Dririmancy - Amber Pokes Around

dririmancy

This begins on Friday, May 23rd.

Amber, haunting some of her old watering holes, the places she's familiar with, where her mother is still remembered (or, if not remembered, her status as her mother's daughter is still remembered). These are places where Amber still has a short fuse as far as anybody, everybody knows, that live wire intense earthy woman-creature, streaking her hair red like a warning, drinking beer that's barely better than ass-crack juice because that's all she can afford, and she's moving up these days (nights [start thinking in terms of night, darling]) but she remembers how to move and who to talk to and she remembers some names.

Cue Vasquez. He's always been a fighter. Dog fighting cock fighting bum fighting street fighting all fightings as long as two living beings are forced to compete one against the other and when the blood flows hot, that's when it's best.

He's a sweet guy, quiet and doesn't like to speak a lot. He doesn't have a lot of visible scars, but there is one or two. You'd expect it. If he didn't have them. He has a lot of tattoos too, all up and down his arms, hiding some of the gnarlier ones, remembering people or fights he has had.

Did we say he's a sweet guy? Quiet? He is a sweet guy. Quiet. Only once you've seen him fight do you get the idea that he's someone for whom violence holds an attraction. His mother's a prostitute and he's been raised by an 'uncle.'

They got to talking. He knows what she's talking about. They're at a bar, some place smokey in the back of a taco joint.

"I know it yeah." His voice is full of a mixture of longing and misgivings. "Fuckin circus."

Amber

"So I've been hearing," she says, her voice the same old smoky growl it's ever been. They are seated at the bar, Amber's elbows leaned forward against the cracked and faded wood, dark green eyes taking in the bartender, someone seated down the bar from them, Vasquez's profile. If they had a daycare for the kids of prostitutes they'd know each other from there. Hell, maybe some of the upscale streets have such a service, but for the kids on Colfax? No, Amber knows Vasquez from around and for other reasons. He's one of the few people who hasn't quite managed to spark her temper. Maybe come close a time or two, but he's never had the Israeli-American woman up in his face, her own contorted with rage.

Which is probably the only reason he didn't get up and put some distance between them when she sat herself down next to him.

A glance to him. "You know how they pick their fighters?" Like maybe she wants to find a way to get an invitation. Not like she's already found one waiting on her fucking car.

Bartender comes close and Amber, watchful, sees him being watchful of her, too. He doesn't know how much control she has these days, how hard it is to set her off anymore. She glares at him when she orders something the color of a dehydrated person's piss because it's cheap. Then she glares at him until he goes away, him shaking his head. Same old Amber.

[manip+subt I guess, yes, let's give this a shot HOW BAD CAN IT BE *taunts the dice*]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 5) ( fail )

dririmancy

[PLAY IT COOL, VASQUEZ. PLAY IT COOL.]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Amber

[percept+emp]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

dririmancy

Vasquez looks at her thoughtfully. His girlfriends say he's got thoughtful eyes, soulful they call them. He looks at her soulfully, but her question sparks something in him and though he tries to contain it she can see it anyway. Anticipation, the way the muscles of his arms tense and his fingers curl. Trepidation, the way he regards her so thoughtfully, holds himself still just a moment too long, like he's guaging where the enemies are waiting, where the foes are lurking. His voice had been a mixture of longing and misgiving and Amber's imperfectly (oh, boy) hidden motives seem to have given him ideas about why she's asking.

"Jesus Fuck, mama," Vasquez says. He doesn't lean in but his jaw works like he'd like to, a bead of silence between the expletive (awed, cautious) and what he says next, which is, "Yeah?"

He knows go on what have you got to tell him make it quick. He swallows.

Amber

If Amber realizes her ruse is clear as crystal, she doesn't let on. She doesn't realize, but the ruse was for the rest of them, anyway. Best not let them think that because she's wrapped her temper in a tight leash that means they can fuck with her. Let them try, though. What once was hot, oozing magma of a volcano ready to blow at a moment's notice has cooled, has calmed. Has hardened. What once was an easy anger has become an easy and easier confidence. She does not look Vasquez over and determine she could take him in a fight, easy. She doesn't have to.

He wants to lean but he doesn't lean and better for him. Better for all of them. Just because Amber doesn't explode without warning doesn't mean she likes the idiot mouthbreathers she's been rightfully lifted above to crowd her space.

"'Yeah' what?" she asks, annoyed. Patience growing thin. Because she can tell already. He's waiting for her to tell him so that he can make himself available. He doesn't know. And if he knew someone who knew chances are he'd have roughed them over to get that information already. Bartender brings her that beer she ordered and she downs it quick as she can, trying not to grimace. How did she ever put up with this? How did she ever put up with any of this?

