Water has begun to fall again. Nature, washing away the accumulated grime of the day with rain, erases tire tracks, sins, fingerprints, daydreams and things left undone. Night inherits a clean slate.
It's like its own universe, really. The organisms of humanity, of cars and buses and lorries and pedestrians, moving through the city like blood cells along the capillaries of narrow streets to the wide motorway veins. Straight to the heart comprised of metal and glass. Cracks in the sidewalk like lines upon an aging palm. And the streetlights. Fantastic eyes.
There are a few who put it down as something much less beautiful than a nemeton, less sacred. I'm finding that's just... not the case. It's just a ...different kind of wood...
The side of a glass building shimmers with the passing of twenty cars -- surely, it was that -- and a young man stands on the sidewalk, brushing off his shoulders. Remarkably dry, even with the rain. A quick tilt of his head to left shoulder and then right, joints popped back into place, he heads toward Regent.
The trenchcoat has seen better days. Likewise the Doc Martens. The rest is hard to see, but consists of worn jeans and layers of sweaters, the knit quite complex. The shaggy blonde hair is short, but what there is stands on end -- on purpose.
Now... it was somewhere along here...
She's here, in the city... not immediately visible, of course, but she's here. It's the end of the day, thankfully - Drancy couldn't face a sunrise without having been bolstered for it by a long previous night, if at all. For the moment, she's staring somewhat sullenly into the mirrored side of a bank, hands shoved into the pockets of her well-worn to the point of decrepitude jeans, faded and patched with so many colours that she'd stand out no matter where she was, even without the knee-length oak-blonde hair. She'd woken up to find it freshly braided and beaded and belled.
"I feel like a goddamn tabby," she says aloud, which gets her startled looks from at least one passer-by, who then hurries along his way more quickly.
Marked... who belled the fucking cat? I have no clue. And I'm not happy with my ignorance...
Stoically, Drancy pushes it from her mind, shoving the long hair back, away from her face, and turns to start wandering down the sidewalk in search of ... well, not answers. Answers are too hard to find. Food, though, food's good. She wanders in search of a cheap enough restaurant, since payday's still a bit away.
"Pox on it," comes the mumbled exasperation. "Bollocks," he says again and neverminds the rain. In fact, the magical would see him walk between the raindrops, his steps timed perfectly to avoid getting drenched. Nice trick. And handy.
"Alright, little missy," he mutters beneath his breath as he looks ahead, "... it's going to end tonight. You and me and the game makes three." Course, it's a huge city, London. Folks talk to themselves all the time, wot? And with his clothing and with his hair there aren't going to be many who'd give him any lip for it. Hands in his pockets and trenchcoat swirling behind him, Huw heads toward a line of shops, most of which are closing or are closed. Except, maybe, there might be a bakery open, or someplace where a fellow might get sommat to eat...
C'mon, blinkin' beacon, give us a tickle. Show us how your garden grows.
Drancy is, of course, clueless - she's dressed in her usual fashion, but her ears aren't 'on' any more than normal. The jeans are paired off with a cropped t-shirt that once would've been worn for the navel ring, but now, well, it's more because of the tattoo. She didn't ask for it, but she's just barely pragmatic enough to make use of it. That, a pair of electrician's boots wrapped round with tape, and an overly long trenchcoat that drags on the ground, and of course, the ubiquitous patched pack over one shoulder in lieu of a handbag, and she's good to go to any punk gathering or rave. Or would be, if she could just chop her hair short enough for long enough...
Tap, tap, tap. She pounds her fist along the edge of the building in unconscious, building irritation as she walks along the sidewalk. Tap, TAP tap. It's like trying to find a specific rhythm to a song - not that she's trained, mind... she's purely a spectator, except when she chooses to sing, and usually that's chosen for her. Tap, tap, TAP.
Power starts building along the rhythm, unnoticed at first by her. Until windows on the twentieth floor start blowing out in tune to the rhythm...
