OK Boomer [PM]

[Charlie]

[Charlie] Late night blurs into the wee hours of the morning and Charlie remains perched across the armchair like a deboned contortionist: left leg extended above her as she taps a haphazard beat with her toes across the wall, just next to the now-skewed picture frame; right foot hanging off the armrest where it swings restlessly back and forth between Gremlin’s sharp little claws. Thumbing at her phone, she blindly reaches for the bottle of whisky tucked between her hip and the upholstery. In the past few of hours she’s made it but a few sips in, too distracted with both her Tumblr and Crownet feeds. “A ken a should be a better influence but yer pure raging and a not been this entertained in weeks.” As Charlie says this she drops a link into their extensive SMS thread. “That’s her.”


[Marisol] “You make it sound as if the office is boring.” Marisol’s fingers fly against the keys of her laptop, from the screen she hadn’t glanced away from in hours. Anger sits evident on her features. At Jesse, at Clover, at the two names Mircea and Habren. She isn’t sure of who, at that point, it is directly at. She reaches for the bottle of tequila that she has set by her ankle and her fingers are met with something soft. Revulsion crosses her features briefly as she thinks it’s the cat she’s inherited from her old master, but she sees the cat playing with Charlie as usual. Instead, it’s a rug. “You can’t honestly tell me she’s right in this situation. How can we trust them? We aren’t…” Marisol stops as she looks at her phone, “a musical. Fitting.”


[Charlie] Charlie hums along for the sake of obnoxiousness but is quick to replace the ditzy tune with a hefty swig of whisky. She mulls over Sol’s words as she swishes the alcohol about her mouth, gaze turning towards the ceiling. Thinking is both easier and harder. “It’s been a minute since our lot had a domestic, innit?” With that, she rolls her ankle to shake off the claws stuck to her sock and brings her right leg up and across. It’s a ridiculous position to subject oneself to, but her sheer willpower to stick it to convention is keeping gravity from winning. Balancing the bottle on her stomach, she tilts her head back to look at Marisol. “Aye, her bum’s out the window, but I ne’er needed a reason to trust anyone to make the most of a situation. You’re doing yer head in, mate. They’re nae worth it.”


[Marisol] The noise that Marisol makes is between a scoff and a snort. It’s not a sound that she makes often. She took another drink from her bottle and set it back down. The cat looks at Marisol briefly and arches its back, causing her to give it a dry look. She gives a brief look of amusement, watching Charlie free herself from Gremlin’s clutches. The animal liked her much more, but she’d never be able to pawn the creature off past visitation days. “If that’s the scot way of saying she’s making an arse out of herself, I agree.” She wrinkles her nose and picks up the tequila bottle. She misses the nights of free drinking, of partying. There’s a few documents on her desk that she needs to work for, but Marisol begins typing with one hand again. “Perhaps. But, what else do I have to do but renovation? Jesse is my sire. That’s dandy, but he isn’t here, either. Trust doesn't work without effort.”


[Charlie] Charlie scoffs at the jab, chin tucked to her chest. The bloody English, she thinks to herself, fond and exasperated in equal measure, for it’s not the first time she’s exposed her friend to the poetry that is her native tongue. Feet stilling, the allurist begins tapping the bottle, the dull clicking of nails an erratic beat until she finds the right rhythm. She remains quiet for a long while. When an idea hits her (and gravity threatens to win in light of her distraction), Charlie flails about until she manages to settle in the armchair as one should. “Right,” she says, crossing her legs and then propping the bottle in the space between them. “What if we started our own thing? With Jesse gone and the lot of them silent or fucked off, what if we—” She scrolls through her phone single handedly, other hand wrapped tight around the bottleneck. There was something about it on the Grigori crownet... “A faction. Only those we trust, be they blood or not.”


[Marisol] There’s a twitch of her lips, a soft shake of her head causing her hair to fall over her shoulders. Her gaze returns back to the screen only for a moment before she notices the flailing limbs and the sound of sharp little claws scraping up her floor as Gremlin runs for his tree. His hind end ruffles, but she chuckles at the dismay of his little face. “I’m listening,” She states as she set the macbook pro in between the two of them and turns the screen to face her friend. Her sister. There wasn’t much time between the two and Charlie was the one she was close to. “It would be…” She trailed off, her lips pressing together. Marisol sits up and rests her elbows on her thighs, “Actually. That would be a blessing in disguise, it allows us to create our own rules, our own plans.”

