Sees All, Knows All, Does What He Can

Home for the Holiday

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 00:43:47 GMT

'Twas the night of Christmas, and in the double-wide
A creature stirred at the stove, careful not to burn his hide.
His companion seated on a newly-bought chair,
While smells of vegetarian lasagna danced 'round her hair;
Rhiannon in her best, and Whislter in his hat,
Had just settled down for an untraditional meal (lean, not fat),
When from the fire detector, there arose such a clatter,
He sprang into action, to deal with the matter.

"Jesus!" Whistler grabbed the potholders and dove towards the gourmet offense. He threw open the oven door and retrieved the slightly burnt garlic bread.

Unceremoniously the metal pan clanged onto the stove top, and he spun ninety-degrees using his right foot to close the metal beast while frantically waving the holders in the air to disperse the smoke and silence the alarm.

"Give me those." Rhiannon scraped a chair under the smoke detector and climbed on it. Instead of fanning the pot holders, she ripped the cover off and pulled the battery out. The eruption of noise stopped. "What're you, expecting a visit from the fire marshall?" The battery thudded on the floor and rolled under the fridge, alongside untold numbers of dust bunnies and formerly frozen peas.

The air reeked. She got down and went to the front door, then made an effort to push some air out of the trailer by opening and closing it. "Christ... That's what you get for watching Wheel. You're making me feel 80."

"It was that or 'Pimp My Grandmother'," the Agent winked. Christmas fare on television was sparse at best and the idea of a fake yule log with muzak-muzzled holiday tunes ran shivers up his spine. Definitely a demon-spawned idea. Give people a sneak-peak of what awaits them in the afterlife.

The hatted man watched as the battery disappeared, made a mental note to retrieve it. Like he'd done when the first two spatulas were accidentally kicked under the stove, or the spilled change from the pizza he'd ordered last week. In the future, archeologists would puzzle over the time capsule contents in Whistler's kitchen.

If Gerald let them in.

He dug out the garlic bread from the pan and threw the edible pieces into a wicker basket laced with paper towels, and set it on the table. Most of his compensated check from Star went to refurbishing/renovating his trailer, with the main treat being an actual three-piece dining set. Whistler gave the contents a once-over: vegetarian lasagna (check), garlic bread (check), caesar salad (from a bag, check).

"Dinner is served. Can you make it back to the table," he asked with a smile, "or do I need a wheelchair for your geriatric ass?"

Rhiannon slammed the door. "I only do wheels under the car." There was a pitcher of tea on the table; it made for a more civilized holiday meal than two bottles of beer would, and besides, alcohol had been the theme last year, and last year...

Instead of sitting, she curled a knee into her chair and poured the hot brew over the ice in their cups. When that was done, she looked around for anything else. "Oh, hang on." Over on the couch with her coat, there was a lump in a grocery bag. Rhiannon went and picked it up. "Dessert," she explained, "But you can't see it yet." She put it in the third chair and then scraped her chair up to the table.

Lasagna for Christmas dinner. It wasn't traditional like ham and deviled eggs and rolls; this was more them. Despite the strangeness of the sort-of anniversary, she was relieved to be there. Relieved that they could still sit in the same room, relieved that she was alive at all. Had she stayed at home, not only would Rhiannon have ended up eating from a can, but it would've felt too vacant.

"Okay, now I'm ready." She scooped a hefty square of lasagna on Whistler's plate, and then mirrored with hers. She set the spatula down and a string of cheese clung to her finger. Rhiannon sucked it into her mouth.

Whistler picked up and shook a bit of sugar into his glass, then pushed the canister towards the Slayer. He absently stirred the tea, ice and crystals with his spoon. "Helps the medicine go down, eh?" Of all he was, Mary Poppins wasn't on the list. The chimney sweep was a better fit.

The Agent gave silent thanks for his company at the table, and that they could share the time together. He wasn't sure if Rhiannon would accept, but the holiday was empty without being with the people who mattered.

"I've got somethin' for after too," he offered, a knife now slicing effortlessly through layers of noodle, eggplant, spinach, diced tomatoes, meatless sauce, and cottage and mozzarella cheese. "Not edible though. Just a heads-up." Whistler eyed the bag on the third chair, hoping for a glimpse.

Rhiannon scooped out an ice cube and threw it. "Quit peeking."

She dried her fingers on a paper towel. The smells from the lasagna made her stomach growl. Without any further encouragement, the brunette pushed her fork into the entree and cut a bite-sized piece. "This smells insane." She blew on the steaming mouthful and tasted it. "It id inthane," she garbled around the hot cheese. After swallowing, Rhiannon raved, "Thank god, I would've starved at my place," and stuck her fork in the salad bowl.

A few bites later, the ruckous in her midsection settled down. She took a sip of tea. "Okay. So what've you been doing?"

Whistler lifted a piece of the bread and dipped it into the sauce surrounding his piece. It'd turned out much better than he'd hoped. And for the first time in weeks, he felt like himself and inspired to cook. He held a cough as his tongue was assaulted with an attack of garlic.

"Aside from diggin' up dirt on Atia? Which is harder than findin' a woman under thirty at a Tom Jones concert." He put down the bread and instead scooped another bite of lasagna onto his fork, allowing it to cool naturally. "Got into a metaphysical poker game -- which I thought I was goin' for money but instead played for magicks.

"What about you?" he continued, then making quick work of the food on his fork. "I remember a mention about being tortured."

Rhiannon groaned. "Mmm, tortune. Awesome dinner topic." She popped a bite of lettuce in her mouth and chewed it into nothing. The fork turned between her fingers. "I did an interview with a vampire-- shut up!" She jabbed her fork at the air. "Anyway, it backfired, big surprise. All it took to get out was a little help from my good friend Elfleda. Plus some other stuff." The tines on her fork flashed beneath the overhead light. "But I'm okay. I took out a nest in a railcar and now I'm right as rain."

It wasn't the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but Whistler would know that. He'd also know that Rhiannon would tell him everything in time. She put the fork down and tore her bread into pieces. "So I'm guessing you won the poker game."

"Heh, railcar." Whistler inhaled a third of his sweet tea, then returned to the lasagna. "That was the password. Faced three of 'em, loser in each hand didn't live to see the next sunrise." There were blanks in the story the Agent didn't need to fill. His dining companion knew he kept the most dangerous cards close to his chest, and played them when needed. "So wait," he continued, finally venturing to his caesar salad. "Does this mean I should be expecting an exposé on the bookshelves called 'Interview With a Vampire Slayer'? Do I need to practice my 'no comment's when asked if you prefer boxers or briefs?"

"No, you should tell 'em the truth." Rhiannon winked. "I prefer neither."

She bit another piece of bread and sighed. Across the room, Whistler's traditional Charlie Brown tree twinkled. Ornaments were sparse. She figured he probably lost a few when the trailer got trashed a few months back. Ugh, Elfleda's little experiment in defiling. Now the Slayer was going to help her? Like everything else in the world, things were never as cut and dry as they should be. Sometimes you had to pick between the worse of two evils.

"I guess if you found something on Atia, you'd have mentioned it by now." God, an actual piece of information she could use, what a concept! Things were easier back when monsters were in the books.

Whistler attempted the bread again, this time forewarned of the garlic. He noticed Rhiannon's glance at the tree, but whether she'd noticed the package propped up against it was unknown. Her poker face was better than his.

"Nothin' historical," he offered in response. "Who she was before Leviathan took her on, though I've still got irons in that fire. All I know for sure is that Atia's the redheaded step-child in the family. Last to be picked in a shirts versus skins game of corruption, ya know? Very much the capitulate or perish sort. Portal summonin', demons, just like Elfleda. Might have magicks on her side but that's not confirmed."

"So... new star trying to prove she deserves the spotlight." Rhiannon poked at an ice cube with her utensil. "Reckless like a vamp fledge." She cocked a brow and reconsidered the comparison. "No, reckless like a Slayer fledge. Great." She remembered back in the first months of being called, on a visit to Cleveland where it was ten girls to one Watcher, things had gotten ugly under the pressure of competition for attention. Some Watcher types seemed to get off on it. Imagining that on the dark side of the fence? Not pretty.

"Well, I guess I know how I'll be spending the new year. Fending off... fucking hellhounds and whatever else she summons up from the bowels of hell. Tell me something happy." Rhiannon got back to eating.

As Rhiannon processed the minimal information gathered, Whistler finished his salad and topped up his tea. With the ice quickly melting, he excused himself to retrieve more ice cubes and dropped two into his glass, and motioned to the Slayer if she wanted the same. "Something happy..."

The wheels turned behind his eyes as the Agent looked for something to put a smile on the brunette's face. An image flashed. "Jennie staked her first vampire last night."

"Yeah?" Rhiannon put up her hand to indicate no more icecubes. A smile broke across her face. Even if she hadn't been there to see it, she felt proud. Couldn't help it. Rhiannon had no hand in training the young Slayer, but Jennie was the only girl she ever helped find. It felt... incredible. Just to see it happen from the other side. Now she got Whistler, at least a little. "Took a while. I think her Watcher's protective." Which is good. "Did she at least get a black eye out of it?"

She shoveled the last of the main course into her mouth.

He kept the pipeline open a bit longer, gathering as much information as allowed. "A bit more than that, yeah." Whistler replaced the tray into the freezer and took his seat again. "Got a coupla' hairs yanked out at the root, nasty gash across her back."

He took the last bites of his lasagna, savoring the taste as it disappeared. "Don't say I told ya," he continued. "But you can expect a letter from her about it. Act surprised."

"I'll be uncharacteristically overwhelmed," she promised.

Rhiannon wiped her mouth and tossed the napkin aside. "You ready for dessert, or you wanna wait?" She reached for the bag and hesitated over it.

"I wouldn't say no," he nodded, and took a swig of his drink. The glass now on the table, he wiped his hands on the napkin resting on his lap, then rubbed his digits together in greedy delight. "And I took an Omega 3-6-9 this morning, so bring on the cholesterol."

The bag crinkled when she picked it up, so Rhiannon figured she heard him wrong. Her hands stilled on the bag for a second. "I'm sorry, a mega what?"