Rising from her stool, she says, "You find out how, you come find me."

dririmancy

Vasquez doesn't seem perturbed by the annoyance, the salt-crumble irritation of her. He rubs the bridge of his nose with one finger and looks like he's thinking about whether or not he'd come find Miss Bigger And Better Things if he did hear something. There's no defensiveness in him. He seems so sweet -- until he's fighting. Until he's cheering on some bloody conclusion of a bloodier sport.

Amber rises from her stool and Vasquez says by way of farewell, "See what can be done. I, ah, I did it once. Just once. God, them fuckers are real."

If she hasn't finished her drink, he'll swipe it towards him. Waste not, want not. But no: she downed it, so he just looks at the empty glass and then orders himself another.

Amber

That gives her pause. Before she makes her way out of the bar Amber stops, looks over her shoulder. What a vision she is, what a sight. A study of motion, a wild energy paused. She looks back at Vasquez with such a hard intensity it's a wonder he doesn't melt beneath it.

"What fuckers?" she asks, jaw working. Patience raw and frayed to pieces, but still she keeps it well in hand. Still she maintains control.

dririmancy

"Them fuckers," Vasquez says, lifting his drink and peering at her through the glass, like that'll help. "The ones who run the fuckin circus." He shrugs his broad shoulders with an air of pushing unease off and the rest is silence, isn't it? Silence is golden.

Amber

Amber's eyes narrow, like she thinks his silence is tarnished. His silence is muddy and murky with all the things he's refusing to tell her. Secrets that he's keeping, for one reason or another. And she wonders what Danny would do in this situation. This is before she knows the whole of what he would do, but she can guess at what he would do. Her imagination doesn't have to stretch terribly far to know that Danny would crack this man open, split him apart and suck the secrets from the very marrow of his bones.

Amber turns and walks away, because Amber is not Daniel Flood.

So. Home then, or second home then. The little blue house that is in fact one in a row of similar little blue houses all crowded close together. The row of houses, only three or four, are all the same. The exteriors an odd shade of light blue, like a row of dirty robin's eggs, with dark grey lines that radiate out from the windows and doors, and a wide patch of land between the sidewalk and the street that is full of trees and shrubs that are unkempt and overgrown. Evidence that once upon a time someone cared enough to brighten up the neighborhood with plantlife but the successive residents didn't care to care for it.

This is where Amber lives, or where the city of Denver believes she lives. The place is in her name, after all, the paperwork all nice and neat and orderly.

Amber gets to this "home" of hers which isn't really home to her, and is immediately greeted by irritated barking from the monster in its crate.

"Shut up," she growls, before muttering, "Jesus fucking Christ."

dririmancy

This particular breed of dog isn't known for being a good family dog -- simply because the sharpness of its barking, the shrill metal-ozone irritant of its noise, scares kids. Jesus fucking Christ, Amber says, and the dog's barking begins to trail off, trail, trail, then explodes again, trail trail off a moment of silence, explode again, nails scrabbling at the crate's sides that metal-shut door, and then silence followed by a long sigh.

Amber

This breed of dog isn't good for families, and this dog in particular is not fit for a family. It would eat the children. Hell, Amber kept it from eating the local urchins and miniature vagrants.

In a way they are sort of a good match. Both are vicious, both can be obnoxious to those who try to take care of them. Hadn't Amber essentially bitten the hand that fed her when she ran away from home at the beginning of the year? They are violent, and oh, they are both addicts.

One of them is being weaned, though. The monster bark bark barks when she comes inside, quiets, barks at her some more, and quiets. Which makes Amber look over her shoulder at it as she goes through the living room to the kitchen area. These are all the same room, mind. Amber's house is small, like an apartment but with more privacy. Her living room and dining room are one wide space. Her kitchen is against a wall and separated by a bar from the living/dining area. Then there is a hall with the bathroom on one side and her bedroom at the end.

Into the kitchen Amber goes, and the monster can see her head disappear behind the counter of the bar. He can hear the clang of a metal bowl followed by the pitter patter of dry dog food falling into it. Then the woman who has taken him in crosses the room again, crosses her ankles, and drops to the floor in front of the crate.

"You bite me, I'll kill you," she warns, just as she warns every time she tries to feed the animal. Then she opens the crate door with one hand and attempts to shove the bowl in through the small opening she's made.

dririmancy

When Amber opens the door, she can see the creature she couldn't bring herself to kill, wire-hair more scraggled, clotted than ever, and a smell of copper-brightness in the crate. The dachshund is lying on its side. Its ribs are moving up and down, up and down, but it does not lunge at her hands right now. It gazes at her from its flopped, flattened position, eyes for once barely mad at all (only confused, only liquid, rheumy with liquid) and its eyebrows prick. Its breathing sounds labored and it whines low when the bowl appears next to its head, on one of its ears. Shuffles closer to the door and the bowl and Amber's hand, but this just makes the whine grow so sharp that it is nothing more then a wheeze of silence.

