his attention was allowed to drift down to the woman dragging him forward. God, she was beautiful. Fuck what anyone else thought -- if only he could find the words, if only he could admit he knew them, he might spill his guts and heap upon both of them a world of trouble. Michael's words tumbled out between rapid steps taken at an almost skipping pace, "Yeah, that's part of why I picked it. It was this or some pizza place with terrible food and a clown. Or a mouse. Buck-E-Cheese? There were games and little children and Jessica, it was awful."

Inside, the museum opened into a wealth of wings, from earth sciences to electronics to an animal exhibit to a gift shop that had been looted clean. The body exhibit was the only one that still looked new and well lit. There would be no wonder where the necromancers stayed. The entrance was made to look like a giant head with the doors set in an open mouth. A guide on either side of the door explained that following the exhibit would take the museum goer on a head to foot trip through the body, with displays and interactives corresponding to the places in the body the visitor had reached. Michael pursed his lips, "Somewhere in the body exhibit, there's a photobooth. I'm guessing in the section on eyes, but I don't know for sure."

While she foiled his plan to keep his hands to himself, she continued to tug and pull him into the museum without any further delay. Another grunt, but she was shaking her head and not looking back at him as she burst inside the building and the echoes of her steps followed in with her. "No no, this is much better." Not bothering to explain why, he could assume on his own. There was no question which direction Jessica would move along in, there was no hesitation for the open mouth and what would potentially be inside. Eventually, she would notice that he was keeping up with her and needed little to no coaxing to go further with her and released the hold on his wrist. Turning a side long glance his way, thoughtful as she voiced a question. "Not on the one for the brain? Memory, taking snapshots in the mind." Then again, just because that made sense to her, didn't mean it would make sense to the curators when they laid out the exhibit.

"For all I know, it'll be the heart. Because -- feelings, pictures, you know?" Talking about people who shouldn't be allowed to lay out museums, Michael probably would have just made the whole thing a how-to guide on destroying that region of the body. The head would be all about smashing the skull, the heart all about piercing the chest, and so forth. It got real interesting around the guts, and the section for throat was adults only. Michael's hand immediately fit itself over hers when she let go of him for need of contact, and it was through this grip that he pulled her back suddenly to wrap his arm around her waist and look her right in the eyes before burying a long, lingering kiss. She wanted to see the museum and he wanted to see her see the museum, but things were going to start with a deep pressing of lips that drifted open for a while and ended in a deep and hungry grunt. Green eyes took on the lazy quality of a jaguar and he let her go. "Taste good. Look amazing. I'm lucky. Now, lead the way." To the photo booth! Wherever it was. Michael waited for her to go first.

"We can make a wager and see who is right," suggesting as they reached the entrance and he wrapped his hand back around hers and yanked her backwards. A lesser woman might have snapped an ankle in those heels with such a motion, but Jessica managed just as easily as though she was in her Army issued boots. Crashing into the wall of his chest, her fingers interlocking between his before the bouquet of poppies was dropped to a well-placed bench when he leaned down to take over her lips. While the thoughts of the museum and the evening plans still were in the forefront of her mind, she latched onto his arm and sank into a hungry kiss that allowed her mouth to roam over his. When he was speaking, she was punctuating each of his short sentences with an interruption of swift kisses and still holding on to the bicep in her grasp. Low lidded gaze sent up to him with a bit of a smirk for his compliments, but she didn't move until she caught what he thought of the proposed bet.

For all the time she would stay, Michael would hold her, adjusting to fit both arms around her. Broad hands followed the details of her spine and the sweeping curve of her hips. Her probing kisses were fireworks going off in his brain, blindingly bright flashes that scattered thoughts and dashed his thinking. Put the man into a fight and he could track a dozen things at once and be ready to formulate and follow back up plan after back-up plan, but the moment her lips touched his, he was a single minded thing, simple and stupid. Michael stole hot breath from her mouth with a rumbling growl and pressed the sound into her ear with a tuck of his head down into her shoulder, beard scratching her cheek. "Yes. Absolutely. What are we wagering?" The way his hands were smoothing out her dress, there would be no doubt what he would want. Michael smelled her hair and growled again while he waited for her confirmation.

It was a shrewd ploy, his placement of the growl to her ear whether he realized it or not. While her mouth fried pieces of his brain, his growls cleared her mind and left it full of a thick fog of distraction. A moment or two passed before she realized that he was waiting on her for a response. What are we wagering? What are we talking about? Thick lashed and lined green eyes blinked as she pulled herself from her daze, but stayed close and in the realm of personal space. No longer holding hands, hers tugged on the collar of his shirt to suggest a certain level of urgency that she still wished him close for the rest of the pending conversation. "If I win..." Trailing off, a mix of thoughtfulness and working through fog in her tone before continuing on. "I want to take you to a beach." It sounded general and simple, but with Jessica that might not truly be the case. All the same, he'd get no further details than that. "And if you win --well, what do you want?" Reeling her head back enough to watch him in the midst of his reply.

There were specific notes that fit into their songs, rough duets sung in the sleek shadows of the city. Words, turns of phrase, sounds -- the cold rasp of steel, the collapse of fabric on the floor, the wet impacts of flesh, Jessica's grunts, and Michael's growls. The Knight didn't play with ploys or lay traps. He was just singing, and hoping she'd join in too. His beard brushed her temple, lips pressing kisses into her hair. On it he could smell all the things she did, all the places she went, the long hours in the lab, the nights spent with him in bed, the warm night air, and everything else, too. He honestly could not remember ever smelling something so good. A quiet, surprised laugh slipped out and he leaned away to look at her, green eyes seeking green eyes. "A beach? I've never been to a proper one." It was true. The Mississippi didn't count, and besides, he had a hard time remember it as anything more than a fever dream or a faded fantasy. Michael thought about beaches and his own wager while hands moved further down, palms cupping curves. The grin turned.. roguish. "If I win, we don't wait until we get home." He didn't need to explain what he meant, did he?

It was a rare moment with her hair down and hanging loose down her back. For the night it was safe to touch with no acid laced bobby pins or sharp ends dripped in poison that would ravage and fester his skin and kill off others. In response to his laughter and surprise, she only raised her chin higher, to reassert that it was what she was after. His still wandering hands, groping and grabbing at leather wrapped curves would notice something sharp if they reached down to her thighs. If he was checking her for weapons (never a bad idea, especially if she'd allow for such close contact), he appeared to have found the hidden ones. Scoffing then and needing no explanation, her hands released the fabric of his shirt as she spoke, "Who said we were waiting?"

Weapons were always to be expected on both of them. A knowing glow lit his face, giving it a bright air, as a finger felt a hard line strapped to her leg. Should she check his pockets, she would find his own toys -- the twin pair of silver knuckles, for which he'd made so much use of months back. What was good then was good now. Michael grunted at her, taking the last moments to duck in and kiss her fast and light before he upped his ante with a wink. "Then we take pictures." What were photo booths good for, anyway, if not having saving memories? And if there was something that Michael never wanted to forget, it was her, and it was that. Nodding at the exhibit, smile staying with him even if his hands weren't staying with her, "C'mon. You first.?

Checking pockets could potentially lead to other distractions and thus her hands weren't searching his pants, Jessica was already well familiar with what was within them. "Oh, you want naked photos of me?" Asking to be sure that she understood. Leaving the flowers on the bench to be collected again later, if he was finished touching then she was turning for the open mouth entrance to head inside. With her hands free again, they twitched and wiggled in excitement as her mind soon turned to the exhibit that she was free to poke at and touch as she pleased. Well, provided things weren't encased in glass.

Oh, how forward she could be. The brashness was a winning trait. A fellow windmill tilter, but much better looking in a dress. "Absolutely. We both get some." Michael followed like a lean animal on the hunt, sweeping in behind her to move in the warmth her body left floating in the air. Call him Shark, call him Lion, call him Wolf; he was on the trail, hungry and keenly focused. Hands reached out to touch everything they passed, fingers tracing boxes or interacting with the exhibits, but his eyes were always on her. She might want to see the museum, after all, but Michael just wanted to see her see it. He soaked in the bounce in her step, the excited way she approached everything, her approvals, and her criticisms. If you asked him, he was having the better time.

The first room was: Scalp. Hair and skin and bone, in a small room that was setup to be a winding criss-cross Z from the entrance at one end and the brain room at the other. Displays listed off dozens of facts about follicles and interactive exhibits encouraged museum goers to feel the difference between the hairs of a dozen different races. A replica Medusa head was held in a box of mirrors, such that the viewer was forced to see the reflection like the mighty hero Perseus. A model showed a single hair enlarged a thousand times and bisected, listing off the different layers and describing what they did. Michael was distracted, for a time, by a dragon's skull, large enough that he might fit inside it and have room to roll over.

"What would I do with naked pictures of myself?" That she didn't follow along with, but allowed the question to die as they both walked into the first room. "Oh it's been a while since I've scalped something." The comment came out absently, though it was certainly filed away to act out on in the future. Her eyes narrowed at the box of mirrors, but her interest was soon lost when it was noted that it was merely a replica and not an actual gorgon's head. With her mind going in a thousand different directions, her comments and criticisms came out rarely and disjointed with no further explanation as to why she felt or thought something before moving on to the next item. Stopping at the dragon's skull while Michael examined it closer, she voiced a random slip of her past, a mix of amusement and curiosity peeking out in her tone and expression. "I climbed into a dragon once. He was full of organs and mechanical gears and let me take samples. I've wanted to do the same to the blue dragon at the inn." Grrrrrunt. "But she's too small." To climb into that is.

"You can probably scalp me if it's important." There was serious consideration, marked by the squinting look upwards at the top of his head which, though he couldn't see, he could imagine. It would not have been the first time someone had scalped him, and certainly he had his own share of experience doing it to others. An effective strategy against vampires who could heal it off by the next night. With the spice of humor, "We could compare notes and styles. I like using a hatchet." Memories of dark, dingy, dirty rooms circled up before him, blocking out what was happening. Blocking out her. He shook it off with a literally shake of his head and returned to his activity of watching and listening to her, a smile at the corner of his mouth. He glanced between her and the skull, "Never been in a dragon. Killed a few. Very, very dangerous. Hard to take down, breath fire. Hard to find a tougher animal." And a bright, dawning moment. "Icer?"

"Why the **** would I scalp you?" The humor lost on her now and she stared flatly at him as though he had offered to pour acid into her eyes. "I wouldn't ever let you scalp me." Somewhere, someone could hear the faint and quiet sound of a ticking time bomb, getting closer to exploding unless they cut the appropriate wire and stopped it in time. The rest of the conversation was lost on her, too zeroed in on his first set of words.

"Sometimes it's fun, and it's not like it's anything more than really annoying to me." Frowning. Jessica's wires were in a dense nest of crisscrossing colors, winding in on each other so thick that it was hard to find the right one sometimes. Michael made no movements, simply looking down at her with eyes narrowing in concern. "It's not like I think you want to scalp me, or that I want to be scalped."

"I don't get my kicks off by purposely causing you harm. Why the **** would it be fun to scalp someone you actually like? Why would you say such a thing if you didn't want me to do it or think I would want to either?" He was frowning and her flat look turned into narrowed and focused eyes with an obvious and clear frown. "I'm not a ****ing psychopath that would want to experiment on you with the intention of destroying you." It was the last sentence that she spat out with sudden venom, a hint that it was all due to a deep and well hidden nerve that the conversation had somehow struck. A sneer began to form, but it was curling onto her face after she was turning away from him and she was starting for the doorway for the next room.

No words followed her departure. Michael was processing the immediate proceeding events, watching her leave into the next room with a frown that dripped down the sides of his face. A misstep of words, a joking offer in the wrong field, and he had stumbled into a ditch full of murky mire. The Voice made a note for him, which it would remind him of for days and days: do not talk about scalping to Jessica. Do not offer to let Jessica hurt you. Do not suggest you would hurt her. A thick scarred hand reached up to run fingers through the curls of his hair instinctively. Taking a deep breath and glancing around the room now empty except for him and the exhibits, most of which he didn't appreciate like she did. "Well. ****," said out of her ear shot. A few more seconds passed before Michael followed her into the second stop on the exhibit, shoving hands into pockets.

The next room was the brain, the soft spongy lump of fat held between the ears of most creatures. It was one of the biggest rooms in the exhibit's trail through the body. Dozens of brains were on display from a dozen different animals, sentient and non-sentient alike. Single lobe, double lobe, quadruple lobe and more. Large, small, tiny, enormous. Red, pink, blue, gray. If it was a quality of brain, it was in the room. An illithid brain was setup as an interactive display, tentacles still attached. Wires were plugged into the brain at intervals that would make sense to neuroscience but was beyond Michael. To the wires, controls were attached, and by manipulating the controls, the tentacles could be made to move.

A corner of the room was setup for lighter fairs. A 'brain ice cream!' stall rested, stocked full of various flavors of ice cream that came out in brain shaped scoops, with various red syrups offered. Stress relief squeezable brains were for sale, or, in the case of the Chemist and Knight, for taking. Shirts, stuffed toys, et cetera. And, against a wall, a 'Memory Booth'. For pictures, as promised.