She kept unwrapping. It might've been just the pie pan wobbling, but it looked like the brunette's hand shook a little under the dessert's weight. Slowly a confection of brown and dark red was revealed. Rhiannon placed in on the table, alongside the bread. "Chocolate... raspberry pie. Voila." She balled up the plastic bag and stuck it in her lap. "See I actually baked. And I hope you appreciate it, because I had to learn what unpricked pastry shell is. Unpricked."

"Unpricked." It took the weight of the world on Atlas' shoulders to keep himself from making the obvious comment. But a smirk surfaced, with a twinkle in his eye. She'd know what he was thinking.

"You. Baked," he continued. There was no malice or sarcasm in the two simple words; just the surprise and (surpressed) delight from the hatted man. There was a Santa Claus and Christmas was a time for miracles. I believe. I believe. I believe. "I'm... fuck, I'm... wow. This calls for the good china."

The good china, of course, were the unchipped plates, which Whistler quickly retrieved. He remained on his feet a moment before dashing over to the tree. As presents went, his would pale considerably compared to Rhiannon's offering. He walked back and held the oblong, bulky wrapped object close to his chest.

As he placed the gift on the now empty third chair. "Shall I cut?" he asked, a bit nervously.

"Yeah, sure." Rhiannon wet her lips and reached for the gift. "I guess I should open?" Without really waiting for him to answer, she slipped a fingernail under the tape. If she opened while he cut, he wouldn't watch her face so closely. Knowing he was nervous for her reaction made it twice as hard to have one.

Whistler carefully dragged the serated blade across the width, then sectioned the pieces so that there were eight in total. He retrieved a clean spatula from a nearby drawer and slipped two pieces onto individual plates, the first to Rhiannon. "It's the thought that counts, right?" he spoke, eyes unable to meet hers.

Rhiannon ignored him to peel back the wrapping paper. Inside, there was an over-sized, leather-bound sketchbook, with pencils and charcoal included. The letters RIL were engraved in the lower-right of the cover. She pushed the pad of her thumb into the initials and smiled. "Hey..."

The brunette looked up. "This is gorgeous." Her thumb moved back and forth. "I really like it." She smiled and gathered the package to her chest. "I like it a lot." It meant the world that he gave her something from before, a part of her that she saved outside of slaying.

Rhiannon watched him dish up the pie. "By the way, the pie wasn't my gift." She chewed her lip.

He cut through the raspberry chocolate delight with his fork, scraping a liberal piece up towards his mouth. "I was gonna get your name written, but I think the initials give it a, uh..." his lips touched the pie as Whistler searched for the right word. The mixture lit up his senses, and he slowly chewed. If one had superior hearing, a whimper might've been detected.

"Holy shit!" he finally pronounced. "Fuck slaying," the Agent teased. "You need to open a bake shop."

"Shut up or I'll poison it next time," she joked.

Rhiannon leaned up from the chair while her fingers foraged in her hip pocket. They closed around an old piece of notebook paper, creased and printed with black ink. "Okay. So... I was a dorky sixteen-year-old. I used to keep a diary." She produced the folded paper and ran her fingertip over the scruffy edge.

"This entry's about you." With some difficulty, Rhiannon handed it over. "I keep a box of stuff from back then. Most of it's crap, but," she pressed her lips together, "I wrote that in March. So five months after I met you. It's about everything that was going on. Life was getting really hard."

She tried to make herself be quiet and held the charcoals tighter. Then she blew the lid off it anyway. "It says, 'I wish Whistler was my Watcher'."

Rhiannon shook her head. "And I know that's stupid, you know, like a hormonal teenager just saying... I wish I had a million fucking dollars and different parents and pretty hair, but it was true. It was how I felt."

He stared at the paper, not just at the words but the meaning, the intent. It opened a doorway into the past and he could see a young Rhiannon Isabel Lee, sitting on her sparse bed, legs brought up almost to her chest, as she wrote the entry. Her longish hair brushed back. The barely audible sound of pen against paper.

It wasn't a memory plucked, or an approximation of events. It was a vision, and it became a part of him.

"And you kept it all this time," he finally answered in whisper. "I... I'd have sucked you know. As one of those white hats. But. I'd always be there. Always will."

"I know." Rhiannon simply shrugged and stuck her fingertip in the raspberries on her plate. "But when it's late at night and I'm sleep-deprived and thinking about how I turned out... sometimes I still wish it. Obviously you and me... romantically, that wouldn't exactly have worked worked out, ethics-wise, with being a Watcher and a Slayer. But when I think about what Watchers are supposed to mean for a Slayer emotionally... you were it. So thanks."

She reached out and shoved the pie at Whistler. "Now eat, okay?"

"Because we're way too ethical in our day-to-day lives," the Agent snorted in return. He wasn't sure if he should return the page; he wouldn't want to rob Rhiannon of a page from her journal. Some day, after archeologists have dug through his scrap heap of treasures, they might stumble across her diary, and discover what wealth really was. "Imagine if that television show was real," Whistler continued. "Fans would write some steamy fan fiction about you and your 'hot' watcher."

He took another two bites of the pie. He hadn't exaggerated (much). It was quite good. "Unpinched," he giggled to himself. "You know I'm gonna have to work this off at some point. Don't suppose you'd wanna train sometime? Or have an old man tag along your patrol?"

"Absolutely." Rhiannon tucked into her pie without taking the diary page back. It was for him. "If that TV show was real? I'd be a lesbian."

Whistler enjoyed the rest of his pie. "That's right, just feed 'em ideas."

"Like fanfic writers need me to give them disturbing ideas." Rhiannon cut her eyes at Whistler and finished her dessert.

What Are The Odds?

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 06:12:08 GMT

After more than eight years, getting hit still hurt.

Rhiannon wiped her lip.

She should've gone on a regular patrol, maybe hit a graveyard or two, and broken her body back in easily. But this whole 'vampires on wheels' thing had been bothering her for weeks. A half hour before sunset, the slayer walked to the industrialized area where railroad tracks intersected and trains dropped cargo or picked up new cars before heading out of town. It didn't take long to find a car giving shelter to a couple of vamps during the daylight hours.

Her plan was simple enough on paper. Give the metal door a tug, flood the car with sunlight, and go from there.

Sneaking up was utterly impossible. She did a tight-wire on the side of the car and found the handle. But as soon as she inched the door, it let out a scrape that practically turned her ears inside out. Sound amplification guaranteed that the occupants were feeling it, too. Hearing a chorus of angry snarls, Rhiannon grunted and yanked on the door as hard as she could.

At halfway, she heard the first demon explode in a cloud of dust. But then pulling got harder. Suddenly she was in a tug of war for control of the door. Then a vamp got ballsy. Sunlight or not, it reached around and grabbed the slayer's throat and tugged her inside. The door slammed shut behind her.

First everything was orange, light cast by the burning vampire. Then he was dust and the car went black. A fist hit her in the mouth. So much for simple on paper.

His idea, on paper, was perfect. Pound on the back door of the Chinese restaurant, flood the goon with his charm, and go from there.

Faking his way into the poker game was pretty much impossible. High stakes meant high security. You needed guts, you needed a password. You needed a bankroll (which he had, courtesy of the last paycheck cashed from the Witching Hour). One out of three.

Whistler walked the tightrope when the six-foot bruiser answered the door. He stuffed a few dollars into the breast pocket, hoping to impress, but the grunt from the front-line security indicated the hatted man was unwelcome.

It was either brass balls or a death wish that found Whistler's foot thrust into the entrance and then hands against the solid metal door where he engaged in a tug of war. The scrape of metal against concrete reverberated along the alley as the Whistler versus Goliath battle rode on.

He didn't see the extra pair of hands that grabbed him by the lapels, and lifted him six inches off the ground before yanking him inside. The door slammed shut behind him...

Rhiannon didn't know if she was bleeding or not.

Blindly, she tucked into a ball and kicked her feet. "Huh!" The left leg struck dead air. The right, a soft spot in somebody's middle section. She felt the way her heel pushed in far and her toe met resistance. Gut, right below the ribcage. The train car vibrated when the vamp hit the floor. She took the chance to whip to her haunches and feel for her surroundings. Trash. Empty cans. Tangled rags. She squinted and picked out the glow of eyes. Yellow, three pairs.

A rumble came from behind her, quiet and low so that she felt it in her chest. Make that four.

Don't think. Move.

The slayer spun and swept her leg.

His feet dangled just off the ground. Whistler supressed the urge to swing his legs. He might connect with the private security's knees but then what? He wasn't a fighter. Freeze him? Then he'd have to deal with the rest of the crowd. He could feel their eyes on him. Four at the table.

Don't panic.

"Password," it spoke. The eyes were yellow. Whistler should've realized. Someone with that kind of strength... He pressed his hands against the vampire's chest and pushed back, hoping to dislodge himself. The move was a colossal failure.

"Uh. Railcar," the hatted man replied. He took a breath as fangs peeked out from receding lips.

Dammit.

Whistler went for the shins anyway. There was a small crack and a groan of pain as the thing let go of him. He turned to face the group, still deciding between fight or flight. He took a good look at the table. Cards had been dealt, but there was no money in play. The room vibrated. It wasn't just an after-hours poker game.

They were playing for magicks. And not the white kind. That couldn't go unchallenged. "Deal me in."

Her ankle hooked around a leg. The vampire came down hard on its back, but not before bashing its head on the wall. Rhiannon didn't see the skull fragments scatter, but she did hear the crack. The vamp didn't dust, but its body was dead weight on the floor. An obstacle, two feet to be tripped over if she wandered that way again.

There were fingers in her hair then, ripping a few out by the roots and dragging her around on the floor. "Let go!" She kicked her heels and fought like a cat. Her fingertips cut swaths down her attacker's face and neck. Little chunks filled up her nailbeds. She was disoriented, no longer knowing where the door was-

There's no way out now.

