evilbeej | Quicklog: Seravina, Celliers, Pete: Thatcher's a golem.

Pryde and Wisdom's House - School House Road
The front door opens into a large pale-green living room, in which there is quite possibly more furniture than there was in Pryde and Wisdom's entire last apartment. On the left-hand wall from the door, a couch covered with a plain white sheet is grouped with an armchair and a low table and a bookcase, all by a stone fireplace. Off to the right, more bookcases flank a computer table that looks slightly forlorn with just Kitty's laptop and a printer set up on it. The bookcases are mostly empty, though a scattering of paperbacks and an entire shelf of battered textbooks occupy one, and a few videotapes and a brass sextant keep another from looking entirely abandoned. The pirate flag from their last place is missing from the walls. Neither has the usual state of mild chaos quite reasserted itself - the stack of newspapers on the low table is orderly, and the ashtray at the far end of it is kept, if not empty, not overflowing either.
Directly opposite the door, a staircase spirals up to the second floor; by it are a small hallway and the doorway into the brightly-lit kitchen.

It's somewhere around six PM, and the skies are disgustingly clear; stars are beginning to pop up along what of the horizon the average joe can actually see. It's warm, and there's a nice breeze rustling the leaves of the trees along School House Road - it almost drowns out the sound of the water gushing through the underground system, after the ridiculous precipitation. The windows in the front of Pryde and Wisdom's house are open, and through them one can hear, faintly, the sounds of both a frantically skidding cat and the BBC World Service. Car's in the driveway.

She's taken to dressing more like she had while she wasn't... herself. She just likes it better. And tonight? She's at Chez Pryde and Wisdom, carrying a paper bag by its handles, humming lightly. Up to the door, and she's knocking. And... smoking. Clove smoke clings to her, and she looks so much more like her old self. A very old self, as in.. when she first got here. Relaxed. Younger. Less... psycho. Which is probably either really good, or really bad, considering the nature of the Infinity Effect. At any rate! Knocking.

"'S open," comes Pete's voice from inside, over the television and the cat. Just before the sound of the set's muted, words are just audible: 'It is understood that children as young as ten could be electronically tagged under these provisions...'

Ooh, that's right. No 'come in's from this house. She chuckles as she heads in and shuts the door behind herself, wondering, "So what little kids are you planning on 'electronically tagging." Familiar voice from the door, and familiar face. Hey you. Dark eyes settle on Wisdom. Fond, proud, hopeful. "I come bearing gifts. And I am not now, nor have I ever been, labeled 'Trojan', or been mistaken for a horse."

"Fair enough," says Pete, tired but not displeased. He's on the couch wearing a couple layers of clothing, and his ears and nose are red and kind of nasty-looking, and his hands are bandaged. The kitten darts across Seravina's path - not much of a kitten anymore, but still thinking it's one, it's gotten Gi-Nor-Mous and makes an entertaining thud against the wall a second before the matchbox car it was chasing hits. "Mind the little rolling deathtraps. Have a seat."

[League] Frequently right, Pete Wisdom says, "For those interested, the story Pete was just tuning out of on the world service: http://www.thescotsman.co.uk/scotland.cfm?id=686382003"

"Hey, I won't stay long," Sera says, moving to pull long legs out of boots and head in Pete's general direction, still smoking. "Y'look tired'n'I don't wanna keep you from rest," she says, grinning cockeyed, her nose wrinkled in that very /Sera/ way of smiling. "But... you're a scotch man, right?" she wonders, dipping her hand into the bag. "It's Christmas in June, in case you were wondering. I was having a Martha Stewart moment at my place, and decided I'd come share the pain." Out is pulled a new (and large!) bottle of Glenfidditch. "I don't really know *jack* about scotch, but Mische said this was good, so." For you! "There's more, but hey. Priorities."

The be-bandaged Pete goes bigeyed. "...yeeeees. Yes, Mische is quite right. Whoever she - he? - happens to be. You're having some, right?" This is even as he's laboriously getting to his feet - stiffly, uncomfortably. "I'm not resting, I'm irritated as all bloody fuck about the fact that I /always/ manage to get frostbite in the summertime. The hospital's at its last with me, I swear."

A grin, and Sera says, "Mische's my old landlord. Peach of a guy. Sweetest native of Beacon Harbor I've met. Here, /here/, Wisdom. I'll get glasses. Stay down so you don't hurt yourself? How.. /How/ the /hell/ did you get --" Now /Sera/ bigeyes. "Were you out in the icestorm?"