Even with the moments of silence between her stalking off into the next room, and Michael waiting in the first alone, Jessica continued to radiate ripples of heat and annoyance while moving among the brain exhibit. If he couldn't feel the tension still spilling from her, there was no doubt that the Voice could. For a while she was merely poking at a parrot's brain, no larger than a cashew before her assault on it turned violent enough to turn it into wet mush. She used the pirate flag that was hung beside it to clean her hand off and move along without a murmured Oops. While tentacles were not intestines, they were the closest thing to it in the room (as she had not yet noticed the photo booth along the wall) and they still held her attention by the time Michael showed up with his hands in his pockets while walking on eggshells. Give her a moment or two and she might notice him, but for now she was seeing what she could do by rewiring the controls.

Whispers and murmurs from the place along his spine where the Voice lived were not necessary for the Malkavian to see the tension in her body. It didn't hurt that a smashed brain rested where, Michael was certain, a whole one should be. The path from the door to her was one to take slowly, with short stops at the exhibits of things he'd killed or had wanted to kill, comparing notes with what was there and what he remembered or what he'd imagined. A troll brain held particular interest and caused in him a pause, as they were hard to get a good look at otherwise. It was even smaller than he'd expected. Grunt. Finally, he was sliding back into place next to her, curious as to what she was doing, though quiet in his observations. As she worked, the smell of strawberry syrup reached him, above the tang of formaldehyde. In the search around the room for it's origin he noticed the stall, the trinkets, and the photo booth. Another grunt and a tip of head at the corner, once she looked at him. If she looked at him.

It was a bit of a trial and error process: discovering just where to step in the mine field that Jessica resided over. In today's case, a suitable distraction had presented itself to sooth and calm the inner-workings of her mind and give her a project to work out and allow her to attempt to relax again. He was given a glance when he first approached, but she continued working on programing the simple controls into something a little more complicated. But she didn't look over at him again until she had finished. Now the controls had a few new options instead of just twitching tentacles. Now the tentacles moved in a truer form as though the creature was alive again. All it needed was a head to be placed just right and the mind flaying (at least in appearance) could take place. Looking over at his grunt and nod in the direction of the wall, she could see the photo booth and raised her chin a touch. Maybe she was smug. "Hmm. I win."

"A trip to the beach, then." Truth of the matter was that Michael was simultaneously worried, concerned, interested, and excited. Sand beneath his dead feet, waves across his unliving skin. Moonlight dancing across glass waves of blue gray, ocean and sky running into each other in the distance. And stars. Beautiful, silver stars, hung in a milky splash of sky. It had been a long time since he'd seen true sky, unpolluted by city. Of course, he'd never been to a beach proper. Was he suppose to wear shorts? --Would she wear a bikini? Definitely excited. Michael's jaw tightened as he clamped his teeth down, grinning at the new thought. From the direction of the photo booth to her he turned, appreciating the way she held her head high. God, she was beautiful. Her heat invaded his space. Without looking, "What'd you do to it?" Meaning the mind flayer display with new, improved controls.

He might have not looked, but she did cast a glance back and set the controls back as though there was going to be a museum patron behind them shortly to see the updated display and admire it. "I fixed it." Simple with a shrug of leather covered shoulders as she looked back up to him. "It wasn't life like enough. Now it looks real." Now it looks alive she meant, but no clarification was given. "I pick out the beach." Adding on, though she didn't think she would hear any argument from him on that as she started for the photo booth.

"Of course." That was part of the deal, even if unsaid. She moved off and cleared room for the controls long enough for Michael to reach over and give them a few pushes, curious. Tentacles moved, flexing beneath the manipulations of his hands. He barely noticed, lost in thoughts of moonlight and photos. A second later the Knight was falling in behind her, smiling wide. No more conversation to offer as he was becoming eager to get her into the booth. Hands vanished back into his pockets, if only so he could fetch out the money needed to power the booth.

"We can go next week sometime." Making plans and giving enough time to decide how to break the unmentioned details to him. But the images in his mind's eye were not wrong, and though she didn't know what he was thinking, she still didn't offer out any further details. Once at the booth, she was looking around it to check for a few things and to silence her constant paranoia. Like how there wasn't a door that was about to seal them shut inside the box of the booth, that was it was plugged in, on and appeared to be working as normal. That there wasn't something living inside the booth that she had to kill in order to remove it. Sliding the curtain open and looking inside, Jessica found nothing suspicious and stepped into it. She didn't have to stoop, but he certainly would.

"Sounds perfect. Just let me know when and what to bring." Really, though. He was going to need to know what to bring. Shockingly, 'how to vacation at the beach for a day' was not something the Voice knew any better than he did. Michael was reading over the instructions on the outside, selecting from a choice of photo arrangements and quantity. Thumbs slapped buttons between grunts that bordered on confused. "Uh," was all he said. Bloodied bills were fed into a slot that took them up with a whining whirr. "Four. It's going to take four pictures, once we hit.. start." Which was inside, but he didn't know that. He kept looking out the outside for the button before ducking down to look inside. Oh, there it was. Michael bent down to fit his oversized frame into the space, pointing at the now lit green 'Start' button next to the camera that faced them. He took a brief moment to smooth his hair and fix his clothes before grunting that he was ready when she was.

For a moment Jessica just stared at him and didn't say anything as he gave her instructions while sounding more confused and unaware of what was going on the longer he spoke. But eventually, she just shifted backwards towards the camera and nudged and pushed him to the seat in the booth to sit down. "Yes. I know how these things work. Do you know what kind of pictures you want to take?" Asking as she sat herself in his lap and leaned forward with a stretch of her arm to press the green button.

"Oh, oh --crazy face!"

Scoop! "Arrrr!"

*Flash*

"Close up!" Peeks out with one eye.

Hams it up and gets them nice and close. "Peekaboo!"

*Flash*

"I'm hungry. Chinese after this?" It was the tentacles, made her want noodles, go figure.

"Mm, Chinese. Hello China Panda?" Phone in hand and dialing.

"Pork dumplings too." Twitch of her nose and a tug on his shirt. "Mmm, maybe tell them it doesn't need to be ready for a while."

*Flash*

"Oh, whoops."

"Okay, serious good picture." Fixes her hair.

.. what was he doing? **** she's hot.

*Flash*

The last flash continued to echo in his retinas, a bright aftermath of white that floated in his head, both there and not there all at once. Outside, pictures printed in twin strips of four, one copy for each of them to keep and reflect back on. Tonight was one of those nights, and being in the booth was one of those moments, where things started to feel -- right. They clicked, having more realness to them than other times could claim. Michael's life had so few of them, and it had been such a long time, that it caught him entirely off guard. In his seat, he wavered slightly, emotions welling. Right there, feeling right, feeling good, feeling like he fit, that there was a spot in the world for him, and in that spot he could be happy, Michael's thoughts shifted into territory so untraveled and so genuine that he didn't know what to do or say except to grab her, pull her into a long kiss, and at the end of it, confess with a murmur, "...I think I'm falling in love with you." --Even he blinked at that one, looking at her. Words had gotten out before he could think. Inside his head, the Voice was screaming. Micheal was suddenly very scared and it showed.

There were flashes of moments when Jessica could seem almost normal by most people's standards. They were merely brief blips of time swiftly taken over by violent outbursts of the terrors that ran rampant in RhyDin's streets, but they could still exist in moments like the one shared in the photo booth. After the flash of the camera, she settled back into his chest behind her and decided she was pleased with the outcome with how the photos had gone. Now all they had to do was sit and wait for them to be printed, and it appeared that Michael had plans on how they would spend that time as he locked her up in a kiss. Tangling her arms around him and hungrily returning it before his confession brought everything to a screeching and abrupt halt. Thick lashes fluttered up with a blink or two before she was staring up at him with her mouth falling open in obvious surprise. One moment she had been holding on whatever she could of him, and after his words registered she was pushing back and away from him. Trying to get some sliver of space between the two of them, as though that would erase what he just said, or what she thought she just heard. "What? No." Disbelief.

"I -- " -- am at a loss of words. They became tangled in his mouth, letters fumbling over each other as they mixed and mashed themselves together in configurations and reconfigurations. Where had that come from, the admission? Like a sudden outburst, grown from a seed of guilt, Michael had spoken from a place that was as sensitive as it was hard to pin down. Love? What was it to him? The Voice in his head was roaring, babbling and bubbling along the whole of his spine, until its thousand tongues wagged themselves into a humming, indistinct chatter. It was no help. The Beast stirred once, looking up from its cave, before going back to sleep. Michael was alone in the mess. Alone, except, for Jessica. Long limbs loosened but hands were left disparately clinging to her sides, as if contact between them could win the day. If he is truly at sea, then he has gone over the side of the ship, and now he is holding onto the life raft for dear life. "--I do. I think. I don't know, it's all so confusing." It was. It really was. Michael looked away without letting go, seeking some spot where her disbelief could be avoided. Quieter, "I'm falling in love with you. I know I am."

Latched onto and backed up into the wall of the photo booth, her eyes cut over his shoulder to the flimsy curtain that was in her way between further anxiety and freedom. "Michael I...." Swallowing thickly as she looked back up to him, or rather his profile as he was turning away. Suddenly her shoulders sank and any effort she had been making to flee the small box of the booth was starting to slip away. "I don't know what to say." Since it was a tiny room to fill with confessions, she'd give one of her own. Not that she was ever a wordsmith. They had touched a bit on why perhaps, but her hesitation still lingered as a matter of not completely trusting herself. It was a conversation that even between two sane people could be difficult and risky, but between two cracked souls with shattered minds --who really knew how it was supposed to go.

"Either do I." It was there, now. The corpse of his honesty. And for once, the dead body confused instead of interesting them. Do words rot if left to lie too long? Do confessions bloat in rest, bleach white in sunlight, crumble with age? Michael truly didn't know what to do, and out of that lack of planning, he was doing the only thing he ever wanted to do when she was close; he started pulling her back in, turning his bearded mouth back to hers. A hesitation in the tugging for contact, a pause before a kiss, and eyes heavy with the tumult of emotions went looking for hers hesitantly. "I need you. Not just -- in the usual way. I need your voice, too. Your approval. All of it. S'first thing I think about when I wake up." The words were falling into place awkwardly, but they were coming out. "Maybe this is stupid. And we'll ruin each other. I'm telling you, even if I cared to, I couldn't stop it." There, in the confined space of a photo booth, in the back corner of a museum, Michael opened what was left of his heart, where the scars of time had shriveled it. The Voice was quieting and Michael was left to listen to her breath, to smell her, to taste her on the air. "..that's all. Just thought I'd warn you." And then he waited for her response before he finished pulling her back for a kiss. For a monster who faced down the darkest corners of the world, he sure could be scared of one small, fierce, mad woman.

Where most women might have smiled and melted at the sweet and sincere confession whispered to them by a Knight in leather armor, Jessica was frowning obviously with worry etching onto her features and spinning in her eyes. While she wasn't a fortune teller, her track history was giving her a sight of the future where everything was going to go back up in flames. As much as she did love fire ---"We will ruin each other." That much she seemed certain of and he was whispered back against his hovering mouth over hers. "I don't want to ruin," words cut off the rest of her sentence as the specifics of what she didn't want to ruin, but didn't matter much in the end. The whirlwind of the heated kiss started up again, since her tongue could go in motion but still didn't have the right words for the current conversation. He'd have to judge by actions instead.

To ruin, then. They could toast to their twin destructions, where flames would rush through their lives in all its burning, changing glory. His life was ash with or without her, anyway. Ash with or without. Sometime, somewhere, someone had told him that ash made for wonderful new growth, and that forests relied on fires to renew themselves. The old gave way for the new, destruction gave way to rebirth. Michael gave himself to Jessica, and though they were doomed, something new and beautiful could be waiting on the other side. Something good. It gave him hope. --he'd forgotten what it felt like. Michael's hands moved around her, following her form with needing palms and craving fingers, and as arms wound behind hips, he lifted her to deposit her into a lap that felt empty without her weight. The kiss turned from tentative and soft to hot and needing, as if the fire had already started somewhere inside and her touch fanned it to new heights. Lips across lips became tongue against tongue, arms around her became a hand in her hair and another rising along a thigh, and from the softness of his heart, a hardness of his body grew. If there were any question about where it was going, Michael drew her lower lip between his teeth with a bite that drew blood. Grunnnt.

Lifted and draped into his lap, she was writhing and molding herself into a straddling position with her knees pressed into the seat he was perched on and spiked decorated heels pointed behind her. His hand would likely push high enough to come across the trio of throwing knives strapped high on her thigh before he would reach anything else he may have been going for. Where he thought it was obvious the direction they were headed, Jessica was suddenly stirred from the haze of lust a second time in that tiny booth. This time it was as he drew blood. His bite possibly becoming worse as she suddenly jerked and shoved at his chest with one hand splayed against it, the other held up to her mouth to catch a trickling of red blood on her fingertips. Though she was silent, the look of shock was clear on her face as if to say: You bit me!

Blood painted his lip, dead center, where teeth had broken her skin in a moment lost to the heat that burned behind their skin. The slap of palm to chest broke the spell he'd fallen under. Immediately he was shifting in his seat, cleaning his mouth off with the back of a hand no longer lost in the tangles of hair. Even her thigh was freed from a long fingered grasp. "****. Sorry. Got carried away." There were no fangs, no vampiric Kiss to pollute their emotional pull together, but rules were rules. Breaking them made him feel small and sinful. Getting nowhere, he started looking at the way out of the booth.

