AN AMERICAN WITCH IN LONDON -- Open to all

[damnyank]

TENTER STREET BROTHEL-- open to alll

It's Friday night at Tenter Street and business couldn't be better.

Rooms are booked full for the rest of the night. On the ground floor, there are girls in colorful skirts and corsets, and young men in tight pants, entertaining in perfumed rooms crowded with flower arrangements in ornamental vases, embroidered sofas, and lustful patrons. The entertainers drape themselves, lean close and apply kisses to their clients, coaxing wallets out with overpriced alcohol and paid conversation.

The dress and decor, even the mannerisms of the staff shape the scene into a snapshot of the Victorian Age. The red velvet drapes, dark wooded furniture, and gilded, patterned wallpaper only aid in that illusion. In modern times, consumers would call this theme and gimmick. In the case of Tenter Street, it gives the place a false air of class.

Laughter and muted conversation sets a tone of gaiety and intimacy, but it's all too easily broken by a loud yank.

"Do I gotta say it again? Beat it."

Jackson's got a finger jabbed in a would-be customer's face: a lanky, barely-into-adulthood man with a sharp, jutting nose, and even sharper teeth.

"You know me, Mr. Jackson. I've come here before."

The whole place goes silent.

"You know the policy: no vampires. Ain't my fault you went and got yourself turned."

"That isn't right."

Jackson slips out a cigarette from his front pocket. A few whispered words and the end lights up with a bright, angry flame-- unnecessarily strong for simply lighting a cigarette, but it serves well as a warning.

"It don't count as discrimination, if you ain't people." A beat, as he takes a drag. "Now quit whining and scram."

HOMER JACKSON'S CLINIC -- Open

"Cheers. You have syphilis."

Past the perfumed air and well-dressed providers of pleasure, followed by a right turn down a plain hallway, lies the door to Dr. Homer Jackson's bedroom and part-time clinic. He doesn't advertise its existence to the public, letting word of mouth do the job.

The sign on the door:

WITH PATIENT
PLEASE WAIT OUTSIDE"

To those who know of it, Jackson's clinic provides urgent care service. Healing spells for injured hunters and werewolves. Herbal medicines and potions for elevating the mind. And in this case, modern medicine to those adverse to human science.

"And no, before you go askin' me for a spell or potion, I'll give you something far more efficacious." A beat. "This? Is penicillin-- and no, trust me. It ain't magic, but it'll work even better."

Ten minutes pass before a rather flustered, balding man exits the room, too embarrassed to show his face.

"All right. Next."


WHITECHAPEL CRIME SCENE -- OPEN TO ALL

There's another dead in Whitechapel: a young woman sliced and diced, and left out for the whole damn world to see.

Captain Homer Jackson's supposed to be here to examine the crime scene before the victim's moved to his dead room for a more detailed examination. Horrific as it can be, he enjoys his work-- ascertaining cause and effect, each wound a scattered piece of a story waiting to be assembled.

What he doesn't enjoy, however, is the circus of it all. Hell, the blood's not even dry yet and reporters are already here, clustered around the taped barriers, waiting to pounce. He ignores their shouts as he works, but the moment he steps out to take a smoke break, they're on him like flies on shit.

"Could you tell us the cause of death--"

"Can't you see for yourself? Damn near close enough."

Jackson's shoves his way through, cigarette already in hand.


THE JOLLY ROGER - OPEN

Huddled at a corner table of The Jolly Roger is Homer Jackson and an unidentified fellow. While their conversation's obscured by the din of the bar, the bend of the American's brow suggests that the situation's anything but pleasant.

He's as weary as he looks, his usual flippant demeanor replaced by stress and anxiety. Even the mug of beer beside him sits untouched.

"I need another week. Please," Jackson pleads.

"You know how Duggan feels about waiting"

"It's only a week--"

The rest of their conversation is muddled, but a brief-- very brief-- look of relief crosses Jackson's face. After the man gets up and leaves, the weariness returns two-fold. Downing his beer in a single chug, Jackson proceeds to bury his face in his hands.

Comments

The Jolly Roger

[wolfmarked]

What the patrons discuss is none of Skip's business. She has situational deafness down pat. Blindness, however, doesn't happen. So when there's a turn in the conversation, she looks over immediately. Which man she's actually fixing her gaze on is hard to say. Maybe it's both of them. But there's a clear warning in the look.