The news woman on the BBC will call it a 'meterological anomoly'. The papers will say one of two things: high wind or space aliens. Someone will no doubt at least mouth the letters 'IRA'. But for now, anyone near the falling glass is just getting the fuck out of the way.
Aha! Brown eyes light up and even as he dodges falling bits of tinkly death he heads toward the source. Tap-TAP-Tap.
His feet fall upon the sidewalk to the rhythm. Tap-TAP-Tap, Tap-Tap-TAP. And there's a jaunty little tune that goes with this. She wore a black ribbon...
As Huw rounds about the way, he sees a cloaked figure, hands upon the building. And with a glimmer and with a glance, he gives a look about. "Hey hey! The sky is falling..." he calls, his voice has a lyrical smoothness over a gruff edge, like he's had one too many fags.
When the glass first starts falling, she doesn't notice - it's after all several panels behind her, as it were. Then she hears people shouting and moving, and she turns, with one last TAP, and she blanches, the trenchcoat billowing out around her for a moment. Normally, she is not a fearful woman. But lately, she has been learning that if there are not things known to be feared, then things unknown might be fearful...
That being the case, she turns again, the sight of the glass - even if not Huw - being sufficient to lend speed to her heels. And she starts running, cursing under her breath. "Shite, shite, shite, FUCK!" Then she's running out of breath, and Drancy decides to save it for running. To what, from what, even she doesn't know - but if nothing else, the fox gets an interesting chase, unknown to her.
How did you know I was the foxy sort? But it's not exactly safe to just willy nilly change back and forth now is it, though I could be as dumb as a lamppost if I really wanted to.
Shite, shite, shite, FUCK! It's a lot like the Tap-Tap-TAP. He's on your path and then on your heels, but hell with the sky falling it might look like he just saved your bloody life. Not that anyone else cares, they're all trying to save their own!
He hops upon the balls of his feet as he catches up to you. "You know," a huff for drama, he's not at all winded, "I know they say the 'chase is all', but if it's all the same could you stand still for a moment?"
What is it with the men in this town. Do you have a sign on your back that reads: Fuck With Me, I'm a Virgin. He's not unhandsome, but he ain't William. Somewhere around average. Nor is he tall like Dei. And he's about half as broad as Davydd. And he's dressed, well... not unlike you actually.
And he runs like he dances, smoothly athletic. Maybe he's a futbol player gone punk. Who knows. "I've been looking all over for you..." A fan? What's the difference between 'fan' and 'psycho'?
Drancy has no clue who this is, let alone that it's a fox. She runs from fear, and from broken glass - and the fact that you catch up with her so easily doesn't improve her mood any. She doesn't stand still, though - but well, fear makes her aggressive, as it always does, as Davydd himself found out, though not particularly to his regret (or joy).
"Who ARE you?", she half-screams it, while cocking a fist at your face. Handsome is as handsome does, but she appears more interested in flattening your nose somewhat. "Leave me ALONE!" It's just a bit too much. Whether or not it connects, she's intending to turn and run again - if she can. Fans don't get too violent, usually, but psycho stalkers might have knives - and she's not in for that.
He ducks, the last bob and weave of his alternating feet and his eyes go wide. Coo, she's fiesty! And as if you don't know. I can hear you laughing. Well...
"Well, it's just that running from the scene's going to end badly, ain' it? I mean," and his hand comes up and rakes through purposely shaggy blonde hair. And he realizes he's trying to reason with a back, as you turn and go anyway. Well, it was bound to happen. But, at least I've got a face to go with the feelin'...
He twists about in time to see the red and blue lights of oncoming cops. "Damn," he mutters and if you look back...
He's gone...
And it's no place for an alley cat. All the autos and such. A yellow and white tabby cat ducks into one of the several alleyways nearby. Maybe you hear the lid of the dustbin clanging against the concrete...
Drancy does indeed turn to look back - the last thing she needs is to get caught by some psycho, you know. That, and the words finally sink in.
End badly... he's got a point. Fuck.
Her energy seems to suddenly disperse as she comes to an abrupt halt - doubly so with all the encroaching police. Running -is- going to end badly... time to find a place to hide.