It was an awkward moment if there ever was one. It wasn't just a rule, it was a promise. And though by accident it was a clear reminder to herself why she had the foresight to issue it in the first place. While she lingered in the shock and surprise with no rant looking as though it was quick to follow, he was pulling his hands back to himself and unknowingly left a sudden feeling on her skin in the process. It was like an abrupt cold shower of undesire. The awkward and nagging discomfort lingered further when he looked to the curtain and she suddenly felt a telling ache in her chest. It was the cause of her frown. Feeling unwanted suddenly, she began the shift off of his lap and to her feet. Pushing the hem of her dress back down, smoothing over the blades to hide them again with her clean hand. Apparently she wasn't interested in staining the rare dress just yet. The curtain was flipped aside and she exited, snatching up the photo strips with blood stained hands and looked them over to the side of the booth. Green eyes focused on the quick snaps of a pleasant memory that suddenly felt so far away and not within the past five minutes.

Michael did something he rarely did, even when run through the vast stamina that was his and only his to claim; he sagged. Not just in the shoulders, where weight suddenly seemed to tug at him, but in his back, too. In his hands, which fell from her and into the air around him. In his face, which bore sadness and regret across it, unfamiliar in tone. He sagged right down to his soul, or whatever was left of it. It only got worse when she left him alone. Michael buried the scars that crossed his cheeks into hands that looked worse, grateful to have a chance to collecting himself and hide behind a curtain, but uncertain about what to do now. Jessica's blood sizzled at the tip of his tongue and he felt ashamed, utterly, at how much he'd missed it. How good it tasted. --it was worse than anything he could rightly put into context. Though it was by no means a new feeling, he hated himself, truly hated himself, and feared what his failings would lead to. It took a handful of minutes, true full minutes, before he rose from his seat and stepped out. Life and light seemed gone from him in equal measure.

Blood spotted the photographs now, smeared at the edges only though and did not stain their faces. It was confusing to hold a series of expressions that almost no one ever saw, and then to be matched with the heavy tension and sadness that hung in the air. Movement caught out of the corner of her eye pulled her out of the daze, and when he exited the photo booth, that tiny box that managed to contain both joy and horror, both pleasure and pain, Jessica would thrust one of the photo strips into his chest and for a hand to collect. "For you." So he wouldn't forget to hold on to it and keep it. Eyes lingered on his face for a moment before she turned away and refocused on the room they were currently in. It was an attempt to place herself back into the present and at the same time distract herself from the awkward situation at hand.

Likewise, the Knight was forcing himself to focus on what was on hand, ignoring the hunger that lay in his mouth not just for blood, but for savage kisses, and for words. It's funny how a man could want so many things all at once. Delicately, Michael collected the photo strip and looked at it with a bittersweet tinge that made a faint smile part his face. He whispered, without meaning it for her exactly, "Beautiful." He kept looking at it on its way to his pocket, slipped in longwise to protect it from bends or rips. The smile faded as he looked up around the room. Suddenly the brain seemed a lot less interesting. "All right. Onward?"

She had watched him long enough to catch the glimmer of a forming smile, but at his suggestion to move forward, she started in motion for the next doorway. While she was curious as to what came next, hopefully it was eyes since that feature would hold her interest even after the roller coaster they were just on, she stopped suddenly just before the door frame and tipped her chin to her shoulder. Not looking back, but the sudden need to leave a confession in a room marked with memories seemed prudent and urgent. "I believe I am too." Another lingering pause before she made an addition, though while it was simply stated and likely obvious, it was still difficult to get out. "I like you." With no more admissions ready to flow from their tongues, she escaped into the next room.

There are times where the Malkavian can be incredibly dense, slow moving in a fast world. Words could hit and pass through him like a hail of bullets and only when the wounds began to bleed could he tell what had happened. This was one of those times. Jessica's first admission struck him and he was entirely uncertain what she meant, and even with the clarification, things only started to sink in after she'd managed to vanish into the next room ahead of him. Only then did the holes seep meaning, blooming realization. Michael was quick to catch up to her, long steps crossing distance in short seconds. As he pulled up next to her, he did something else he rarely did; he put his hand in hers and twined the fingers. Before she could react, he bent in and stole a closed lip kiss, turned on his heels, and settled in line with her and paid zero attention to the room at large.

Just as she had hoped, this room was for eyes. It was arranged like one, circular and large, such that they entered through the pupil and the far end was the optic nerve. Exhibits were organized to match the area of the eye they occupied, room wise. The closest ones included rows upon rows of thousands of irises, a veritable rainbow from one end of the spectrum to the other. Further away, interactive displays demonstrated how the fine muscles around the eye caused the lens to flex or the eye to move. A powered exhibit featured photo receptors linked to televisions, so that museum goers could turn on or off various elements of vision and experience color blindness, light blindness, and other, more unusual conditions. And there was more, much more, most of it outside Michael's understanding, but what interested him most was a section entirely for Beholders, where people were invited to come up and aim eye stalks at targets set into the wall and behind protective one way mirrors. If he wasn't being a good boyfriend, he would have immediately pulled them in that direction to play with the destructive forces.

Entangled fingers caused her to give a slow look up and see his mouth coming at hers, but he was turning away before much of a returned reaction could be given. Instead of smiling or pulling him back down for another, she simply squeezed his rough hand in her own before her attention was lost in a sea of irises. Her mouth opened just slightly in awe at the massive display which was bigger than her collection at home. It was with her own trained skill that she could pick and point out the eyes of different creatures, but for the moment she didn't touch anything since her hands were both occupied. One hand in his, the other still clutching the strip of photos, and she'd use that hand to point to the eyes she could name the previous owners of. For whatever reason, the exhibit involving the televisions had her turning away with a severe squint of her eyes and she tugged him silently further on.

Michael followed close enough that arms remained slack between them. Only occasionally did he look away from her and never once did he stop listening to what she had to say, soaking her in. He asked questions, seeking clarifications, and was impressed by her knowledge. Though he recognized a few of the things she pointed out, he didn't know more than half. In fact, the only thing he could add to any of it was that the seventeenth eye in the fourth row in the third display on the left belonged to someone he knew once, and that he was surprised to find it here. Hopefully it didn't mean anything beyond the eye having a new location, from skull to display case, but he didn't seem to disturbed by the notion it could have been worse. As they moved through the room, Michael glanced at her copy of the strip. "Want me to hold that for you?"

At his glance, her grip on the slip of photo paper tightened. It might not end up in a pristine fashion by the end of the night, but it was hers and like a child unwilling to share, she didn't want to let it out. Shaking her head and tucking it behind her as though he was thinking of snatching it from her, she moved on to the section with the targets and Beholders where her expression started to knot up and furrow. It appeared she didn't understand what the purpose of it was.

Michael smiled, in a fashion he had not smiled in a long time. Though the bittersweet weight of their combined natures weighed down on the edges, turning the smile at the corners, it was a much needed reassurance that, despite all that had just happened between his confession of words and confession of actions, she still cherished the strip and everything it represented. As a monster, it was easy for him to believe that no one wanted him, and that he was alone in the world, adrift in a dark sea without compass or direction. The tiny gesture of putting her photostrip behind her meant so very much. So much. So he smiled, and showed her how the exhibit worked. ?Like this,? he said, and demonstrated. The Voice told him the fine details, but he didn?t listen to it. Instead, he listened to her. What she said meant more. And he knew in that moment that it would always mean more. Always.

Relief was shown to the display when he took no effort to steal the slip of photo paper from her and allowed her to keep it, even in its newly wrinkling fashion. It was her brief moment of normalcy, documented proof that even a pair such as themselves could do a sweet and innocent romantic act. Not that she ever had any intention of ever letting any eyes outside of this very room see it. Once he began to demonstrate how the exhibit worked and was to be handled, the excitement and interest in it all slipped forth in an obvious nature again. Her own eyes were focused and alert, a sniper?s sharpness to them as she was given the opportunity to aim a stalk and destroy the target etched into the wall. ?I am almost disappointed this place was closed down.? Almost because if this place had drawn in a crowd, the two of them most certainly would not be visiting it.

?Maybe it?ll open back up some day, and we can sneak it when it?s closed.? Michael was truly happiest when they were alone, together. In the vast emptiness of the museum, when it was just the two of them, when they were honestly alone -- that was when the mad man felt the least lonely, the least on edge. The most complete. Jessica gave him something he did not yet understand, made him feel something scary, something strange. She made him want to be better. Not for him, but for her. She made him --

Happy. The feeling struck him as he watched her work.

She made him happy.

He sent a hand across her lower back and watched, smiling. He wished the moment could last forever. He wished the museum were infinite. He wished..

?Good shot, Jessica. Real good one.? The Knight smiled, and was happy.

https://33.media.tumblr.com/abe9d667ff12f23428523d183f446f0e/tumblr_nhmxsovf1l1u7w64vo1_1280.jpg

(Taken from live play between Mad Knight and Jessica Lucino.)
(Photo strip put together by Mad Knight.)

7.22.2014

( Editor?s Note: There is a missing scene preceding this where Michael, having recovered from his last encounter with Lenore, followed her to the Inn and attempted to explain himself and to give her a trophy of her victory (the helmet she had crushed). Over the course of a few minutes, Morgan stepped in to provide support for Lenore, Jessica showed up and moved into stop Lenore from shooting Michael on Morgan?s suggestion, and all hell broke loose. Ultimately, Lenore shot Jessica in the shoulder, Morgan blew off Michael?s arm with a burst of heat, and the two psychopaths left the Inn to see to their wounds. )

Lucky for both of them that Michael did not have to be carried out of the Inn, even with the utter and total destruction of his arm. But like any good Italian woman, just because Michael had a long and trying day, didn't mean that Jessica was going to let him off the hook without a lengthy and thick native tongued rant at his back throughout the Inn and into the alley way. Colorful promises and threats were dropped if he ever was to cause a repeat of the evening's most recent actions, she stopped there in the alley after the door shut behind them and leaned backwards against it to keep closed. Blood coated her left arm, now dripping with her own that was escaping through the wound in her shoulder. Reaching with her right hand to her back and discovering no exit hole, she grunted and finally silenced herself. He should only be terrified if she stays quiet for too long.

Though he was only a novice of the language of his violent tongued partner, he could pick out bits and pieces of what she was saying and translate them, rough and dirty, into his native English. What he heard didn't please him. Somewhere, a quiet voice was begging him to bare with her, and to give her the space she most certainly needed, but the chaos of pain and shock drowned it out. "Yeah, I would have been fine. Rather get shot in the face then lose my whole arm saving your life." His arm and then some, he meant. Michael was not only a whole limb short, but everything it connected to, too, was gone. The shoulder was a wet, cavernous mess and most of his chest was burnt down to muscle and bone. His face was peeling and his hair had been cooked off, sloughing from his skull in slimy patches. His clothes smoked, and everything was drenched in blood. When he stumbled down the alley, he left a scent of cooked flesh. He paused to see if she was coming, and even though he was missing eyebrows and lids, he managed an approximation of a frown. "You okay? How bad's the shoulder?"

More damage had been done to him, but there were parts of him that were surely already healing, perhaps even a certain amount of the pain was ebbing away --or the both of them were just going to continue to boil through the adrenaline that coursed through their veins. "****ing fine? Getting shot in the face is you being ****ing fine? Getting shot in the face by someone who has never fired a gun. Never fired. A ****ing gun. And she's going to shoot and hit a target that's the size of a silver dollar? Someone else could have gotten shot in there." Peeling off the wall then, she started forward, though it was after him and she continued to spit anger in her words, if he listened he'd catch that she was certainly more furious with the other pair who she had been forced to leave still standing. "Stupid twit fired off a shot when I was just trying to get the ****ing thing out of her hand and dismantle it." Had Jessica been allowed to (i.e, not shot), Morgan's gun would still be in pieces on the Inn floor for him to put together at a later time. "When do you ****ing shoot in a crowded room?" More than five people was considered a crowd in her mind after all. "I'm ****ing human. It doesn't grow back or heal over quickly." Teeth snapped at him as she finally came up beside him. "You look like ****."

Which could be Jessica speak for: Thank you.

"Just a bullet," in response to her concerns about his face, or the perceived concerns about his face. Michael had taken more than a single handgun around to his skull and simply gotten up, brushed himself off, and politely stabbed the other person to death. Lenore's attempt to get back at him was almost unfair to her. Not that he was going to tell her that in public. He turned to start walking as she caught up, careful not to bump into her as he shuffled left, right, left, at times lurching, at times stopping to collect himself. "Yeah. I feel like ****. Don't know what that was all about. Can't focus. Voice wants to say something but it's all noise. -- I'm in a lot of pain." He was never in a lot of pain, but he was currently having trouble even walking straight. In the residual heat, healing flesh bubbled and melted away as soon as it formed, sick pockets of ooze popping along the edges of the worst of the wounds. Not even Michael was used to damage quite like this. "Saw him summon it. The fire. Knew he'd go for you. Half think I should have just killed him." In the distance from the door to the street, Michael fell a bit behind Jessica, clearly relying on her to navigate for them. Or maybe it was just that he was keeping her downwind, where the blood from her wound wouldn't reach him. Its existence made his mouth itch. "You got a place close by? I really, really, really need to eat."

