[OPEN] I'VE SEEN TROUBLE ALL MY DAYS

[reticence]

A. WORKING HOURS
It's a slow day. With no clients booked for the afternoon, Faolan's finding himself with an unusual amount of time on his hands. Not one for being idle, he finds himself roaming the streets, rather idly, hands tucked in pockets, looking as nonchalant and unassuming as one can. Which isn't hard, considering the fact that he's a wiry little Irishman, standing 5'6" at full height. Looking a bit like he'd rolled out of bed only hours ago (perhaps he had, in all honesty), with a healthy growth of stubble on his face, curling into his rough brown leather jacket despite the warmth of the sun above him, he doesn't exactly make himself look approachable either for that matter.

It's going to be a long night. A long night after a long night the night before, and as he blinks up at the sky above him -- is that really the sun though? -- he decides that coffee is in order. In desperate order. Stopping in the nearest shop he can find, he orders himself the simplest drink he can and sits huddled against the counter, curling over it and willing the caffeine to do its work and snap his brain into functioning as well.


B. PREP WORK - HILLINGDON
Despite the lack of clients for the afternoon, Faolan's got a job that evening. As people start to get out of work and shuffle home to their normal families and their normal lives, Faolan decides to head over to Hillingdon House and see if he can find anything interesting to use on his hunt that evening. If there's anything that can be counted on, it's the fact that if anyone's at the "Hunter's Retreat", as they call it, then they might have some goods to share. Or to at least show off, if nothing else.

It makes the fact that he has no one to go home to and nothing but the hunt ahead a little more bearable than it otherwise might be.


C. ON THE HUNT
Faolan should have known that the tip had been shady. McCoy was good for some things, but details certainly weren't his strong suit, and Faolan had been less on the ball about his research than he probably should have been. He should have known that getting a lead on the location of the vampire he'd been after for the past week was too good to be true, that he wouldn't be alone, but he hadn't been thinking too hard about it. He'd killed four children, three of them under the age of ten, and Faolan wanted him dead.

So he'd gone in alone and unprepared for not one, but five vampires to greet him. He's a good shot and he'd made every one that he could count, but as his gun clicked empty and two of them still advanced on him -- two of them with their pet werewolf for that matter -- Faolan knew that he had a problem. So he ran, throwing himself down the stairs, through the closest window and off the fire escape down one storey to the alleyway below. He has just enough time to assess that the damage from the fight before, breaking through the glass, and falling from that height isn't too bad that he can't go on, before he hears the sound of the wolf scrabbling after him from above. Making a split second decision, Faolan stows the gun behind a dumpster nearby -- hoping the thing will be in the same spot when he comes back in daylight, since it won't do him any good now -- before he takes off at a run towards the nearest open area he can find. It won't follow him out into the lights of the street and the lingering evening crowds around, will it? God, he hopes not.


D. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE
What it says on the tin!

Comments

B

[whatmatters]

Ringer doesn't like the so-called Retreat or most of the people there. Most of the great hunters seemed to work primarily on their own, with only rumors and legends of the best drifting through the area more often than not. The occasional whisper suggested an old tattooed woman in the corner or a guy who looked like he belonged in the financial district buying rounds were people of note, but those kinds of tales rarely turned out to be true. Instead it was mostly riff-raff and wannabes in her limited experience, which were rarely any help at all.

Tonight isn't much different. She'd been in a mood to begin with when she arrived with the hope of selling off an old crossbow. It was in good condition, given to her by an asshole of a shapeshifter she'd since killed and no longer wants anything to do with. It should be straight forward, but she won't sell for cheap on principle and doesn't handle harassment well. A couple hours and no buyers later, she's on her way out.

Ringer slams through the door and pulls up short directly in front of the strange man in the brown leather coat about to enter. She frowns at him, nearly a scowl, in spite of his doing nothing at all. In an slightly irritable tone, she demands, "Are you a hunter?"

[reticence]

Faolan raises an eyebrow at her. Not even stepped in the door yet and he's already pissing people off, this must be some sort of new record, he thinks to himself, as he raises his hands up in a gesture that's half defensive and half to show that he's clearly not looking for a fight if he can help it.