"I'm not going to hurt myself," grouses Pete, but under his breath, and he /does/ sit back down. The back of his hand comes up to brush needing-a-trim hair out of his face and he gets a somewhat pained expression. "Eh. Yeah. You look at the papers? The bit with the boat what had t'be rescued by the research monster from the Oceanographic Seismology Whateverthefuck Institute? That were us in a Zodiac - Pryde and I, Seishi, Kess. Clear as anything when we went out to see what we could."

Limping steps on the walk, with the scrape of a walking stick for accompaniment. The wildly erratic weather and accompanying absurd pressure shifts are just no damn good for old wounds, and thus the blonde's stumping about like he's looking for a part as Long John Silver, muttering irritably all the while. Hate the Park. Hate this street. A barely polite rapping at the dor.

"Y'know, since you're all back and safe--you /are/ all back and safe, right?--" she looks back to Pete for confirmation--and in this light, she's scratched up, bruised, but looking... almost perky. /Happy./--(Gimme a nod or something, damnit) "--I'm kinda glad I'm not at all involved, or responsib---I'm not responsible for this, right?" Okay, that one was meant to be a joke, damnit. She'll bring glasses back and set them down on the coffee table, with the bottle. And then put it off just a minute longer to take whatever else is in the bag into the kitchen. "So... I was canning. And if you call me domestic, I'll throw a mason jar of marinara at your head. I made a disgusting amount of... /everything/, so I'm going to store like... half of it here, and you're going to eat it, if that's all right with you," she says. And then, quiet, so he can say 'It's open,' if he wants to.

Oh there's definitely a nod - accompanied by an entertainingly defensive '/Yes/' as though the idea they mightn't all come back is a personal mock insult - from Pete, who's slouching back into the couch. He's starting to grin lopsidedly - which hurts a bit - when there's the rapping at the door. "Open," he indeed says, then glances briefly back over his shoulder and follows Sera's progress back. "Can hardly call you domestic. Not after all the nesting cracks *I* got for painting the downstairs, last year. And I will never, never say no to food of any kind that is not actually designed for rabbits."

"Wisdom, what happened to yo- Oh, hello, Seravina," Jack's tone promptly shifts from 'irritated with the world at large' to 'walking on eggshells', once he sets eyes on the dreamer. Woops. He's paused in the doorway, slightly hipshot to take his weight off the bad leg. "Evening," he finishes, more slowly, an odd absentedness coming into his face. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"It's n--hiiiiii.... Jack." Sera's holding mason jars, peeking out from the fridge. "Where's your gun, and are you planning on tackling me, shooting me, hitting me, or yelling at me tonight? And--do you want some scotch, and how are you?" Look, it's Beacon Harbor, we're normal! "There's marinara, marsala, alfredo and diavolo. I can't make pasta, just the sauce, so I hope you don't get sick of it," she smirks, still eyeing Jack from the kitchen.

"The ice storm ate my rental Zodiac," sums Pete up, not moving from his spot on the couch this time. Miles darts out from absolutely freaking nowhere and slams into Jack's good leg, staggers, and runs lopsidedly off into the kitchen and under Seravina's skirt then out the other side, headed under the table. "And no. D'you realize they're tagging and tracking rebellious kids in Scotland, Celliers? Do something about it, will you?"

Celliers just gives Sera a wary, sidelong look, before his face utterly seals over, leaving it with that mandarin impassivity. "None of the above." As if I didn't already feel like Typhoid Mary. "And no scotch, thank you. I'm sorry, Wisdom," he continues, turning to peer at him, just in time for the kitten to nearly knock him off balance out of sheer startlement. "Tracking and tagging. Like caribou?" he wonders, in obvious confusion. "Are they losing them that much? Scotland isn't that large - where are they migrating to?"

"Kitten attack!" Sera yelps, coming back in after putting things away, and she's going to pour scotch. "Celliers," she says, handing off a glass with three fingers, straight up, to Pete. She's smoking cloves again, and walks toward Jack, offering out a hand. "Hey. What's some seriously fucked up stuff between friends, right? /Are/ you all right?" she wonders, biting her lower lip, looking only /slightly/ bruised, still. "Saved my life the other night, didn't you?"

The glass is taken gratefully, the Scotch is savored religiously, the kitten is menaced cheerily with a horribly mangled-looking rabbit's foot on a little keychain - this last is accomplished through the judicious application of one of the best aims in the city to the flight path of the cat-toy: it's winged midair at the furiously dashing Miles, who chases it for a second and then darts up the stairs to disappear into the abyss. Pete sits back again, cradling the glass like it holds liquid gold. Which it practically does, especially compared to what he /had/ been drinking.