Which could be Michael's way of saying: We might have trouble.

"It's just a bullet as long as it hits you." A wild gesture then of her good arm and she decided then and there that arguing with him right now was as smart as arguing with a drunk. It likely wouldn't stop her from grumbling about it, but soon it could become more of an internal monologue instead of anything voiced for his ears. And then he said the magic word pain, which had her turning around before either one of them escaped the shadows of the alleyway. "Well if he ****ing summons fire let him teach her how to ****ing fight. Teaching her how to ****ing shoot should be the first thing on the list." Quick to hiss that out before she was shaking her head. "No, no I don't. Or well, define close. How far do you think you can go?" Right now she wasn't certain he could go half a block at this rate. She didn't have a place that close and she wasn't sure that they'd be able to get a cab at their current appearance. Her, just maybe. Certainly not him.

"If things go my way, I'll be the one teaching her to fight, not him. And the first rule, I promise, will be: no guns." Not because her aim was questionable, though it was true. Rather, Michael's thought was simpler and more straight forward: he disliked guns. It was also a little cocky of him, and in a saner moment, he might admit that they had their uses, and not everyone had his strength or durability to make up for the lack of firearms. Right now, though, the matter seemed settled in his head. On both accounts. If he had his way, he would begin training Lenore as soon as he'd healed up, and none of it would include a firearm of any sort. Michael grunted and took a lean against an alley wall, instantly painting it a new shade of red. "Depends. I can go all night if I have to, but. I won?t be doing it without something. I got nothing, Jessica, and I'm not healing this. .. I don't know how long I can keep it together." There was a wild flash in his eyes, the first stirring of a great and terrible hunger. Michael got himself under control almost instantly, but seemed drained by the effort. "If we can't sort it, you should go on alone. I don't want to .." the words trailed off, and he couldn't look at her. He pushed off the wall and started moving again.

"****ing ----I'm ripping her shoulder off if I see another ****ing gun in her hands." Sending the warning out into the air, whether in some twisted way the woman was a friend of his, she would never be a friend of Jessica's. ****ing **** ****." The word was just on repeat, as though it could dull away any sort of pain. With his trailed off warning, the shame showing in his body language more than his words, she tried to hold a hand to stop him again. It was another delay of time that they quite possibly didn't have, but it was an instant solution. "Do you think you can keep it together to not ****ing maul me? Because I can't be sucked dry and still get this ****ing bullet out myself, you know?" Or they're going to have to very sloppily gut a random stranger on the street.

"Ain't going to maul you, Jessica. I'd run away if it got that bad." There was wisdom in the idea of finding someone else, though, and he was having the same thought himself. Not enough to kill them. Barely enough to hurt them. But enough to soothe the Beast rampaging around in his chest, which only now was cooling off to a degree where it'd stopped sizzling. As if to prove his point, Michael didn't move on her, but instead past, chin ducking down in a bitter nod as he crossed. Just a little further, he thought, and into the open street, where there was enough wind flow and fresh air that she wouldn't smell so damn good. His good hand settled on the worst of the wound in his shoulder, where blackened bone stuck from the crispy slab of flesh, and he squeezed it as hard as he could. It was less to stop the bleeding and more to use the pain to numb everything else. He grunted, only because screaming would have been pointless. "Maybe there's someone we don't like just around the corner. If we're really lucky."

"Oi...Ascoltami!" Listen to me her tone screamed the translation to him where her tongue reverted to her childhood. "I meant here!" Thrusting her arm out towards him, drenched in red rivers of blood and droplets ready to fall from her fingertips. "Don't drink me dry, but drink enough so that you're not putting me in danger by being in your presence." In a roundabout turn of logic, it worked in her head. Because Jessica just wasn't lucky enough for a certain joke of a cop or a werewolf to come walking down the street at them. Then again, luck didn't seem to be on her side tonight, she could have never walked into the Inn at that right time and all would have been well.....enough. And Michael would just have a bullet rattling around inside his skull instead of Jessica getting to pick out the pieces in his apartment, or wherever they were going to be lucky enough to get to in order to stitch things up.

There was a total crash of his face, a flat line of the features that had, just seconds before, been twisted in alien agony. Fine muscles, melted away, tried to articulate the utter and bewildering confusion the offer caused. Feed from her. The offer was almost impossible to imagine, and the Beast of ancient sin and rage flared instantly in an unreal, wild roar. All thinking became as distant as a train, running the tracks miles and miles away. Feed from her. Michael drew from his dwindling supply of willpower to stand in place and not, as he wanted, had always wanted, and would always want, to taste her just one, more, time. He talked with an animal hunger, sharp canines impossible to hold in. "Jessica.. I'd rather die than hurt you." Feed from her. An attempt to turn away from her somehow turned into a turn into her, and he was driving both of them back against a wall with a surprising gentle grace. Whatever power he had to resist the temptation was burning away faster than his body. "Are you sure?" A whisper. Eyes went looking for hers.

"Yeah, well if you could suck the bullet out too, that would be ****ing great." A joke, a lapse into nearly sarcastic humor (since it would save her the trouble if he actually could do it) was given before he was driving her up against the wall. Gentle or not, she was already rolling with tension and bracing herself for the moment of impact. "So then maintain control." Pointed look up, unclear if she was staring back at him or the Beast that was crawling inside him and trying to come out. "Do it before I change my mind!" An attempt to shout then, but it came out as a harsh whisper, eager for him to follow through with it and to make it quick. Suspecting that he wouldn't be able to drink enough from her that would bring his arm back, but hopeful that it would at the very least be enough to ebb the pain in him away and shift them from instant harm's way. And get back to one of their homes to put him into full recovery and her to stitch herself up.

Instantly, and without warning, Michael's mouth found her throat and squeezed, hard yet painlessly, throwing her flat against the wall with an almost careless impact. Twin needles passed through her skin like two falling stars, hot things that struck the artery with impeccable, unerring aim, and opened it to let her blood into his mouth. It was surprisingly, shockingly tender, and though he had never needed anyone or anything more than in that single moment, he dealt out none of the terror his kind was so often known for. He drank her down by the mouthful and shoved his only hand into hers to wind and lock the fingers with a tremendous inertia. The shadow he cast swallowed her in their corner of the alley, and he created a private wall with his hulking presence, a fence of smoking, feeding Knight that no one would see past. They were as private in the moment as they could get, which was good, for somewhere in the savage crush of his lips against her neck and the grumbling, growling gulps, he was left bare for her to know, exposing to her his scar tissue soul for all its ugliness and nobility, all its self hatred and pride. And somewhere, deep down in all that mess, bright like the sun and twice as warm: love. A faint but honest flicker of, beautiful and true.

Michael finished feeding and forced himself to remove his teeth from her neck, swathing the skin with a flat tongue to heal the wounds. His head remained tucked against hers, twisted as it was, and he was at a loss of words. The Beast sat quieter, and Michael's shoulders sagged in its absence.

Forceful and gentle as he may have been, she still grunted before he started while her eyes clamped shut and squeezed tight. The fingers of her good hand tangled within his as her heart patterned out a rapid beat to pump blood faster into his mouth and down his throat. When he finished, a soft gasp escaped her mouth and while her throat was whole once more, her shoulder was a different story. He was basking in the quiet afterglow in the moment while Jessica let her eyelids start to flutter open. "Can we go now?" For once or just finally for the evening, her anger was subdued and had passed by. There were stitches to be done, and most likely more blood for him to drink in order for him to be nursed back to full health.

?Yeah. ...Thank you, Jessica. For everything. Let's go." By necessity, Michael peeled away first, but he kept the lingering touch of their hands until he needed to turn and walk. In all the unreality of their wounds, him smoking, her bleeding, it was entirely absurd in its sweetness, contrasting starkly with the image they presented. Had he a face worth looking at, or a mouth not burnt half away, he would have kissed her, and dulled her pain with all the intense feelings she stirred. As it was, he could strip paint with a glance, and she would have to make due with the placid calm she'd instilled in him. It still hurt, and few, if any, of his wounds had healed, but there was a singleness in him, now. A desire just to go home with her, tend to their wounds, and sleep.

It didn't stop her. If she had ever seen worse, she didn't say. In fact, she didn't say anything, no welcome or rant or confirmation as to which home would find them. Lips twisted for the corner of his mouth that remained, a moment of near normalcy before the ache in her bones and fire in her nerves were calling out to her once more. Fingers still laced with his, but she shifted to move away from the wall and start for a place to call home. For now, it would likely just be whichever one was closest.

(Taken from live play between Mad Knight and Jessica Lucino.)

9.28.14

Jessica Lucino: Idle hands were dangerous things, and when matched with a mind like hers it would naturally lead to things that were rather explosive in nature. A few things you could be sure of in this town, one of them would be that the Chemist was armed. Tonight was apparent in the razor sharp pleats of her skirt as she grunted and headed in through the alleyway door. And that probably wasn't a toy ball she was tossing up into the air and catching in her palm over and over again.

Bad Knight: "Thanks, gorgeous. I wont be long. Just paying a visit, and then I'll be right back to you. I promise. And then we can do all the things you want." The hunk from another dimension was kissing the mysterious portal opener with more tongue than lips as he stepped backwards from his world into this one, looks smoldering and three piece suit close fitting. No Malk had ever looked better, or been as handsome with a smile. The portal shut behind him and he turned to look at the front door of the Inn. Ahh, he thought. Yes. This place. Like home, only more boring. He kicked the door in and sauntered in, tight butts swaying this way and that. "All right. Whooooo to nail." Beautiful eyes scanned left, scanned right. Oh! It was -- what was her name again? "Cooper!" Crying out, and waving.

Jessica Lucino: While it was prudent to one's survival to keep an eye out for Jessica and just what her hands were up to, it was also quite wise to not stare too long less you start to stir up trouble. Her nose twitched as she cast a look out over the others inside and milling about. Her boots kept her clear of the other patrons, her final destination being the bar as she continued her little coy game of catch.

Canaan: The Cajun is pleased. He wears the expression all the way around the bar to fetch himself a drink.

Jessica Lucino: Though she caught the small ball, her attention was jerked to the side at the name that was being called. But the oversized Cowboy was nowhere to be seen. Grrrrunt. Stalling out her steps, Jessica took a long inhale of the air around her, to see if her eyes were failing her as she looked around.

Gemethyst: One elf came up the back way, through the alley and then into the inn. She was in the usual leather armor, braid, and mostly hidden weapons. Except for the ones that were not. A pitcher of sangria sounded damn fine about now, and she looked like she could use something. Tired, and too thin, but she looked well enough. Not so much sparkling elf, though.

Bad Knight: Oh, maybe waving wasn't going to do it. She was incredibly hot. Mike was getting a good eye full of that skirt! Sharp enough to cut yourself on! So, he switched from waving and instead leveled her with a look. But not just a look. The look. Oh, yes. It was sex and kink and fun expressed only with eyes and lips and a -- well, his whole body, really. With a swagger, he was walking up to 'Cooper'. "Hey, beautiful. Remember me?"

Canaan: Hazel eyes lift to Sal, grinning. He gives the bottle a quick flip and catches it deftly. But oh, the Spaniard wasn't even looking. Too bad for him! He hides the bottle in the very back of the lower shelves.

Gemethyst: The elf spotted the shaved head of Sal and the green one of Les as she made her way behind the bar. A silent smile to Les if she saw it, but she left Sal alone. A nod was sent to Serah and Cane, with friendly smiles to the ones she didn't know.

Jessica Lucino: She didn't see him, and she didn't smell him. But she got a massive whiff of all the others inside, and one in particular who was just on her way inside. About to snarl out in Gem's direction before footsteps approaching led to the instant knee jerk reaction of her twitching fingers. A flash of silver drawn out and was pointed up at the man. "Step back or ----" Cut off as she stared at him. And then down at what he was wearing. The confusion was clear. The shock was lingering.

Bad Knight: Threesome? Threesome! Mike was all about -- oh, hey. The woman in the short skirt was holding a weapon. Hands went up. "Hey. Hey. That costs extra." It was like buttstuff, except he did buttstuff for free. Step back, and a glance around for a body to pick up and put between and 'Cooper'. Eyeing Gem. She would do nicely. He got ready to pounce if he had to. Unless, of course, 'Cooper' had money. "Are you sure you want to spend that money?"

Gemethyst: Yes, she noted the sneer. She didn't give him one back. The elf was too nice for that. On with cutting fruit.

Jessica Lucino: "What the **** are you talking about?" Though holding the scalpel still, she tipped it more upwards as opposed to immediately directed at him. Grrrrrunt. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Canaan: He's eyein' Mike now, recognizing the man's accent. Home. There was a little too much of that happening lately. And now Sal was leaving? "Bye," he called after him.

Bad Knight: "If you want to cut me, it costs extra. If you got the money we can go right up stairs." Point point at the ceiling with one hand, point point at her scalpel with the other hand. Step step step closer to Gem. Smile. Smile smile smile.

