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)
undergrounds2015-10-10 08:18 am
wolfmarked) wrote in undergrounds2015-10-10 08:18 am
Entry tags:
Shake It Off (October catch-all)
I never miss a beat
Greenwich, October 3rd, night
After a long day of picking out paintings, finishing some off, and an extremely disappointing English showing at the Rugby World Cup, Skip needed a drink. Or several.
It didn't help that she felt pretty homesick after all of that. She watched matches with her brothers and father. Still, she'd spend winter break with them, so she could make herself wait. Not that she hadn't called Jack to complain. It felt good to hear his voice and tell him a little about what was going on with her.
Granted, there were a lot of things she didn't tell her oldest brother. That was a little sister's right. The last thing she needed was him showing up to threaten any guy who got too close. Because he never cared how much she instigated. It was always the guy's fault, which Skip enjoyed far too much.
But as much as she'd needed a drink, she hadn't realized how late it had gotten. Her aunt wasn't home. It was movie night for her and her friend, and Skip didn't want to bother her. Which meant she was walking in disputed territory well after dark, heading toward the Tube station.
As she walked, her eyes shifted quickly at every slight sound, and she looked ready to jump out of her skin. The Blood Moon was too close to forget, and she had none of the protection of the rest of her kind. Her hand slipped into her pocket to touch her mobile. Maybe she should have called her aunt or James to come and get her.
And that's what they don't see
Jolly Roger, early October, evening
A promotion means a little better pay, sure, but it also puts her doing double duty some nights. She bartends now, mixing drinks as the orders come, but she still puts in her waitressing for the back room. There's no one new who can handle it, and the other man server for that area quit just a week ago.
Still, being behind the bar gives her better tips. Whether it's because she can make a decent drink is hard to say. There's also the dancing behind the bar that involves plenty of swaying and low cut tops that are just at the corner of tasteful and teasing to consider. When Skip isn't behind the bar during her shifts, another girl is covering it, and Skip's making her rounds in the back room, where the supernatural are welcome to simply be themselves. It's better pay because it takes a stronger nerve.
Which Skip has plenty of.
Woe to the customer who starts a fight, thinks remarking on her temper being part of her heritage and/or hair colour, and to anyone who causes a problem for any of the staff. Her fury is swift and vicious and, most often, results in the offender skulking out of the bar with their tail between their legs. If not, something gets thrown. Like when one man crosses the line between disgusting flirting and full on creepy attempts at groping. When shouting doesn't work, a plastic bottle hits the wall not two inches from his head.
"Get the fuck out," Skip shouts, "or the next one is glass and goes at your head."
I'm dancing on my own
Ealing, October 18th, afternoon
A local gallery featured up and coming artists frequently. When Skip submitted a few pieces, they quickly asked for more and invited her to display them at their next event. She was more than happy to agree.
The paintings were interspersed among the others, hanging on the walls or displayed on easels. They bore the signature 'S H' at the bottom, and the cards displayed under them provided the name 'Sofia Hughes.' Most had a price tag which was substantially lower than what Skip knew they were actually worth. However, she had to make a name for herself before she could charge fairly for her work.
All the paintings had a generally violent or macabre feel to them, whether they were painted with quick, seemingly furious strokes or depicted a broken figure rising from the ground while surrounded by broken glass. Many of them were things no one would want to hang in their living room, but that wasn't what Skip cared about. She painted to paint, all the while knowing it would never be a proper career.
Sometimes it was a relief not to have to worry about ever having to work for a living.
The centre of attention, though, was one particular piece. In Memory Of displayed the pictures of those who had died during the Blood Moon. So far as the public knew, a Doomsday cult had gone on a killing spree, believing they were doing those who died a favour by setting them free before the end of the world could be upon them. The supernatural community knew they were the werewolves lost during that night. The photographs were cracked or faded, scratched or torn, but the faces were all visible. A semblance of the blood moon stood as background to it all, a rough consistency to the paint that suggested a brush hadn't done it. A palette knife had served to shape the paint. The painting had no price on it.
