Sofia "Skip" Hughes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wolfmarked) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2015-09-10 12:12 pm
wolfmarked) wrote in undergrounds2015-09-10 12:12 pm
Entry tags:
Bad Moon Rising
There's a bad moon rising
Newham, September 28th, night
In Munster -- and, to her knowledge, all of Ireland -- the packs served as law enforcement for the people. Where the police failed, the families didn't. Most never even knew they were being protected by werewolves. Of course, there were certain expectations. Money, loyalty, silence when the police started poking around where they weren't welcome. None of it really legal, but that had never bothered Skip, especially after she was forced to go home and not dance.
So, well. She knew people. Her father and brothers knew people, actually. Especially Owen, her oldest brother. He'd put her in contact with a friend of a friend, and she had a lovely pistol with a silencer and no discernable serial number on it.
Her aunt and two neighbours were inside. They'd wanted her to join them, locked in the basement, but she'd refused. After all, she smelled like a human to vampires. If there was a strike, they wouldn't have any interest in her. Well, that wasn't true. But someone had to keep watch, and she was used to being 'normal.'
"Don' take another fuckin' step." She snapped the words when she saw movement across the street, just outside the streetlight. "Who's there?"
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
Jolly Roger, early September, evening
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate
Skip moved to the music as she cleared off the table nearest to her, sweeping the debris left by messy customers into her bin before she put in the dirty glasses. With a flourish and a sway of her hips, she wiped the table down then disappeared to get rid of her current weight and return with a tray of food and drink,
Two glasses there, a plate here, and another turn.
In a good mood? Her? Well, it certainly would seem so. A better mood, at least, than her usual smiles and sarcasm. If anything, she actually looks about ready to start laughing at a secret joke. And her mood is constant whether she's in the back room or up front.
"Another one, doll?" She asks the question as she takes up the empty glass.
Well, don't go 'round tonight
North Pole, early September, night
The North Pole is one of the finest clubs in London as far as Skip is concerned. The lights are right, and the music is good, and she is in Heaven. Or, at least, as close as she's getting to it.
Dressed in black jeans that look almost painted on and a top that shines like liquid gold when she moves under the flashing lights, Skip thinks she looks very good.
She almost always has a drink in hand. Nothing that comes her way, especially paid for by someone else, is turned away as long as she gets it from either the bartender or waitress. And she never seems to be dancing with the same man twice, even within the same song. She moves between individuals and groups, no hint of shyness t her at all.
When she's at a table, she always turns to face outward with the chair nearest her pushed out a bit, as if in invitation for company.
She also frequents the bar, leaning against it to order herself a drink when she doesn't have one bought for her by someone else.
I know the end is coming soon
Southwark, mid September, day
The end of September brings not only the Blood Moon but the beginning of the school year, so Skip spends a few days refreshing her memory on Southwark. It was one of the first places she went when she came here. She makes her way from the school to the various methods of public transport she'll need.
There are also businesses to stop in on. Places for lunch or coffee. Best to get in good with the staff now than wait until she actually wants something and is in a hurry. Establishing a rapport first? Can save a lot of time later.
"What do you suggest?" she asks a fellow patron at one of the places, considering the posted menu.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
Greenwich, late September, day and night
The Blood Moon is in the past.
People have died. To her understanding, they aren't part of her pack, but she still feels a kind of kinship with them. Especially since some of them could have been like her. Marked as werewolves but still actually human. She doubts the vampires cared. After all, even those who hadn't activated their curse could still give birth to others.
She stops into a few wakes. The press has been told it was a church massacre.
Every family she visits gets a few flowers. She introduces herself, gives her birth pack and her London one, and she is embraced as a cousin. She listens to the memories, hears the stories, and asks for a photograph of the deceased. Often, she gets one.
She doesn't lie to them. The pictures are going to be incorporated into a painting she's working on. A painting that needs to be done.
"Crap!" She gives the cry as she takes a turn without looking, immersed in reviewing the pictures she's collected. Her shoulder has clipped someone else's, and her folder was upset. The pictures have scattered. The idea of an apology slips her mind. "Shit! Can you-- don't let that one blow away! Grab it!"
Newham, September 28th, night
In Munster -- and, to her knowledge, all of Ireland -- the packs served as law enforcement for the people. Where the police failed, the families didn't. Most never even knew they were being protected by werewolves. Of course, there were certain expectations. Money, loyalty, silence when the police started poking around where they weren't welcome. None of it really legal, but that had never bothered Skip, especially after she was forced to go home and not dance.
So, well. She knew people. Her father and brothers knew people, actually. Especially Owen, her oldest brother. He'd put her in contact with a friend of a friend, and she had a lovely pistol with a silencer and no discernable serial number on it.
Her aunt and two neighbours were inside. They'd wanted her to join them, locked in the basement, but she'd refused. After all, she smelled like a human to vampires. If there was a strike, they wouldn't have any interest in her. Well, that wasn't true. But someone had to keep watch, and she was used to being 'normal.'
