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)
undergrounds2016-04-03 03:53 pm
wolfmarked) wrote in undergrounds2016-04-03 03:53 pm
One (April open post)
One singular sensation
Newham, April 2nd - first responder, prior CR only
It wasn't usual for Skip to lose track of time, but it also wasn't often that she ventured back to what had been her world. From the outside, the building looked closed, but a few moments' listening might reveal music coming from inside. Sure enough, if tried, the door gave easily. The lock on it had been forced long ago.
The music -- from Swan Lake, specifically-- came from up the narrow stairway. There was definitely someone inside, and this was the place Skip had told her companion for the evening to meet her. She'd specified outside, but. Well.
Upstairs, what might have once been a bedroom was missing its door, and the entire opposite wall was covered with mirrors of various sizes out of their frames to create one patchwork piece. A dress of Skip's usual fare was hanging on the doorframe.
Skip herself was in the middle of the room. She had on tights under a pair of leggings and a loose t-shirt. She was in the middle of a set of movements. Around and around she spun. Twenty times she made the pass. On the twenty-eighth, she felt the telltale weakness, but she ignored it. In the middle of the thirtieth, however, her left leg gave out under her, and she fell hard to the ground. Not more than a few seconds later, she gave a sharp pull on the CD player not more than two feet from her. Its cord popped out of the wall, and she threw the entire player into the mirror, shattering it.
"God fucking damn it!"
Every little step she takes
The Jolly Roger, early April
To say Skip is in a foul mood is to say that Siberia is chilly. Her regulars aren't chatting with her; they know when to avoid her wrath. Those customers who step out of line… Well. God have mercy on their souls.
"What the fuck's wrong with you, Red?" one particular 'gentleman' says, smiling as if he's the funniest guy in the world. "That time of the month?"
He receives no warning before a mobile phone flies just beside his face, barely missing him. It shatters against the wall.
"One more fuckin' word out of you," Skip snarls, "an' it's a bottle at your fuckin' face. Get th' fuck out."
One thrilling combination
Skip's home, April 19th - first responder, prior CR only
The invitation was willingly given, though it's not Skip who opens the door. Instead, it's her aunt, who merrily guides her niece's guest down to the basement where Skip's 'flat' and 'studio' are undisturbed. The door is unlocked, but Skip isn't in the main open room that serves as her bedroom. Around the room's corner, however, she's painting, perched on her stool.
There are earbuds in her ears, and she seems quite obviously ignoring the rest of the world.
The painting itself is of white ballet shoes -- occupied, the dancer en pointe with white tights and a black tutu visible.
The dancer stands in a puddle of blood, the toes of her slippers stained, and blood drips off the tutu.
Every move that she makes
The North Pole, late April
For all that she loves the nightlife, Skip makes herself think, she might as well be a vampire. She can't let that little 'brush with disaster' ruin her life. She refuses. She handled losing her dancing. Almost dying? Is a lot less awful in her mind.
Which is why she's back at a nightclub. Her nightclub, as far as she cares. The bartenders know her, the bouncers wave her in, and almost everyone knows that whoever she wants to go home with is hers for the taking.
Or, at least, that's how she likes to see it.
With a low-cut top and a tight skirt that just begs to be pushed up. She moves from partner to partner, trying to find a guy that's just the right level of distracting. At times, she stops for a drink, never sitting down but always leaning against a table or bar when she needs a rest.
One smile and suddenly
Westminster, April 23-April 30
Does Skip look like she cares? No. No, she doesn't.
But the older woman with her? Definitely cares. Her aunt is older, probably in her forties, and very actively chatting people up as they pass. It's election time, which means it's time for the campaign this woman does every year. Skip? Is here by order of her father.
"Only werewolves," Skip says, and she's at least half-heartedly giving the script she was taught, "are both mortal and unable to vote for the voices that decide the laws to govern them. By adding your name to this petition to be brought before the Night Council, you are agreeing that we deserve to be heard as well."
Ultimately, she doesn't really care. More consideration means more likelihood someone will overturn the thing about not turning people. Which makes her less valuable. But if it comes to that? Well. She can be convincing in other matters too. Someone has to look out for the women of London from being turned.
Plus she knows a pretty good lawyer who might be useful to get into the political game if that really starts looking like an option.
Nobody else will do
April 24th, The Mall
Athletes are always fun. And they've got great stamina. But Skip's not just among those in the marathon because she's looking to pick someone off. Or because she looks great in her running outfit.
But because she's trying to get her leg even stronger. And she started it on doctor's orders about a year ago.
She doesn't finish with a great time. No, she's comfortably in the middle of the pack when they cross the finish line.
Which is when she approaches a waiting table and grins.
"Bottle of water for a hot girl?"
How the person handing them out wants to take it -- or anyone around her wants to hear it -- is up to them.
Newham, April 2nd - first responder, prior CR only
It wasn't usual for Skip to lose track of time, but it also wasn't often that she ventured back to what had been her world. From the outside, the building looked closed, but a few moments' listening might reveal music coming from inside. Sure enough, if tried, the door gave easily. The lock on it had been forced long ago.