Canaan: Well then. He's alone with his bourbon and only one familiar face. Lucky her. "So." He was leaning on the bar now. "L....es. Les. Les? Righ'?"

Gemethyst: She even cut the fruit into pretty little swirls. Then dropped them in the pitcher. Adding in the rest of the ingredients she stirred it up and poured herself a long, tall iced glass of Sangria.

Jessica Lucino: "Did you become a prostitute for sadists?" Blunt and to the point, green eyes suddenly alert to the fact that he was edging closer to Gem. Grrrrrowl. Shock was wearing off as anger worked its way into her bones.

Gemethyst: Someone approached. The elf looked up and away, and then back again. "Ye gods..." Mike.

Bad Knight: Growling?! Oh, well. That got his -- attention. "Babe. I've always been a prostitute. Though I prefer the term 'escort'. It's soooo much more polite." Which he wasn't. "Tell you what. I'll give you a discount, because I like the growling." Wink.

Gemethyst: And a growling Jessica. She stared at the woman. She heard Mike. Wild emotions suddenly whipped through her. She looked like a statue except for the eyes. They sort of blazed.

Canaan: "Da **** is goin' on?" A hand out, gesturing between Mike and Jess. There was tension between the two and on Gem's face, but he wasn't clear on the actual problem.

Bad Knight: Foreplay, Canaan. The term for this was foreplay.

Gemethyst: For a moment there she'd been all set to ...do something very crazy. When Mike started chatting up Jess and her growling it hit her that it wasn't aimed at her. She looked down at her hands and...put down the fruit chopping knife. Maybe it was a bad night to be out in public.

Jessica Lucino: That admission of his caused her eyes to draw wide and somehow, she managed to not drop both objects from her hands. "You're.....what?" It was just words, but they caused her to stumble backwards and suddenly stare at the ground. Shaking her head as her mind started spinning around and around.

Bad Knight: "I screw for money. And I'm the best there is. Suck the soul outta a man straight through his ****. And I can make you unable to walk for a week." He was also expensive! He put on the charm, putting his hands down to straighten his tie and smooth his vest.

Gemethyst: There was a drink for her, right there on the bar. Stubbornness flickered over her face and she lifted up her chin, picked up the glass and moved around to the patron side of the bar to settle on a stool. Another nod to Cane and Les as she joined their side, though several stools away from them. She was trying really hard not to hear Mike.

Bad Knight: Why not?! He's expensive, but affordable!

Gemethyst: She doesn't need to pay!

Bad Knight: Everyone pays.

Jessica Lucino: "Stop." Her voice was clear for once, but unwavering in the request. She didn't want to hear any more and looked up at him. Torn between a mortified and confused expression, the chemist continued to back-peddle.

Gemethyst: The dark-haired guy looking around was noted, but in an absent way. What had her attention at the moment was her drink and the odd way that Jess was acting. Back-peddling Jess was a strange sight to see. Unheard of.

Canaan: He makes no mention of the cold grasp. He's not usually fond of vampires, but Zynn seemed fine with her. "Likewise." Grin. Sip. Hazel eyes back on Mike and Jess.

Bad Knight: "You.. you don't want a good time?" Who didn't want a good time? Mike moved closer to her so he could be in her 'bubble'. Hip bones cut savage lines, pointed at her. "C'mon, babe. Let's go do this."

Canaan: "A few weeks," giving Lesinda a shrug. Then the Cajun puts his drink down. "Hey, da lady said ta stop." Very clearly addressing Mike, but doesn't move from his stool yet.

Cianan: Cianan was slipping out of the kitchen, he had a wrap in hand, taking slow crunches out of it. Mm. Veggies! He took a slow breath, his fingers reach out to snag hold of a napkin from the bar. He cleaned his hand off, and took another bite. Crunch!

Gemethyst: Gem turned her head to Cane and her eyes went wide. Then she shook her head at him. Don't go there, man.

Jessica Lucino: Her eyes were a warning, but maybe one that he couldn't read when they were so wild. Pupils dilated, taking over the green and fighting it till the very edge as her back-peddling stopped and she wrapped her hand tightly around the ball in her palm to form a fist. "Step. Away. Now." A struggle to speak and still sound human, a deep undertone took hold in her voice. Grrrrrrrunt.

Canaan: What'd Gem know that he didn't? Pierced brow lifts, watching her shake her head in his peripheral.

Gemethyst: Of all the people in the room, the one she was most sure could take care of themselves was Jess. Gem's hands danced in complex flutters, trying to get this across. Possibly not very well.

Cianan: And Cianan was stopping short, when he heard the grunt, his head turning over to the side. Jess back peddling? Her back was against a wall. "Well, hell." Cianan was just going to scoot away, taking another bite of the wrap. He did not want to be anywhere near that, no.

Bad Knight: Oh, and for Canaan? Smirrrrk!

Cianan: Cianan blinked, hearing Wham Bam Thank you Tan. He wiggled his fingers over towards Lucy. She was leaving. "Evening, Luce." Well, he was going to be watching, keeping an eye out for things.

Canaan: Cane's no mind reader and Gem's gestures did nothing to help. The Cajun just stares at Mike, gaze hardening and jaw tightening. The grunt from Jessica? Weird. It gave him pause.

Cianan: Cianan pointed his wrap towards Canaan. "Don't step into that **** unless you want to get cut." The war zone of a Drow. Oh. Cianan turned from the warning, and gave Lucy a smile. "Hey there. How are things?" Taneth was given a waggle of his wrap, in greeting. And.. well, Sal, the description fits. "Right now? On edge" He mumbled a bit, "Do yourself a favor, watch that girl. She's sharp." She'll cut you. "Other than that, I have food. I might see some blood. Things are looking up for the evening. How about yourself?"

Canaan: He'd decided to stay out of it unless the douchecanoe laid a hand on the woman. Most of his attention returned to Lesinda. "How long y'all known each ot'her?"

Bad Knight: Le Sigh. His body language said, 'fine, fine.' His lips said, "Wow. You're boring. I thought you might actually be a little fun. I'm going to find someone who isn't so uptight." With a queen-like 'hmmph', he turned on a heel to see who else there was. Presenting his backside. His fine, fine backside.

Cianan: Cianan was a little disappointed.

Gemethyst: Well, that made him at least as dangerous at Jess, though folks might discount that because of the ribbons. But Gem didn't. She looked at him askance, trying to think of anything she had done wrong lately. But the list was too damned long, so she gave it up as a bad job and slipped off the stool, lest Mike target her again.

Cianan: No, no. He wasn't behind the bar at the moment, he was out in the open. Imagine that! Cianan's eyes and soon his wrap would point to Jess, at least briefly.

Jessica Lucino: Her fist tightened and squeezed as the contents in her hand cracked underneath the pressure. Smoke trickled out from it slowly before the smoke bomb began working faster and started filling up that corner of the room --obviously because the Chemist had opened her hand at that point and dropped the remains on the ground. There was a slam of the alleyway door, and that sickly sweet smell in the air that gave away the woman's presence, faded when the smoke would.

Bad Knight: Cough, cough. Waving hand. He looked over his shoulder at the smoke. Cough. The hell?

Cianan: Cianan was coughing as well, waving his hand and scowling. His eyes narrowing. "That turned out far better than I could have imagined." Mumbled, and he took another bite from his veggie wrap. His head turned towards Helena, giving her a nod of his head.

Bad Knight: Well, that was enough for him! Mike smiled and offered the prettiest (and richest looking) people there a charming smile before hitting the front door and heading out into the street.

( Scene cut from live play at Red Dragon Inn between Jessica Lucino, Bad Knight, Canaan, Gemethyst, and Cianan. That you to everyone involved! )

Christmas, 2014

Cold are the people, winter of life. We tremble in shadows this cold endless night.

The street was not coated in pitch black, but instead dotted with broken patterns of lit street lamps and those already extinguished due to the chilled wind in the air. Streets in the distance were decorated brightly with Christmas lights and they twinkled from afar to offer faint light to stretch out and up into the evening sky. The night hung heavy and the shadows flickered and crawled across the cracked concrete and cobble stones that made up the street.

Jessica loitered under a single street lamp that was close to being snuffed out as she waited for Michael?s arrival for the ?surprise? she had only offered vague hints and clues about. It was what he was owed, and he did not need to bring anything unless he wished to. He could dress how he wished to, but she was eager to have the night be just for the two of them. It was not a surprise that he would be disappointed receiving.

Or so she hoped.

Ice hung from window sills and rooftops, which were snow speckled and kissed with frost. A rare occurrence was the fact that she was wrapped up in a black leather coat, fitted and belted closed at the waist. The collar was upturned to shield from the wind and chill, but more so to block off some of the too telling scent that was the pharmacist. Black heels shifted and the woman moved in the haloed spotlight on the street, black sheer stockings did little to ward off the winter, but considering the woman, it was unlikely she felt any of the season?s weather at all.

On any other night, the black van was death, a rumble-engine monster rolling down back streets, looking for a victim, prowling, stalking, ready to take a life in violent displays of red and screams. Michael only got behind the wheel when he truly needed to have everything at hand, from stake to chainsaw, sword to shotgun. It was the ultimate case of preparation. He had not driven it since the night, months ago, when they carved a path through a hundred restless undead. Fitting, then, that he was driving it tonight. Fitting, and telling. Michael had been working, and whatever he had been doing, it had been quite a task. A fresh dent lay in the hood; the Knight had hit something. Something large. There were cracks in the windshield painted bright green by the internal fluids of something wholly not human. Inside, Michael grinned madly, and danced the van back and forth across the lanes, occasionally singing along to the radio.

"My lover's got humor. She's a giggle at a funeral. Knows everybody's disapproval. I should have worshipped her sooner.." He took the turn onto the addressed street with a wide loop, headlights sweeping across the sides of buildings and onto the road until they focused on Jessica. Michael aimed right at her. If he wasn't slowing and down shifting, it might have come off like he meant to hit her, maybe add a second new dent. A dozen yards out, he took his foot off the gas and coasted in. The van stopped a few feet away, and the whole thing creaked when he pulled the emergency brake. From inside, Michael waved at her and even bounced a little in his seat before almost practically jumping out. He, too, had dressed up, but his black suit was? bloodied, torn. The white shirt beneath the suit jacket was missing buttons. The red tie had clearly been used in an attempt to choke or control him. Michael was oblivious to these things. He thought he looked good. And she.. she was..

"Stunning," he said, smiling crookedly. He looked around awkwardly before quickly stepping over and trying to plant a kiss square on her lips. The engine was still running and the headlights bathed them both.

Fearless as she was bathed in more light and a pair of rumbling beasts were aimed straight for her, one mechanical and the other physiological and both regularly spotted with fresh blood. Her steps didn?t move her away, but kept her stationary as he arrived eager to escape the metal cage of the van and taste the flavor of her mouth. No cigar or even gloss coated her smile, but bourbon was lingering on the tip of her tongue to be noticed in the midst of their kiss.

A glance was cast down for his compliment, the gesture silently suggesting the phrase ?this ole thing?? before she turned around slowly to give him a 360 degree look. Immersed in the light from the van?s headlights it was easier to see the black coat, the black heels, the sheer black seamed stockings and the slight hint of a black hemline of a skirt worn underneath the coat. Something glittered tucked away in her hair that was partially pinned back and left to hang long down her back, though there was little doubt that it was just as dangerous as it was sparkling in dark brown strands.

If he managed to look further than her and see the building behind her, a pair of massive and older carriage doors would come into view, the kind one may have once opened up to drive a fire engine through. The old brick building was massive, taking up just a bit more than two stories and a block or so. It loomed behind her as a silent backdrop, and lacked a giant red bow that belonged on it.

In that moment though when she turned back around to face him, she did not mention the building. Rather, she tipped her head and empty hands reached out to the red tie at his throat. ?You have had fun without me?? If she had ever been the type, she might have pouted. Instead, she was inquisitive and seeking out blood to touch.

As she turned, one of Michael's hands settled on her lower back and traced a circle around her hips, turning to run knuckles against her pelvis, turning again to allow his vast palm to rest comfortably on the crest of her spine. It was hard to look past her, so much so that only the Voice recognized what was going on, and Michael wasn't paying it any attention. His free arm was around her and drawing her into a second kiss. He answer her question with a mischievous, deep rumble. "Been workin'. Had to get your gift." Michael grinned wide, bright white teeth contrasting sharply with his skin and attire. "Had to hit it with the van a few times. Would have been here earlier, otherwise." His head jerked back at the van even as he bent down to run his mouth over her throat. A dash of tongue, a hint of canines, and Michael was finally disentangling and letting her go. Now he was listening to the monotone passenger in his head. Green eyes looked past her.

"Where are we? What is this place?" Why were they here? Was his gift inside? Michael, eager to know the answers, bounced away to lean into the van and turn it off. He shut the door, locked it, and walked backwards to the rear, attention split between Jessica and the building. Had he been thinking, he might have left the van on for the inevitable drive inside, but he hadn't entirely worked out what was going on. The voice was saying, This is a firehouse, but seemed to be hiding details from him out of spite. The Knight vanished behind the van briefly, opening the door, grabbing something, and closed the door behind him. He reemerged with a box beneath a velvet cover the color of deep green, somewhere between the shade of their eye colors and an emerald. It fit beneath one of his arms, but only barely.