For her part, Skip walked the exhibit, admiring or silently critiquing the work of her fellow local artists or straying close to those looking at her own paintings to try and overhear conversations.
And that's what they don't know
Southwark, mid October, morning
Skip spends her mornings before class -- once she has coffee -- sitting outside her favourite shop and watching people. They might be her fellow coffee lovers, either those who take a seat or the ones who immediately hurry on to wherever they need to be. Or she might pay attention to the people walking by. Those coming and going from buses always prove interesting.
Always, her small sketchpad is open on the table, but she rarely uses it. When she does, it's to make vague sketches that seem, ultimately, unrelated to anything she might have seen. Because it's not about mimicing life, not the way she paints. It's about what she feels while watching others. The power of impressions. Which sounds completely pretentious when she thinks it, but that's why she doesn't say it.
She begins a sketch when a man leaves the shop with a to-go cup. He comes every weekday morning, orders the same thing, hurries out, and only smiles in the brief second he takes that first sip of coffee. The sketch is of an empty hangman's noose. Which leads to a sketch of a pill bottle on its side, little caplets spilled out in front of it and in the lid that came off.
"In monochrome?" she muses aloud, though the question might well sound directed at someone in particular. "Or full colour?"
But I keep cruising
North Pole, October 24th, night
The music pounded as Skip swayed on the dance floor. Her partner was a particularly attractive young man who seemed all too flattered by her attentions. Her back pressed against his front, while her hand had reached up to curl around the back of his head. Of course, that lasted for all of one song before his girlfriend showed up to make a scene and shout at him. Common enough in the club but more drama than Skip wanted to deal with, so she used the slight chaos to slip away and let the happy couple deal with their own issues.
"Mama told me not to waste my life," Skip sang along as she song changed.
It didn't take her long to reach the bar, and she leaned against it for only a couple of moments before the man behind it put a martini glass filled with a beautiful green liquid in front of her. Skip flashed a grin.
"This on my tab?" she asked. "Or someone else's?"
He only laughed in reply, and that was good enough for Skip. She downed the drink by the time a new song started. Already, she was scanning the area for her next partner. Her blood was pounding, and the full moon was days away. She had a very particular itch to scratch, and she was going to find a guy to scratch it. Which didn't mean she wouldn't drag a girl out on the dance floor. Sometimes that was the best way to get noticed by someone interested.
Wallflowers, life of the party, content to chill. They were all fair game to her eye, and she wasn't afraid to make the first move once she decided on someone.
Greenwich, October 3rd, night
After a long day of picking out paintings, finishing some off, and an extremely disappointing English showing at the Rugby World Cup, Skip needed a drink. Or several.
It didn't help that she felt pretty homesick after all of that. She watched matches with her brothers and father. Still, she'd spend winter break with them, so she could make herself wait. Not that she hadn't called Jack to complain. It felt good to hear his voice and tell him a little about what was going on with her.
Granted, there were a lot of things she didn't tell her oldest brother. That was a little sister's right. The last thing she needed was him showing up to threaten any guy who got too close. Because he never cared how much she instigated. It was always the guy's fault, which Skip enjoyed far too much.
But as much as she'd needed a drink, she hadn't realized how late it had gotten. Her aunt wasn't home. It was movie night for her and her friend, and Skip didn't want to bother her. Which meant she was walking in disputed territory well after dark, heading toward the Tube station.
As she walked, her eyes shifted quickly at every slight sound, and she looked ready to jump out of her skin. The Blood Moon was too close to forget, and she had none of the protection of the rest of her kind. Her hand slipped into her pocket to touch her mobile. Maybe she should have called her aunt or James to come and get her.
And that's what they don't see
Jolly Roger, early October, evening
A promotion means a little better pay, sure, but it also puts her doing double duty some nights. She bartends now, mixing drinks as the orders come, but she still puts in her waitressing for the back room. There's no one new who can handle it, and the other man server for that area quit just a week ago.
