[In all honesty, clear plastic rain wear and galoshes are hardly any more curious an outfit than some he's glimpsed on people crawling out of the tube station in the strange hours of the morning. Baz had never exactly harboured a yearning to join the fray, but here we are. The train pulls in and he edges along the platform - one hand in front of himself, one hand at the back - and silently curses every single soul who so much as glances his way while he locates a seat in the furthest corner of the carriage.
To look at him you wouldn't quite know the panic beneath the surface, but then what good would all the years of breeding for a stiff upper lip be if he couldn't maintain one now?
And what good panic? Since his body is almost certainly slumped over the back of a car in the arse end of Omaha right now and all this city actually represents are the last gasps of a dying brain. He's not entirely certain vampires can die from shooting, but this seems to be evidence to support it.
So he's dying, somewhere else, most probably. Here he's stuck on a bloody train with plastic clothes that are sticking everywhere. His skin is rapidly healing over the buckshot in his chest and it's leaving him feeling both sick and thirsty in a carriage full of unwitting juice boxes. Bugger it all. Someone sits next to him, someone whose skin he can smell every inch of and he tenses every sinew as he nods a stiff hello.]
Not even a spare copy of the Metro to use for cover. Have these people no decency?
} Sticky Fingers in the Rain
[All he's doing is looking for something to drink - a stray cat or a rodent would do, anything to take the edge off, and now he's got a shirt tattered to rags by this pissing rain and three dozy but violent looking types trying to back him against the wall of an alley.
He is honestly feeling so attacked right now. Or he's about to, as one of the bastards raises a brick.]
You're sure we can't just talk this through?
[The rain hasn't melted his wand, at least. He curls his hand around it tight but keeps the thing at his side as he plans the spell - now, what words would be universal enough to use in this dire little excuse for a sex dungeon?
Ah. He has a feeling his brain's still set on American spells, but it's worth a shot.]
Backstreet's back, all right.
[If has the desired effect, all three men should slam across the opposite wall of the alley, and will hopefully have the good sense to scarper. If it doesn't... well then. He might just be in trouble.]
} Network
So there's one mildly familiar thing here and it's Twitter.
Has anyone considered that we might actually be in hell?
Baz Grimm-Pitch | Carry On / Wayward Son | Submissive
[In all honesty, clear plastic rain wear and galoshes are hardly any more curious an outfit than some he's glimpsed on people crawling out of the tube station in the strange hours of the morning. Baz had never exactly harboured a yearning to join the fray, but here we are. The train pulls in and he edges along the platform - one hand in front of himself, one hand at the back - and silently curses every single soul who so much as glances his way while he locates a seat in the furthest corner of the carriage.
To look at him you wouldn't quite know the panic beneath the surface, but then what good would all the years of breeding for a stiff upper lip be if he couldn't maintain one now?
And what good panic? Since his body is almost certainly slumped over the back of a car in the arse end of Omaha right now and all this city actually represents are the last gasps of a dying brain. He's not entirely certain vampires can die from shooting, but this seems to be evidence to support it.
So he's dying, somewhere else, most probably. Here he's stuck on a bloody train with plastic clothes that are sticking everywhere. His skin is rapidly healing over the buckshot in his chest and it's leaving him feeling both sick and thirsty in a carriage full of unwitting juice boxes. Bugger it all. Someone sits next to him, someone whose skin he can smell every inch of and he tenses every sinew as he nods a stiff hello.]
Not even a spare copy of the Metro to use for cover. Have these people no decency?
} Sticky Fingers in the Rain
[All he's doing is looking for something to drink - a stray cat or a rodent would do, anything to take the edge off, and now he's got a shirt tattered to rags by this pissing rain and three dozy but violent looking types trying to back him against the wall of an alley.
He is honestly feeling so attacked right now. Or he's about to, as one of the bastards raises a brick.]
You're sure we can't just talk this through?
[The rain hasn't melted his wand, at least. He curls his hand around it tight but keeps the thing at his side as he plans the spell - now, what words would be universal enough to use in this dire little excuse for a sex dungeon?
Ah. He has a feeling his brain's still set on American spells, but it's worth a shot.]
Backstreet's back, all right.
[If has the desired effect, all three men should slam across the opposite wall of the alley, and will hopefully have the good sense to scarper. If it doesn't... well then. He might just be in trouble.]
} Network
So there's one mildly familiar thing here and it's Twitter.
Has anyone considered that we might actually be in hell?