milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The first thing Pearly notices on arrival in Milliways is that the world is smaller, much smaller, far too small. Not in the sense of space – he’s used to the cramped alleys and underground cellars of the Narrows or the Five Points – but in that his vision is restricted. He looks up at the ceiling with a quiet snarl, razor eyes rolling back in his head…no Avenue of the Nine, nor the Twenty. No Sarganda Street, no Diamond Row. Nothing.

He looks around, glaring. The knife in one hand drips blood on to the floor, and he wipes his face with the other, which holds a gun, single-barrel, ivory handle. His mouth opens to speak to the place at large – the first saloon in a long time not to quiet at his entrance – but then his eyes fall upon the Observation Window.

….oh. Oh.

The knife drops to the floor, and everything else melts away.

[OOC: I strongly recommend reading this post before tagging, and perhaps his profile as well. Open until whenever!]

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It's the scent of blood in the air that gets her first.

Then it's the man. There's something rather turn-of-the-century about him, and Pam can always pick up on that. Already she feels as if she's dealt with his type before. When she was human.

The knife clatters to the floor, and her eyes flick down, following it.

She glances back up again and finds the man staring like some kind of dazed opium fiend at the Observation Window. She was never into the Observation Window. She couldn't care less about it.

But she unfolds her long legs and slips off the bar stool, and with long strides she crosses the room toward him, all tight red dress and crimson lips and golden hair. She bends down and picks up the knife, its edge still wet with blood. Holding it up-- not giving it to him yet-- she says flatly,

"You dropped this."

'What's your point?'

He doesn't look away, of course. He's currently not capable of it, his scarred cheek twitching erratically in a face otherwise slack with obvious hunger, and lust.

So much colour. So much. He can't hope to take it all in, but unless distracted, he'll stand here until he's tried.

She blinks at him, slowly, an eyebrow raised.

Seriously?

"Just thought you might want it back. Fortunately you're no longer at the scene of whatever crime you perpetrated, so it's all good."

He lets out a silent huff of almost-amusement, his eyes swirling like whirlpools of molten silver, never once moving from the view.

'In this neighbourhood?'

Seriously. No one's going to catch him at anything he's done, and he hasn't yet registered he's not in New York any more.

And it dawns on her that this man is a newbie. Oh, how precious.

"Well, you're going to have to change 'neighborhood' to 'end of the fucking universe,' because sweetheart, that's where you are right now."

The words register slowly, trickling through his ear and into his brain like treacle, eventually sticking to his brain and sinking through the haze of his colour gravity. He blinks languidly, like a man after a hit of heroin, and half-turns his head towards her.

The red catches his attention before her body, or her face, but it can't compare to a universe exploding before his eyes.

'What's that?'

She's standing with one hand on her hip, still holding the knife in her other as if it were some shiny accessory.

She repeats herself slowly.

"End. Of the fucking. Universe."

Gesturing at the window with a casual flick of the knife, she adds, "Apparently that's what it looks like. I don't really give a shit."

His forehead creases, and then his eyes are pulled fully back to the view. He can't believe something like this exists; can't believe something so beautiful could have been here all this time, and been denied to him. Pearly doesn't like being denied things.

'There's no end of the universe,' he says, his tone wondering and strangely flat as he drinks it in.

'Who put it here? I want to talk to them.'

She snorts.

"Fuck if I know."

The logistics of the place don't concern her.

"And whether or not you believe the end of the universe exists, you're still here. First drink's on the house, if you care. Magic bar over there, rooms to rent upstairs, there's an outside and whatever, the waiters are rats, blah blah blah. Oh, and there's a Security staff. Waving this around might not be a good idea."

She waves the bloody knife around.

He doesn't care. He doesn't care about any of it, but her voice is distracting him and that's not good. Most people know better than to speak when he's like this, and he's not used to having to divide his attention.

'Why doesn't it make a sound?' he mutters, speaking aloud to himself without meaning to.

'But it's better like this. You see?'

He throws a sharp look at her.

'Nothing but the colour of it. You won't get it. No one gets it. What did you want?'

She just smiles and heaves a sigh.

Yep. He's fucking insane.