"And what if I said that I was?" he asks. Which isn't exactly a confirmation of the fact, to be certain, but then again who else frequents Hillingdon House but hunters and those looking to get something from hunters in return anyway? The simple fact that he's there in the first place certainly narrows the field. He's not about to admit to something outright if it's going to get him shot, though, and so far she certainly hasn't given him a reason to trust her.

[whatmatters]

The question is practically rhetorical. There are people, like Sasuke, who belong to Hillingdon without being hunters themselves. Those are the exception rather than the rule. This guy looks like he has enough moxie to at least use the weapon and Ringer's too fed up with the place to stay any longer. The money isn't all that important anyway.

"Here." Ringer shoves the crossbow against his chest, turned so that it faces off in some random direction and the handle pushes against him. It's clear that the weapon has no bolts in place or attached, a nice but old-fashioned piece with no clear flaws. She won't release it until he seems to accept it, either maintaining its pressure against him or releasing it to his care.

Her frustration wanes as she tries to force it on him, her expression more neutral. It's clear that whatever pissed her off was left inside and he just has the unfortunate luck of riding out the tail end of her mood with her.

[reticence]

Faolan looks down at the crossbow that she's shoved against his chest, then back at the girl herself. Honestly a little uncertain of what exactly is going on here. But he raises his hands to brace it anyway -- because otherwise he's just standing there with a weapon shoved against him, honestly. It's good quality, he has to admit. He appreciates that it's not set and loaded and about to go off in his face either.

Faolan raises his eyebrows higher at her. "And what's this now?" he asks. Trying to keep his words and his tone as carefully neutral as he can, not knowing how much of a trigger she's got. But she's obviously pissed off at something or someone, and if she had the one weapon, who's to say that she might not have more? Better be safe than sorry, especially with a job that he's supposed to be on later that night.

[whatmatters]

Ringer drops her hands when he finally takes the weapon. She immediately takes a half-step back to regain her own personal space and is already turning to leave when he speaks again. She pauses, glancing up at him, and replies in the driest tone she can manage. "A crossbow."

The short stare that follows suggests that it might be joking, but it's nigh impossible to tell with Ringer, whose humor is equal parts sincerity and teasing even in her own mind. If nothing else, his attitude serves to ease her anger. She reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ears in a mostly perfunctory gesture. "It's yours. Do whatever you want with it."

sorry for the delay work was killer this week :x

[reticence]

Faolan makes a face as if to say, 'well, alright then,' and looks down at the crossbow in his hands. It really is rather nice, although it'll stick out like a sore thumb, carrying it around like this in the middle of the city. He supposes it's lucky that he brought a bag.

"Not every day a stranger hands you a crossbow on the street," he says, a bit sardonically, before turning back to her with an almost crook of a smile. "Don't suppose you're about to shove any bolts at me too? Or am I in charge of finding those myself." He supposes that he can. There's bound to be any number of people around Hillingdon house especially that would be willing to make him some, for a price. Which again begs the question...

"Should I ask why you're just giving such a thing away?"

No worries! <3

[whatmatters]

Ringer bites back a mocking retort about the man's inferior life if he's not being handed crossbows more often. Tempting as it is, his request distracts her and she stares at him blankly, eyes narrowing with vague suspicion as to whether or not he's sincere. She's certainly met people dumb enough to expect everything handed to them, but this man wasn't expecting anything at all. She replies with a tone that's as demeaning as his question is ludicrous. "I have some at home you can buy."

She can also direct him to Sasuke, assuming he pursues the line of questioning and isn't trying to pull her leg for sport. At least the next question makes more sense, albeit it's one she was hoping to avoid by shoving it in his chest and leaving. Ringer loosely crosses her arms, already defensive. "No. It's legal. I don't want it. You don't need to know why."

ty!! :')

[reticence]

Faolan does his own biting back of the comment that them being at her home doesn't do him any good here. He's got some common sense socially, even if the moments it rears its head are few and far in between. So instead what he quips in response to this is, "Well, I suppose I'll have to get your name, then. Maybe your number as well. If I'm to be contacting you in regards to these bolts, that is."