- or which way she was pointing. Rhiannon felt hands on her legs, multiple pairs. Things escalated into a dirty fight, the slayer thrashing about, freeing one hand and lobbing a punch, or a leg and throwing a kick, only to trade off limbs and go again, like some wild animal being set upon by prey. When she saw yellow eyes coming in for a taste, Rhiannon broke off the crucifix around her throat and stuck it in the socket. Screeching and steaming, the vampire let go.

Two against one. These were winning odds. "My turn?"

There was no way out of this event. The Agent was committed; he came looking for a high-stakes game and to (hopefully) double his severance so that he could fix up his trailer before Christmas, and now he was about to engage a group of minor sorcerors looking to plump up the Magical Dexterity on their character sheets to plus five.

A hand grabbed at his ankle. Whistler looked down to see Bonzo attempt to keep the half-demon from entering further. (It helped to assign the help a name, he reasoned, should he actually survive the night and tell the story later.)

"Let him in. He can play the next hand." The oldest gentleman at the far right of the table waved for Whistler to sit. He was asian, impeccably groomed with flowing white hair. (You shall be called Cain.) To his left was a greasy-haired, middle-aged man (Norman), and to the far side were twins (Zsa Zsa and Eva).

The Agent shook off the vampire by twisting his foot free, and accidentally stepping on the guard's foot. Whistler felt his every movement being tracked, as if he were prey.

The four turned their attention back to their cards, a quick discard and pick-up by the twins, while the duo stood pat. Cain easily won with three nines. Zsa Zsa and Eva attempted to protest, that he counted cards but to no avail. The rules had been set the moment they sat down, and the ladies' magicks were forefeit. As were their lives.

Cain reshuffled the cards. Whistler swallowed. Suddenly he wasn't sure the odds were in his favor. "My turn then," he whispered. The Agent slipped off his coat and dropped his hat onto his knee. He cracked his knuckles in a display of machismo.

Whistler wondered if the Powers sent him here. And if he could pull a rabbit from his hat.

He was offered the now vacant chairs, but dragged over his own. "Call me superstitious," the Agent joked, "but I prefer a fresh start." Before Cain asked, Whistler provided a brief light show to the room. He held up his palm over the table. Crimson and ochre strands streamed from his fingertips, crawled along the digits until they combined in the center of his hand and merged. Energy as fire burned bright, before being snuffed out as he closed his hand.

The cards were dealt across the table, but he refused to pick them up. Norman cocked a greasy eyebrow. Cain took two cards, Norman one.

Whistler stood pat.

The Slayer's fist pounded the face hovering above hers. He let go. Rhiannon kicked the other vampire off and scrambled away in search of a wall she could follow. Outstretched and groping, her fingers sought and found the cold wall and trailed along it while her feet tripped noisily in debris. But, unwounded and with eyes better suited to the dark, the fourth was right behind her. He jumped on her back and his knees dug painfully into her ribcage. After a brief struggle, Rhiannon used her feet to climb the wall in front of her and shove off. Backwards the two tumbled and collided with the opposite side of the car. It rattled.

The door.

It slipped a bit on its track, and a narrow slit of sunset light burst into the rectangular car. It was fiery in color, crimson and ochre. For an instant, Rhiannon could see the messy evidence of the nest in exquisite detail: the garbage, an unconscious vampire in the corner, another one steaming away while he tried to pry Jesus out of his head, and a third bearing down on her fast with a freshly broken nose. But the sunlight was snuffed out as quickly as if someone flipped a switch. Must've dipped behind the horizon.

Plan B. Who needs sunlight?

Still locked in a vampire's hold, Rhiannon threw back her skull. When it hit, a shot of adrenaline went through her. Maybe it was the head rush. It didn't really matter. Suddenly, Rhiannon was having a very good time. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around the oncoming vampire's neck. Crack. Just like knuckles popping.

She hopped down and pulled her stake. "Ready to fold?"

The agent didn't know the meaning of quit.

Cain sat impassively in the corner. Norman, however. The primary rule of any fight, Whistler knew, wasn't to pay attention to your own moves, but to watch your opponent. Everyone had a tell. In a fight it was usually a telegraphed punch or sweeping kick. In poker, it was usually more subtle.

Norman's came from his nose. He sniffled, retrieving a handkerchief to dab his nose. Not something he'd done during the last hand. His chances of winning faded like the setting sun.

Whistler flipped over each card in turn. He paired up eights. Cain produced trip kings. Norman, as the Agent suspected, missed his inside straight.

His husk was carried off by the bodyguard.

Time for a new plan. "Let's make this more interesting," Whistler offered his opponent. "What say we draw one card. Winner take all."

Cain nodded, and began to shuffle. "No," the Agent stopped him. "Not with that deck." He pulled out a fresh , shrink-wrapped pack, tossed it to the white-haired gentleman. "Unbroken seal. Even odds."

"A man after my own heart," Cain laughed. He pulled at the small yellow strip, removed the cellophane. He cracked open the pack and shook out the deck of cards. He turned over the Joker, which then winked at him.

In an instant, green etheral tendrils snaked outward from the card and wrapped themselves around the man. He struggled vainly to resist, only to be held tighter until the magicks were sucked dry.

The vampire threw a punch. Rhiannon caught it. "I didn't think so."

Her stake drove through layers of dry-rotted clothes, skin, and muscle to find his heart. Like they occasionally did, the vamp tried to grab the stake and pull it out, as if by doing so, he could take it all back. The Slayer tugged her weapon away to watch. Dust exploded outward, leaving the outline of a skeleton to disappear a split-second behind. "I'm never getting tired of that," she said.

Behind her, there were loose ends to tie up. Rhiannon went deeper into the shadows and dealt with the unconscious one first. Having a shattered skull wouldn't mean shit to a vampire, other than possibly making it a lot more dumb. Then she tracked the smell of burning flesh into the darkest corner, where a vampire cowered in agony. Rhiannon had to crouch and look hard to see it, but most of the eye socket had been eaten away by the metal cross. Steam was still rolling out.

Rhiannon propped her weapon under her chin. She slapped its hand out of the way. "Hold still." Bracing her palm against its forehead, she grabbed onto the cross with her fingers. A hard twist popped it free. The vampire sagged in relief. Rhiannon pocketed the trinket, said, "Thanks," and finished him off.

Outside, the sky was dark blue and a train whistle blew on its way out of town. Rhiannon dropped onto the edge of the rail car and let her feet dangle free. She pulled out her cigarettes and surveyed the damage. Two were broken. Three were intact. Lighting one of them, she sucked in the taste of tobacco and then studied the filter. There wasn't any red on it. Looked as if her lip hadn't bled after all. "Winner take all," the brunette said, and peacefully smoked until her cigarette's end.

Cain expected death; it was the terms of the bet. And in an earlier time, Whistler would have granted it. But he'd been down that path twice now, and was determined to be a better man. The sorcerer cried tears of joy and loss to learn he would live, but as a shell of his former self.

Whistler reinserted the Joker into the deck, balanced the pack between fingers as he took the hat off of his knee and put it back on his head.

It never got old.

He slowly exited the restaurant, holding his nose as he walked down the alley. The Agent picked out the soft pack of his Lucky Sevens, grateful for the three left. He rolled the zippo and set the tobacco stick alight. Unconsciously he touched his bottom lip.

"Winner takes it all," he whispered to no one, and walked off to find a diner serving waffles.

Voicemail for Rhiannon

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 18:19:19 GMT

"Why do phones beep? Why don't they play... I dunno, the eighteen-twelve overture or something? Anyway, I'm letting you know I haven't disappeared. The Powers decided to dick me around again. Got me boning up on being a lawyer to help a Slayer stuck in jail who, when I showed up to argue for bail, had already made her escape. And if you think I'm gonna get into the middle of that. Fuck. Obviously they wanted me out of the way. No clue why.

"I'm running a search on Atia and whatever I find I'll let ya know. It's uh, it's almost December and I don't have plans for the actual day. Can you stomach my cooking?"

Sleepless in Clark County

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 05:14:33 GMT

He couldn't understand why, but Whistler was utterly fascinated with his cell phone all night.

It never rang.

Halloween Thread: Skydiving in Sin City

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 02:42:28 GMT

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1241963.html

Say It Ain't So

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 03:32:08 GMT

Memory one.

The phone rings low and quiet in Rhiannon’s ear. She chews the corner of her fingernail and paces. Each step is soft, a bare foot striking the wooden floor in no particular hurry. Despite this outward semblance of calm, there are nerves in the Slayer’s chest. She’s got a feeling like something’s not right... that what seems like a dream could be more.

She waits for him to answer and confirm the truth, just barely resisting the urge to cross her fingers. “Pick up.”

His phone vibrates on the night stand.

Whistler fiddles with the remote control, pausing the first court room scene from 'My Cousin Vinny'. He's seen this movie twelve times since checking in to Bally's and countless viewings earlier. He's even reciting Joe Pesci's dialogue a half-second before the actor speaks.

He could've had that part.

That was a curious thought.

The frame freezes on Pesci and Hermann Munster (the actor's name he never bothered to memorize) and checks the miniature screen on his cell. He quickly hits the green button.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, stifling his own yawn.

“I dunno.” Rhiannon puts her back to the kitchen sink. The apartment is a minor mess in front of her, complete with piled-up clothes and torn junk mail and soda cans. Diet Coke has become her replacement drink of champions, something innocuous to chug. Everything looks the way she remembers leaving it, but there’s a strange sense that time has elapsed.

Not to mention... “Did you ever wake up from a dream and it was so real, you walked around for a few hours convinced it actually happened?” The Slayer’s fingernail is jagged now. She leaves it alone.

Whistler bites his fingernail as the Slayer asks her question. A bad habit, letting them grow out and using teeth to trim them. Only as she waits for his answer, the hatted man stops chewing, mentally chiding himself that his manicurist will be pissed at having to do extra work.

Since when has this man, an Agent for the Powers That Be, accustomed to living out of his car, dressing from cast-offs from the local Goodwill, ever considered having his nails done?

"Like you were... somebody else?" he queried. "Same face, different memories. Like you were acting the part."

Rhiannon nods. “Like an alternate universe... that you suddenly... remember.” She isn’t sure how he made the leap from dreaming over to this new description, but it’s fitting. She exhales, hedging towards what she really wants to ask.