[Marisol]

[Charlie] Charlie squints at the screen, unnecessary given her supernatural eyesight but inevitable in light of the whiskey beginning to take effect. The issue with eidetic memory is that it doesn’t mean immediate comprehension, just perfect retention; as such, the allurist drops her phone in her lap and reaches for the laptop. It’s sleek and lightweight, but it still, unfortunately, is a mac. Marisol has heard the grumblings time and time again, so Charlie spares the other her commentary. “Not to belabour your rightful indignation, mate, but if we do start something we’ll need allies—” She goes quiet as she continues to read, her lower lip finding a home between her teeth. Charlie closes the lid and continues to balance the laptop on one knee, effectively holding it hostage. Her mind casts back to Sol’s latest comment to Clover, then further back still to when Charlie first met the shadow at Serpentine all those years ago... It feels like an eternity ago. Jesse. Verin. The siring. The wedding ceremony that followed shortly after, where Charlie kept her distance from Clover but grew close to Marisol. “You know,” she says, sliding the laptop sideways between her hip and the armrest, “Jesse left Clover too. You ken if she’d be an asset or an albatross?”


[Marisol] “I’ll be done, for now.” Marisol eyes the back of the screen. Yes, she would be done for now. She said her piece. She feels better. Visibly, too. Her hand itches for the bottle she had been nursing and crosses one leg underneath herself. “So I will behave and not damage anything further. I still do not trust them.” Her pride finds a level of steadiness that it is no longer conflicting and she gets up to retrieve a stainless steel bottle full of blood. The smell is mild as she unscrews it and takes a few drinks, enough to soothe the steady burn at the back of her throat. “Ah, speaking of. I ran into her not too long ago. She found the club.” Hole in a Bottle was known to an extent. She needs to finish on the licensing… “Truthfully, I’m unsure. The three of us are the oldest, with her being the old bag in the bunch. Might not be bad, if we want to do our own collective thing.”


[Charlie] Berlion had told Charlie about the powers she’d acquire should she continue down this path, had spoken of a Persian man—or ghost of one, a wraith, Eskoph—who could teach her how to expand her mind further still to reach across ether in order to learn things about others which they themselves might not know. It’d sounded like a load of croc at the time, but those abilities are the very thing Charlie covets right now: the ability to reach out, to see for herself rather and make an informed decision rather than trust an undecided gut. “I guess we could just call her and ask,” she says, answering the unasked question at the forefront of her mind regarding Clover’s receptiveness to the whole thing. Glancing down at her phone she refreshes the page and sees the newest post on the Crownet. “Speak of the devil. She welcomed the elders to 2020. Can you give her a ring, or should I message her on this?”


[Marisol] Marisol drinks from her bottle as she lifts an eyebrow and merely stares at Charlie. The idea of calling Clover isn’t still her favorite thing. Her gaze drifts down to her phone as she considers it. Marisol can still feel the woman’s hands, she can still hear her threats. There is a bottle of perfume purchased from Clover, too, something she still hadn’t sent a thank you for. “Surprised she knows what day it is.” She mumbles dryly, taking a drink once more as she then adds, “I’ll call the pain in the ***. Might as well.” Marisol taps at her screen, not bothering to hide the contact list. There are various nicknames, but she scrolls past ‘Brainiac’ to fall on ‘Psycho *****’ where a manipulated image of Clover with devil horns, a crudely drawn beard and fangs are visible. Childish, yes, but Marisol had never claimed to be mature. As it begins to ring, she sits back and waits for the woman to pick up. Only when she does will Marisol greet her with, “Oi. What are you doing?”