He raises his eyebrows again. "So long as you're not framing me for any sort of crime by sticking me with it, and I shouldn't get in trouble for accepting it for free, I don't see why I should complain, after all."

[whatmatters]

He has a point. Ringer doesn't question it, all too keen to hand over her name and number if it means being rid of the damned thing. For reasons she finds difficult to accept and even more challenging to articulate, she wants to see that it's passed on to someone else and hopefully used rather than simply tossed in a dumpster. Although the sooner it's out of her sight the better.

The girl slides a pen from her back pocket and uncaps it. Without hesitating or asking permission, she reached out to take the hand of his that's less essential for holding the weapon. If he pointedly resists, she'll stop. Otherwise she'll go about pushing up his sleeve and writing her name, RINGER, and mobile on the inside of his forearm.

As she endeavors to do this, she lets out a small sigh. "I inherited it from someone I want nothing to do with."

[reticence]

Faolan doesn't resist, though he does keep raising a quizzical eyebrow at her as he does. He's grateful that she does at least choose his non-dominant hand -- he'd be distracted by it later on, if it were somewhere he might see it when he's reaching for his gun, and if he's distracted in the wrong moment, it might be the difference between life and death.

He accepts the explanation, however. It makes sense. And it explains something of her attitude, although it leaves Faolan curious as to why she might want nothing to do with him, and what the person may have done. But he doesn't ask. He knows something of when to keep himself from overstepping his boundaries. Instead, he focuses on the mobile number that she has written on his arm. And the name.

"Ringer," he comments, half a question, half a statement. "That your name, then?"

[whatmatters]

Ringer returns her pen to her pocket, taking a step back to her own personal bubble. His expression might endearing him to her a little if she wasn't so irritated and impatient at the moment. Instead, his continued obliviousness only serves to further her exasperation. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest.

"The only one that matters," she replies offhandedly. It's a nickname, of course, but it represents her exposure to the supernatural and her position as a hunter. Her real name is reserved for her boring daily life. It's the reason she carries two mobile phones, to separate the two as much as possible. "What's your name?"

[reticence]

"Faolan," he replies, easily enough. His Northern Irish accent lilting slightly harder as he says it -- as though she needed more proof that he wasn't from around here originally, the name certainly underlines that fact. He bites back comments bubbling up within him about whether or not she makes a habit of shoving weapons in people's faces, writing her name on strangers arms, that he would give her the same opportunity but sadly he'd have to borrow her pen, that he'd give her his card but he hadn't thought to bring any with him but perhaps she might want to think about investing in some as well. No, he lets them all go, thinking that she's only now just settling, and he doesn't really want to rile her up again.

So instead he shifts the crossbow and offers her his hand. It's the polite thing to do, right?

[whatmatters]

She notes his accent, wondering if it's better or worse that he's from Ireland than here and deciding it doesn't make much difference for now. Ringer has nearly as many questions as he does about how long he's been hunting, why he moved, why he's being strangely friendly. But now is not the time or the mood. At the sight of his hand, she stares for a few seconds before accepting it, her expression making it clear that the considerate gesture is unexpected. Her shake is firm and quick before she's already moving on.

"Nice to meet you," she says almost warily, entirely unsure of what to think about this man. "I'm going to go now."

[reticence]

Faolan shakes her hand, observing her surprise and her readiness to get rid of him. Although he's fairly certain it's nothing personal. Something's bothering her, and though he has no idea what, he won't keep her and make her explain.

So instead he brings his hand down, raising the arm up where she wrote her name and number on it, before raising his eyebrows and quirking her a smile. "I'll be in touch," he says, wryly.

[whatmatters]

Ringer's lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile before she turns away, saying nothing at all as she walks off. The man is strange at best. It's a refreshing break from most of the hunters she's run into and there's something about her directness that appeals to her, perhaps in spite of herself. Maybe they'll see each other again. For now, she has a pint of rum raisin with her name on it.