“I’ve got this feeling like the world got messed up and reset, but there’s a blip. I feel weird...” For a second, she gets distracted by a vivid mental picture, one that seems like a memory but can’t possible be real. It makes her cheeks and neck flush red. It’s unfamiliar to her. Rhiannon can’t remember the last time she flushed in humiliation. “I’m remembering another life, and it’s going to sound completely stupid, but it’s too full-color to be a regular dream and I don’t remember going to sleep. Did anything happen to you?”

Memories of his own play behind his eyes at twenty-four frames per second. I could've had that part.

"Everything's the same as I left it Rhi," Whistler responds. "Only it feels like me that's outta place. Whistler is my name, right? 'Cuz for some reason I wanna answer to August.

"So yeah," he exhaled. "Somethin' big might've gone down."

Rhiannon’s body slumps. She finds herself touching her forehead, and for some reason it doesn’t seem the slightest bit melodramatic. “Shit.”

No, that doesn’t quite cover it.

“SHIT!!” She moves off the sink, finally kicking off the haze and coming out of it angry enough to kick a cabinet. The door caves in and there’s a cacophony of falling pots and pans.

“What the fuck happened?!” The flush spreads all over her skin now, embarrassment traded for outrage. “I’m having this entire set of memories of being an actress in my own life! Do you think it’s some kind of spell? It’s not Elfleda, I’ll tell you that. I saw her the other night and she’s completely out of commission. Story for another time.”

He holds the cell phone as the combination of Slayer lungs and violence threatens to attack his eardrum. Whistler gingerly brings it back to catch the rest of Rhiannon's rant and while he'd like to know more about Elfleda's apparent fall from her pedestal, it's what the brunette said before that.

An actress in her own life.

"And I was a disgraced former West-End Shakespearean-trained prick slumming in a cable-produced television show." Whistler instinctively reaches for his cigarettes. "Well, fuck me."

Rhiannon practically snorts. “Yeah. I hate to break the bad news, but we’re not even fucking in that reality.” She yanks open her fridge and opens the bottom drawer, hoping that a forgotten beer might roll into view. There’s nothing but a wilted head of lettuce.

“However, I did have resume full of soap operas and French maid outfits, so things could be worse.” Sarcasm drips off her tongue. Rhiannon grabs a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. The thought about Deanna reoccurs to her and she considers again. “No... I take that back.”

"Try appearing as a guest on 'Maury' to discover paternity, which came back negative." Emphasis. Just to make it clear. "I doubt ya can beat that."

“I was sleeping with Deanna!” Rhiannon’s arm flies out to her side. A flourish before a bow that never comes.

Whistler is speechless. His imagination kicks into overdrive, then shuts down. Possibly never to recover.

"Okay," he croaks out. "You win. And I suspect whoever's responsible is about to experience a world of pain?"

Rhiannon’s arm goes behind her head. “How the hell am I supposed to kn... Wait.”

It’s so simple a possibility, she feels like an idiot for not trying it earlier. There’s a sound of papers shuffling and a chair dragging across the floor. The Slayer unearths her aging computer, bought on discount at a pawn shop. It blinks and churns before responding to her mouse clicks. There’s almost nothing and no one that can’t be googled.

“Everybody I remember from the... Okay we‘re gonna call it a dream for my sanity. Anyway, everyone I remember, I already know. Except two people. Do you remember any network types? Max Bickert or... an old bald guy?”

Whistler is up now, smoking and pacing the room. Pixels that form Hermann Munster's head give him a disapproving stare.

"I threw a tantrum in the writers' room," he recalls. "Scared the bejeezus outta a bunch of kids barely old enough to shave. Uh..." The Agent thinks harder. It's almost exactly like the time the Powers fired him for intervening and poked swiss-cheese holes in his memory. Only this time the file cabinets are over-stuffed with two sets of files.

"Lambert!" he exclaims into the telephone. Whistler takes a celebratory drag on the cigarette and blows victory rings. "Greasy fucker. Had a wife half his age I think."

Her eyebrow goes up. “At least she wasn’t a vampire.” Rhiannon waits for the search engine to deliver results on ‘Lambert’ and ‘Max Bickert’. It doesn’t take too long to deliver.

“Well what do you know. Ed Lambert and Max Bickert work for OZTv... It’s a cable network. Any clue what this might mean?” She’s praying there’s some way it’s a group delusion, but the names don’t ring any bells outside of the current situation, and she’s not an avid enough viewer of television to suggest she heard them there.

"We were actors, yeah?" The question was rhetorical, a way for Whistler to put the jumbled pieces together. "You got any recollection of what project you were on before things went... kerfluffy?"

“I don’t get what you mean.” Rhiannon’s eyebrows furrow. The glow of the monitor lights her face. “You mean what show we were on before I ‘woke up’? Or what show I was on before the one we were on together?” The sentence is a disaster. It’s appropriate, considering Rhiannon has no idea what’s going on. At least the sleuth work distracts her from her tainted memories. “Or... what I was doing in this reality before I got transformed into a tv actress?”

He takes one last drag of the tobacco before stubbing it into a nearby ashtray. The Agent is tempted to raid the miniature refrigerator for the peanuts. It feels like he hasn't eaten for a week.

"I don't think it matters what we were doin' before," he comments. "Neither of us were in the same room. If it was a spell, it was far-reachin' so probably not a simple trigger. I don't remember most of the players but you do, so that connection doesn't work either.... Wait."

He looks back at the seventeen-inch set nestled in the corner of his hotel room. "Television. You were on television. In that reality. Me too, and I played... Christ, I played me. Who were you, Rhi-Rhi? Were you an actress playin' yourself?"

“Yeah. On a show called Birthright.” Rhiannon gnaws on her ragged fingernail again. “I mean I don’t remember much outside of... you know, like talking to Max and Ed... my supposed life history... Deanna.... and some weird fan convention where we were sitting on a panel answering questions. Here’s the weird thing. I don’t know some of those faces. Like... okay there was this woman there with red hair. Everyone was calling her Sinovia, but I’ve never seen her before in m... wait a minute... yes I have! She works in the Nugget in Searchlight! Or at least she did when I lived there, I dunno if she still does.”

The Slayer’s hand freezes in the middle of pushing her hair back. “Oh my god, Hannah was there. I don't remember anything she said, but I saw her face!”

"Okay, so... same show. And who came up with that title anyway?" Whistler plops himself down on the edge of the bed, miscalculates the distance and hit the floor hard. "Owwww.

"Some people we know. And uh, Hannah. That's a conversation for another time." Whatever rules the Powers imposed that wouldn't allow him to reveal the truth has been broken. The Slayer witnessed the blonde. That was enough for him.

He considers another cigarette but enforces a measure of will power. "Supernatural bent, wouldn't you say? Common denominator. And all projected on the idiot box."

Rhiannon gets up and walks some more. “I still don’t get it. I mean we both have the same... delusion or dream or memory or whatever, but I mean the way we are, that doesn’t surprise me. It’s happened before, this could just be another case. Then again, I guess the internet puts a wrench in that theory. Who else can we call?”

Connor. She thinks of it because if memory serves, he was on that panel, too. But Rhiannon gets the feeling that every time she mentions the Destroyer, it puts a burr in Whistler’s side and vice versa.

“Can you call around while I do some looking into OZTv?” Rhiannon gives the computer a glance. “I can’t turn on the channel. I don’t have cable anymore.”

"There's one or two people I can get in touch with." It'll take effort, and bending a few hard-fast rules, but the Agent thinks he might be able to contact Hannah. "Plus, free cable. I'll take a look there too.

"Hey Rhi," Whistler continues after a pause. There's a knot in his stomach. "You good?"

“Can I answer that after you find out if I accidentally had sex with a vampire? Again?” Rhiannon flops on the couch. It’s a long way up to the ceiling. The only reason she’s not pulling her hair out by the roots is the thin possibility that it’s all a trick of the imagination. Hopefully one that Deanna didn’t also have.

“But before this... I was okay. Elfleda got cast out of hell. She’s still got power but it’s not the same. She actually asked me for help. I’d throw a parade, except she said her replacement’s worse than her, whatever that means. I didn‘t really have time to process it before the next big blow.”

"Well you know what they say about the big moments, Rhi." Another wave of deja vu, only this time Whistler remembers saying it clearly. "The stuff that comes after counts for seventy percent of your exam."

He swings one leg under so that he's sitting on it, reaching on top of the bed for the remote control. The movie will wait until later. The Agent wants to check out the upper-level cable channels. "If you're up to it, maybe we can grab a beer soon."

“Maybe.”

Rhiannon isn’t sure if they’re ready for that yet. Right now it feels okay, probably because problem solving is old tricks. Sooner or later though, the problem’s going to go away.

She doesn’t know if she should tell him the other news. It probably doesn’t make a difference. Nothing’s changed. But if he finds out from anybody other than her, Whistler will think something’s up, even if nothing is.

“I saw Joseph.” She bites her cheek. “He stopped by. He wanted to let me know he’s alive. It was okay. You know, awkward but... okay.”

Maybe he will raid the mini-bar after all. "Good. That he's alive."

“Yeah.” Rhiannon pushes her feet against the couch end. “I didn’t get the details. Looks like somebody tried to slit his throat. Probably a sensitive topic.”

"Any crash landing -- or knife fight -- you can walk away from." Whistler's feeling hesitant, uneasy. He holds no malice to Rhiannon's ex-boyfriend on a personal level, but he's instinctively jealous. "Tell him I'm glad he's not dead."

“I will, next time I run into him.” Rhiannon finds herself wishing for a cigarette. Sometimes she can’t remember why she quit, and other times it’s abundantly clear. “Anyway try to find out what’s up with the world, ‘August‘.”

"Yeah, yeah." Why anyone would name their child after a month on a calendar perplexes Whistler. "And if you find yourself in bed with Deanna, take pictures."

“If you were here right now, I’d punch you,” Rhiannon says. The most disturbing part is a clear mental picture of what the redhead looks like naked. Not necessarily legitimate, she reminds herself. So she can save the scalding bath for later.