"Oh, nothing, sweetheart. Here you go."

She starts to give him the knife back, handle first, but she pauses.

"Hang on, let me clean it off for you first."

And she slides her fingertips along the blade, before bringing them to her lips. With a slow swipe of her tongue, she holds his gaze and licks the blood off her fingers.

She offers the knife to him.

"I'll just leave you to your staring, shall I?"

That gets his attention, if only for a minute.

'...don't you want to know where that blood came from before you put it in your mouth?'

There's no sign of disgust. If anything, the glance at her is amused.

She shrugs.

"Prince or pauper, blood is blood."

Stepping closer, she scents the air around him, his skin, the heat he gives off. There's something different about him, but she doesn't know what.

"Except maybe for yours."

His lip curls upwards at that. It couldn't really be called a smile, but would certainly pass the test for 'leer'.

'I'm not wearing perfume, if that's what you're looking for.'

He knows that's not what she's looking for. He couldn't say exactly what it is - no vampires in New York - but she's made herself interesting enough not to look away from.

She smirks, a feline look in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm not looking for anything on the outside, sweetheart," she purrs.

Boldly, she reaches up and trails a deathly cold finger down his face along his scar.

"It's what's on the inside that counts."

His silver eyes sharpen, and flare for just a second. He's sure as hell not used to anyone touching without permission, much less when he's got a feast like that window to gorge himself on.

So he takes her wrist and draws it none too softly away from his face, his lips a hard line.

'Present from me da when I was four. He was going for my throat.'

His gun, silver and ivory, comes up and he rests the barrel on her neck.

'You need permission to get that close, darlin'.'

The wrist-grab nor his hard expression don't make her flinch, as she's put up with a lot more than that from men in her day.

But the moment the silver barrel of that gun touches her bare neck, she utters a sharp cry of pain. Steam rises off her skin as it burns from the contact, the melted flesh peeling away when she recoils.

"You fucker!"

He jerks his head to the side in surprise - it's not that things like that haven't happened before, but he usually knows they're going to. That was unexpected.

He just stands though, releasing her wrist when she pulls back but leaving his hand in the air, an imperious gesture that implies he meant it.

'So it's been said, yes.'

There's a blur.

And then there's a tall, pale, furious presence right in front of Pearly, teeth bared, fangs down.
"Get the fuck away from her," Eric snarls, as he makes himself broad.
Shielding Pam.

The black clothes, jeans, tank top, and leather jacket, are a sharp contrast to his white skin, even whiter now it seems. White with rage.

Edited 2014-09-18 19:19 (UTC)

Pam staggers back, holding a hand to the wound on her neck, her eyes wide and filled with almost equal fury.

But she keeps her fangs sheathed.

And she watches them, her icy gaze trained on Pearly.

'Well, now. That's interesting.'

It certainly has his attention. He's brimming with the power he gets off colour, his head jerking from one to the other of them, his cheek twitching as his tongue darts out to press to his lips.

She still has his knife, but that doesn't mean much to him when he feels like this

'Protective boyfriend? Sweet.'

"Go on, show your ignorance, fool," Eric hisses, almost trembling with the urge to tear this fuckers's face apart.

There is something wrong with his eyes,

And his scent.

Pam draws her hand away from her neck.

The open wound slowly mends itself, the skin closing up without even a welt remaining.

She stands straighter as the pain subsides. And she flips her hair over her shoulder, an indignant gesture.

He folds his expression into a smile, but it's like his heartbeat is pushing the faintest of cracks across his face, small red lines in a jagged blast pattern like someone dropped a miniature grenade.

'Don't like the silver, is it? I prefer gold myself, but there's no accounting for taste.'

His thick Irish accent gets broader and deeper when it goads, and there's an echo of a snarl in there somewhere, a noise dragged up from a deeper well that any human holds.

There is something wrong with this guy.

Like he is bigger inside. Bigger and deeper and - something.
He fucking hates when he doesn't know what is going on, but who would show it to an enemy?

"This place is hallowed," he hisses, the old words spoken with much more of an accent than he normally has.
"Hospitality rules here. You hurt someone, you pay."

And everything about him suggests that he will be happy to arrange for that payment to fall straight away.