Drancy looks around. Well, damn. Alleys, or public street - she'll choose an alley any day. And so she does, though clanging dustbin lids hardly draw her attention - she ducks into shadows. "Please let there've been no sodding cameras," she prays aloud, leaning up against bricks.
Pity poor Tom, Tom's a cold...
The alley is dark, narrow, a bit smelly -- more of liquor and general crap than the piss and beer you'd find outside a pub or bar. But it's bad enough. There's a few crates piled up and general refuse, but you'll notice after a moment or two that the alley is an older, narrower street. One that was once a thoroughfare of some sort but now discarded. Lined with doors. Maybe the entrance of flats. Who knows.
Maybe even a warehouse club or an opium den. London's like that. It wears its tarted up face for the tourists but there's another city that exists in the backways and byways.
A yellow and white tabby sits hunched, looking wet and pitiful, about two feet from you. And you can hear the cops pile out. Several cars arriving.
Seal off the sidewalk...
Seal off the area...
Thankfully no one seems to be heading for the alley...
Drancy is most relieved about that last, as she crouches down. And, well, if she's an animal person, then she's certainly a cat person - it shows in the people she chooses to acquaint herself with as much as in and of herself. Keeping a wary eye, hence, on the police, she extends a hand, making a coaxing sound.
"Here, puss... poor bloody thing, you look how I feel." Nervously, the punk's glance jerks towards the flashing lights, and she mutters another prayer.
"Gonna have to pick a door, just like a bloody show, aren't I... pray to whichever god I might be able to talk myself into believing in that it's a good one..."
The yellow tabby is a cat of the streets and seems a bit wary. But then, he's also hungry, so he inches over to you, body elongating and nose testing out the way. But he's not jittery this one. Just careful. Soon enough, though, his head's butting your hand...
Sounds like all the excitement is up about half a block, where the majority of the damage is. Glass all over the street and sidewalk. They're stopping traffic. You can hear the whistles. Soon they'll be heading inside the building. The inspectors will arrive and the team sent inside will confirm that there wasn't an explosion or a robbery in process.
The reporters will think it boring and tart it up for the evening news...
The doors in this alleyway are similar to those near the Phantasmagoria. Unmarked, metal and wood. Some painted, some rusted. And down the way a bit, you can see the alley turn. Which is safer? Heading back out the way you came, pretending to leave your little flat? Heading through one of the doors? Or heading down the alleyway itself?
Drancy rubs the furred head, then picks the cat up onto her lap, provided by the crouch, petting with both hands, oblivious to risks of fleas and, well, less savoury things.
"Bloody cat," she mutters, not unaffectionately. "All you have to worry about is rooting about in garbage tins... life's simple for you." She lets the cat drop, rising.
"Alley first... there'll be enough doors I can probably make my way into something, if it proves a wash." That's her thought, anyway, spoken aloud. "I'd let you come with me, puss, but you've got claws and enough independence you'd likely not want to come - not that I can blame you for it." She begins edging down the alley, away from the mouth, lined as it is with police.
He's not all gunky, though he is wet and has that wet cat odor. Some poor granny's tom got losed onto the streets, maybe, when granny died. Kind of funny how everything has its own story. But as you rub the tom's head, you get a loud, if somewhat gruff, purr.
Explain to me why I don't live in this form constantly?
And suddenly he's on his feet again, landing smoothly upon pinkish pads. A lick of his whiskers and he looks up at you as you stand. That Take Me Home With You look.
Looks like you're safe for now, kid. The police are up a block and not worried about unlawful intent. More the safety and security of London's inhabitants and driving community. The alley is dark, but oddly enough looks well traveled. Maybe these doors do lead to flats. You see dustbins and waste bins periodically throughout, but seemingly placed there with purpose.
"Oh, all right, you can come too, cat - long's you promise not to claw me." My landlord'll kill me, but eh, as long as he stays out of the kitchens downstairs...
Little knowing, Drancy promptly picks the cat up, putting it over her shoulder. "Poor cat. I'm too soft a touch by half." If only she knew.
