melancolique (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
melancolique) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2017-09-02 11:36 pm
melancolique) wrote in undergrounds2017-09-02 11:36 pm
Eponine - September
A catch all for Eponine
Bus Shelter
Free charge points are a lifesaver. Eponine has trudged right across London: she had walked and walked to find somewhere to charge her newly acquired mobile. The rose gold iPhone had been a pleasant surprise when Eponine had come down from her drug-induced haze. She had absolutely no recollection of taking it, but she guesses it must be from the fae she drank from. Who knew fae were cool enough to have phones like that?
She'd played with the phone as she recovered from the blood, scrolling through Imogen's contacts, her photos, her videos. She'd even dared to send a couple of texts to some of the numbers on the phone - just because she could. Just for the novelty of it. And then she finds him. Him. He is so gorgeous; long, floppy hair, soulful eyes. She sends him a message. Will he reply?
Eponine had spent the day playing with the phone: playing music, going on the internet, waiting in increasing agony for the boy to text back. She can imagine the conversations they'd have when he finds out she's not the blonde girl. What a life they could have. Unfortunately though, iPhones have rubbish batteries and the phone is soon dead. Eponine thinks about chucking it, or pawning it, but the thought of the boy's text going unread is too much, so she decides to charge it.
All of which is how Eponine finds herself curled up in a bus shelter, clutching the phone to a charge point and willing it to turn on again. It's quiet in the bus shelter, dark, but Eponine's not worried. She's strong, she can defend herself. Even still, footsteps echoing on the concrete have her stiffening, and she stands quickly.
"Who's there?" she calls.
Flower Child
What Eponine hates most about being a vampire is the fact that she can't go out in the sun. It feels like ages since Montparnasse relieved her of the necklace that protected her from the light and condemned her to the dark. She misses the warmth of the sun. She misses watching people laughing in the park. She misses the flowers.
London is a city of stone, but Eponine is quick to notice the flowers that spout from hanging baskets all around the major tourist traps. There's a pub she really likes on Long Acre: there's a piano outside spouting flowers, and boots, old chimneys - even a bicycle.
Alone one night, long after the tourists have gone, Eponine finds herself drifting towards the pub, and sinking down outside. But, as intoxicated as she is, from hunting drunks and drinking their vodka-spiced blood, mere looking is no longer enough. She finds herself reaching out with her skeletal fingers, stroking the petals.
And then - then one is broken off, and in her hand. And another. Another. Another, another, another until she has almost a bouquet of pansies and ferns and baby's breath and irises. Eponine barely realises what she's done, but the destroyed displays, the soil trailing over the cobbles.
Still clutching the muddy flowers, she turns to run, and ends up smacking into a very human sized someone blocking her way.
"Move!" She says, urgently. "Get out of the way!"
Street Rat
Eponine's last hit of fae blood had been days ago. She's feeling it properly now: her head is spinning, her hands are beginning to shake and her concentration is gone. The problem is, though, that the cash that Montparnasse had given her had run out, and the gang she had found had told her not to come back without money. They didn't trust a skank to pay her debts. In fairness, that was probably a shrewd move.
Eponine knew she had to make money, and quickly, or find and attack a fae alone.
Once night fell, she dressed herself in her skimpiest clothes: the tatty skirt, fishnets, her battered t-shirt. She left her hoodie and jacket in the grave she had claimed as her bed, and made her way to the streets near the night clubs, finding a spot on the pavement.
She leaned back against the lamp post: it was going to be a long night of begging, an activity she despised anyway.
As people begin to walk past, she calls out for coins "-Enough for a cup of tea, Sir?" "Just a pound, please, Madame," but it doesn't earn her much.
It doesn't bother Eponine: her targets are the drunks on the way home. She spends her time, waiting for 3am, with the other homeless that team the streets. She bums a few cigarettes off some of them, promising to pay them back later. Her hunger burns her throat, but she doesn't attack. These people are her comrades. But for the grace of God, they could be her. They're not food, they're friends.
When the clubs start to let out, her tactics change. She poses at the lamp post, one foot resting on the base of the post, and one hand firmly wrapped round. The women get the same calls as before, but the men - well, for them, she sings bawdy songs in French and English. With one, she disappears into a dark alleyway, and reappears, minutes later, her skirt pockets distinctly heavier, and wearing his blood on her nose and her mouth. Some people are concerned now, that she's been attacked. Some are more interested in her songs. Whatever it is, it's earning her coins and attention, and Eponine calls all the more,
"Won't you give me a coin? Just one or two is all I ask. Just enough for bed! Give me one!"
Bus Shelter
Free charge points are a lifesaver. Eponine has trudged right across London: she had walked and walked to find somewhere to charge her newly acquired mobile. The rose gold iPhone had been a pleasant surprise when Eponine had come down from her drug-induced haze. She had absolutely no recollection of taking it, but she guesses it must be from the fae she drank from. Who knew fae were cool enough to have phones like that?
She'd played with the phone as she recovered from the blood, scrolling through Imogen's contacts, her photos, her videos. She'd even dared to send a couple of texts to some of the numbers on the phone - just because she could. Just for the novelty of it. And then she finds him. Him. He is so gorgeous; long, floppy hair, soulful eyes. She sends him a message. Will he reply?
Eponine had spent the day playing with the phone: playing music, going on the internet, waiting in increasing agony for the boy to text back. She can imagine the conversations they'd have when he finds out she's not the blonde girl. What a life they could have. Unfortunately though, iPhones have rubbish batteries and the phone is soon dead. Eponine thinks about chucking it, or pawning it, but the thought of the boy's text going unread is too much, so she decides to charge it.