"Don' take another fuckin' step." She snapped the words when she saw movement across the street, just outside the streetlight. "Who's there?"
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
Jolly Roger, early September, evening
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate
Skip moved to the music as she cleared off the table nearest to her, sweeping the debris left by messy customers into her bin before she put in the dirty glasses. With a flourish and a sway of her hips, she wiped the table down then disappeared to get rid of her current weight and return with a tray of food and drink,
Two glasses there, a plate here, and another turn.
In a good mood? Her? Well, it certainly would seem so. A better mood, at least, than her usual smiles and sarcasm. If anything, she actually looks about ready to start laughing at a secret joke. And her mood is constant whether she's in the back room or up front.
"Another one, doll?" She asks the question as she takes up the empty glass.
Well, don't go 'round tonight
North Pole, early September, night
The North Pole is one of the finest clubs in London as far as Skip is concerned. The lights are right, and the music is good, and she is in Heaven. Or, at least, as close as she's getting to it.
Dressed in black jeans that look almost painted on and a top that shines like liquid gold when she moves under the flashing lights, Skip thinks she looks very good.
She almost always has a drink in hand. Nothing that comes her way, especially paid for by someone else, is turned away as long as she gets it from either the bartender or waitress. And she never seems to be dancing with the same man twice, even within the same song. She moves between individuals and groups, no hint of shyness t her at all.
When she's at a table, she always turns to face outward with the chair nearest her pushed out a bit, as if in invitation for company.
She also frequents the bar, leaning against it to order herself a drink when she doesn't have one bought for her by someone else.
I know the end is coming soon
Southwark, mid September, day
The end of September brings not only the Blood Moon but the beginning of the school year, so Skip spends a few days refreshing her memory on Southwark. It was one of the first places she went when she came here. She makes her way from the school to the various methods of public transport she'll need.
There are also businesses to stop in on. Places for lunch or coffee. Best to get in good with the staff now than wait until she actually wants something and is in a hurry. Establishing a rapport first? Can save a lot of time later.
"What do you suggest?" she asks a fellow patron at one of the places, considering the posted menu.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
Greenwich, late September, day and night
The Blood Moon is in the past.
People have died. To her understanding, they aren't part of her pack, but she still feels a kind of kinship with them. Especially since some of them could have been like her. Marked as werewolves but still actually human. She doubts the vampires cared. After all, even those who hadn't activated their curse could still give birth to others.
She stops into a few wakes. The press has been told it was a church massacre.
Every family she visits gets a few flowers. She introduces herself, gives her birth pack and her London one, and she is embraced as a cousin. She listens to the memories, hears the stories, and asks for a photograph of the deceased. Often, she gets one.
She doesn't lie to them. The pictures are going to be incorporated into a painting she's working on. A painting that needs to be done.
"Crap!" She gives the cry as she takes a turn without looking, immersed in reviewing the pictures she's collected. Her shoulder has clipped someone else's, and her folder was upset. The pictures have scattered. The idea of an apology slips her mind. "Shit! Can you-- don't let that one blow away! Grab it!"
no subject
A grain of truth in every lie, right?
"Defense attorney? He contacted me. I don't know him at all."
It would have to do. There was no taking it back now.
"Wasn't about to say no to the Munster Alpha though."
There's an unsaid 'that would be suicidal' there. Skip has to know what her father's about.
"Can you please put the gun down?"
James' eyes have kept flicking down towards it as if he would need to leap out of the way at any second. He was very human tonight; getting hurt might mean getting dead moreso than usual.
no subject
Of course she knows what the word means. And, sure, he could be using it because he knows it'll make her trust him. But the ease with which he talks about who her father is tells her a lot.
She slams the door shut without another word. When it opens a few seconds later, the chain is removed, so it swings back more. The gun is also on a shelf near the door rather than being in her hand. Skip also goes so far as to take a step back to let him in.
"You're one of us?"
no subject
Hopefully he doesn't look quite like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Yes. Why else would I be here?"
no subject
"That why you been showin' up? 'Cause Da told you t' keep tabs on me?"
She looks like she might just be tempted to claw his face. Not like he can do much to her right now. She knows how to fight without being a werewolf.
no subject
"Jesus --," James swallowed down a frustrated growl - if he could, he'd be sporting fangs, and went back to his roots. If he couldn't lose his temper in a courtroom, he couldn't lose it here. Especially with her.
"Skip, I don't have time to explain this shit to you; you know what's going on right now! I just need to know if you're safe here! If not, the rest of the East End pack is gathering in protected areas."
no subject
"Got a gun an' a few bolted doors. Nothin' is gonna get anyone here. I know 'bout takin' care of myself without th' moon or anythin'."
no subject
James only nods, reluctance pouring from him as he steps away from her stoop with a grim departing line:
"Don't die."