She heads down the alley further, hoping against hope it'll come out away from the police and near her own place. Carrying a cat through half of London her shoulder could get uncomfortable. "Hope you like Indian leftovers, cat."
Hoo hoo! And I doubted myself. I searched this city over. I lost you then found you again and then lost you and then found you, and now you're taking me home for free treats, a warm room and a scritch on the tummy.
I could get used to this...
You're not laughing half so loud back there now, are you...
A lapcat once, perhaps, he adjusts to life on your shoulder well enough. All eight pounds of him. He purrs, yawns, contentedness is his.
The alley curves to the left, then the right. And you don't have to step over any derelicts. It's probably too early for the riff raff to be loitering about. You won't want to be in this alley around midnight maybe. And it dumps you out on the other side of the block, Savoy-side. Cops up a block redirecting traffic. The other ways seems clear enough...
Drancy is so clueless, isn't she? Make you laugh your head off, if you were in a shape to do so. She heads, of course, the other way - away from the cops, on the offchance someone saw her running and decided to be all helpful. Down a street, cut across another, and then, there's Pashmina's. (Everyone knows Pashmina's.)
"Let's see..." She pulls open the door, climbing up the flights of stairs to her place directly above. "I've got to put you down, puss. Get my keys out, you know." With that, cat is unceremoniously dropped, as keys're hunted for. "Stay around, mind, or I won't feed you. Bloody cat."
Now, the rest is just... timing...
The cat drops to the sidewalk and slinks around your feet, all afraid like. Unfamiliar territory -- you're now the only familiar thing around. The nose twitches at the scent of spices. Pashmina's. The promise of food. And he lets out a meow -- which is half-purred, half-yawned.
And then he stretches...
Oh yes, Huw the Hunter. You've not lost a step, boyo...
Drancy unlocks the door to her apartment - still without ceremony - and shoves it open. The nameless other one hasn't gotten around to redecorating much yet, so, well... it's still much the way it was when Davydd saw it.
A spool table in the small kitchen, which looks mainly like noone ever cooks in it... a living room bare of furnishings other than cd tower and stereo system, and a blanket tossed onto the floor with some pillows... the bedroom door ajar, with vividly coloured clothes the only thing really visible from here.
The sole addition so far has been a row of glittering copper pots and pans - evidently the 'other' one likes gourmet cooking. Drancy could give a shite. Maybe, if she tried really hard. "Go on in, cat, haven't got all bloody day." And she's jittery, even though she just woke up not that long ago.
He slinks his way in, this tom of the streets, and immediately starts ducking around your apartment, getting the lay of the land. Slow here. Darting there. A testing of the scents. The corners. The pillows.
It won't be tonight. Maybe not the night after. But a gathering of nights perhaps, maybe even a month. You've got a cat now, missy. A right tom at that. And I'll wait until I see what I need to see. And in the meantime, I'll get a little love, a little food. This is the best it could have ended, aye. Well done, Huw the Hunter. They'll be singing songs to you soon...
There's a blinking light. A little red flashing herald. You've a message. No, you have three messages...so says the number...
Drancy frowns, ignoring the cat entirely. "Now what?", she demands wearily of the air. She almost feels like crying. If only tears weren't a sign of weakness... it'll take a little more yet for that, though, and so, she does the only thing she can.
She hits play, then moves into the kitchen. Cats need to be fed, and so do Drancys. "Who it is this time..."
The voice -- Dot -- sounding quite hungover, or maybe still high. "..'allo... 'allo...'allo." Sigh. "Damn. Well, anyway. Just calling to see if you had anything going tonight. Besides, I want to hear all about your little... rendezvous with Dei the Dee-lightful. Bettah spill the beans. Anyway. Call me. Cheerio."
Message Two. "I may be a son of a bitch," it's Davydd, "... but I'm not a completely thoughtless son of a bitch. Sorry about the lack of the fare-thee-wells, I had to pop off for some, sadly, urgent business. Not that you care," he's wry about that. Knows you so well already. "At any rate, number still works so if anything..." A pause for emphasis, "...happens or whatever." A sigh. Fuck. Why am I doing this? "...give me a call, Drancy. I don't give my number out to random girls I meet on the street, so...use it if you need to, aye? Take care now."