[Charlie] Charlie’s not ignorant of Marisol’s history with Fforde. It’s apparent to her that whilst she was favoured by their sire, Jesse’s good intentions sourced from a shallow well that few had access to. Logan and Clover are less defined in her mind’s eye: the first no more than a name attached to a tale of woe and at the centre of a harrowing experience that’s irrevocably shaped her blood sister into who she is today, and the second barely a collection of sharp-edged memories and snippets of commentary collected over her friendship with their sire. “Worse case scenario she tells us to **** off, really,” Charlie muses out loud before spying an opportunity. Practically every single joint cracks when she stands, sways and then bends at the waist to reach for the stainless steel bottle, just as Clover presumably picks up at the other end of the call.

[Clover]

[Clover] An unknown number calling, and all she can think is that she doesn't remember signing up for telemarketers. The ringtone is annoying, the volume too high, things she will have to rectify later. "Look, I don't want," Clo trails off. It sounds like Marisol, except that's wrong, very wrong. And she's so busy obsessively waiting for Habren to say something else, to give a reason for her to walk from the proverbial table. "Well I'm talking on the phone with you. What are you doing?" Clo moves the phone from her ear to check the net again. Nothing. Sitting up in bed, she checks the clock, then rubs at her eyes. "Alright. I'll bite. Why are you calling me?" She doesn't mean to sound rude, but she's highly suspicious, especially after their exchange online. Clo wouldn't put it past the woman to verbally respond -- she's fiery like that. They don't talk, not enough, at least, but that will likely change, given the fact that she doesn't want to murder the woman anymore.


[Marisol] “You’re starting to make me worry about my joints.” The creaking and cracking of Charlie’s bones have Marisol cringing before the Gremlin cat runs towards the woman when she moves. Marisol sits still as he brushes against her legs. At Clover’s voice, Marisol furrows her eyebrows. She suspected to hear **** off, really, after her comments made. “Charlie and I have a proposition for you that would best be discussed over drinks.” Lots and lots of drinks, she muses, as she reaches for her bottle but rests it on her thighs rather than lift it to her lips. “I can text you the address, if you’re interested. If not, then it’ll end here and this call becomes moot, hm?” She reminds herself to lessen the proverbial blow and sets the bottle aside. Her gaze moves over the apartment. There are papers spread about working from home. Her trusted employees have keys to the building and they work in pairs at the office. She misses keeping everything at her office. “Anything to add?” She asks the blonde.


[Charlie] Marisol sure doesn’t mince her words. For a born-and-bred Brit she’s decidedly American in her blunt delivery, but that makes Charlie all the more fond of her. It’s a lot closer to what she’s accustomed back home and Marisol doesn’t condescend to pulling punches but not taking them on the chin in equal measure. Then again, Charlie can respect even the vilest of people provided their integrity remains intact. Part of the reason she’s opted to keep out of the discussion at hand despite following it closely is that she’s far more interested in tracking the argumentative inconsistencies than having her say. Opinions change, or at least they should as new information comes to light, and people can talk her ear off but actions will always speak louder than words. And Charlie? Charlie’s got a long, long memory and a mind for numbers; tallying up comes naturally for her. Plopping herself down on the rug with Marisol’s bottle, she holds it halfway up to her lips to shake her head before sipping. The blood is chilled and thick, a pleasant balm for the bitter tang left by the whisky. “Somewhere public,” she says suddenly, as an afterthought between two sips. If they’re going to meet they should stack the cards in their favour. She levels a look at Marisol as she lowers the bottle a second time, “Somewhere public but quiet.”


[Clover] Something is wrong. Clo pinches the skin on her right hand and wrinkles her nose at the tiny sting. So she's awake, and she's damn sure the sky isn't falling. After the incident with the club, she really isn't sure what to think. "Right," she mumbles, considering pinching herself again, "you and Charlie." The name Charlie brings up horrible memories, memories with perfect clarity. One more situation for her to remedy. She knows she was a little -- well, more than a little -- unstable, and she feels, deep in her bones, that it's going to become another thing to embrace or sweep under the rug. Hesitation keeps her quiet for a moment. "Alright. Where do you want me to go?" She thinks she hears a voice in the background, but decides not to ask, because the one on the phone is Marisol and nothing else in the background really concerns her. The reason for the meeting could be something simple, but things never stay simple with Clover.


