undergrounds | One (April open post)

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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.

Threaded | Flat

"Skip!"

Simon had been watching her, enchanted by the way she moved. He knew a little about her dancing, but he'd never seen her actually at it before. He barely realized what was happening when she faltered and fell, and then--

He ran in, dodging broken glass.

"Hey," he tried to sound as soothing as he could. "Be careful. Don't cut yourself."

"Only werewolves? Really?"

While he's always had some attachment to it, mostly through his family. Sirius has been rather ambivalent towards politics. As a result, who can and can't vote for the Night Council has never been something he's felt he needed to remember. But, considering he's somehow managed to find himself wrapped up in the campaign, what with being attached to Hillingdon, things like this might be worth learning. And changing.

The first time someone brought her here, she thought it was a joke. Pirates, really? Pirates and grown fucking adults? Well-- fine, whatever. Seemed like it'd be good for a laugh. In the end, the guy ended up being sort of a wanker, but she's glad she gave the place a try. She's no regular, not yet -- she frequents too many different places to be a regular just yet. But she's well on her way there.

The so-called gentleman offender happens to be sitting beside her, and it's between her head and his that the phone is thrown. She barely blinks and doesn't move until it's in pieces on the floor behind her. She turns, just for a moment, looking at the phone with lifted eyebrows. She doesn't seem shaken, though. It wouldn't have been the first time something dangerous was flying in her direction like that.

At least it was enough to make the man leave -- in a huff, somewhat terrified. The girl on his other side, someone he was trying very unsuccessfully to chat up, is visibly relieved.

"Nice aim," Effy says, offering a faint smile. "Shame about the phone, though."

The thing is-- Gaby knows all about the elections, has been briefed about them and the potential candidates months in advance. Use it, she was told, but don't look like you know anything about it, you wouldn't want anyone to be suspicious, would you, Gabriella?

Like she needed to be told.

And so, when Skip delivers her speech, flat and well-learned and without any sort of heart to it, Gaby listens, blinks her eyes like she's not quite sure what the girl is talking about. She leans in, pulls her sunglasses down to peer at the list.

"This is... about the election?" She makes sure to add just the barest hint of her native accent to her words, to make it glaringly obvious why she has to ask.

Ironically, the vampire in the club is living it up a lot less enthusiasm. Her reasons for being there aren't so different as their core—she wants a distraction. What she's trying to ignore might be different, but the method isn't.

Except she's less comfortable with this than she would have been ten years ago, or twenty years ago. Now she's second guessing. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it wouldn't be so easy to sneak off for an hour or so with someone warm and attractive and not take a bite. Maybe there was a part of her that wanted to slip up.

And maybe, mostly, she was overthinking it.

When a cute redhead in a low cut top leans across the bar next to her, Natasha lets herself be distracted. It's what she came out for in the first place, right? Not staring. She has some restraint. But she notices the cleavage, and she notices the neck, and her gaze in the end comes to land on the younger woman's face.

"You look like you're having a good time," she observes. "Looking for a drink?"

Her aunt is... bizarrely welcoming. He somehow expected her to be exactly like Skip, all barbs and sharp, beautiful edges. Instead she's like every other aunt you imagine a young girl having and is all smiles when her 'lawyer friend' comes knocking. He tries not to preen at the fact that Skip has talked about him and instead follows her quietly to Skip's door.

As he enters, his eye falls directly to the canvas Skip is working on and he takes a moment just to study it because it's ... disturbing to look at. But it looks like the kind of thing that would hang in a gallery someday, and be sold to someone wealthy to hang in their foyer as a statement piece.

So technically, it's good.

His ears are good and James waits until he can hear the song finish before he speaks up in the lull between one track and the next. At that moment, he steps into her peripheral vision - taking into account the fact that she's only recently walked away from a massacre - and waves a loose hand.

"Hey."

He doesn't bother saying much else, and instead waits for her response.

Connor walks past her, but stops once her words catch up with him. He turns back around, walking back to her. "You're wrong, actually," he replies. He can tell she doesn't really care, that her heart isn't in this at all, but here he is talking with her anyway. "There's witches who can't vote, too." Not that he's a witch, but he can't very well cry that humans can't vote. He shouldn't even know all this stuff exists.

Threaded | Flat

April 2

Westminister

Jolly Roger

westminster;

The North Pole

April 19th

westminster