Coaxed up close to him, she let her neck stretch out and her head lean back while he explained between animalist affection and carnal desires were made clear. Fingertips lingered at his chest and she nearly extended her arms in an effort to keep him close, but the timing of his own questions had her letting him go as he wished. There would be plenty of time to unwrap and entangle themselves in each other once they were inside.

As he disappeared behind the van, Jessica pulled out a ring of keys from a jacket pocket and they jingled in the night. No need to break into the building, just as she felt little to no need to explain or answer his pair of questions either. While he produced a large box draped in velvet, she turned for a more average sized door ?though large enough that even Michael would not need to stoop in through ?to unlock it. She was never much for words, so she suspected that her silence would not be very surprising.

When he had clearly followed her for the door, the key was turned and the door opened for him. Instead of walking in before him, she shook her head to indicate that he was to go in first and she would follow.
Light from inside would now spill out through the open door, spread out on the sidewalk and push the shadows back for the time being. The firehouse was perhaps a bit more updated than his previous one, already sporting steel shutters outside of the windows the building had, and clearly wired for electricity and (though not so obvious) running water. Some furniture was inside, but it was sparse and really only provided for the evenings intentions, a pair of chairs, a table ?elsewhere there was likely a bed with a new mattress.

The scent of fresh paint was nearly faded, but obvious to those who had a keen sense of smell like they did. What details she believed he was looking for in a new home were provided, as well as minor comforts she was favorable to (running water and fresh sheets on the bed upstairs specifically). Most noticeably for now though, they were stepping into a very large and massive room which could very well become a garage. Fitting, considering the carriage doors were right there.

Michael was many things, and had been many things, and would, in the future, become many other things, and over the last year he had become a man who placed a lot of trust in Jessica. If he was expected to enter first, he entered first. If she didn't want to explain herself, he did not press. Likewise, he didn't explain the box, nor did he offer it to her yet. The mystery of the building was too great, too pressing, for the gift exchange. And the enormity of her gift was such that, even as he stepped inside, even as he turned around and looked the firehouse over, even when it was obvious that she was coming through for him, he still expected just to see something in the corner that was his, while the building proper was, as all the other places he had slept this last half year, was hers. It took some minutes for it to sink in.

"Jessica..." he intoned, setting the box down lest he break it in the building excitement. He started bounding around, peeking around corners, looking up stairs. Each discovery built upon the previous. "Jessica!" The fireman's pole was spotted, and he started laughing, half running over and, with a leap, landing on it to climb up far enough to look at the next floor. He dropped down on the border of a giggle fit. "Jessica! You didn't!" She did! Green eyes were wide, stunned. And it had power! And, if his sense of hearing was right, there was water running through the pipes! It was even heated, which -- though not important, was a nice touch. Michael was laughing, spreading hands wide and gesturing. "This.. is this mine? You didn't. Did you?" ----he was going to need to get her a better gift. Not that Christmas was a competition, but she had definitely won here. Michael came at her from across the room with some speed, seeking to pick her up and spin her around with him in an embrace.

After he stepped inside, she followed through the doorway herself and shut the door behind her. No effort made to lock it up, for it would be a fool that would enter in after they were already inside. Keeping a distance from him as he looked around to take in the details, she followed him enough to simply keep him in sight and be able to watch the subtle changes in his expression. She noted what stunned him, and what drew humor from him. She watched the delight in his eyes form, and the wrinkle of crow?s feet at their edges as his smile grew broad and wide.

?All yours.? Her nod was slight since his attention was darting this way and that. Before he managed to come racing towards her, she had brought out a folded up deed from inside her jacket and held that with the set of keys in her hand. But instead of exchanging them into his possession and making that official, she was up in the air in a spinning type of hug with her arms wrapped around him and her smile tucked into the crook of his neck. Her laughter was brief but like a child?s as his joy became infectious.

?There is space in the back for a forge, vented and ready, though not yet built.? There were some details she felt that were best for him to handle and do with exactly as he wished, but the majority of the ground work was finished for him. Empty space waiting for him to fill up with tools and machines, floors waiting to be stained with blood and oil, a home waiting to be filled with his belongings and become his very own.

His very own. Not long had gone since he'd last been able to live somewhere that was his own, but it had been an awkward period. Now, thanks to Jessica, he was going to have his own corner of the city again, somewhere distinctly his. Without setting her down Michael kissed her long, hard, and deep, grunting when finally their tongues disengaged and he was forced, out of courtesy, to plant her back on her own two feet. "I love you. I hope you have a key. If you don't, I'll make you one." --he said it without thinking about it, but knew instantly that it was the right thing to say. What had gone up in flames in the summer had been his place, What was rising up in the winter would be theirs, even if she would spend much of her time at the lab. Michael kissed her again, slower, with just his lips, cupping her face on either side. He said it again, "I love you," and looked her in the eyes. He said something else, too, without thinking about it, without realizing it, and without remembering it, as the thing that said it was the primal part of him so often outside of his control. "Mine." Then he kissed her one last time, quickly, and took a step back. Sometimes, the only thing that kept him from taking her then and there was a bit of space.

He tried to straighten out his suit and tie while nodding at the box he'd brought in. "That's yours. It's nothing compared to all of this, but I put a lot of effort into it. I hope you like it. The rest is in my van, and you can have that, too. No box for it, though. Why don't you open it, and then we can look around this place while I decide what goes where." His smile was broad, though the excited corners were subdued by a sudden concern she would not like what she found beneath the velvet. The box itself was made of cherry wood and brass except for one side, which was thick, old world glass. The corners and edges were all framed by the bright metal, while the wood itself was as dark as blood. The inside of the box, seen through the glass, was bare wood. There was a maze of mirrors, though it was hard to tell, that allowed light to travel from the inside depths of the box to the glass surface without there being a single direct line of sight.

Which was good, considering Michael had laid a gorgon's head inside. Tonight's 'fun', displayed for her, as safe as it was dangerous.

It was as though he had hauled her up by the collar of her coat the way she dangled carelessly in the air as they kissed again and again like a pair of hormone thrumming teenagers. Pressing the deed and ring of keys into his hands after she was set back down on the ground, she finally spoke up again in response to continuous profession of love. ?Yours.? Breathless against his lips before the break of space was given and her attention was directed to the velvet draped box.

?I was not in need of a ?? Cut off as she pulled the fabric free from the box to look inside and immediately recognize just what it was. Moments ago she was just smiling mildly in response to his own wonder of the firehouse, but now her eyes sparkled in a manner that mirrored the evening star, dazzling and brilliant. ?You found one!?

Sinking down to the box?s level, kneeling there on the floor with her fingers nearly itching to get inside the box. But instead of breaking the glass or opening it up, her hand caressed the wood and brass d?cor of the box as her eyes darted all over it to make a quick examination of it. ?It is?? Unable to find a word fitting for what she thought of the gift in return, she finally settled on ?Fantastic!? after a breath or two.

One could dress the Chemist up, but one could never change her. There was not a quicker way to get her attention or happiness than to give her organs.

The keys went into a pocket of some pants he was going to have to find tomorrow night when he finally woke, as they would surely end up somewhere they did not belong. The deed was more carefully set aside, safe and out of the way. He did these things while she looked, and when she was peering inside, he was settling in behind her. "Of course. Took a while, drummed a lot of goblins until they finally told me where I could find one. Wouldn't you know it, they warned her before I showed up. Still took her down. She ended up running down the street from me! The nerve." Hence hitting her with a van. Michael laughed, and he put his hands over hers and showed her how the bottom could slide out. "When you want to get inside, go through here." He didn't warn her about the danger of being exposed directly to the head. She knew, and he trusted her to be safe with it. "Head's in perfect condition, surprisingly. The rest of her.." his voice trailed off into another laugh, and he shrugged and stood up. "Pretty sure you can get a lot of good stuff out of her. Cold enough in the van she can stay out there tonight, and I'll leave you the keys to take the van in the morning if you want." He was watching her, waiting for her to be finished with the box before taking her off to explore.

?It?s wonderful. It?s perfect.? The body, in the van and in pieces or partially destroyed was something she could look at later. The head had everything she wanted to touch and test, dissect and admire all in one place. After the sliding bottom of the box was shown to her, the velvet was reached for again to be hung over the box once again, like a blanket over a bird cage. Then looking up to him, a hand found his before she was pulling herself up off her knees and back to her feet once more.

Grrrrrunt. ?Thank you.? Said in the same whisper that I love yous were so often exchanged, her tone spoke more volumes than a pair of words ever could have. Her hand squeezed inside of his own massive palm before green eyes scanned the nearby area and then turned up to him. ?Now what would you like to see next??

"You're welcome. I'm so happy you like it." Michael beamed proudly.

Holding hands. Such a funny thing. He had never, ever held hands with someone, never expressed his connection to another being through physical affection, never dragged someone around excitedly, or simply stood there on a street corner, fingers locked. But Jessica.. oh, Jessica. He would hold her hand while the world burned. Michael's fingers interlaced with hers and he smiled, rubbing his thumb against her palm. His head tilted while he thought, and when he looked away, he was .. sniffing at the air.

"Hm. I think I know what I want to see." And he was off, at a speed comfortable for her, but still fast. He was navigating blind, unsure of where exactly to turn, or what hallways to take. They started by going up stairs and stopping here or there at the rooms so Michael could mentally map what would go where, or ask her questions or get opinions, but they were the shortest of detours. Finally, after a few attempts, Michael found exactly what he was looking for. She shouldn't be surprised, really, as he was dirty, though it was going to mean her outfit didn't last as long as it should have:

Michael found the showers, and while they stood in the doorway, he looked at her and squeezed her hand. "I want the first time in here to be like our first time in the lab." Though where there had been a hardness then, a needing, a hunger, there was now a softness. Love, though no less bright, burned longer and with less sharpness. Michael turned her to face him and kiss her tenderly and with all the affection he had denied everyone previous.

January 10, 2015

Michael strolled with practiced laziness and whistled some languid, dirty jazz song, booted feet dragging with each little kick-step drum beat. Long hands were tucked into leather jacket pockets, spidery fingers plucking at the strings of an invisible guitar. At odd moments he swayed to the unheard song. He was, in short, distracted. Dinner had been an adequate waste of time, even if they never got the crust right, nor put enough jalapenos on the pizza. Jessica was dressed up, but he didn't know why. Not that he was complaining; the flame of his life looked great in heels, so good it hurt to look at her, such that the hollow in him ached and rumbled. If he looked too long, he felt like he had a fever, that she was the only thing that could possibly quench the heat in his head, or that he might catch fire, turn to ash, and fly away madly into the cold winter air.

At least, that's how he felt when she wasn't giving him a look. Something unseen was involved in their night together, some trap or problem or time bomb, something he had done or said or not done or not said or thought or maybe hadn't thought. From the moment he'd shown up at her place in dirty jeans, bloodied flannel shirt, and bullet marked leather jacket, with her looking so -- perfect -- she seemed, if he had to put a word to it; upset, annoyed, angry, even disappointed. Not that he dared, even to himself, to claim he understood her. There were just signs that even he could see.

His tune came to an end and he stopped, almost suddenly, at the mouth of one of the many alleys they took on their way back to his place. He was staring at her, then frowning, even squinting. At great risk to himself, and only after a quick mental prayer, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

Jessica had been compared to a mine field, a ticking time bomb, an incredible explosive force that would not only singe the hair on one?s skin but melt the flesh off their very bones. She had been labeled as a mad scientist, both insane and genius in her creations; a violent type of vixen who would show obvious delight at pulling out someone?s intestines and wrap them around her shoulders as though it was a mink coat. One thing most people forgot, or never realized, was that she was a woman. A woman who never forgets. A woman who didn?t crave sweet nothings to be whispered into her ear, but did enjoy gifts and remembered dates and promises made to one another.

In truth, she hadn?t been disappointed that they sat in a pizzeria with red and white checkered table cloths. She wasn?t disappointed that the jalapenos were lacking in each bite or that the restaurant served red vinegar and tried to pass it off as wine. But she was disappointed in the fact that Michael had made no mention of what day it was, or had yet to make the evening special or different from any other night they may have gone out. Even as they were coming through the alley, he made no effort to hold her hand. The latter may have had something to do with the fact she was not walking in time with him and either fell behind or stalked ahead of him, -- but that was besides the point.

When he stopped and finally asked, red fabric flared and fluttered with her sharp turn in his direction. Her expression was flat while green eyes took on an obvious glare. ?Whatever could have given you that idea?? Sarcasm and arsenic were laced in her tone and question. But she didn?t give him much time to respond to that before she was giving him something to latch onto and start the gears in his head moving. ?Do you even remember what today is??