Message Three: There's a girl and a boy screaming into the telephone. Woo! "Hey! Get your punk-ass down here! This is a major mad party," East London accents make a wreck of English. "Totally great band. You've got to hear this." The gothboi takes the phone away, "It's Trevor. We're at the Fat Elephant, we'll be here until midnight, then we're going to Skidz. I might go to the Gory," Phantasmagoria, "... after that, don't know. Anyway, meet us along the way. Usual routes."
Drancy groans at the first call, saying aloud, "There are no fucking beans to spill, Dot. Unlike you, I don't open my legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry - double emphasis on the dick - that comes along. Kee-rist." A shake of her head as she works with the can opener and a tin of fish. "He was nice, though." Her voice briefly goes wistful, and you can hear the 'nice girl' her parents raised her to be, for a minute.
Number Two. Davydd. Of course it would be. She mutters, "Yeah, right. Business. Blonde or brunette, Mister 'I'm Covered In Bleedin' Dragons That Spark Up When You Touch Me'? Well, maybe it was just Sandy-girl." A bitter smirk. "Bet she'd hate it if I called her that to her face. Not that we'll ever meet again." A shrug, and she roots round in the cupboard for a free bowl. "Call 'im later... what next?"
A wince at the shriek, and Drancy listens to the message, trying to decipher it. "Must be getting old, almost tempted to just put on a bathrobe and sit up with a vid or a book... but dammit, need to make rent without calling mum and dad. Maybe I can submit a freelance review if they're as hot as all that. 'Course, they're probably hopped up on E to the point where doesn't matter if it's a mad band or bunch of bores breaking beer bottles on stage." A shrug, indifferent to Trevor's plea. "Probably go, anyway."
The fish is dumped into the bowl, which is set down, and she makes coaxing noises. "Any more messages or do I just get to sit here and piss and moan about how bleedin' awful my life is?" Dei didn't call. Not that Drancy expected him to, or probably, even gave him her number, but well, she's still a girl. "Hmph. Come and eat already. Bloody cat."
He's probably still playing somewhere in this town. Well, maybe not. Is it Thursday night? Friday or Saturday? You'd find him around then. Just look for Deus Ex...
But then, it'd be nicer if he called...
The cat spirals around your legs, purring its gratitude -- probably more gratitude than affection -- as you set down the bowl. A rub, a purr, a half-meow and then his face is in the bowl.
He even purrs as he eats. Now, of all the men you've met recently, he's probably the most grateful, wot? Remember that...
Drancy doesn't need to find things to get angry about. It's so easy to find them on her own. Except it's so damn depressing... "Bloody cat." The head gets a bit of a rub, and she goes to the door, making sure it's still locked. Then she goes to the stereo, popping open the cd carrier and putting in a cd. Her dirty little secret? She's just not in the mood for punk right now.
Which is why, in a minute, a mellow male voice starts singing something noone'd ever expect her to listen to this.
Bluebirds over the mountain
Seagulls over the sea
Bluebirds over the mountain
Bring my baby to me
A boy and girl, they fell in love
To each it was like heaven above
He looked into her eyes of blue
She vowed to him that she'd be true...
Richie Valens. Who'da thunk? She plops herself down onto the blanket and grabs one of the pillows. "Trevor can bloody wait," she mutters, burrowing her face in against the cushion.
Must... fight...urge...
Must...fight...urge...to...sing...
The cat looks up from the bowl and the Hunter within settles on the haunches. Back claws curl and the tom turns back to eating. Oooh. Must eat fish...
The night will wait a little while. Maybe in an hour or two Dei will call. Or Dot. Or Trevor. It's still early. Hell, it's only what... nine? There's a lot of living yet to do...
And you have a new roommate, who's partial to fish... what could be better?
Posted by rowan at May 10, 2003 11:14 PM