Start shit on my shift, and I'll kill you both.

But the moment passes, and they part non-violently. Which means her concern is immediately relieved, and she can return to her duties. As soon as the empty mug hits the table, she's already there, setting down a full one and moving around to the other side of the chair to take the empty one.

"Anythin' else?"

[damnyank]

"How about five more, darlin'?" It's meant to be a joke, but the humor's forced and weak. A shadow of his usual cocky self. As she takes a sit, Jackson smooths a hand over his hair, trying to compose himself before engaging Skip in conversation.

'cause he'd never say go away to a lovely lady, no matter how poor his mood.

"I'll warn you straight off. I ain't the best company right now."

[wolfmarked]

Skip laughed a little, shrugging her shoulders. "Long as you're good for 'em an' don' start any shit? You can have as many as y' want, love."

Those were her only two rules on shift: pay and no fighting.

Which, coincidentally, were her boss's rules.

Granted, 'starting shit' could also mean harassing some young woman or the like. Then, Skip was always happy to put the fear of God into the son-of-a-bitch. But. Well. No need to mention that.

[damnyank]

"And here I thought they were on the house, on account of how eager you were to fill 'er up."

As though to prove a point, Jackson raises the full glass, toasts it, and takes a greedy swallow. At this point, there's really nothing to do besides drink away his trouble, at least for the moment. Even if his problem is lacking coin and burning it on liquor's only going to make it worst.

But one does what they have to do to get through their day.

"However, I jest." He lifts up the glass again. "Need this too much to get myself thrown out today."

[ HOMER JACKSON'S CLINIC ]

[warmheartedly]

The next person to come in is a young girl, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun and the loose strands around her face only emphasising how young she is. Whatever her issues are, hopefully it'll be nothing like the last patient's problems.

She seems average enough. Rather short but her expression is clear and seems harmless looking enough. There are only two things of note about her: The careful way she's cradling her bandaged arm, the bindings on her sloppy and probably done by herself.

And the fact a ghost is following just behind her, an older woman with a worried and slightly panicked expression on her face.

"Um-- Hey there, doc." There's an attempt to give a friendly wave along with a smile but she seems too embarrassed as she just stands inside the room a bit awkwardly. "So... How do we do this?"

[damnyank]

A ghost floats into a doctor's office... doesn't that sound like the fantastic start to a joke. A joke that

"Same as with any doctor." Jackson washes his hands at a small sink in the corner of the room as he explains. "You tell me what hurts, and I do my best to fix it. Only difference is ghosts don't scare me."

He syncs a crooked grin with his final word, looking sideways so Clara can get a good view. While he's professional when it comes to doing his job, Jackson's bedside manner is far from proper for a doctor. That's why some people prefer to come to him.

"Why don't you take a seat a let me look at that?" Speaking to the young girl, Jackson gestures toward an upholstered recliner chair situated at the right side of the room. Sure, it appears makeshift, unusual,perhaps, but it's wrapped all over with exam table paper.

"I am treating the live one, yes?"

[warmheartedly]

"--Ghosts?" The girl's brow furrows and she tilts her head as she tries to understand what he's telling her, wondering if this is a weird joke and she just can't see the punchline proper. Oh well, humour is considered an art. "Um... Yeah. Sure. Promise to not try and haunt you or anything if anything happens here. I don't think anything well. It's just a potionmaking backdraft thingie. Or however witches call it."

The girl -- Shit! Forgot to tell you my name. It's Magra. -- doesn't seem that fazed by his words. If only probably maybe she's too busy making sure the bandages on her arm stay on.

Clara, on the other hand, looks rather worried as her granddaughter makes her way to the chair and looks at the doctor again. "She can't-- She doesn't know I'm here. Please don't tell her. I won't be a bother, promise. I'm just here to make sure she's safe. She got herself into a rather nasty accident a day or two ago. Can you smell it?"

'It' probably means the bandaged arm the girl is cradling to her chest for dear life. There is a scent to it if he takes a whiff: Sharp and pungent, almost sweet and cloyingly so.