There was something almost no one knew about Michael, and maybe, given that he wasn't even sure if his sire or her other children were still on this side of the ground, absolutely no one knew; he was unbelievably bad with time over the long term. Between his madness, his age, and the older spirits that took up residence in his head, a day could be a week, a week could be a day, the months took a life time, and the years vanished behind him without evidence. The clock went tick-tock-tick-tock and the Malk went through his nights until they ran together in long, dark smears, too fast, and too slow, smashing into each other with all the violence of icebergs and continental land masses. Evidence:

".. Tuesday?" His face made an ugly look. He never liked Tuesdays. Nothing good ever happened on Tuesdays. Evidence:

"Is it -- Valentine?s Day already?" A frown. He didn't understand holidays.. There were a lot of them and they had a lot of strange rules and they reminded him all to much of church, which he hated. Evidence:

"Was I supposed to get you flowers?" Michael winced, as they very thought of forgetting something important to her hit him as hard as a fist or a gunshot. He watched her closely and hoped for a sign. Wisdom, at least, told him to shut up. The Voice wasn't listening, but it wasn't saying anything important, either, so he ignored it. Something about it being a ?year?, which was just a unit of time.

Maybe she should have planned to give him a calendar instead for their anniversary. He was grasping at straws and repeatedly coming up empty handed. Jessica simply stared at him as though her gaze would either burn straight through him or ignite him on sight. Michael was not so lucky and so she rolled her eyes away from him to start forward for the mouth of the alley. Her stomping pace had every step causing her heels to let out a dull click against the concrete.

Heat may have always radiated off her skin, but the annoyance and frustration now were coming off of her in thick waves and boiling her blood. ?No, it?s not Tuesday. It?s Saturday. January tenth.? The explanation he was looking for, the glimmer of light in the darkness he wanted soon escaped her mouth. ?I guess expecting you to remember the anniversary of when we first met is asking too much of you.?

Anniversary. Now there was a word he knew, but not first hand, much like most knew of gunshot wounds or the burning kiss of fire, but did not know them directly. Michael?s eyes grew vacant as he withdrew into the muddy space that was his skull, where the Voice held audience.

Anniversary; the date on which an event took place the previous year. The day you two met. You fought, you fed, she left. I have been telling you that all night. You should listen more often, Michael.

Outloud, Michael responded, ?So that?s what you?ve been trying to tell me all night.? It could have been to Jessica, or it could have been to the Voice, or even both. Green eyes grew sharp again and Michael popped into motion, talling legs crossing the distance to the end of the alley in a small number of strides. ?Jessica, wait??

Like most men, he had absolutely no idea of how to recover from this, but as was his nature, he was not going to go down without a fight. It was entirely too bad that love was a new battlefield to him, and one he was clumsy on.

It was the beginning of a mundane fight, where maybe if they had been any other pair it would have resulted in simply slamming doors in his face or forcing him to sleep on the couch. His request for her to wait, his final plea after the realization of what the entire night had been about had her spilling out of the mouth of the alley and into the street light, out of the shadows.

Haloed in light, she turned back again towards him in the darkness between the closed down buildings. A brow lifted, quirked in an arch to silently question him and wait for his response. Sparing him the ever dreaded foot-tap and only fixing him with another look that he?d been on the receiving end of all evening. She waited.

Three bulky forms loitered at the corner of nowhere and dead ends ahead, shrouded in shadows as they extended their bare hands over a burning fire held in an a metal trashcan. Orange, red and yellow flames licked upwards and flickered heat into the cold winter night to make their steadfast wait more bearable. Patience was just one of the virtues which they were paid for holding. Another was alertness, and as a particular scent caught in one?s nose, he lifted his head to look down the street.

?There she is. That?s her.?

?Are you sure it?s not another hooker??

?The nose knows. Can?t you smell that??

?Remember what you?re supposed to do??

But before Michael would have a chance to blunder an apology, Jessica?s attention would be directed elsewhere to two approaching voices and a half a dozen boots against the concrete. Her head craned slowly in their in direction, the fire burning under her skin and in her eyes focusing on them. Though she was not wearing her typical attire that certainly did not mean she was not armed. The heels alone she was wearing would be enough to puncture an organ if she kicked out, or even better ?would crush a larynx if she stepped on their throat. These were the types of thoughts weaving in through her mind, effectively replacing her extreme annoyance with Michael, however temporary it might be.

Two of the three heads bobbed in agreement before all of them came rushing forward with an unexpected speed for their size. Their intentions were to tackle her up against a wall and drag her into the alley, but there is always a gap between intention and action.

Mundane was not something that Michael did because he had never been anything but. The man was madness and pain down to the atom, and the map of his life was an endless sea of 'Here Be Dragons' and dark caves best left untouched. He simply did not have a concept of normal, except that it was something other people sometimes were, an unfathomable, incomprehensible quality of self and life not meant for him. Anything even verging on normal gave him fits, like remembering dates, living in the 21st century, or holding civil discussions with people who bothered him. It should be obvious, then, to Jessica or anyone that knew him, that he had absolutely no idea how to proceed from here. If he couldn't fight or scare the problems in front of him, or if he couldn't wait them out over the span of months or years, then he was at a loss. Jessica was mad and he didn't know what to do. Maybe he could throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness, as a Knight to his Queen ...

Except sometimes, very rarely, fortune smiled upon him. As Michael neared the edge of the shadows, three men surged at Jessica, putting hands on her and giving him a problem he could solve with his usual methods. Luck even put him out of their line of sight, giving him the element of surprise. Without giving it a thought, Michael stepped forward, said "Hello!" with a booming voice, and grabbed the nearest man holding her by the back of the neck. A boot drove him down to one knee with a distinct crunch of bone. "Not your lucky day, fellas." Michael ripped him off Jessica with the other hand, driving a shoulder into the man unfettered with holding her against the wall. "She's sorta my girl, and I've already pissed her off." The Malk started dragging the pained man backwards, dropping him some feet away from the wall, and looked down on him with a head shake. "Should have stayed home and called your moms like good boys." And then Michael did what he was really, truly good at -- he grabbed the man's right arm at the wrist and shoulder and kicked it in. He started screaming even louder.

Would Michael be so fortunate that Jessica would forget the tiff prior to their current interruption? Maybe he could hope that she would inflict some of her rage on the pair he had surprised but had not grabbed himself. Jessica could expel that angry energy and be calm and cool as a cucumber before they headed off to enjoy the rest of their evening tangled up in the sheets. That was one possible ending to their evening. Only time would tell now.

The distraction of Michael plucking one of the trio to him caused a minor tear in the attackers? plans as one still managed to shove Jessica?s shoulders up against the crumbling brick wall of the alley. His compatriots screams caused an obvious grimace to register over his features, but he shook his head to focus on the woman in his grasp who was not appearing to attack.

?Call him off and we won?t hurt you.?

Jessica wore a blank look that suggested boredom, even though she was simply a silent venomous snake waiting for the right moment to strike. Fingers twitched at the hemline of her dress, inching it higher to expose more of her thigh.

Grrrrunt. ?I don?t typically give him orders, but you?ve got that last part right. You won?t hurt me.? She was too calm and reserved for the amount of physical contact he was placing on her, and the curved blade carved from bone she pulled from her garter belt was a small hint as to why. The following moments were lightning fast as she turned the blade up to jab into a kidney, through layers of wool and fleece and lastly: flesh.

His garbled groan was driven into her ear as his weight fell forward against her. ?You bitch. I?ll?? And though his voiced threat was cut off, his hands told the rest of his story as he latched onto her left arm and ripped it down and out of place to dislocate it. Stumbling backwards and clutching his side, he could barely nod to the remaining figure who was already following through with his own task. ?Do it now!?

The last remaining man had pulled out what appeared at first to perhaps just be a flashlight of some sort, but after a jerk of his wrist, the extendable baton telescoped out to its full length of nearly two feet.

It was in the split second it took for the baton to appear for Jessica to forget about the fire of pain ignited on her left arm, for her eyes to widen in a flash of true fear, and for the realization of what these men were here for. As the connection was made in her mind, she was quick to shout the beginnings of a warning, ?Michael leav??

CRACK.

Steel struck diagonal across her face from her right temple and across her nose. The sound was gut wrenching, bone and cartilage being smashed in by the weapon, but it was nothing in comparison to what was about to follow. Green eyes rolled up into the back of her head as the woman soon collapsed to the filthy alley floor.

Michael was still at work on the howling man, almost happily going about breaking different bones and bending things in ways they were not meant to bend in. After the arm, he started breaking the fingers, retorting as he went. SNAP. ?Call me off? I?m afraid you don?t understand how this works.? SNAP. ?I?m going to break your friend here, piece by piece.? SNAP. ?I?m not even going to lie to you and tell you I?ll stop if you let her go.? SNAP. ?But if you two run away right now, there?s at least a small chance one of you will might away.? SNAP. The Malk looked up at them and smiled a beat too late. Things were already in motion and out of his control. There wasn?t even enough time for Michael to lunge and stop the crack blow from dropping Jessica and truncating her warning. Instantly, Michael forgot entirely about the three men between them, jaw slackening as he watched events unfold, too stunned to move. Dimly, he was reminded of the first time he?d been in a car crash, and of the distinct smell of blood and gasoline.

The world went from lightning fast to shifting into slow motion. Time then began to move at an alternative rate for the woman there in the alley. By the time Jessica had fallen to the icy ground and left Michael in a lingering state of utter shock, the lights were out in her eyes. As they rolled forward, it was apparent they were emptied of a wild shade of green and instead a milky cream coated her irises. The world was void of color, emotion and sound, but the scent of blood flooded her sense of smell and roused the monster that resided in the darkest recesses of the Chemist?s mind.

It was with jagged and jerky motions as though she was moving in unfamiliar skin; she sat up with a push of both hands against the ground. With her left shoulder still dislocated, this proved to be a one-sided venture, but it was something that was temporary ignored or unrealized. Her head lolled to the left as though her neck was broken or as if she was a peculiar type of marionette ready to commit murder.

?Are we supposed to grab her?? The baton clattered against the ground as he looked from one man bleeding, to the other with bones breaking at every breath. He threw out whatever plan they had out the window and turned to run. ?**** this!?

Her smile spread ear to ear in an eerie fashion as the beginnings of a chase or a hunt was clearly commencing. In a flash Jessica was casting a leg out in a sweeping motion low to the ground and catching him as he was in the process of trying to escape. His head knocked against the cement with a dull noise and he made a flailing reach for the baton on the ground. Instead of managing to strike her with it again, the woman turned monster grabbed the man?s arm and ripped it from its socket with a startling amount of strength. But she didn?t let go then.

Instead, she stood up and tipped her head as though she was listening for something amongst the screams that filled the air. Upon slowly turning his arm inward to his body, one could almost hear the tendons snap within the fibers of his muscle or pluck themselves free from his bones. The smile worn, Joker wide, never faded during the cacophony of screams in the alley.

Noticing the other man, thanks to the blood pooling from his side, she released the arm like it was a discarded toy only to reach out for another. This time, her hand reached straight for the open wound underneath his clothing as though she about to pull his organs out of his skin. By the sounds of his screaming and the scent of fresh blood in the air, she was.

Now he knew why he was reminded of that first time he?d driven a stolen truck and went off the road. Moments like this reminded Michael of car crashes, of being strapped into hulks of metal moving one moment and stopped the next, and specifically of the terrible and confusing period between the one and the other, when everything was unreal and out of his control. The world was tilting violently. The floor beneath him felt unsure. Behind him, a series of events that seemed innocuous. Before him, pain and noise and rage, all twisted steel and fire.

Then he hit the ground and rolled away on instinct, putting space between him, Jessica, and the three men she was about to rip apart with her bare hands. Michael knew a frenzy when he saw one, though he had never known a human to do it. There was only one tried and true method of surviving one -- fleeing, and returning when it was over, when it was safer. With no way to put distance between himself and Jessica while remaining close, he resorted to the next best thing:

He turned to the innate power of his blood and cloaked himself with emptiness, displacing his existence with the suggestion he was not there. Everyone around him was subliminally told to not look his way. Immediately the broken limbed man forgot him and, clutching his destroyed fingers with his good hand, started to crawl away, hysterical with pain. Michael wished him luck and, keeping low, crawled away, keeping Jessica in his line of sight at all times, ready to step in and save her.

Or stop her, if it came to it.

He was stunned by the horror of the events unfolding, and the flailing attempts to stop the crazed woman from pulling his insides out failed as he was backed up against the alley wall and saw no way out. His coat opened up and flesh became shredded as metallic copper scented the air with pieces of vital organs dropping to the ground. He watched with broken gasps as she started to tear further into his skin.

Movement of a sort soon registered in her ears as Michael?s former victim began to crawl along the ground, seeking an escape. Without turning his way, Jessica stomped out hard into his skull as though it were nothing but a rotten tomato. The spatter of brain matter and bone scattered across the cement in gelatinous globs before blood ebbed away from the dead man. He no longer had to mourn the loss of his hand, but the other two screamed for help that would never come.

Their cries would fall on deaf ears, for the monster among them showed no signs of acknowledgment nor flinched when they started up with renewed but strangled breaths. The man with torn tendons in his shoulder began to issue pleas for mercy as he attempted to roll onto his good side. His words were a struggle, but soon were choked on as his gaze lifted up to the sight before him.

A Pollock painting in red and bile littered her exposed skin and stained the once flirtatious dress she wore. The woman had not shifted in size, she had not grown larger or more monstrous, but her movements appeared more animalistic than human. She continued to rip into flesh, but it was the sound of cracking snapping bone by her bare hands that caused him to jerk up and attempt to slide and push backwards to get away.

