milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door opens, and a woman with long dark hair and a short black dress steps in.

Well, really, that's technically only partly true. But it's probably close enough to accurate. Workable, at any rate.

She stops and looks around. This doesn't feel like any bar she's ever been in before, and, darling, she has been in a lot of bars. Desperate people do like to drink, and a week in a bar here or there, that's like picking ripe fruit off low-hanging branches.

Well, well, well. Isn't this . . . interesting?

[OOC: If you're the sort who's good at recognizing demons, feel free. If you're not, though, chances are she's just going to come off as young human woman. Questions, etc., ping elsinorequeen.]

[tiny tag: the crossroads demon, cerberus]

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"Oh."

X considers that.

"I do not like being hurt."

"Some people do."

She might even go as far as to say that most people do, in some way or another, but then, she doesn't usually deal with the well-adjusted portions of humanity.

"What do you like?"

"I like Westerns. And folk music."

Beat.

"And protecting people."

This pause is longer.

"You like being hurt?"

"Depends on who's doing the hurting, darling."

"Oh."

Beat.

Beat.

"I do not hurt people here."

Unless they start something.

"Oh, don't worry. You're not my type, I don't think.

"Anyway, that would be against the rules, wouldn't it?"

"I do not want to have sex with you."

X starts there.

And then--

"Yes. Unless you start a fight. Then I am allowed to stop you."

Beat.

"Sparring is okay, too. Outside."

Oh, "Laura," you're just too entertaining, for all that it's almost too easy.

"Well, I'll be sure not to start any fights," she says.

At least, she won't start any that can be proven to be her fault.

"I'm not much of a sparrer."

(What's the point, if there's nothing that matters on the line?"

"Good," X says.

She means it.

And then--

"I like sparring. It is useful."

"Useful for what?"

"Training."

Beat.

"And learning new techniques."

She tilts her head, studying Verity.

"I protect people at home, too."

Protect. Kill. It's all the same, really.

Protect is one of those nice little words people use to sugarcoat something repellant, like murder. Or calling a terrorist a freedom fighter, or a dead child collatoral damage.

Verity's a call a spade a spade sort.

Sometimes.

"And where is home?"

X is that kind, too. Sometimes. But sometimes it makes people uncomfortable, so she tries to be careful.

"San Francisco."

Beat.

"On Earth. You have been there?"

"Yes.

"Both to Earth and San Francisco."

She did some of her best work in San Francisco, in 1906.

The late 1960's weren't bad, either.

"But you did not stay."

It seems like a logical conclusion.

X is not sure.

"I don't stay anywhere very long," she says.

There's always another crossroads waiting.

"I did not, either."

Beat.

"Before."

"Before what?"

"Before I stopped killing people."

Beat.

"Because I was told to."

It's a simple answer. Not entirely strictly accurate, but--

Edited 2009-01-14 04:09 (UTC)

"You killed people because you were told to?

"Or you stopped because you were told to?"

"Both."

Beat.

"But now I kill when I choose. It is better."

"Oh, yes. Much better."

Verity would always rather know who ultimately had the blood on their hands.

Murderers are so much more interesting than soldiers, following orders.

X tilts her head, studying Verity.

"Sometimes people are afraid."

Beat.

"Of me."

But Verity is not. It is interesting.

"That's not my style," she says.

There are some things she's afraid of, but not many, and even then, she's not big on acting scared.

"Why are people afraid of you?"

"Okay," X says.

And then--

"I am very good at what I do."