"I'd take that." He smiles through the phone.

"That's because you're my bitch." Rhiannon smiles back.

He finally finds OZTv on the television. "See, that would make for a decent television show."

"Bye, Whistler."

"'Night, Rhi."

Too Close to Call

Fri, 12 Oct 2007 13:50:46 GMT

He wasn't the audience favorite. Not today.

Knees knocked together, fingers interlaced and figeting.

And finally.

"In the case of April Rose. August Whittacker," the somber man intoned. "You are not the father."

"Thank Christ for that." He let out a deep breath, thankful the suit covered his sweat stains.

"Now can yeh ask the harlot to stop dressing the poor child in a mini fedora? It's embarassing."

Temper, Temper

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 22:29:40 GMT

"Did ya see this? Did ya see?"

Moments earlier, the writing bullpen had been a place of quiet chaos. The stable were spitballing ideas about future plot arcs based on notes from Max Bickert, looking for novel ways of new pairings, the next 'big bad'. They only needed to wait two minutes.

August Whittaker stormed into the dank, smoky room and tossed several copies of the latest issue of GQ Magazine onto the table, not caring as one slid off and into a cup of coffee that upended into a laptop. Sparks flew in more ways than one.

"Best dressed! Damned right I am! It's all about presentation boys. Look the part, feel the part! Bloody fuckin' 'ell, you've got me as such a goddamned wanker for too long now! You promised changes. I figured that meant an upscale in wardrobe. But no, instead yeh turn me into a fuckin' lawyer consulting bad movies for reference!"

It probably didn't help that he'd lost the part to Joe Pesci. A joke at his expense, obviously.

"Did ya read? O' course yeh didn't, barely able to scratch your own arse! Here let me: 'Whittacker is the epitome of style, reflective of his former glory in London's West End. Sadly, Whistler remains the sow's ear culled from a silk purse. We'd be more invested in his performance in Birthright and his former relationship with Rhiannon Lee if they just let the man dress in something better than Goodwill rejects'."

"I won't fuckin' stand for this! You hear me!?"

With that, August Whittaker stormed away, grumbling at the secretary as he flashed a 'V' over his shoulder.

Email

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 18:27:04 GMT

From: rockingchair152@gmail.com
To: rgiles@cow.org

Subject: Ding Dong the Witch is Dead

I'm sure you've seen the reports on the news. No lives lost, that's the good news. Bad news, people got banged up. Writing this on a 'borrowed' laptop in a semi-private hospital room.

You'll get formal reports, I'm sure.

My suggestion: invest in some fuckin' healthcare benefits for your people if you haven't already.

Firefight at Fang Noir (Pt. 1)

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 13:54:28 GMT

He checked his watch again. Three-fifty-six.

Fingers fidgeted in pockets, wrapped around the zippo lighter. Whistler needed to be careful or he'd light his pants on fire.

Liar, liar...

He'd be stone if he didn't admit he was nervous. Several players would momentarily converge on Fang Noir, storm the castle (so to speak) and take on a demon that killed him once already. Eight teflon drums of battery acid were interspersed at the four corners of the club, a ninth at the front door. He considered rigging them with a fireman's hose and a portable generator from Home Depot, but doubted the makeshift delivery system would hold up against the barrels' contents.

Whistler took one more lap around Fang Noir, and end up at the rear delivery doors. He leaned back against the raised deck, pushed his hat down over his eyes and lit up a smoke.

If he could narrow it down to one god for the occasion, he'd even consider saying a prayer.

[Thread open to Corbett, Connor, Rhiannon, Alexis, Purity, Tristan, Faith, Victoria and Deanna]

Simple Words

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 02:38:36 GMT

*Beeeep.... Beeeep... Beeep*

A thin cell phone lights up beside the mattress. Incoming call from Whistler.

“...Hello?” Rhiannon’s voice is sleep-smudged.

His voice catches. The pitch is slightly higher than practiced. "Hey. Is it too early?"

Rhiannon looks at a wall clock.

*Tick.... Tick.... Tick*

“It’s 9pm.” She rubs her eye. “No, I mean... I was just taking a nap. Before.” She fiddles with the strap of her tank top.

Whistler checks the rented digital clock next to the borrowed bed.

"Patrol." A rhetorical comment. He fidgets with the knotted shoestring. "I wanted to touch base."

Silence. What he doesn't say.

"I have your special order." He struggles more, puts the heel of his right foot against the aged leather. "I'll be around back, guessing the service entrance makes sense, yah?"

Rhiannon shakes her head. Realizes he can’t see. “No... I mean for gathering, sure. But not when we go in to fight. The front’s actually better.”

She sits up, Indian-style. “If I were you, I’d put the barrels on four corners. That way, it doesn’t matter where he comes out.” He. As if there’s gender.

The shoe comes loose and flies across the room, smacking into a wingback chair. Whistler breathes into the phone, mostly in relief.

"Good plan." He nods faster than he should. "I nominate you as de facto leader for this mission, Rhi. All opposed?" Whistler glances into the mirror. "The 'ayes' carry."

There's a hole in his sock. One finger wide. Two as he stretched the material. "And as a grunt in this war, I'm prepared for my marchin' orders."

Blearily, Rhiannon looks over and sees the coffee. Maybe she should brew a pot.

“That’s not a fair vote. I didn’t get one.” The Slayer puts her legs over the edge of the bed. They are naked and sleek. Muscled like a cat’s. “I’ll do my part.”

Rhiannon stands up. Her feet pat softly across the floor. “I vote you stick with chemical warfare. Fire from a distance. You’ll see what I mean.”

*Filter, coffee grounds, water, on switch*

"True leaders never get the chance." He leans back onto the bed, misjudging the distance between his skull and the headboard.

*crack*

"Ow." He pauses. "Out of harm's way then."

She puts her back to the counter. Her eyes adjust and the apartment unfolds before her. You used to live here.

“Haven’t you been hurt enough?” Rhiannon’s voice sharpens.

Whistler bites the inside of his cheek. He's fully dressed but feels naked. "Who's gonna watch your back, then?"

“Connor,” she fires back.

She realizes how it sounds. There are no replacements. Softening, “And you. Think of yourself as a sniper.”

He nods again. It'll have to be enough. "If you don't come out in thirty minutes."

Whistler holds his breath.

"I don't care who I've gotta go through, Rhi. I'm getting you out alive."

Rhiannon makes a noise, air huffing from her mouth. “I didn’t say you couldn’t go in. Just... stay in the back.”

The coffee pot grumbles.

“I don’t die, Whistler.” She takes off for the beaten couch. Sits heavily. It scratches her bare thighs.

But I did. He keeps those words to himself. Whistler busies himself, tearing a wider hole in the sock.

"You ever notice apocalyptic events follow a cycle? Like every six or seven months." She'll notice the change in topic.

“Is this what you called for, Whistler?” She pulls a knee up. “To shoot the shit?”

*In the distance, a freight train rolls*

“Maybe offer me a cigarette that burns blue?” Rhiannon watches the red circle on the pot.

A group of revellers charge past the hotel room door. He swears the room shakes.

"No. I wanted to hear your voice. Spend a quiet moment with you before the shit hits the fan."

He's surprised at his own blunt response. "We won't get that chance again. Tomorrow night."

Whistler sits upright. "Wait. Colored smoke?"

Rhiannon rubs her elbow. “Don’t act so surprised.”

A steady trickle of coffee into the pot. It burps and spews more.

She hopes this won’t go deep. His words are little distractions let loose in her head. Things that rattle.

"What?" The dream comes back in technicolor. "I didn't do anything."

Rhiannon gets up. “Like you have to try.” She pulls the pot out prematurely. Coffee sizzles on the burner. She makes her cup and drinks it hot. It scalds her mouth.

Whistler considers the mini-bar, stops at the astronomical price tag of a thimble-ful of vodka.

"Are we gonna fight over a fuckin' dream?" He enjoys arguing with the Slayer, but she's about to go into a fight. Not the best time for a distraction.

Rhiannon blows across the cup. “It’s not a dream if we both remember.” She takes another sip and sets it down.

*A final grumble from the percolator*

The Slayer goes to a clothes drying rack. She pulls her pants on. They’re stiff from the air.

*Zip* The button pushes through.

“Say you miss me.”

Whistler contemplates an hour's nap. Thinks better of it.

"With every breath, Rhi. I miss ya."

He finally pulls away the sock, considers what he'll wear for the showdown. Sturdy boots. A shame he never bought jeans. Chances are clothes are going to get wrecked. "Tell me you miss me."

Rhiannon smiles. A shade of old behavior. “How bad do you need to hear it?”

To starve him, just a little. And then drown him in it.

*Hiss* The vodka goes down far too easy. The tiny bottle tossed into the garbage beside the dwarfen refrigerator.

"My life depends on it." There's an upward twitch to the corners of his mouth.

Rhiannon murmurs, “Wait for it...” Her smile grows.

A tiny place of warmth blooms in her chest.

“I miss you.”

It wasn't the alcohol that warmed his. "Should I bring an extra pack of cigarettes as celebration?"

Rhiannon says, “I quit.”

"Proud of ya." He chews his bottom lip. "We get through this, maybe you can show me how."

She picks up her coffee. Uncomfortable in the moment. “Don’t get sentimental.”

*Click*

A. Whistler, Attorney-at-Law

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 21:14:06 GMT

Whistler awoke at the crack of dawn to incessant knocking on the door to his double-wide. He stumbled out of bed, not bothering to dress more than the deadhead t-shirt and boxer shorts he'd crashed in (how Gerald ended up wearing his hat as the gnome stood guard duty outside, Whistler would probably never know). The Agent was greeted by an overly cheerful UPS delivery man with a rectangular box.

He didn't tip.

Inside was a leather briefcase containing transcripts and degree from the University of Michigan Law School, as well as papers declaring that he'd passed the bar. After four attempts.

As well, there was a hotel room key emblazoned with the Bally's logo. Apparently the Powers felt it better if he was a hired gun brought in from out of town to handle Blanchard's case. This also indicated he was in for the haul (minus a side trip to Defiler-ville, no way the Agent was going to miss that fight).