A barrier of some sort prevented his flight, but he had no time to dare a look to see what obstacle he needed to overcome as his migration away had plucked at the attention of the savage. Eyes now voided completely black turned onto him and she jerked her shoulder abruptly with a series of pops as it shifted back into place. The curve of a rib, broken off into her hand was pointed towards him as her focus fell solely on him. He was next.

Strange thing, seeing this from the outside. Stranger still, watching Jessica do it. Michael?s seen her snap before, seen her commit great acts of violence, seen her kill and murder and slay. She could throw a punch, scalp a man, puncture a kidney, kill.. but this, this was different. This was more. So much more.

It really was a car wreck, and he was having trouble looking away from the mangled bodies his love was leaving by the wayside. Michael was a witness, driving down the darkest of roads. Light steps inched him forward. Blood filled his nostrils. His Beast grew stronger in the wash of violence, drowning out the Voice. Jessica went to deliver a blow, to rain down mindless rage until the earth itself split open, and Michael reached from behind to stop her without thinking. One large hand curled around a wrist and he tried to pull her back out of the wreckage.

The fresh corpse sank slowly down to the trash cluttering the cobblestones underneath their feet before gravity pulled it sideways to collapse aside the first. The final victim?s eyes widened as the focus was placed on him, but a gasp of gratitude followed when he noticed his looming savior reaching out to stop the continued torture. His attempt at words failed him while becoming asphyxiated with fear as a wholly unnatural growl escaped the woman?s mouth.

Michael may have felt he could simply lay a hand on her and pull her attention his way and it would have been enough to cause the swarming darkness that wrapped around her to fade, but he would be terribly and horribly wrong. The growl was lower and bestial as her current state left her without the type of intellect he was used to seeing her with. Gone were those wild green eyes, those wry smirks and familiar grunts. Her response to the hand on her wrist would not be kind.

The force she used to yank her wrist from his grasp could have been unexpected, she was substantially stronger than what Michael had seen in the year that he?d known her. Teeth were bared in a vehement snarl as her head turned in Michael?s direction. It was without removing the spotlight from the interrupting Malk that she fired the piece of broken rib straight into the eye of the last man. Hitting the bullseye with such precision that his cry was silenced midway. She was quick to serve up death. And now? It seemed as though she was assessing Michael before her next action.

This was not Michael?s first time; others had lost their minds on him, turned on him with weapon and claws and other, even more unholy powers, twisted by their beasts, their monsters, their darkest urges, compelled to break him, hurt him, or snuff him out. Vampires frenzied, wolves turned, monsters rampaged -- even people sometimes just snapped when life stretched them too tight. The solution to the problem remained to flee or, if necessary, put them down. She would not be the first woman he beat to death.

But she would be the first one he truly loved, and because of that, he was a deer trapped in her headlights. His obfuscation fell the moment he touched her and he knew he had no hope to fade back into it, not when she knew he was there. His talents in clouding minds was no where near strong enough for that. One hand formed a fist, but he fought the urge to strike and break her skull. The other tried to grab her again, faltering and slow, fumbling with awkwardness. ?Jessica--? he said, worried almost to a panic, ?--you need to listen to me.? Attention twitched to the man she had so casually murdered. ?This isn?t you. Listen. Listen to the sound of my voice. It?s me. Hey, it?s me. Come back to me..? He was talking over his Beast, but she didn?t know that. The darkest part of her was drawing forth the darkest part of him.

The reason he tried fell on deaf ears. His words did not even register on her face with the slightest tick or glimmer in her eyes. It did not appear as though she even recognized his face or the sound of his voice, as Michael fumbled with a line to attempt to anchor her back to him. The only expression that she wore was that of clear intent to kill, maim and destroy whatever it was that had the unlucky fate of standing in her path as she ripped through flesh and bone with her bare hands.

He wanted her to come back to him, but he was reaching and calling for someone who couldn?t see or hear him. Where he was slow and awkward, she was swift and smooth in her motions. He fumbled for her, but it wouldn?t be due to blind luck that he caught her. Instead it would be because she ran towards him in a type of zigzag, tic tacking off the alley wall before the toe of her stiletto pushed off against it to send her leaping for him. Unlikely she would miss her mark, but the movement may have been unexpected. Undesired as well in the fact that her jaw was opening wide enough to nearly unhinge itself while she attempted to literally rip his throat out with her own mouth.

Michael made the mistake of blinking and trying to think about what was happening instead of simply acting, of simply letting his reflexes take over when his brain was too slow to process the scene. One moment, Jessica was killing everyone. The next, she was flying at him. His mind was still back there, where she jumped off the wall, and his hands were only starting to move to catch her when she was suddenly at his very throat. There was the sick feeling of teeth cutting through flesh, crushing and ripping and rending. Hot blood, thick and heavy, sprayed them both. He choked on the next few words and feel backwards, landing so roughly with his back against the wall that his head bounced and every bone rattled. Michael blinked again, and then everything was red. His mouth opened, gurgling. The Beast started swallowing whole parts of him up, just as she was swallowing his flesh and blood.

They were in a tangled and twisted type of lover?s embrace as he fell backwards in a mix of shock and confusion. His gurgles were met with wet growls, the sounds of a thirsty and eager animal that would continue to tear into his clothing and skin. Her hands clawed at the fabric of his stained flannel in the same hasty manner a sex crazed teenager may have without the blundering gropes that could have followed. Divulged flesh was soon smeared with spilling blood that escaped both the wound in his neck and overflowed out of the corners of her mouth.

Her weight grinded against his ribcage underneath her legs as her hands slid down his chest, fingers stretching out to lacerate more skin as though she was seeking out the organs it continued to keep from view.

His fingers were grasping, twitching, working their way into her sides and up past her neck, to her face, past the weapon-like mouth slowly draining the life out of him, and finally to the eyes. Those mad, beautiful eyes, the ones he spent hours looking into during those long nights spent locked away together, the ones he searched for in the darkened alleys he often lurked in, the ones that were so deeply burned into his brain he could imagine them in perfect detail, even when he couldn?t remember his own name. The very eyes he didn?t now recognize, all black when they should be green. He put his hands there, in the crushed socket and, in desperation, in pained, frightening desperation, pushed. Animals were funny about their eyes -- even the mad ones protected them. The very moment he felt her shift away Michael surged upwards, wrapped a hand tightly around her throat, kept the other over in her face, and rolled. There were sounds, wet and beastial, but he didn?t know if she was making them, or if he was.

In the twisting scramble, Michael remained on top. She was going to hurt him while he did this, as any trapped animal would. It would take all his concentration not to let the pain of her hands bring him down to her level. Even now his own Beast was roaring, screaming, and all the shadows around them moved and rose and dripped, fed like flames before a rushing wind. Blood poured from the gaping wound where his throat should be, raining down on her to paint her red. Michael tried to scream at her, in anger, in pain, in love, but only gore came out. Gore, and noiseless, airless rage. He put both hands around the throat of the woman he loved more than anything else in the world..

..and squeezed.

The pressure of the pads of his thumbs into her eyes, of his hands against the cracking fracture in her cheek caused a full on roar of a lioness to echo deafeningly into his ears. Flaps of torn skin were discarded as her hands reached for the pair of hands assaulting her. The palm against her face caught against her teeth as they gnashed against the tender but calloused flesh before they tumbled against the ground to leave her pressed up against her back.

While her hands were smaller, her fingers still curled around his wrists as he latched onto her neck. Blood and saliva sputtered out past her lips, unable to swallow as the pressure to her windpipe increased. As his grip tightened, violence rippled through all of her limbs as she began to scramble, flail and thrash. First it was her legs and the shift was enough to issue a kick along the inside of his shin. But in the final seconds, there was a fury filled struggle of her arms and hands against his arms. Her nails left rivers of scratches on his forearms until finally?

?the struggle stopped.

And like the air in her lungs left her, so did all the fight.

Deep down, Michael knew he should stop. It was done, she was out, the fight was over, and she needed air. All he had to do was take his fingers off her throat and let her breath, throw her over a shoulder, and find them somewhere safe and familiar for when she came back. He knew he should let go. He needed to stop squeezing. But the Beast had him now, and Jessica had ripped his throat out and would have gone for his heart if he hadn?t stopped her. Ripped it out and turned him to dust. Killed him, just like she said she would. So Michael kept squeezing.

It was the Voice that finally stopped him. The constant chattering noise in his head was screaming, screaming, screaming, hurling insults and launching barrages of pleading cries, throwing at Michael a rage to match his own. Fingers slackened. Jessica dropped. Michael?s eyes widened as he realized what had happened. ?Jess? Jessica?? A cold panic crashed over him, swallowing his fire. The shadows stopped moving. The Voice was going on and on, but Michael couldn?t make it out. He reached down to check her pulse?

...but there was nothing. No blood moved through her. Her heart was still. The all-too-hot Chemist was cool to the touch. Cool and growing cooler.

Michael thought back to his first car crash and the people who had died that day, of their metal mangled bodies and their distant, lifeless eyes. When he looked down, he saw the same eyes looking up at him. There was the sudden smell of blood and gasoline, and then the ground came rushing up at him.

( Taken from live play between Mad Knight and Jessica Lucino. )

The man carried the dead woman through the back ways of the city to the sour song of sirens in the distance.

1 minutes, 5 seconds since flatline.

?If you could wake up, Ms Lucino, I would appreciate it.? Though he had the height and scars of Michael Kilcannon, the voice was different:. Flat and dry unto being monotone. ?I do believe we are being followed. That is an unreal response time. Almost as though?? The thought dangled on tongue tip, perilously, like a pendulum. The man looked down at the woman cradled in his arms and noted she was turning white. Suddenly he was less concerned with being chased by the watch. Picking up his pace, he turned down an alley.

There were no hospitals within range, so alternative solutions were necessary. At his speed, he calculated he could arrive at an emergency care center in eleven minutes and have the Chemist patched up, no questions asked, so long as he paid them under the table.

Eleven minutes was too slow.

In nine minutes, he could be at a clinic and bring her back himself.

Even nine minutes was too slow.

But in just over seven minutes, if he continued in this direction, he could reach a veterinarian?s office. Not ideal, but serviceable.

2 minutes, 20 seconds since flatline.

Time slowed down with each block, as though he were nearing the event horizon of some dangerous and inescapable black hole. He rushed past faceless people and glowing windows, took short cuts few knew, and avoided street lights that drew attention. Once he dodged traffic, and once he detoured to avoid a watch patrol. Often he paused to check vitals that showed no sign of improving on their own.

He thought about the sun, and wondered if Michael would make them see it if Jessica did not survive the night. It would be the second time Michael killed him. An impressive feat.

5 minutes, 15 seconds since flatline.

The veterinarian's office was a single story and small, flanked on either side by taller, newer buildings with only a small sign above the single door reading, ?Marinello Veterinary Hospital?. Michael had been here once years ago to collect on a debt for an employer. It was well stocked then. The man did not believe in betting or prayers, but he found himself hoping, none the less, that it was still well stocked.

He kicked the door in with a single blow and entered. An alarm panel on the wall lit up, pulsating rhythmically as it alerted the authorities. It wouldn?t take a genius to connect the dots and deduce who was breaking in, but he would only need a few minutes. The odds were in his favor. He stepped in without turning on the lights, carried Jessica through the waiting room and down the hallway, and picked the first surgery room he found, setting her down on the cold metal table as gently as he could.

6 minutes, 5 seconds since flatline.

In mortal life the darkness would have made it impossible to find the adrenaline. Now it didn?t even faze him. He moved around the room emptying drawers, opening cabinets, and pilfering drugs as he went, some going into pockets, others tossed onto the table. He found gauze, tape , and an IV bag with saline, unearthed painkillers and tranquilizers, upended a bin of used needles, before, finally, at the bottom of an emergency kit bolted to the wall next to the door, retrieved a tiny emergency syringe of adrenaline. Hardly enough for a large dog. Not enough for a grown woman.

Still, it was all he had.

7 minutes, 15 seconds since flatline.

?Ms. Lucino: If you can hear me, and if you believe in such things, then I want you to fight. Come back to Mr. Kilcannon, please, and save me the effort of having to deal with another of his nervous breakdowns.? He stood over her, stripping her chest bare and cleaning the spot above her heart with alcohol and iodine as he prepared for the next step, then aimed the syringe carefully.

For a moment he thought of the sun again.

Then he stabbed her through the chest and squeezed hard, pushing epinephrine straight into the dying heart. Cold fingers pressed into her neck, searching for a pulse as time dripped by, one second at a time.

7 minutes, 26 seconds since flatline.
7 minutes, 27 seconds since flatline.
7 minutes, 28 seconds since flatline.
7 minutes, 29 seconds since flatline.
7 minutes, 30 seconds since flatline.

7 minutes, 31 seconds since flatline?

Dimly, and oh so weakly, soft as the beat of a dragonfly?s wing, her heart restarted and she took her first breath, followed by another, and another. The man removed the needle, taped a bandage over the hole, and slipped an oxygen mask over her mouth, manually pumping the bulb. Her eyes fluttered open and closed immediately.

7 minutes, 32 seconds. An eternity.

?Welcome back, Ms Lucino.? She didn?t respond but that was no surprise. He gave her only a minute before he picked her back up, gathered the stolen goods into a bag, and fled into the night, barely ahead of the watch.