[Marisol] So she hadn’t told them to **** off and she seems surprised to hear them. Marisol takes these as good signs as they appear to have caught her off guard. It is only as she bites her tongue that she manages not to mention Clover repeats her like a parrot. She is aware of the bad blood between the three. The woman hadn’t been the kindest to either when their sire was around. Marisol had never found the man of interest, but Clover had always seemed jealous. As Charlie speaks, Marisol moves to tap the speaker button but she finishes before she could further it. A groan is made as she considers the public, but quiet places they have access to. Her eyes move to the clock on the wall, “There’s always the nightclub. It isn’t busy at the moment. Or one of the cafes around here.” She speaks to both women, letting them decide.


[Charlie] Charlie caps the steel bottle before returning it to its spot at Marisol’s feet. Her thirst doesn’t curl her stomach nor is blood necessary to clear an otherwise relentless fog in her mind; it is merely a luxury she indulges in when tipsy, for the armlet around her bicep is a security blanket that keeps her thirst at bay. As Marisol puts forth a suggestion and the call on speaker mode, Charlie stretches across the ottoman for the laptop to have on hand should they need a city map. “Hi, Clover. Charlie speaking. You’re on speakerphone now,” she announces, pulling the mac’s screen open. “Are you far from what she suggested?”


[Clover] Clo toys with a loose thread at the bottom of her white tank top and wrinkles her nose. She enjoys the club, has been there more than once, so she nods, even though they can't see her, even though she knows they can't see her. "I can get there. It's no problem." She feels as if she's a student on the way to see the principal and she stifles a laugh before she repeats herself, "I can get there. Just give me a few minutes. I'm guessing we'll need privacy?" She starts gathering weapons and cash and keys as she talks, preparing for something she knows nothing about. She doesn't plan on staying on the phone the entire way, but if they keep talking, then she will. It's nice to do more than kill and construct weapons.

[Charlie]

[Marisol] There’s a VIP area that Marisol knows of to be empty - or at least, should be empty. Her hand lifts to rub at the curve of her neck, a habit to ease the itching sensation that she had learned was not psychosomatic. As they speak, Marisol stands and listens. She pockets her keys from habit, unsure on whether or not Charlie would want to drive. To Clover, she said, “When you get there, tell the bouncer Marisol sent you to the Burgundy lounge. You’ll be escorted there. See you soon.” She waits long enough for closing salutations to be shared before she leans over to tap the screen. “I don’t suppose you already have ideas in that mind of yours.” She reaches for a faded denim jacket to put over the graphic tee with Jaws written across the chest she’s wearing and then straightens out her long hair.


[Charlie] “Alright,” Charlie says, hand hesitating on the top edge of the screen before she pushes the lid shut, decided. She doesn’t vocalise that she expected Clover to be more reticent, as it seems apparent from Marisol’s expression that they’re both headed into the twilight zone. Sliding the laptop onto the ottoman, she leans back on her other arm and glances towards the ceiling. Somewhere inside the oversized trunk she left at Marisol’s two years back is a gold plated gun Renard had made for her. It’s smaller than her most recent weapon but well-enough matched in accuracy and power that she’ll feel comfortable with it at her hip. “We go in prepared for the worst but we hope for the best?” Charlie offers, dropping her chin down to level a look at the other allurist. She reaches to toy with the pendant around her neck and glances towards the general direction of the trunk, gears clearly shifting. “Got a jacket you can borrow if you’re worried,” she says distractedly, pushing herself up to her feet and moving towards the opposite side of the room, where behind a piece of furniture her trunk of secrets lies wide open. There aren’t many secrets left between the two. “The first time I met Clover she was out for blood, though I think that was because of Jesse. He mentioned she was fairly possessive of him,” Charlie glances up and tosses a flak jacket at Marisol. “I suggest keeping quiet about New York.”