Still, being behind the bar gives her better tips. Whether it's because she can make a decent drink is hard to say. There's also the dancing behind the bar that involves plenty of swaying and low cut tops that are just at the corner of tasteful and teasing to consider. When Skip isn't behind the bar during her shifts, another girl is covering it, and Skip's making her rounds in the back room, where the supernatural are welcome to simply be themselves. It's better pay because it takes a stronger nerve.
Which Skip has plenty of.
Woe to the customer who starts a fight, thinks remarking on her temper being part of her heritage and/or hair colour, and to anyone who causes a problem for any of the staff. Her fury is swift and vicious and, most often, results in the offender skulking out of the bar with their tail between their legs. If not, something gets thrown. Like when one man crosses the line between disgusting flirting and full on creepy attempts at groping. When shouting doesn't work, a plastic bottle hits the wall not two inches from his head.
"Get the fuck out," Skip shouts, "or the next one is glass and goes at your head."
I'm dancing on my own
Ealing, October 18th, afternoon
A local gallery featured up and coming artists frequently. When Skip submitted a few pieces, they quickly asked for more and invited her to display them at their next event. She was more than happy to agree.
The paintings were interspersed among the others, hanging on the walls or displayed on easels. They bore the signature 'S H' at the bottom, and the cards displayed under them provided the name 'Sofia Hughes.' Most had a price tag which was substantially lower than what Skip knew they were actually worth. However, she had to make a name for herself before she could charge fairly for her work.
All the paintings had a generally violent or macabre feel to them, whether they were painted with quick, seemingly furious strokes or depicted a broken figure rising from the ground while surrounded by broken glass. Many of them were things no one would want to hang in their living room, but that wasn't what Skip cared about. She painted to paint, all the while knowing it would never be a proper career.
Sometimes it was a relief not to have to worry about ever having to work for a living.
The centre of attention, though, was one particular piece. In Memory Of displayed the pictures of those who had died during the Blood Moon. So far as the public knew, a Doomsday cult had gone on a killing spree, believing they were doing those who died a favour by setting them free before the end of the world could be upon them. The supernatural community knew they were the werewolves lost during that night. The photographs were cracked or faded, scratched or torn, but the faces were all visible. A semblance of the blood moon stood as background to it all, a rough consistency to the paint that suggested a brush hadn't done it. A palette knife had served to shape the paint. The painting had no price on it.
For her part, Skip walked the exhibit, admiring or silently critiquing the work of her fellow local artists or straying close to those looking at her own paintings to try and overhear conversations.
And that's what they don't know
Southwark, mid October, morning
Skip spends her mornings before class -- once she has coffee -- sitting outside her favourite shop and watching people. They might be her fellow coffee lovers, either those who take a seat or the ones who immediately hurry on to wherever they need to be. Or she might pay attention to the people walking by. Those coming and going from buses always prove interesting.
Always, her small sketchpad is open on the table, but she rarely uses it. When she does, it's to make vague sketches that seem, ultimately, unrelated to anything she might have seen. Because it's not about mimicing life, not the way she paints. It's about what she feels while watching others. The power of impressions. Which sounds completely pretentious when she thinks it, but that's why she doesn't say it.
She begins a sketch when a man leaves the shop with a to-go cup. He comes every weekday morning, orders the same thing, hurries out, and only smiles in the brief second he takes that first sip of coffee. The sketch is of an empty hangman's noose. Which leads to a sketch of a pill bottle on its side, little caplets spilled out in front of it and in the lid that came off.
"In monochrome?" she muses aloud, though the question might well sound directed at someone in particular. "Or full colour?"
But I keep cruising
North Pole, October 24th, night
The music pounded as Skip swayed on the dance floor. Her partner was a particularly attractive young man who seemed all too flattered by her attentions. Her back pressed against his front, while her hand had reached up to curl around the back of his head. Of course, that lasted for all of one song before his girlfriend showed up to make a scene and shout at him. Common enough in the club but more drama than Skip wanted to deal with, so she used the slight chaos to slip away and let the happy couple deal with their own issues.