He shook the box again. A credit card fell out. Embossed (as the other documents) was the name 'A. Whistler'. Great, he'd have to come up with a first name. Only two living people knew his real monicker and he preferred to keep it that way.

Whistler waited another thirty minutes to see if someone would deliver him some decent suits.

None came.

He grabbed a shower, packed a duffel (making sure to include his cell phone charger and DVD copy of 'My Cousin Vinny') and, one his way out the door, took back his hat from the ungrateful gnome. "If Rhiannon or Hannah drop by for a visit," he instructed the security system, "tell 'em I'm at Bally's. Everyone else gets the treatment. Okay?"

Gerald stood stoically.

"I'd take ya if I could. But I don't think the judge would accept ya as co-counsel."

Christ. A judge. The Agent had been in front of the law before, but usually to protest his innocence. He hoped the one hearing Samantha Blanchard's case wasn't one he'd met before.

"Will you accept the charge(s)?"

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 01:48:37 GMT

"And just how the hell did ya get this number?" Whistler stormed out of Rock 'N Bowl, cell phone plastered to his left ear. He was due for a smoke break regardless. He cracked open a new pack of Lucky Sevens and shook one out.

The voice on the other end of the transatlantic call crackled through the static. "I have resources even you would be envious of."

"Yeah, whatever, mister high-and-mighty." He flipped open his zippo and struck the flint. Smoke billowed from the Agent's nostrils. "You still mad at me?"

"For the bachelor party?" The famous British niceties were as thin as cling film. " Heaven forbid."

Whistler swore he could hear the man cleaning his glasses. "So you didn't like the stripper then?"

"An aging succubus wouldn't have been my first choice," Giles responded. "And there's the small matter of the groom -- or any member of the alleged wedding party -- not being present for the festivities."

"It got you to England," Whistler spoke pointedly. "That's what's important."

"Indeed. Speaking of paths." The Englishman took a deep breath. "There's a Slayer in your area in need of some... assistance."

Whistler grunted as he took another drag of his cigarette. "I'm not a Watcher, you know this. Last girl I sparred with I knocked into a fuckin' nightstand. You're lucky she didn''t sure your ass for millions."

"We are extremely grateful for that," Giles drolled. "And while I'm sure she turned out fine despite your best efforts, we have a bit of a situation in Las Vegas and to be quite honest, there's no one else we can turn to at the moment."

"Yeah and if you wanna send a boatload of heavy armaments to go against the Defiler, that wouldn't be refused. Just send it Federal Express. I don't trust those UPS assholes." Whistler wondered if he could sneak a beer into the alley without any fuss.

A pause. "Oh. I received your scribble regarding that. Forward to Corbett, correct? He'll have the required information tomorrow. Do let us know how that turns out."

"How it turns out? We need a fuckin' army here, Rupert. The damn thing killed me already!"

A chuckle travelled the wireless airwaves and downloaded into the Agent's ear. "But you got better."

"Don't quote Python to me, or so help me I'll tell every Slayer from here to Wisconsin about your weakness for chocolate." Whistler liked to think the head of the Watcher's Council had to buy glass cleaner in bulk.

"I'm sure you read...," another pause from the former Watcher, given deliberately, "... the papers, yes? Then you'd know a woman named Samantha Blanchard was arrested for murder. She's a Slayer. And we don't abandon our own."

Whistler blew a smoke ring into the night air. "You used to."

"Things are different now," Giles responded matter-of-factly.

"They'd better be."

"Yes," Giles replied sternly. "But we are nowhere near the capacity since the First Evil launched his assault and on the ... corporate end of things, I've been a bit lax. And so. I need a favor."

The Agent calmed himself. He imagined it took a lot for those last four words to be spoken.

Giles continued. "I need you to represent Miss Blanchard as her legal counsel."

"You WHAT?" The intake of breath was so severe, Whistler nearly choked on his cigarette.

"Spit it out."

"I'm not a lawyer," the Agent coughed. The closest I've come is watchin' 'My Cousin Vinny' about twenty times. I put people on their path.."

"And this is Miss Blanchard's," the commander of the new Watcher's Council reminded. You'd be remiss in your duties to the Powers if you refused."

Whistler coughed. Loudly. "And did ya think for even a second that they might have other-- Hold on. I have another call coming in."

click.

Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from ipanema goes walking,
And when she passes, each one she passes goes - ah.

When she walks, shes like a samba,
That swings so cool and sways so gentle,
That when she passes, each one she passes goes - ooh.

(ooh) but I watch her so sadly,
How can I tell her I love her,
Yes I would give my heart gladly,
But each day, when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead, not at me.

Tall, (and) tan, (and) young, (and) lovely,
The girl from ipanema goes walking,
And when she passes, I smile - but she doesnt see (doesnt see)
(she just doesnt see, she never sees me,...)

click.

"I'm back."

"I wasn't aware you had 'on hold' music for your cell phone," Giles offered as a second greeting.

"I don't even have call waiting."

"Indeed." Glasses were cleaned again.

Whistler took out another cigarette and lit it up. "They told me to take the case."

A sigh of relief was felt from several thousands of miles away. "Whatever you need, I'll have at your disposal."

"You're gonna regret sayin' that," the Agent grinned.

"I already am."

Stool Pigeons

Sun, 02 Sep 2007 00:16:26 GMT

Star was ruined.

Sure, the results of the investigation into her club weren’t public yet. Not even the heiress knew what had been determined. But while she and the tabloids waited with baited breath, a bunch of bureaucrats took their sweet time. Tongues wagged, rumors got more and more twisted, and her reputation as a Vegas ‘It Girl’ was down the toilet.

Estella ‘Star’ Tomlin was now a ‘Has Been’.

In the meantime she lived off a meager allowance. After all, her fortune might get sued from underneath her. She joined the ranks of the unemployed. And she shacked up with Leah, trying not to notice that lately the place reeked of sex, and god only knew why. As far as Star could tell, no action ever went on there.

But penniless or not, she could still afford a fashion mag and a milkshake. Depression demanded chocolate and brain candy. It was like a rule or something.

In a bad mock-up of a 1950s diner, Star sat on a swivel stool and wiled away the afternoon. Her straw made rude noises. It dripped chocolate on the pages of Vogue. She mopped at the latest splotch with a napkin and balled it up.

"That girl."

In the 1950s and into the decade beyond, many a young woman parked themselves in the soda shops at Hollywood and Vine, drank sodas and pretended to read magazines. Charlie Chaplin's had an office nearby. Will Rogers too. Studios were within walking distance. So it was the hope of every starstruck girl that a movie producer would walk by, glance into the window, be mesmerized by their mere presence, and strike those fabled words.

Whistler far from fit that bill.

If anything, he walked along the less known path that the Los Angeles section was known for: Haunted Hollywood. If he concentrated, he could see not necessarily the ghosts of what came before, but where the living were headed. And as an Agent for the Powers That Be, sometimes he was instructed to do exactly that. Never was he allowed to examine his own path. That was a bone of contention; if he'd had a heads-up that The Witching Hour was to implode a few months back, he would've socked away more of his paychecks. He would've picked up more double-shifts to line what little of a nest-egg he had. And he sure as hell would've gone in earlier to get the last of the payroll.

Hands stuffed in (non-jean clad) pockets, he scuffed his way through the more brightly-lit areas of Las Vegas, occasionally peeking up to look for 'help wanted' signs. The worn notice at the 50s diner caught his attention.

The woman seated with her back to the window. "That girl."

That cemented his reasoning for going inside.

Star gave her shoulder an absent rub and turned the page. A sweet fragrance wafted from her magazine. It was a perfume sample meant to imitate gardenias. She leaned in and pressed her nose to it. It smelled like a department store for geriatrics. Immediate turn-off.

She wrinkled her nose and fished the cherry out of her milkshake. This accomplishment made her a little smug. Most times, she ate that right off.

The cow bell on the door rang. She looked up, saw who it was, and immediately dove back into her reading materials. Ohhhh shit, shit shit, shit. Angry employee. Star combed her hair over her profile.

The hatted man took his time from the door to the counter. Star's body language screamed I'M NOT HER AND EVEN IF I WAS I DON'T HAVE YOUR MONEY, and a purposeful approach might've caused her to rabbit. No one liked to see Whistler run. His arms flailed like an eight year-old child chasing an ice cream truck. He wondered if that was why Rhiannon never took him up on his offer for a tandem early morning jog. Well that thought was pointless, now.

Whistler sat on the swivel stool and shifted his weight until he found comfort. He dropped his hat onto the seat next to his. An silent rule of thumb: no one liked an asshat, so people usually respected its privacy.

"How're you holding up, then?" he asked with barely any inflection of emotion.

Was Star wearing gardenias? Immediate turn-on.

Star sniffed and straightened. “Fine.” It would’ve been easier to turn the next page if chocolate hadn’t glued it down. She pretended to study a collection of Fendi handbags. It didn’t take a lot of acting talent, once she got an eyeful of them. Sigh. The things she’d never have. Her fingernail traced a periwinkle strap.

“You?” Star could’ve shot herself on the spot for asking. But the guy was a former kitchen employee, so she wasn’t exactly going to be rude, even if they always got on each others’ nerves. Especially now that she might need tips on the local classified section. A guy like him probably trolled them often.

The counter waitress made a drive-by.

"Uh, whatever she had," Whistler grunted to the Lucille Ball lookalike. "Another for my old boss. And don't believe her when she declines. Put it on my bill," he finished, not giving Star a chance to protest.

The Agent swivelled from left to right, a small half-circle. Everyone should have chairs like this, he thought. You couldn't be sad when you could spin until you got dizzy. It also helped you forget things, if done right.

"Broke up with my girlfriend. Kinda. I think. No. We did." He'd double-checked the transit system once he made his way into Las Vegas. No subway.

"My home's a wreck, I barely have any furniture to my name. Working midnights at the Rock 'N Bowl and looking for more work. I'm peachy."

