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The thing was, she hadn't meant to burn the church to the ground. It wasn't like anyone had been using the old thing, and the happy side effect of her untested candle ward exploding was that it had taken what the locals dubbed 'Hand Teeth' with it. Mabel risked sticking around to kick about the ashes (another lucky side effect that a fire ward backfire burned fast and left only cool ashes and charred stone bones behind). She found a collection of baby teeth, clumped together in the form of a fist, and used the muzzle of her gun to scatter them.

Then she got the hell outta dodge, cutting through waist-high fields of dead brown grass rather than walking along the highway to get back to her car. The police were bound to show up sometime, and she didn't feel like spending another week in some rundown county jail, free meals be damned. She always parked her car a good distance away from whatever she was hunting, be it dead or not, to keep them from getting to it - that had happened a few times, and she learned her lesson very expensively from it.

It was waiting for her when she got there.

It sat cross-legged on the top of her car, like it had every business being there like any normal person. Mabel froze when she saw it, and that was her first mistake. She had never seen one of them before, and until now she didn't even think they existed. It spotted her as she stood there like an slack-jawed idiot, and stood. Before Mabel could think about it, she brought her rifle up and fired squarely at its chest.

It tumbled off her car, bounding face-first off the hood before landing in a sprawled heap in the dirt. It so astonished her that she had hit the damn thing - she didn't think they could be hit, right after not thinking they were real - that she went in for a closer look. Besides, it was between her and her car.

That was her second mistake.

The mask still covered its face; she expected it to peel right off like the cheap-ass thing it looked to be. And it wasn't pure white, not like the ones she used. He had scrawled on it, messing with the eye sockets somehow. She couldn't see properly because it lay face down. Mabel poked it in the shoulder with her rifle. That was her third mistake.

It grabbed the barrel and yanked hard, jerking the gun from her hands. That had been stupid of her, she should have shot it full of lead when she had the chance, but now her gun had vanished in the darkness and the thing was getting up, no wound in sight.

Mabel turned and ran, even though it was smaller than her and she could probably kick its ass, given the chance. She ran because there was a strange ringing in her ears and a buzz of sound flooding the area, like a orchestra of insects that should all be dead this time of winter. She ran because even in the dark, with clouds covering the moon, she could see something moving among the distant trees. And she ran because it was right on her heels, silent and horribly alive.

When Mabel was a girl, she used to scream all the time. She screamed when the dead tore at her skin, even though she knew they were only trying to help in their silenced, strange way. She screamed when the not dead tried to do the same thing, because they usually were trying to hurt her. She had learned not to scream, because the last thing you wanted to be in this business was a screamer, and it was especially the last thing you wanted to be as a woman in this business. You didn't scream, even when they grabbed you by the hair and pulled you down the hall, because screamers never got hired for anything, and she so desperately needed the money.

She doesn't scream now, weaving through the streets of Xanadu, even though it might help her. She doesn't scream as she spends half her time dodging obstacles of the living and the lifeless. She trips once, landing on her shoulder and tearing a new rip into an old jacket, and even though she can't see it anymore she gets up and runs anyway. It had followed her through the door, she wasn't going to escape it so easily. Mabel rounds corners while looking behind her.

That was probably going to be her fourth mistake.


Jan. 30th, 2011 11:12 am (UTC)
It is justified sass - not five minutes ago they were eating lunch. Now a decapitated teenager has transported them into an inescapable room. (Some part of Bruce asks how his life came to this. Another part says shut up, Batman.)

He ignores Enfys, because that's how they roll, and looks at the mark on the ground Mabel's made an unmade. He doesn't ask, though, and waits for the explanation - something about this place is triggering his you're being watched instinct hard enough to qualify as a full fledged sense.
Jan. 30th, 2011 12:10 pm (UTC)
"Would I love to give you specifics. Remember when fairies and shit like that used to be referred to the Good Folk 'cause people were so afraid of them they were afraid talking about them would call them? He's kind of like that, except giving him a pretty name and listing out common features ain't made him any less dangerous."

Mabel pauses, chewing her lip in concentration. Around the circle she had tried to add symbols from what best she knew about alchemy - she was a self study, and some of them she surely was getting wrong. It probably wasn't going to matter, anyway. "This is gonna sound stupid, most work I do does. People call him the Slender Man. Nobody's got any good idea on where he came from, what he wants, or why he does the shit he does. Nobody's even got a clear idea what it is he does. Messes with minds, likes to fuck with kids." Her expression darkens.

"Really likes to fuck with kids. Uh - fucks with memory, screws up time, displaces... reality? I wish I had details, but people who try to get details disappear. I don't know why this is happening now. I don't know what he wants."

Why again, she should have said, but that involved a lot more backstory than she was willing to give. There's a buzzing in the air, but she thinks she might be hearing things, overreacting. Maybe.
Jan. 31st, 2011 12:54 pm (UTC)
"Great." Enfys hates this kind of thing - when half of it is taking your best guess and holding your fucking breath - except for how she doesn't, really, only knows that she should. Her self-preservation instinct has always been more of a polite suggestion than anything else.

She gnaws on her lip, studying the symbols that Mabel's adding. The problem (one a bit of trial and error through Xanadu has taught her the hard way) is that she's not in her own world and she has no guarantee that she can trust her own expertise to carry-over here; a battle-axe is pretty much a battle-axe anywhere, but magic is something shifting and alive and to simplify it as much as possible, they aren't all speaking the same language.

After a beat, she digs through her bag until she finds a tube of cheap red lipstick and crooks her finger at Bruce, being as he is the most determinedly mundane of the trio. "Personally, I wouldn't take a trip through your head if you paid me, but c'mere and let me see if I can't encourage everybody else to feel the same way-"

The illustrative way she is gesturing with the (now open) tube of lipstick may be a hint as to how she intends to do this. Give her some skin, Bruce.

Edited at 2011-01-31 12:55 pm (UTC)
Jan. 31st, 2011 01:09 pm (UTC)
You don't have a pen? he seems to say. Sigh. Bruce pushes back his jacket cuff a little and gives Enfys his left hand, meanwhile speaking to Mabel - his tone is soft-spoken as is standard fare, but lower, quieter than usual. He's both irritated by this an on edge, for a whole host of reasons.

"How did we get here, for one? What was that mark in the ground? And do you mean actual reality, or the perception of it? How did it follow you into the Nexus?"

From anyone else, it'd sound like he was interrogating her, but Bruce manages to keep his cadence even. His main focus, as ever, is their surroundings.
Feb. 1st, 2011 06:52 am (UTC)
Mabel's not standing inside the circle when she's completed it to her satisfaction.

To be fair to Enfys, Mabel doesn't know what she's doing (hence burning down churches) half the time. Her knowledge on what she considers 'magic' comes from skeptical scholarly texts and the odd New Age publishing. She only read the latter when she recognized the names involved - most of them were bullshit, at least when it came to what she could do. As for what is was she could do, that was also an area of darkness. She could open doors to places like Xanadu (though usually worse), and had a level of success with basic warding commands, but she had no real idea of why.

"Shifting reality, losing time - we feel through a door of sorts, right, but none of us saw that happen. We just ended up here. That mark's tends to a warning, a notice that he's around, just like that masked little shit is a messenger. I didn't draw it on purpose."

Her expression gets tight again, as she rolls up the sleeves on both arms. Her scars aren't all that noticeable in such lousy light. She's wincing and she applies the mark to both forearms with the chalk as best she can; circle, slash, slash, circle, slash, slash.

"It always follows me." That message outta be pretty clear. Come get me; not them.

The buzzing in her skull is getting louder.