"Mama told me not to waste my life," Skip sang along as she song changed.
It didn't take her long to reach the bar, and she leaned against it for only a couple of moments before the man behind it put a martini glass filled with a beautiful green liquid in front of her. Skip flashed a grin.
"This on my tab?" she asked. "Or someone else's?"
He only laughed in reply, and that was good enough for Skip. She downed the drink by the time a new song started. Already, she was scanning the area for her next partner. Her blood was pounding, and the full moon was days away. She had a very particular itch to scratch, and she was going to find a guy to scratch it. Which didn't mean she wouldn't drag a girl out on the dance floor. Sometimes that was the best way to get noticed by someone interested.
Wallflowers, life of the party, content to chill. They were all fair game to her eye, and she wasn't afraid to make the first move once she decided on someone.
I make the moves up as I go
Really good free wine, actually.
Simon was on his second glass when he finally found the lady of the hour. Their relationship was still an incredibly awkward one, but he was warming to his new friend. Though they'd done the whole thing a bit backwards, what with sleeping with each other after an hour of inebriated dancing at a club.
"Congratulations on the show, Skip. This is great stuff; I really like it."
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Because it's been what suits her since she left her ballet school. Not that she talks about that. It simply influences how she paints and her early works' imagery.
"I'm lucky they had a display spot open for me."
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"I can't say I know much about art, but I like the aesthetic." He paused in front of the final painting. He knew a bit more about its story than most of the other people here, but only vaguely. Werewolves weren't his favorite, necessarily, though their condition was the closest to his. The "curse"--it was transmitted through body fluids (the bite), much like a virus. Distantly, he wondered about the epidemiology of werewolve curses.
It might be an interesting area of study.
"You looking for sales tonight or just publicity?"
no subject
The rest, she'd happily sell. It would help her wallet, actually.
"They like someone more posh than an Irish street girl. So I learned t' talk like one."
no subject
He took another long look at the art on the walls, particularly at the piece in question. If wasn't his style, but it was deeply affecting. There was a lot of passion if it, which made sense after being on awkward speaking terms with the artist.
When she commented on her accent, he snorted.
"Sounds like a lot of the people in my mum and dad's circle. Completely fake, the lot of them."
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And selling was what she needed if she wanted to eat once she was out of school. Unlike some artists, she had no fear of being a 'sell out.' Not that she actually needed to sell things. Her life was guaranteed to be comfortable.
"Makes 'em feel better. Like they can connect. Y'know?"
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"Are you familiar with the arts? Musicians, painters, that sort of thing? Art that's displayed."
Writers were a different beast. No one really looked at them.
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"But I know a bit less about the visual arts. I'm the opposite of artistic, personally. I think Dad was a bit disappointed when I went to University for biology instead of acting or writing or something like that."
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Which isn't Skip arguing that she isn't either of those things. She's just acknowledging she is one of many.
"Most of them are flashes in the pan. I want t' stick around."
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"I want you to stick around too."
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"Then I've got even more reason t' do it."
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"What have you got planned for after the show?
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"Well, I was gonna call a friend or two," she murmured, resting her chin on the back of her hand. "But if you're offerin' somethin' else..."
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Was this what Buzzfeed kept calling "Netflix and chill"?
"If you're not doing much, we can get carry away and a few bottles of something to drink and just...watch Netflix or something. If you're into that, of course."
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Well. She has no intention of paying attention to it. And it's always fun when they try to focus on something else.
"You pick the food, I'll pick the alcohol. Sound like a plan?"
no subject
"It's a plan, then." He was grinning like an idiot, felt like an idiot, but he had a beautiful, dangerous woman on his arm and he could feel jealous eyes on him.
"You can even pick the movie."
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She shifted a little closer to him, pressing against him just a little. The tips of her fingers rested against his chest ever so slightly. It was easy enough to smile just a little and look up at him.
A perfect little coquette, she thought.
Her smile twisted into a small smirk as she said, "You think I'll actually be paying attention to the movie instead of to you."