[Clover] She didn't mind the club. She actually looked forward to seeing the place. Clo locked the apartment door, then left. As she traveled from fadeportal to fadeportal, she checked herself for her gun and the knife on her thigh. She wasn't dressed for the club, not in ripped jeans and a Batman t-shirt, but she hadn't thought to change, and in the end, it was too late. River Rock looked deserted, save for zombies milling about, shuffling along the streets. Clo left them alone and continued to Hole in a Bottle, the line for the club already formed, people waiting for the bouncer to clear them before they made it inside. When she approached, the guy motioned her inside, and she had enough sense to ask him about the Burgundy lounge. The place was nice, nicer than she expected, and just fine for conversation. She'd secretly hoped the noise would down out the words, but no luck.


[Marisol] “She was there, too,” Marisol says, but she doesn't know specifics or the details, so she leaves it at that. She catches the flak jacket, pulling it over her shoulders without any further thought. It’s from habit that she checks herself in the reflection of a sheet of metal she’d hung to act as a mirror nearby. When she’s satisfied with her unshifting appearance, Marisol glances back at her. “I think it has always been a Clover thing, rather than a Jesse thing. Benefit of doubt.” She shrugs and picks up a few more things. “She wasn’t that bad at the club. Oddly… passive, really, for the woman that wanted to leave me to die.” Marisol rubbed at her stomach idly where years before she'd been shot. “We aren’t the same people we were in the past where she threatened us, either. We’re stronger.” Well, Charlie is likely stronger. Marisol’s focus is on her business and her hacking. She’s not a fighter, even if she can fight, but she finds it easier to pacify and move on.


[Charlie] Charlie hums at that as she shrugs into her outerwear. The stitching is a little rough but combining the flak jacket into the inner lining of the second jacket was no easy task and she’ll be damned before she lets an unknown seamstress tamper with it. There’s so much still unknown about these so-called relics that for a moment she resents Jesse for not being on hand to clarify things for her. Would the enchantment lose efficacy if she allowed someone else to tamper with them any further? “She was there before. Ye ken a wouldnae suggest we meet if a though’ she was spoiling for a fight, mate.” Charlie toes on mismatched vintage Doc Martens—one brown and one black to match her mismatched socks. She stomps out any wiggle room, bypassing the laces altogether, and stands by the front door, phone in hand. “She’s pure skyrocket is all I’m saying. Dinnae care to trigger the crazy before we get a chance to figure out where we stand. Uber?”


[Marisol] Marisol gives the woman a look, but she gave a shake of her head. She rubs at the spot idly once more before her hand slides away. “It’s not as if I’m the most level headed.” None of them were, really. She feels her lips twitch in amusement and then explains, “I chose the club because it’s neutral ground. Even soldiers back off if they want to continue on in the establishment. Thrown out on their arse helps.” She shrugs. She expects the worst, but plans for the best frequently. Marisol eyes Charlie’s shoes and she merely chuckles, used to the woman’s quirks that she says nothing further. “I can have a ritualist perform Eirene’s Will, if you think it’s needed.” She pulls out her device as she says it, thumbing open the screen as she then nods. “Uber it is. They like you better, you want to ring ‘em?”

[Marisol]

[Charlie] “You want to ring ‘em?” Charlie mocks, received pronunciation elevating Marisol’s words in a way that’s entirely at odds with the Scot’s demeanour. “I thought I was mad with it but mate...” she trails off, distracted as she taps the screen to confirm their ride. Three minutes away. “They like me better because I’m punctual,” she says, fond yet scalding, and then proceeds to swing the front door open and walk right into it. By the time their driver pulls up, the kitchen towel she’s holding to her nose is saturated with blood. She glances at Marisol out the corner of eye when stepping around the sedan’s boot and mouths a **** off over the car’s rooftop.

[Marisol] She scowls at being mocked, but the mimickry is lost there, as she would be unable to match the Scot’s sound. When Charlie walks into the door, Marisol sighs. She reaches forward to open it proper. “I’m punctual where it counts. You’re the one who insists on them. I do have a car.” She reminds her, but she rolls her eyes lightly as they go. Her hand waves idly off the words before she sends a message to her staff to have drinks waiting. She merely says, “Tesla” and gestures to the sedan subtly before getting in. She gives the address without prompt, getting a weird look from the driver who looks to the blonde in question. To Charlie, she says, “What are we going to call it?” The question falls from her lips as she considers their range of expertise. Marisol isn’t the most creative - it's shown through her businesses.