Whistler nodded in thanks as the waitress brought over two glasses of water. Some niceties still remained in the food service industry. "I saw the implosion on You Tube. Spectacular. Did you know it's got over two million hits so far?"

Star closed her magazine with as much patience as she could muster. Which wasn’t a lot. She swiveled around and let loose one of her patented bitch looks. “Listen. I didn’t blow it up. Capisce? You’ll get your paycheck as soon as I get mine. Which’ll happen when that tight-ass insurance investigator gets his thumb out of his ass and declares me free and clear.

“Furthermore...

“You had a girlfriend?”

Star shook her head and peeled the paper off her new straw. “That’s baffling.”

On a hot, late-summer day, you could always count on a cold blast of air from Star Tomlin. Whistler heard that a lot from the (former) employees of the Witching Hour. He'd believed there was a softer side to the blonde.

Apparently not so much.

"First of all," he brought up his pointing™ finger. "I never accused you of blowing your place up. I think I would've known, after a fashion." Which was true. It wouldn't have been for his personal safety that the Agent would've gotten a flash of that future, but moreso for the other workers. If Star planned to destroy her own restaurant and nightclub, not to mention the place where she lived, there probably would've been residual energy.

"Second, while yeah I'd fuckin' love my money, I'm wasn't gonna burn that bridge quite so fast. When that insurance kicks in, you might decide to rebuild. And how many people do you think would risk comin' back to workin' for ya right away?

"And three...

"Fuck off."

Star’s smile dripped sugar. “I was here first.” She plucked the cherry from Whistler’s matching milkshake and glomped it along with hers.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Whistler, if I don’t roll out the welcome mat. The whole,” she put up quote fingers, “ ‘support for the owner’ concept seems to be missing from the Witching Hour crowd. See..,” she ticked items off with her fingers, “I paid the best wages in town. I stacked the tip jars. I let ‘em have free drinks after closing. And I never once questioned it when somebody was too hung over to come in, having been there myself.”

Star took a breath, because blowing hot air was hard work. “All in all, I’d say it made for a fucking sweet working environment. Particularly considering the previous owner was a warlock who pranced around in leather pants with a security detail, and he never once spoke to an employee, unless it was to get into his or her pants. That’s right! I said it!”

She brushed back her hair. “So yeah. You making the polite approach? All walking up and not implying I’m a psychotic bitch and demanding restitution for pain and suffering, which puh-lease...? One in a hundred. And if you are one in a hundred, congratulations. You actually have a soul.”

"Yeah, I got one," Whistler snapped back. It was never a good idea to snipe at someone who knew when you'd draw your terminal breath and considered telling you. "Bit tarnished of late but it still works."

He scooped up a spoon with a long handle and stirred it in his milkshake, supressing the urge to tell Star anyway for stealing his cherry. "And you wanna know a truth? It doesn't fuckin' matter how well you stack the tip jar or forgive someone for slackin' off because of a hangover, Miss Tomlin. 'Cuz it's one thing to act the concerned patron and another to actually give a shit about someone other than yourself."

With more whipped cream than actual frosted chocolaty goodness in the curve of his spoon, Whistler brought the utensil to his mouth and let it coat his throat.

Star’s face flamed up. Whistler’d hit a nerve. She bit her cheek hard enough to cut through.

“You think you fucking know who I am? You don’t.”

It took all her self-restraint not to hex him with some kind of pox, just for shits and giggles. She slid the ‘free’ milkshake out of her way and reopened Vogue. Let him sit there and imagine she was some dumb, selfish socialite. He’d never get her. Only Tyler did, and he was gone.

Everyone, to a degree, broadcast their thoughts. Like radio static it would be impossible for most to hear without focus, and unless you could attune to their frequency, the best you'd pick up was sports on the AM dial.

Star's tirade lashed out in Dolby Surround 7.5™. Whistler instinctively flinched and saw beyond.

He sucked back on the milkshake until it was half-gone. "White roses," he finally mumbled.

Star mumbled around her palm, “I prefer pink,” and flipped a page. Then her brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”

The man shrugged and finished his milkshake. Immediately he suffered a pain in his frontal lobe. "Ow, fuck!"

The most likely culprit was the icy treat, but Whistler was an Agent and when he blatantly ignored the wishes of the Powers, they tended to grab his attention. Like that time he carried a migraine for days. "It's all about primary colors. See if you can wrap your head around this.

"You've got red, which of course mean love, everlasting. Then you've got white, yeah?" He puffed as his temples still throbbed. "Purity and brightness, two things you obviously aren't." FUCK! Okay, already! "But when given by a lover, they represent them thinking you're a...."

Oh, don't make me say it. Nggggggguhhhhh!!!

"Means they think you're an angel. Mix the white and the red, you get pink. Which I'm sure you have a lot of in your closet. So basically it's an expression of deep love, purity, and sympathy.

"And NO, it's not me."

Star cocked her head. “Really. So then... what’re you doing, spying on me? Orrr... have your newest career aspirations led you to a lucrative job in floral delivery?” She waited on an answer. “Take your time. Don’t stress it. You’ll only aggravate your bald spot.”

She folded her arms.

Aha.

The headache became a dull roar in the back of his skull. "Better to be the bearer of bad news than the person who receives it. Or somethin' similar. I think Shakespeare wrote that. Or maybe Marlowe. Or Dick Cheney. They get jumbled up sometimes.

"And for the bald spot crack, I don't think I'll tell you." Whistler reached to his left and grabbed his fedora, putting it square on his head.

Star rolled her eyes and took another pass at the magazine. “Whatever. Like a pot shot at your hairline is anything compared to implying I have no heart or no virtue.” She flipped past the perfume sample and shot straight to the horoscopes. Since when did Vogue have horoscopes? “Anyway, I don’t have time for this, so either you know something or you don’t. I don’t beg.”

"I know that, despite your many faults, someone loves you, Miss Tomlin." Whistler sucked up the dregs of his milkshake through the straw, ensuring the noise grated. "And even death itself isn't a concern. So as bad as you feel right now, as low as you've gone.

"You've got somethin' special to look forward to."

Star’s head buzzed. “I don’t get it.” It was just like the meeting with Detective Starnes. Puzzle pieces flying everywhere but none of them fit. “If you’ve got something to say, say it straight. Otherwise shut up. And lay off the death remarks. It‘s a thing.”

Whistler slowly shook his head. He could see Star's probable future and gave the nudge allowed. But -- remembering the time he tried to directly interfect and warn Rhiannon of the coming Scourge -- there were consequences involved. This time, it might not be directly aim at him. His bosses could throw up any number of roadblocks and prevent it from coming to pass. And given what lay beyond that for the blonde, and her place in the coming storm, that was a very, very bad idea.

"It'll make sense in time. You'll likely smack your forehead, ya know like those 'I could'a had a vee-eight' commercials. Just trust me on this." He dug in his (still) jeans-free pants and pulled out a few bills, and slapped them on the counter. "Enjoy the magazine, and pay attention to page one hundred and twelve. And oh, I'll let you tip the waitress. You've said you're good at that."

Whistler swivelled to his left and held back a smirk at the miniature ride on the stool. It made him homesick for the Teacup ride at Disneyland. Maybe he and... maybe he'd visit there someday soon.

Star waited until he was gone and flipped hurriedly to page one-twelve.

It was just a stupid cologne ad. Some guy with a body like a Grecian god walking out of the ocean.

Star slapped her forehead for being so gullible.

“That guy’s a complete fraud.”

Fade rto Black

Wed, 29 Aug 2007 04:55:29 GMT

INT. SUBWAY.

The train ambles onward through the tunnel, powered as much by electricity as the desires of its temporary inhabitants. A lone hatted man stands at the edge of the Charleston Boulevard platform. His name is WHISTLER. His hands are stuffed in his denim-clad pants pockets. He's uncomfortable, as much in his clothing as he is his surroundings.

The man lumbered slowly into the station, headlights illuminating his frame and casting a ghostly shadow that constricts as the metal contraption slows and grinds to a halt. A faint hiss as the doors open and Whistler enters the first car. He shuffles to the front of the train, removed his hat and wipes his brow with his shirt sleeve. Thankfully the air conditioning is not only in working order, but on overdrive. He rubs the back of his neck and turns around. It is the height of rush hour and the Charleston line should be bustling with passengers.

He is the only one aboard.

WHISTLER
(smoothing 3-day stubble from upper lip to chin with two fingers)
Huh.

At the rear of the subway car, a door separates Whistler from the quiet of another seemingly empty one. The window gives a dirty view to the other side. A collection of smudged fingerprints mingles with splatter from sloshed drinks to distort his perspective. The lights blink. After a moment, a woman comes into sight. She slides the door with some difficulty. The bottom of the track sticks.

A final shove and she passes across the threshold. The brunette’s name is RHIANNON. Without acknowledging him, she tosses a book bag onto the floor. One strap is held on with duct tape.

RHIANNON
(collapsing on the seat and cradling her boots around the bag)
I need to smoke.

The zipper track on her bag splits wide as she opens it.

RHIANNON (cont'd)
That’s perfect.

The rush of wind with the opening door knocks the hat from Whistler's head. He stares at it quizzically while it spins in the spate of air and dances with an invisible partner before settling on one of the plastic seats. The distraction keeps his attention elsewhere until he hears a familiar voice. At first he thinks it's in his head (this happens to him sometimes) before a ripping sound is also heard.

He turns.

Whistler holds his breath a moment. The brunette is busying herself picking up the spilled contents of her well-worn bag.

WHISTLER
(feeling self-conscious)
Hey.

RHIANNON
(bent down, she rustles through papers and then her hair when she looks up)
Oh. Hey.
(becoming awkward)
I didn’t know you’d be here. I would’ve...

She stops. A wad of paper sounds like dead leaves in her hands.

RHIANNON (cont'd)
(looking perplexed)
...Driven.

Silence erupts again. The train sways.

WHISTLER
Yeah. Well I.

He digs his hands deeper into his pockets. The jeans feel foreign to him, as if he's wearing another language. In all his decades of life Whistler hasn't been one without words. But Rhiannon has always tripped him up. Most of the time he would say it was for the better.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
I totalled the car. You know. Before. Relying on the kindness of public transport now. Kinda reminds me of New York. Only... not.