He turns his head quickly to follow the kitten's path. "Might want to think about having that one exorcised," he notes, deadpan. Jack makes no move to take her hand, still regarding her with not very well concealed wariness on the scarred features. "Well enough," he allows, slowly, not sounding terribly certain about that, making a vague gesture with one hand. "And I don't know. The flying man certainly did, I should think," he returns, in a die-away murmur.

She lowers her hand, covering up any sadness on her face with a resigned sort of acceptance. Not everyone can forgive me. I'm lucky I'm even welcome in the houses I'm welcome in. She sips at a glass she'd gotten for herself and looks after where the cat had run away, missing Gracie terribly. "Brought chocolate for Kitty, too," she notes absently, still standing near Celliers, saying "Ah," to his comment. Flying man. Sure.

Wisdom gives Celliers an irritable glance. "Oh for fuck's sake, put the angst away. Not allowed past the threshold here, thought you knew that. And no, it's only tearaways they're tagging - any kid what causes trouble, they're putting trackers on so they can see where they've got to and if they're responsible for any given mayhem. Fucking 1984, it is." He has a bit more of the scotch, holding the glass carefully in bandaged hands, then leans forward and sets it down, pulling the ashtray closer in the process. "Pryde'll like that. If I leave any for her."

Not a matter of forgiveness, at least for her. More for himself. And a lack of any wish to spread that particular contagion of memory, again. You've the angels in the park and death in Bermuda - why not collect the whole set? Find out what it feels like to be a POW in Afghanistan. Or be sold as chattel. "You don't remember? He's the one who took you to the hospital, after the rock struck you," he explains, quietly, before giving Pete a blank look. "What? Peter, at the moment, it's pretty much a proven bad idea for me to be touching other people. And that's absurd. What next - each gets issued his own personal Border collie?" he wonders, with a tinge of waspishness. Jack being too polite to say 'bollocks', after all.

"Already hid it in your kitchen'n'am only telling her where it is. B'sides, f'you steal it all, I'll break in and run off with the scotch," Sera threatens gently. A pause, and Sera looks up at Jack, saying, "My memories've been fairly well fucked up. But frankly? I've been ignoring them completely." Cue the cheeky grin. "I'm sure it won't last forever, but it's been helping. I just..." Angst. She giggles slightly, and exhales clove smoke, then says, "Let's not be strangers, okay--what the fuck /are/ you talking about? /TAGGING/ people? Like they tag... /bears/ and stuff?"

"Neh," says Pete to Jack, then nods at Seravina. "Likely, what happens next is they see how well it works and start creating incidents and attributing them to children they /really/ don't like. Then start applying the procedure to other undesirables. Then start taking more drastic measures with them," he finishes supplying, cheerfully enough. Cheeridoom! He reaches over again and finishes off his glass of Scotch, then lights up a cigarette to accompany the ashtray. "And so if you don't want to be touching people, wear gloves. S'what I do." Smoke - ahh. Not just clove in the room. And it's /very/ rare he'll ever admit to /wanting/ a clove. Considering who's in the room just now, he might. Just, uh. Not yet. "Flying man? He dress in red and blue and a cape an' wear his pants on the outside?"

The look Jack gives Sera is both apologetic and ashamed. "I would imagine so, considering what you ended up with. I'm sorry. There has to be a way to transfer those back, which we'll find." He sounds adamant about that, at least. "And I don't know if gloves would be enough," he notes to Pete, with a nod. "And yes. He's someone I've seen before. Or seen a version, of at least. Dropped an angry mime on me, the first time." A grimace of distaste at that. "And that sounds dreadful. I thought the orphanages in my own time were bad enough." His voice is thick with disgust. "I only hope the local police don't get that idea as well, though I know the American judiciary would scream bloody murder if they did."

"God, I can't believe I ever hated this city," Sera says dryly. "Dropped a mime on you? --those're yours?" she blurts, twilight eyes huge. She knocks back what's left in her glass and says hoarsely, "Y'sure y'don't want any of this?"

"Yeh, this one's not that one. The one what dropped a mime on you's the one what threatened to kill me for vandalism," confirms Pete, ashing in the tray, then looking blankly at Seravina. "What?"

"Yes. I'm not sure. The mime was a meta as well, of some kind. All pierrot makeup, you know, and black trench coat. And a bird. I don't know what he was fighting Blue Tights, Scarlet Knickers about, though. 's about when I first met Kate." He averts his eyes from her, for a moment. "Yes. The shape their absence leaves still lets me know what they were, like those fossils from hollows in the rock. You're the one with themeat of it, though. And that's not something I'd wish on anyone." He waves away the offer of the scotch. "If I start drinking, I'm not going to stop at any sane point," he explains, unhappily, nodding at Pete.

