The grayness that blanketed London's skies didn't always amount to rain, but it certainly opened up the moment that Finch Snow stepped out of the hotel lobby for a "queck skep down't". What this did, however, was keep too many from looking askance at the blue-haired club-girl trotting out in a metallic red parka that reached to mid-thigh and flattered her curvature about as well as the World's Fanciest Trashbag. The goggles around her neck and her fancy silver toque were easily written off as accessories chosen in the garish flamboyance of youth, to say nothing of the space-age wellies set in black with streaks of opal at the seams. She pulled up her hood as she crossed from the front door to the awning, and began her fetching little jog through the dim streets. Something about her movement made the dash seem so dreadfully important to onlookers, perhaps from the slightness in her height, or the subtle tilt from her brows, that made it seem as if being in her way would make them squarely, solely responsible for unspeakable heartbreak of a lovely young lass, and that moving off to the sides to let her hustle past was, somehow, the greatest accomplishment that they would have done all day.
This, of course, had little or nothing to do with the easily glossed-over flash of two sledgehammer heads that peeked out from beneath her raincoat's hems.
As she crested the hill toward a rather ungainly intersection, she veered left, pitching into a full-blown run with the advantage of a downhill pitch. She wasn't long to tip down an old, oft-forgotten back alley, home to far too many dumpsters, and thus home to far too many stray cats hopping in and out of their berth. This detail, plus the monstrous buckets of rain, provided Finch's cover as she leaped from bin to bin, matching her landings with the rhythm of the rain. The doe-eyed innocent features sloughed off as her long, hurdling leaps brought her through the city's lymphatic tracks of refuse, giving way to her under-bitten snarl and ferocious cant of her brows.
She skidded to a stop before reaching an intersection, dumping the collected water from the inside of her goggles before tugging them up to cover her eyes. She looked left, then right before starting her walk in earnest across the street, a pittance of her previous, inhuman pace. With a little crane of her neck, she spotted a few Scene Kids, kohl makeup spilling down cheeks, hair bleeding into their Expensively Distressed shirts and over-zippered jackets. Like a remora, she slipped in line behind the youths, a simple, sympathetic tilt of her lips meeting their sympathy, giving her passage to drift among their throng for a few, self-contained moments under the rainfall. At least, on the surface, like called to like. She tilted her head to glance through rain-speckled goggled down the block, toward the ominous collection of two dense, armored vans and a singlesilver-white Bentley; liquid assets turned to flexed biceps. As she slipped away from the colorful, water-logged gaggle of club kids, Finch's shoulders relaxed, a single hand slipping back to settle on the head of one of the hammers she carried with the same poise as one would a long, silk scarf.
Within that collection of vehicles, Finch would find the proof of what she'd known for decades; Aelic "Pickabod" Saunders, former business partner and Childe, was a Right C*nt.
This, of course, had little or nothing to do with the easily glossed-over flash of two sledgehammer heads that peeked out from beneath her raincoat's hems.
As she crested the hill toward a rather ungainly intersection, she veered left, pitching into a full-blown run with the advantage of a downhill pitch. She wasn't long to tip down an old, oft-forgotten back alley, home to far too many dumpsters, and thus home to far too many stray cats hopping in and out of their berth. This detail, plus the monstrous buckets of rain, provided Finch's cover as she leaped from bin to bin, matching her landings with the rhythm of the rain. The doe-eyed innocent features sloughed off as her long, hurdling leaps brought her through the city's lymphatic tracks of refuse, giving way to her under-bitten snarl and ferocious cant of her brows.
She skidded to a stop before reaching an intersection, dumping the collected water from the inside of her goggles before tugging them up to cover her eyes. She looked left, then right before starting her walk in earnest across the street, a pittance of her previous, inhuman pace. With a little crane of her neck, she spotted a few Scene Kids, kohl makeup spilling down cheeks, hair bleeding into their Expensively Distressed shirts and over-zippered jackets. Like a remora, she slipped in line behind the youths, a simple, sympathetic tilt of her lips meeting their sympathy, giving her passage to drift among their throng for a few, self-contained moments under the rainfall. At least, on the surface, like called to like. She tilted her head to glance through rain-speckled goggled down the block, toward the ominous collection of two dense, armored vans and a singlesilver-white Bentley; liquid assets turned to flexed biceps. As she slipped away from the colorful, water-logged gaggle of club kids, Finch's shoulders relaxed, a single hand slipping back to settle on the head of one of the hammers she carried with the same poise as one would a long, silk scarf.
Within that collection of vehicles, Finch would find the proof of what she'd known for decades; Aelic "Pickabod" Saunders, former business partner and Childe, was a Right C*nt.