He takes a few steps forward, watching the brunette's body language. If she tenses up, he'll stop.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
Funny finding you. Here.

RHIANNON
(the picture of tension)
Why’s it funny? You always do.

She sorts the bag a bit longer, finds what she wants. It’s a piece of paper. Rhiannon unfolds it. Something is printed on one side. She looks it over, or pretends to, and her face takes on the look of a girl working a mathematical problem. Her legs remain snug around the bag, her upper body closing off.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Surprised it took so long.

WHISTLER
Yeah well after last time.

The words hang in the air, much like his hat moments earlier. Whistler shivers slightly, and rubs his hands together.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
I'd say I only go where I'm wanted, but that's bullshit. I figured you didn't wanna see me.

RHIANNON
We don’t have a choice about these things. No time to decide before it happens anyway.

She flips the creased paper upside down. Her brow furrows. Whether the contents are a maze or her attention cannot be focused is a mystery. Rhiannon drags her boots in tighter, until her knees touch and remain there. The floor is gritty.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
That’s why we’re just passengers.

Bothered by a thought occurring to her, she breaks form once, looking up. She wants to ask about the subway but does not. Instead she remembers how she was nights before with Connor. Younger or softer than she feels now. Her mouth moves of its own accord.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Did you know this is a costume? I only wear it sometimes.

Whistler looks up at the subway map overhead of the doors. A green line drawn from north to south, interspersed with white dots and names of the stops. The letters move of their own accord, a jumbled mix of English and Chinese characters. If he concentrates hard enough they might make sense.

He wants to reach out and assemble the pieces, have things make sense. But he can't do that in his own life, how would he expect to exert that amount of control over fiction?

WHISTLER
I've seen ya try on different lifetimes. Sometimes I'm your dresser, others you're my muse. Always the same people underneath the bodice, whether it's lace or leather.

The public address system overhead crackles to life.

PA
Nine**scrawk**teen ninet**reeeeeeeeeee**, next stop.

WHISTLER
My hat makes no sense.

RHIANNON
(bemused)
Neither do those jeans.

She folds the paper again and tucks it between her locked knees.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Post script. I won’t be wearing a bodice anymore. It’s strictly this for me.
(now she plucks at the hem of her shirt, a size too small and immature for her age, with some forgotten band logo from teenage years long gone)

WHISTLER
That isn't you.

He breaks his vow and takes a few steps forward. There is still distance between. There seems to be nothing but distance shared.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
You outgrew that a long time ago, Rhi. Are you leaving me behind too?

Whistler takes another step, this time to his left. He sits opposite her on a hard bench and instinctively reaches under his seat. We hear the sound of ripping. With a hard tug, the man pulls away with three wooden stakes wrapped together with grey duct tape. He holds them out to Rhiannon.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
You'll need these.

Rhiannon eyes them.

She takes the bundle slowly, careful not to touch his fingers in the transaction.

RHIANNON
But didn’t you tell me to go home? I would’ve sworn you did.

The book bag between her feet contains a spiral notebook. Two CDs. Gum wrappers. A school book. A fake ID. Rhiannon turns her palm over, uncalloused and smooth. Ink stains the center. ‘3:30. 7-11. Call Shannon!

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Back to where I came from.

Whistler swings his legs up and over, pressing his back against the plexiglass that separates the seats from the door just beyond. The subway cars slow and stop. The doors swing open into blackness. Music wafts just on the edge of hearing. Whether it is coming from outside of the train or the public address system is uncertain.

WHISTLER
I said it to hurt you, Rhi.

The words tumble out of his mouth as his brain plays catch-up.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
I wasn't in my right mind. I'm not excusing it, but I am apologizing. Elfleda had me in her grip and I acted like a right bastard.

The man crooks his neck to look out the windows behind Rhiannon. On the edge of darkness he can just make out a store-front, covered in graffiti. The words are painted with a syrupy liquid.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
We all have darkness inside of us, eating at the edges. Wanting in.

RHIANNON
(shaking her head, stowing the stakes away with the rest of her junk; the zipper still won’t close)
Don’t you think I know that?

The black ink travels up her wrist in slow, marching lines. Almost like veins. It dissipates before it gets to the elbow.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
(pulling at the tight shirt, uncomfortable, growing restless)
I don’t know who I am without you. It’s not fair.

Frustrated, she lets go of the constrictive fabric and slumps in her chair. A beat later she hurries to root through her pockets for cigarettes. There are none.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Where are we going?

She’s looking at the jumbled map. Desperate.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Don’t you get off soon?

Like a sigh on the wind, a chime sounds and the doors close. No one has joined the trip to the next station. It is just the two of them. Whistler dares to be rebellious as he digs out his Lucky Sevens from his pocket.

WHISTLER
(mumbling)
I'd swear these were a different brand before I got on.
(to Rhiannon)
You need to figure that out. Damn that hurts to say. 'Cuz I know who I am without you and that's not something I wanna contemplate.

He shakes out a cigarette for himself and peers along the length of the subway car for the authorities before offering one to Rhiannon.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
I don't know my exit.

Rhiannon sighs. The slayer pines for the cigarette but doesn’t cave, at least not at first. To take it means something, that’s all she knows, even if she can’t recall exactly what. Just as she can’t remember boarding the subway train.

RHIANNON
I don’t think I’m supposed to.

She blinks and a new awareness seems to dawn on her. It takes her entire face by storm. She’s angry now, leaning forward even if her arms are crossed.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Didn’t you know how much I loved you? There wasn’t any line. You were always first. Why did you make me wait, tell me to date and be normal, if you were gonna blame me for it later? I’m not what you said I am.

The man pulls back the cigarettes at her comment. He tucks the pack away but cannot find his lighter. He's taken back by the honesty and the anger behind Rhiannon's words.

WHISTLER
Truth? I didn't know. Back in Detroit when I'd come to visit I thought you had a crush, but you also took a boy into my bed. I also knew this. I was never around. I always wanted more for you, Rhi. And how could I make you wait?

He performs magician's tricks with the unlit stick of tobacco. It seemingly disappears from his hands, only to reappear again. It breaks and mends.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
It was wrong to blame you for having when I wanted you to take me instead. I admit it. And I'm gonna tell you something I never said before. I loved you. Then. Now. Tomorrow.

They are interrupted once more by a disembodied voice.

PA
Boulevard of brkn hrts **sskkkkkkkkkkkrrrrrrraaaaaannnnnnnnnnkkkkkkkkk** next step.

WHISTLER
Whatever I've said before. About who you are. What you're to become. Truth, but only if you wanted to find it.

The hatted man looks down to find his cigarette is smoldering.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
You are Rhiannon Isabel Lee. A woman with a head on her shoulders, stars on her back and my heart in her hands.

Rhiannon leans her head back and shuts her eyes. Her skull rocks against the window as the train veers.

RHIANNON
(blatantly ignoring the rest)
It was a hotel bed. And confesssion...

It’s clear that this part pains her. An old, tall tale being revealed for a farce at last.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
We only went to second base. The rest was later. I only said it to freak you out. See what you’d do. I was seventeen.

For a moment, she smiles. She can’t help herself.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
But then you didn’t do anything. That’s why I rounded third and slid for home. Plus... it’s not like I could just let Nevin have it by default. C’mon, the guy’s ego’s the size of...

A beat goes by.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
Well, mine.

WHISTLER
I did do something. You just didn't see it.

He finally takes a drag of the cigarette. It tastes of clover and smoke rings are colored magenta.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
Hotel security did though. I'm banned from the Hilton chain for life.

A wisp curls from the bright ash and turns into a ghostly image of a fallen friend.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
What would you've done if I stormed in while you two were foolin' around and I threw a fit in front of ya?

RHIANNON
Truth?

She leans up. Takes the cigarette from his fingers.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
I would’ve laughed at you. And I definitely would’ve said you didn’t own me. That nobody does. I don’t belong to anyone, remember?

The slayer takes a drag, and the forbidden nicotine is an unbelievable rush that shakes her to the core. The way Whistler feels every time she touches him, if she is honest about that, too. Nobody understands the pair of them. It isn’t supposed to happen. It just does. And every time, it is terrifically and terrifyingly real, both right and spectacularly wrong, like a train going off the rails. Clean and dirty all at once.

She exhales in a gorgeous burst of purple and blue.

WHISTLER
Is that how I make you feel now?

The question is punctuated by a lurch as brakes are applied. The railcars slow and come into the second station. This area is different from the first; the walls are draped in white interspersed with red velvet. The floors are broken tile.

Again, the station is empty. The doors open and an oppressive heat floods in. Whistler breaks into an immediate sweat.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
Sometimes I don't know where I end and you begin.
(pause)
And that's the problem.

Whistler's hands begin to fade. He struggles to hold himself together.

RHIANNON
(smiling now, softer)
It’s all in our heads anyway.

She leans forward and presses her lips to the air where his forehead is failing to remain.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
You’re the prophet. Is this stop yours or mine?

He feels Rhiannon's warmth if not the physicality. Like a cheshire cat, only the smile seems to remain.

WHISTLER
Both. Neither. It's all in our heads. I'd clap like Tinkerbell asks, but my hands are gone.

Whistler's eyes briefly reappear, along with other familiar features.

WHISTLER (cont'd)
If you're not sure who you are, remember this. You're my anchor.

RHIANNON
(biting on her lip)
I’m sorry, baby. But that’s not enough anymore.

The slayer gathers her bag and prepares to exit through the door she squeezed past in the beginning.

RHIANNON (cont’d)
You know how it goes, though. We don’t have a choice about these things. No time to decide before it happens anyway.

His transparent form stands, and Whistler makes his way towards the open doors. He glances back to the woman he loves.

WHISTLER
I don't wanna give up, Rhi. I don't wanna say good-bye.

RHIANNON
(from the door)
It’s never really good-bye. Even when it is.

Whistler continues out the door, slowly fading away. Only his hat remains as the train continues its journey past.

FADE TO BLACK.