[Charlie] “Evening, mate,” Charlie greets their driver as she slips into the backseat. “Morning rather,” she corrects, noticing the timestamp on the dashboard. The car pulls away from the curb and Charlie makes a show of folding over the kitchen towel into a neat square, eager to keep the sight of blood at minimum. “Call what?” she asks, glancing away from the front and to the side at Marisol. The driver has no reflection in the rearview mirror.


[Marisol] Her thumb brushes beneath her nose, signaling a small amount that remains on the woman’s pale face before she settles into her seat. “Our collaborative pitch.” Marisol can see her corpse-y face in the mirror and turns her attention fully to Charlie. The drive is steady, and she doesn't live too far from the club. “It helps present it more as a solid idea rather than an out of the blue idea.” Although, she supposes they’re capable of moving forward with it being nameless.


[Charlie] Charlie dabs at her philtrum and arches a brow, questioning. It occurs to her that Marisol has a point, but there’s a voice within—bolstered by the alcohol flowing through her bloodstream—that urges her not to give a flying **** whether or not their idea is worthy enough to be pitched to the likes of Clover. “It is out of the blue,” she counters, if a bit petulant. If it’s collaborative in nature then why is it on her to offer up a name? The last time Charlie named something in earnest when in this state it resulted in a five hour search for a document titled fuckubonouralbumissssshite.zip. “Logistics first, name later?” she adds, waving a hand dismissively at the thought. Logistics can be such a drag when she’s not in the mood for them, but a name will come to mind in due time. “Item one on the list: determine whether she will play in our sandbox.”


[Marisol] “And even in business, you make up a name on a whim to present.” She adds as a counterargument, but she sighs and scratches at the side of her nose with a perfectly manicured nail. Her eyes move from Charlie to their surroundings and she begins to dig through her wallet. She over tips and she knows it, it’s been mentioned in the past but Marisol does not fret about it. Even in New York, she always feels as if tipping should be more, as it shouldn’t go entirely back into vehicle maintenance. “Clover,” She says, “should still get a chance regardless of the past. Rhett had multiple personalities, I have a burning itch in my throat. Vampirism heightens our crazy, maybe without him around she will not be a psycho *****.” She points out and then as the sedan pulls to a stop, she drops the bills in the man’s hand.


[Charlie] Charlie rolls her eyes and bites back the retort. It was after all her idea to contact Clover in the first place, wasn’t it? Still, instead of pointing out Marisol’s seesawing on the matter, the allurist chooses to push the door open with a smidge too much force, forgetting the reputational points it might cost her on the app. With a bit of luck Marisol’s unnecessary tipping will smooth over any ruffled feathers. “Cheers drive,” she tells the man before swinging the door shut. It won’t do to sulk; Charlie pushes the unsaid words down her throat and instead turns her attention to the club. “You reckon she’s already here?”


[Marisol] When she hears the metal squeak, Marisol closes her eyes before she gets out of the sedan. She lets the conversation fall between them into silence and reopens her eyes to look at the line in place. She smiles, recognizing a few familiar faces. The agency is her pride and joy, but the club is her love. “Likely. Come on, this way.” She motions for Charlie to go first, the bouncer stepping aside and removing the velvet rope to allow a group of people inside, allowing it to remain open as he spotted the two. “Morning.” The greeting is met with a gruff grunt as the door swung open, revealing a steady stream of music and purple lights that sweep the floor.


[Clover] She hadn't been waiting long before she got the itch to leave. Maybe it was the privacy; maybe it was the fact that it felt like some kind of trap, or even an intervention of some sort. She stopped pacing and forced herself to sit down, because there was no reason to suspect anything, not when she'd been on her best behavior. And it helped that Sol had been rather nice, pleasant, if she could go that far. Still, they would likely act as a united front, and being on the pessimistic side, she thought the worst. She liked to think the worst. With the door open, she still heard the music, and then she saw them and her index finger found the beat, tapping against her thigh. Maybe optimism was a bit overdue.