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(And more to come. Alcohol was becoming something of a theme in their psuedo-relationship.)
"Mm, but what if it's a really good movie?"
no subject
"Well, we'll have t' see, huh?" She let the Irish come out as she took another glass herself and raised it to him. "Still. Bet I can come up with a few more fun things t' do."
It was easy to laugh a little and give his shoulder a squeeze before she moved away a bit.
"Prob'ly should mingle a bit more. Ring me, yeah?"
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"Will do. Enjoy yourself, and I'll see you tonight."
And that's what they don't know
"Sorry!" She added, hastily, the second she realized she had spoken out-loud. Most strangers would find her interrupting them rude, odd, and down-right creepy. "Didn't mean to- I just thought- I saw-" she raised a hand to her hair, pulling at the ends. "Sorry," she added again uselessly, preparing to slink away.
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It's easy enough. She waves her hand lightly.
"So, y' think monochrome, huh? Might make an impact, yeah."
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"Maybe. Uhm- or maybe just one color in there? Orange of the bottle? Uhm, the yellow of the old rope?" she's not exactly 100% sure what a used-noose looks like. "Sorry." She doesn't know this girl, why should she be giving suggestions?
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Maybe she'd actually use a bit of a sketch of it on the canvas. A ghostly shadow of normality behind the macabre.
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Not that she needed practical. Not when she was going to be the wife of an influential man who would take care of her needs more than tolerably. Still, that wasn't something she could make public knowledge.
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"Art can be practical."
And that's what they don't see
She would have handled it- hexed him into the next room or something- but the bottle on the wall did the trick instead, and the man nearly tossed Nancy off of him in his attempt to leave, because someone wasn't worth it, and the other ginger was a raging bitch. His words, not Nancy's.
Nancy caught herself, before tripping over her stilettos, righting herself and spotting the woman who had thrown the bottle in the first place. She'd recognized the voice, and temper, anywhere. "There goes 50 quid," she mutters as she stands, coming next to Skip. She should thank her, honestly. But, well, money.
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Still, there's a glass of decent whiskey ready for her and a little note on the book of free drinks given. If her boss thinks she's too liberal, he can take it off her pay. Like she really gives a shit, especially for a friend.
The loss of funds wasn't something she'd intended. She'd much rather protect her friends, clientèle, and the bar's reputation for not having fights within it. So, if things had to happen? They had to happen.
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But, she'd never say no to a free drink, all the same, so she picked up the whiskey and held it up towards Skip in a toast of sorts. "I appreciate it, though."
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"We girls have gotta look out for each other, right?"
Which brings up a thought.
"There's a few bastards who're spiking club drinks." Not necessarily Nancy's business, no, but... Skip knows how much things like that can bleed over. And the walls can always have ears. Especially down where the posh ones aren't looking. "Stupid kids, most of 'em, but... Y' hear anythin' 'bout someone puttin' that on the market? Lemme know, huh?"
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No, that wasn't good. Didn't matter if it was Nancy's business or not, if any assholes were going around drugging poor girls, that was a problem. "More'n usual? Fuck. Doesn't matter how old they are- they've got t'know it's wrong. I'll keep my ears out." The boys may know something.
"And I'll let you know the second I hear."
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It was the least she could do. Sure, Skip usually wasn't the altruistic sort, but this was her territory, in a way. The clubs where she hung out? The ones where she liked to go? Those, she'd protect at all costs.
"But I want that fuckin' supplier. That shit gettin' in my clubs? Ain' havin' it."
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"Do you know if it's roofies, or something else?" There were potions and curses that worked like that. If a not-natural human got a hold of them, they could still work, the potions, at least. Charms, too, once they'd already been spelled. "I'll ask Kenzi what she's heard, too." Clubs were more Kenzi's scene. Nancy preferred her bars.
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Thankfully, from what she'd seen, it wasn't anything supernatural, even if supernatural individuals were also using them. Hopefully it wasn't supernatural. That'd just make her headache all the worse when dealing with this.
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