"I'll be having yours, then," Sera offers, almost smiling through it. "Blue Tights, Scarl--Superman!" Sera says, blinking. "Superman saved me? He /does/ that. That cracks me up. It's like... the third time, I swear," she sighs. "Beacon Harbor. This city's better than Ithaca could've ever hoped to be." Cue the pouring of more scotch to Pete, and to herself. Bottoms up!

[League] Celliers spends another evening clinging to the neighbor's Christmas lights to keep from falling off the Earth.

[League] Frequently right, Pete Wisdom says, "Too bad we're Jewish. ;)"

[League] Celliers grins. Keeps me from clinging to things on your porch, instead. I could, if you'd rather?

[League] Frequently right, Pete Wisdom says, "Could. Mind the fewmets."

[League] Celliers facepalms.

[League] Celliers pictures Jack somehow up on the Wisdoms' roof, declaiming lines from 'Henry V' in front of a very bemused Lockheed.

Pete just cracks up. Which hurts, but hey, it's a good hurt. "Superman. He was /here/. In our /living room/. Christ. I want a signal watch." He has a little more of the Scotch, smokes a little more of the cigarette, then eyes Seravina. "Hold up - you're from Ithaca? Ithaca, New York? That fucking well explains /everything/, dunnit?" Oh god the grin.

Celliers echoes, "Superman? That's his name? Or the name he uses while running about in tights? And you're more than welcome to it. Better now, though, at least on the physical level?" He levels a curious look at Pete, before taking out to flip about his own old and battered silver cigarette case. "What do you mean?"

"I /a--how the fuck do you know about Ithaca?" Sera wonders, blinking, looking amused. "It's the navel of the universe, for one. Beacon Harbor's the left nostril. OR maybe I have it backwards. "Pete've you been there? S'a fucking *gorgeous* place, if you ignore the people---hey, what did you mean by that?" Laughter and scotch, and Sera moves to sit on the edge of the coffeetable. Things really are all right. Even when they're fucked up.

Yeah - well - it depends on where you go to drink and who you drink with, in a manner of speaking, doesn't it? Leave the angst at the door with the vampires and the soul-crunching extradimensional earth-shattering vortices, and come in where there's a goddamn cigarette-eating dragon and Daleks in the ductwork. Wisdom grins at Celliers and slouches more comfortably, balancing the ashtray on one knee, smoke in one hand and Scotch in the other. "Back when I was a baby spy, right, and Elizabeth the First was on the throne and Thatcher was in office - 'cos, see, it's been proven she's a golem what gets brought out of the walled-up cistern at St Albans whenever things ain't quite fucked up enough - I got sent fucking driving around goddamned New York State looking for werewolves. An' not the Zevon sort, the 'look Wisdom we lost track of this bloke from Aberystwyth an' there's a fucking lycanthrope with an unintelligible Northern accent running about the woods somewhere between Ithaca and Binghamton, and you really pissed us off with the McGowan cock-up, so you're our man for the job'. There's /nothing there/, it's not the navel of the universe, it's the frigging *toejam*." Pause. "No offence."

Seravina says "What's funny about that is that.. between Ithaca and Binghamton is NV. Where I live IRL. Where we've had reports of werewolves and UFOs, since I was a kid."

Cue the gawking. As an old soldier, Jack's familiar with the sort of stories that begin with a slightly more polite and upper class version of either 'No shit, there I was', or 'Shot it in Injuh, y'see?'. But this one's enough to stop him cold, and bring to bear on Wisdom an utterly vacuous stare. There's even a clove out of its case and left hanging halfway to his lips.

Pete Wisdom says "I read on /purpose/."

It hurts, to have Glenfidditch up one's nose. And in one's sinuses. And certainly it's no good to breathe it. But Sera has these things, does these things, and coughs, laughing, helplessly red in the face for a solid two minutes, hugging herself and trying to keep from dying, or wetting herself. Oh, God. Oh /god/ it hurts. Twilight eyes are full of tears from laughing, from coughing, and Sera is out of commission for a moment.

And Wisdom, damn his eyes, sits there cool as a cucumber and sips at his own Scotch. "Turned out the one they were having sightings of was this girl I worked with later. One of those spandex-wearing super-types what wears an X, like Pryde used to. Nice girl, too. Bit sheltered." He raises his eyebrows at Jack, ashing in the tray, taking one last drag and putting the cigarette out; glances at Seravina. "All right?" EVIL BASTARD. Grin.