[damnyank]

Jackson's eyebrows peak up, and to the young girl, it may seem strange how he's looking over her, while she's addressing him. That's what happens when one doesn't realize they're being haunted, or in this case, being silently nurtured by an oddly mothering ghost. It's like the phrase, "Angels are watching over you," except with more ectoplasm.

"Ghost. It's... yankee witch slang. For when you've wounded yourself with magic."

Well, that was a lie so awkwardly put together it'd make Jackson cringe. He's usually the guy with the well-polished silver tongue.

"Tell me how this came about, darlin," he asks, gently lifting up her arm, as he delicately peels back the bandages. "Don't smell like a wound ought to smell, does it?"

He shoots a look to Clara as he asks the question.

[warmheartedly]

Magra winches as he unwinds the bindings, looking reluctant to explain her injuries as she gives a non-committal answer, "I was, um, tending to my friend's potionbrewing. She got sick so she asked for help. I burned myself on the cauldron when stirring the stuff."

This is where Clara's look of worry turns into a look of exasperation.

"Oh-- Really? Doctor, that isn't true. She tried to hurry up the process by adding more kindle under the fire" She shakes her head, sighing at that particularly memory of the reckless girl propping more logs into the roaring flames. "It bubbled and there was a particularly big bubble. It popped and the spray hit her arm."

Feeling like this is the most important thing to mention, Clara adds, "It's been around two days after the incident. She's been trying to self-medicate but…"

He could see how bad it was. Her injuries were puffy and agitated, a strange colour of violet splotches across tender red and pink. From the patches of scalded skin here and there, there was a bit of oozing with a fainter shade of the violet on her skin.

The Jolly Roger

[trybelieving]

The conversation is so muddled that Tinker Bell turns away from it, attempting to mind her own business. She'd like to offer some help, but she hesitates, watching the man out of the corner of her eye until her conscience gets the better of her. He's struggling, it only seems right to make some kind of effort to help him.

"Excuse me, she slides off of her stool, turning around to approach a corner table where the man sits. "You seem to be having a rough night. Is there anything I can do?"

[damnyank]

"Tell me about it," he replies, more to himself than directed to her, words whispered and hidden beneath his breath. When he does speak to Tinker Bell directly, he does so with a grin, as if pretending that everything is all right might make it so.

"You're doing it already. What a better salve for the soul than the attentions of a fair-maiden such as yourself?"

[trybelieving]

"That's kind of you to say." Though it's been a long time since she was forced to live in isolation, compliments tend to catch her off guard. She looks to an empty seat, then back at Jackson.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

WHITECHAPEL CRIME SCENE

[knightscode]

Lancelot doesn't enjoy the media attention murder gets any more than Jackson does. Neither does he enjoy crimes quite as brutal as this. Still, any crime where there is a suspicion of supernatural involvement is now Lancelot's jurisdiction. He's heard already that there is a Daybreak witch stationed here, one who tends to help with cover-ups, so he can only hope that the man is involved in this case too and they haven't got a staff share handling it.

He pushes passed the reporters, pausing at the tape to catch his attention and lowering his voice in the hope they won't be overheard.

"Homer Jackson?" he prompts, hands in the pockets of his plain black blazer. He's not in uniform, he's not here as a police officer after all, so the man would be forgiven for ignoring him at first. As soon as Jackson responds to his name Lancelot nods in turn, flips open an ID that identifies why he's here. GUARDIAN LANCELOT DULAC, NIGHT COUNCIL. "If you'd like to let me through?"

Tenter Street

[falsify]

The actual Victorian era wasn't so great - smelly and dirty for the most part, god is he glad humans have since invented indoor plumbing and deodorant - but the neo-Victorian aesthetic is incredibly charming to Eames, it's part of what makes the place appeal to him. That and he's yet to meet a woman who looks bad in a corset.

He's enjoying some conversation with one of said women when the sound of an argument makes her stop and look over at where it's coming from, which he'd be content to ignore if he hadn't caught the word vampire in all that noise. Never know when things are about to take a rapid turn for the bloody and dead with one of their sort around, and the mood's been thoroughly ruined anyway.

Frowning, Eames gets up and walks over to Jackson, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the vampire as he looks between the two of them. "Problem?"