The music -- from Swan Lake, specifically-- came from up the narrow stairway. There was definitely someone inside, and this was the place Skip had told her companion for the evening to meet her. She'd specified outside, but. Well.
Upstairs, what might have once been a bedroom was missing its door, and the entire opposite wall was covered with mirrors of various sizes out of their frames to create one patchwork piece. A dress of Skip's usual fare was hanging on the doorframe.
Skip herself was in the middle of the room. She had on tights under a pair of leggings and a loose t-shirt. She was in the middle of a set of movements. Around and around she spun. Twenty times she made the pass. On the twenty-eighth, she felt the telltale weakness, but she ignored it. In the middle of the thirtieth, however, her left leg gave out under her, and she fell hard to the ground. Not more than a few seconds later, she gave a sharp pull on the CD player not more than two feet from her. Its cord popped out of the wall, and she threw the entire player into the mirror, shattering it.
"God fucking damn it!"
Every little step she takes
The Jolly Roger, early April
To say Skip is in a foul mood is to say that Siberia is chilly. Her regulars aren't chatting with her; they know when to avoid her wrath. Those customers who step out of line… Well. God have mercy on their souls.
"What the fuck's wrong with you, Red?" one particular 'gentleman' says, smiling as if he's the funniest guy in the world. "That time of the month?"
He receives no warning before a mobile phone flies just beside his face, barely missing him. It shatters against the wall.
"One more fuckin' word out of you," Skip snarls, "an' it's a bottle at your fuckin' face. Get th' fuck out."
One thrilling combination
Skip's home, April 19th - first responder, prior CR only
The invitation was willingly given, though it's not Skip who opens the door. Instead, it's her aunt, who merrily guides her niece's guest down to the basement where Skip's 'flat' and 'studio' are undisturbed. The door is unlocked, but Skip isn't in the main open room that serves as her bedroom. Around the room's corner, however, she's painting, perched on her stool.
There are earbuds in her ears, and she seems quite obviously ignoring the rest of the world.
The painting itself is of white ballet shoes -- occupied, the dancer en pointe with white tights and a black tutu visible.
The dancer stands in a puddle of blood, the toes of her slippers stained, and blood drips off the tutu.
Every move that she makes
The North Pole, late April
For all that she loves the nightlife, Skip makes herself think, she might as well be a vampire. She can't let that little 'brush with disaster' ruin her life. She refuses. She handled losing her dancing. Almost dying? Is a lot less awful in her mind.
Which is why she's back at a nightclub. Her nightclub, as far as she cares. The bartenders know her, the bouncers wave her in, and almost everyone knows that whoever she wants to go home with is hers for the taking.
Or, at least, that's how she likes to see it.
With a low-cut top and a tight skirt that just begs to be pushed up. She moves from partner to partner, trying to find a guy that's just the right level of distracting. At times, she stops for a drink, never sitting down but always leaning against a table or bar when she needs a rest.
One smile and suddenly
Westminster, April 23-April 30
Does Skip look like she cares? No. No, she doesn't.
But the older woman with her? Definitely cares. Her aunt is older, probably in her forties, and very actively chatting people up as they pass. It's election time, which means it's time for the campaign this woman does every year. Skip? Is here by order of her father.
"Only werewolves," Skip says, and she's at least half-heartedly giving the script she was taught, "are both mortal and unable to vote for the voices that decide the laws to govern them. By adding your name to this petition to be brought before the Night Council, you are agreeing that we deserve to be heard as well."
Ultimately, she doesn't really care. More consideration means more likelihood someone will overturn the thing about not turning people. Which makes her less valuable. But if it comes to that? Well. She can be convincing in other matters too. Someone has to look out for the women of London from being turned.
Plus she knows a pretty good lawyer who might be useful to get into the political game if that really starts looking like an option.
Nobody else will do
April 24th, The Mall
Athletes are always fun. And they've got great stamina. But Skip's not just among those in the marathon because she's looking to pick someone off. Or because she looks great in her running outfit.
But because she's trying to get her leg even stronger. And she started it on doctor's orders about a year ago.
She doesn't finish with a great time. No, she's comfortably in the middle of the pack when they cross the finish line.
Which is when she approaches a waiting table and grins.
"Bottle of water for a hot girl?"
How the person handing them out wants to take it -- or anyone around her wants to hear it -- is up to them.
no subject
"Wolves don' have a vote in th' elections. Aunt Jenny's tryin' t' get us one. Least for president and vice."
no subject
(He's similarly uninterested in human politics. He claims cynicism and disillusionment with the political system, but mostly he just can't be arsed to pay attention.)
no subject
She was told to help Jenny, so she's helping. And a Guardian to bring up her case... Well. That won't hurt.
no subject
"Guess I'm Night Council too now, huh? 'S really fucking weird, being a Guardian."
no subject
But she's gotten what she wants. A Guardian wrapped around her finger. Which is exactly how she likes any man. But especially a somewhat important one.
no subject
"No, it's interesting," he protests. "I came into this community pretty late, and even after I did I tried to avoid it as much as possible. I didn't grow up learning about the Night Council. I work for them and there's still plenty of shit I don't know."