Celliers puts away the clove, very carefully, as if it might explode. Right. Brain hurting, scotch in order. Mutely, still not trusting himself to speak, he motions impatiently for the third glass and the bottle.

When she finally gets herself breathing again? Sera pours a glass for Jack, and once it's handed off, flips Pete the bird, goodnaturedly saying, "Peachy." She wipes at her eyes and moves to stand, setting her glass down and can't help but giggle. "I gotta get runnin. I'll come back again, okay? Ndon't go look for chocolate. Scotch'n'sauce are yours. Kitty's gotta have somethin all her own," she says, going back to smoking the clove.

"Aye-aye, cap'n," replies Pete, touching bandaged fingers to temple and tipping them quickly in Seravina's direction, unable to completely hide a thoroughly shiteating grin. "Do me a favor, will you? Don't go an' put Thatcher back in her cistern just yet, there's someone I know has designs on finding the marks and rubbing them out. Don't ask how he plans to find the marks. Some depths better left unplumbed."

Jack's busy putting away his share of the Scotch. You may have my terribly memories, but I have Wisdom's stories, still. He peers over the edge of the glass to nod owlishly at Sera. Too weird.

Helpless giggles. "You're a /fuck/," she proclaims. "F'Ray calls? Tell him t'call the shop. I'll be there," she says, smiling widely. "Love you guys. And not just 'cause I'm drunk," she promises, biting her lips. Smoking, grinning... happy to see people, Sera will head on her way. Say Goodnight, Gracie.

Goodnight, Gracie. "Be seeing you," offers Pete cheerfully as Seravina heads out the door, and Miles darts out of the kitchen just in time to smack into the door closing after her. Wisdom stares at the cat. "Git."

Celliers peers down at the kitten, and sets down his scotch glass. "He does seem convinced that he's missing a terribly important appointment, doesn't he?" he wonders, tone considerably more amused for the benefit of several swift glasses' worth.

"He's late, he's late, for a very important date," is all Pete has to say about that, glancing up at Celliers and then reaching forward with one foot to scoot a little matchbox car across the floor, which Miles obligingly goes off to chase. "You any idea what the fuck's going on with the weather? The Host sent Pryde some *entirely* cryptic prophetic shite about children and armies, and Seishi said there was something dead and invisible what was flitting about the fucked-upness twenty miles out at sea and going back and forth to Beacon Harbor."

Celliers finally settles into a chair, and folds his hands across his stomach. "I'm afraid it's going to be another variation on Bermuda," he replies, tone flattening out. "It's not overtly demonic. But it intends destruction, I'm fairly sure. I havent' done anything to induce visions about it. Not yet."

"Well /don't/, yet," replies Wisdom, faintly - something. Possibly disgusted, especially knowing him. A little more reasonably, he adds, "Still haven't exhausted more mundane avenues of investigation, and for God's sake, after the bollocks we've been sorting since last year, I'd *like* to think - naive as it might be - that for once we have a major reality-as-we-know-it-threatening issue that /doesn't/ involve demons or runaway nightmares or whateverthefuck. I've had it up to fucking /here/--" This is Pete's hand. This is Pete's hand being held way up over his head. "--with all the magic and theology and philosophy and goddamn horror novel shite. I'd even take /aliens/ as an improvement at this point."

Celliers points out, gently, "All of the above we've dealt with before. There's something to be said for experience. But yes. Let me know what you do find out, or if I can help? Not that pattern-sorting of that kind would be terribly helpful," he returns, almost musingly.

"Ye-e-e-es," agrees Wisdom grudgingly, "but just because we've dealt with something doesn't mean we /like/ dealing with it, does it? I didn't sign up for this shite, my /sister/ did. She's the one what spins and vomits and channels Atlantean priests for fun and profit. If this turns out to be another under-the-city demon, I'm blaming Miles and having done with it. You said it yourself, the cat's possessed." He finishes his second glass of Scotch off and happens to glance at the television. "Oh, *fuck*. Chelsea didn't get Gudjonsson."

Seravina stops by to drop off Very Good Scotch, rather a lot of mason jars, and chocolate for Kitty. Celliers stops by to not drink. Everyone ends up needing a drink, for various reasons. Rated R for language, choking on Glenfiddich, driving Jack to drink, a startling and unseemly amount of helpless laughter, random kitten attacks, and randomly inserted bitching about soccer.