All of which is how Eponine finds herself curled up in a bus shelter, clutching the phone to a charge point and willing it to turn on again. It's quiet in the bus shelter, dark, but Eponine's not worried. She's strong, she can defend herself. Even still, footsteps echoing on the concrete have her stiffening, and she stands quickly.
"Who's there?" she calls.
Flower Child
What Eponine hates most about being a vampire is the fact that she can't go out in the sun. It feels like ages since Montparnasse relieved her of the necklace that protected her from the light and condemned her to the dark. She misses the warmth of the sun. She misses watching people laughing in the park. She misses the flowers.
London is a city of stone, but Eponine is quick to notice the flowers that spout from hanging baskets all around the major tourist traps. There's a pub she really likes on Long Acre: there's a piano outside spouting flowers, and boots, old chimneys - even a bicycle.
Alone one night, long after the tourists have gone, Eponine finds herself drifting towards the pub, and sinking down outside. But, as intoxicated as she is, from hunting drunks and drinking their vodka-spiced blood, mere looking is no longer enough. She finds herself reaching out with her skeletal fingers, stroking the petals.
And then - then one is broken off, and in her hand. And another. Another. Another, another, another until she has almost a bouquet of pansies and ferns and baby's breath and irises. Eponine barely realises what she's done, but the destroyed displays, the soil trailing over the cobbles.
Still clutching the muddy flowers, she turns to run, and ends up smacking into a very human sized someone blocking her way.
"Move!" She says, urgently. "Get out of the way!"
Street Rat
Eponine's last hit of fae blood had been days ago. She's feeling it properly now: her head is spinning, her hands are beginning to shake and her concentration is gone. The problem is, though, that the cash that Montparnasse had given her had run out, and the gang she had found had told her not to come back without money. They didn't trust a skank to pay her debts. In fairness, that was probably a shrewd move.
Eponine knew she had to make money, and quickly, or find and attack a fae alone.
Once night fell, she dressed herself in her skimpiest clothes: the tatty skirt, fishnets, her battered t-shirt. She left her hoodie and jacket in the grave she had claimed as her bed, and made her way to the streets near the night clubs, finding a spot on the pavement.
She leaned back against the lamp post: it was going to be a long night of begging, an activity she despised anyway.
As people begin to walk past, she calls out for coins "-Enough for a cup of tea, Sir?" "Just a pound, please, Madame," but it doesn't earn her much.
It doesn't bother Eponine: her targets are the drunks on the way home. She spends her time, waiting for 3am, with the other homeless that team the streets. She bums a few cigarettes off some of them, promising to pay them back later. Her hunger burns her throat, but she doesn't attack. These people are her comrades. But for the grace of God, they could be her. They're not food, they're friends.
When the clubs start to let out, her tactics change. She poses at the lamp post, one foot resting on the base of the post, and one hand firmly wrapped round. The women get the same calls as before, but the men - well, for them, she sings bawdy songs in French and English. With one, she disappears into a dark alleyway, and reappears, minutes later, her skirt pockets distinctly heavier, and wearing his blood on her nose and her mouth. Some people are concerned now, that she's been attacked. Some are more interested in her songs. Whatever it is, it's earning her coins and attention, and Eponine calls all the more,
"Won't you give me a coin? Just one or two is all I ask. Just enough for bed! Give me one!"
no subject
"No. I - just, please. I need this place for myself, Miss. I need you to go. I - please. Please go!"
no subject
No, she was not a mind-reader, but Eponine was placed between her and the phone charging unit - something which she actually needed to use herself. She could only make some rough, hazard guess that this young girl did not want anyone else using something that was for general use of the public.
"I need to reach the phone charging unit."
no subject
"I cannot stop you, Ma'mzelle, if that's what you want. But I swear, there is a gang, Miss, hunting for blood, fae and the plain. Me, I need a hit, and they are coming for me. Here. Miss, you don't want to meet such friends as I have. They are not for well to do breathers as you are."
no subject
"There are always gangs," she said, looking at the screen as it charged. "I am just here to charge my phone." She did not think it wise to mention that she always kept one or two vials in her bag, for the sake of ... Well, just in case.
"And you assume I am just a breather?"
no subject
There's not much else to say. Eponine watches balefully as Wednesday charges her phone. She slides down the glass of the bus shelter until she's crouched on the floor looking up at Wednesday. She folds her arms over her chest, then changes her mind. She rummages through her pockets for a cigarette and a lighter, and lights up.
no subject
"It's illegal to smoke in public places."
no subject
"I don't care for the law. It is stupid anyway."
no subject
no subject
"I have a lighter. I can light again. I can roll again. It is not so bad."
no subject
It's not exactly magic in her voice, more a strong suggestion that often takes the form of magic. Much more subtle and tended to be more effective, in Wednesday's own opinion.
If her phone would hurry up and charge, she would happily move on. She would have spelled it, but mixing magic and technology could have unpredictable results - the kind she wasn't in the mood for dealing with.
no subject
She takes another drag on her cigarette and looks away, disinterested now. If it weren't for Jones and Denzel meeting her here within the next half hour, she would certainly have left by now. When she thinks Wednesday's not looking, she pulls out a small bottle of gin from her hoodie pocket and takes a swig of the alcohol straight. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. It's not as good as fae for making Eponine forget the world, but it's better than nothing. She needs to be out of it at least a little before she meets the men anyway. Things are so much easier when she's too drunk to care what she's agreeing to.
no subject
"Technology is more hassle than it is worth," she says, mostly to herself.