[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

C

[detectiveofthewest]

Heiji didn't think that these were the henchmen he was looking for. Nonetheless, they seemed rather single-minded in their pursuit of their target -- which was bad news, if Faolan's strategy of hiding in a crowd was anything to judge by.

In his ordinary fox form, Heiji would not attract very much attention. There were plenty of normal foxes about, and aside from his dark coloration, he blended in with them quite well. And in any case, it would work better than human form for what he was about to do.

He leapt up on the railing of a fire escape, which hung above the door of a dilapidated building nearby. It looked completely nondescript from the outside, of course. Once in placed, he let out a couple of yips to signal for Faolan.

A

[mountainbones]

The sun was shining down for once, the warmth soaking into Danil's limbs, warming the black hoodie that he had wrapped himself in, hood pulled over his head, his eyes to the ground. The sounds of the day were blocked out, music instead pouring in, purring words, filling his thoughts.

Breathe in, breathe out
Let the human in
Breathe in, breathe out
And let it in

He was too busy wandering the paths of notes, the sliding melodies intertwined with words that he didn't see the other man, and managed to run smack into him. He bounced back, a little stunned; he wasn't any taller than Faolan, but weighed a touch less. He shook his head a little as if to clear it, and yanked his earbuds out.

"Sorry." He muttered, short and terse, eyes reluctantly raised.

C

[emotioneater]

Cooper's walking down the street when he sees Faolan bursting out of the alley just ahead of him like a bat out of hell. Before he can figure out what's going on, there's a blurred figure that seems to be following after the first man, heedless of the people on the street. Cooper instantly recognizes the canine odor coming off the second figure. Werewolf! Now he's suddenly become much more interested in what's going on.

He doesn't interfere, instead trotting after the pair at a safe distance. He's curious to see what the first man is going to do, unarmed and with an pursuing werewolf on his tail. This is one story that he'd love to know the beginning of.

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?"

C/D-ish

[knightscode]

Lancelot Dulac is thoroughly enjoying his evening off.

His white Samoyed, Lily, is slowly learning to handle crowds and Lancelot is leading her through what's left of the lingering masses with considerable pride. She's not totally happy, he can tell that, but she isn't shying too much and she hasn't ground to a halt or tried to pull away.

It could have been far worse, and he's just glad she's come this far. Once upon a time he would hardly have been able to get her to move short of carrying her, and Lancelot is far from keen on carrying a dog her size any more than he has to -- even if a large part of her size is her thick double-coat.

It's light long into the evenings during the summer, and he's just thinking about maybe stopping for some ice cream when he spots Faolan. He's clearly... well, he looks somewhat like he's been in a fight and like he has run some distance. Lancelot can't be sure, but he suspects he might be limping.

His mind offers two options:

One, the man is well and truly drunk out of his mind and has injured himself tripping and falling.

Two, he's been in some kind of find -- might have started it, might have been a target -- which makes Lancelot wonder what the other man might look like.

Not that the second option means he can't be drunk regardless. Yet still, something about the pattern of his cuts and bruises doesn't seem to match a fist-fight.

He isn't on duty, but all the same he can't dispel the concern he feels and the curiosity. He steers Lily away from the main high street toward where Faolan is catching his breath, head tilted a little as he studies him.

"Forgive me..." he begins softly, cautiously, looping up Lily's leash in his hand a little to keep her close. "Do you need some help?"

C.

[damnyank]

Jackson's feeling warm and pleasantly drunk as he walks home. The only thoughts in his mind are of returning home to the brothel on Tenter street and enjoying the pleasant touch a fair maiden's hand. When he hears the repeated report of a gun, followed by shattering glass, Jackson's reminded of just how good he is at being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Instinct and laziness tell him to mind his own business, and he does just that.

Or he intends to do just that.

He keeps on walking, only to find himself abruptly intersected by a suspicious stranger. A stranger who's likely bleeding thanks to that shattered glass, if he considers the sounds he'd just heard. Jackson doesn't even need forensics to figure this one out.

His right hand goes straight to the pistol inside his jacket, while the other reaches for the cellphone in his pocket. He doesn't suspect the supernatural. Just another criminal. A burglar, probably, and so he dials 999.

"Police? Yeah, I'm calling about a suspicious individual."

Jackson isn't even being discreet.