Amber

[yay i gave her medicine! percept+medicine: can i tell what's wrong with you?]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (5, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

dririmancy

Amber knows the withdrawal pangs the creature must be feeling, but it has been injured above and beyond whatever injury losing one's domitor (?) might do. She might remember how it was limping, and now that she sees how it holds its front left paw up close, judge that there is a break there. She might also see the way its ribs lie under its fur, thin, thin, thin, and judge that something cracked there. It's a tough beast; it isn't dying (or is it?), but medical care couldn't hurt. Or food. Food that it craves. Not this dry kibble stuff. It wants blood. Vitae. Vitae. Vitae.

But even animals don't get what they want. That it's so tired and listless isn't a good sign.

Amber

This is not an easy place for Amber to be. She is not kindly or comforting. She provides food for the dog to keep it alive. She provides shelter and such for the same reason. She does not have it in her to nurture it. If it had wanted that it should have attacked kids in some other neighborhood, with some other ghoul with a heart of gold that isn't tarnished.

One thing Amber does have, though, is a weakness, a soft spot for the sick, the injured, the unhealthy. Blame it on those last two years with her mother, sitting by her bedside in the hospital, keeping her company while a usurper leeched her beauty and her life away. She can't just ignore this.

That doesn't mean she likes it, either. She frowns at the dog, and shifts the bowl when she sees she's put it down on one of its ears. And she grumbles something. If only she knew someone with a medical background who, while not a veterinarian, might be able to do something for the monster. Oh wait, she does, but the asshole doesn't want to talk to her so fuck him.

"Alright, you little shit, we'll figure out some way to fix you up. So don't you fucking die." Amber didn't you just threaten to kill him? She pulls her phone from her pocket, opens up the web browser (hooray for smartphones), and looks for the number to that vet's office she knows is around the corner. Depending on the hour they may be closed. She'll probably have to look up an emergency vet, regardless.

dririmancy

Amber doesn't have too much difficulty finding the number for the vet's office around the corner.

And when she calls the number it rings, and it rings. And it rings. And it rings, and just before she might think, too late, they've all gone home, somebody answers sounding a touch brisk.

"Hello, this is Happy Paws Vet."

Amber

"Yeah, uh." Did anyone ever suspect that Amber would be terrible on the phone? For a woman who is so intensely charismatic, she is astonishingly terrible at dealing with people.

"I found a mutt that seems like it's hurt. Maybe something broken. Do I take it to you?" More or less straight to the point. It gets these things over with more quickly.

dririmancy

Beat. "How far out are you?"

Amber

"Few blocks."

dririmancy

"Do you feel the dog is in immediate danger?"

Amber

"Like do I think he's going to keel over right this second?" she asks, rhetorical, and she does try to keep from being growly over the phone. The person on the other end is there to help and Amber knows that even the medical people get more than their fare share of shit treatment. That's what happens when one works in a public service position. They get some fucking empathy toward others.

"No. Do I think the risk of something internal turning into something irreversible is pretty high? Yeah."

dririmancy

"Okay. This is the number and address of -- " pause. "Do you have a pen?" When the answer is affirmative, the woman that Amber is speaking to gives Amber the number and address of the nearest emergency clinic. It isn't so far. It isn't quite so close as a few blocks away either.

Amber

"Hang on," she says, and it's a matter of seconds before she says, "Okay." She did not have a pen on her, but her bag wasn't far and she does keep various writing utensils inside of it, and there are scraps of paper aplenty to write on.

She writes down the information given, offers a terse, "Thanks," which is genuine but Amber, oh, Amber. There aren't many who get to hear her sounding warm. When she hangs up from them, she sits there a moment, staring at the monster, mouth working as she thinks. She doesn't have a carrier for him, only the crate which was never meant to be a portable solution. Only a place where the monster could be and Amber could trust that he wouldn't rip her home to shreds or attack her in her sleep.

Finally, she rises. "C'mon, you little shit," she says. She still has on her boots and things from when she came home. Reaching in through the opening of the crate she carefully as she can picks up the small body.

dririmancy

[Self Control.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (7, 7) ( success x 2 )

dririmancy

Amber has had cause to mistrust the dog. Dachshunds are diggers. The creature dug through some of her floor before the crate solution happened; it dug through some of her sparse back yard; it would dig through her if it could, lick whatever it is a ghoul's blood tastes of, with its traces of vitae and the first murder addictive within, off of its santa-bearded chops. But it hasn't yet and it doesn't now.

When Amber touches the dog, she can feel how sodden it is with sweat. Stinks, too, the thing does. And its bones feel brittle through the fur, those ribs. It whines again silently as she draws it forward and shivers and presses its face against her shirt, leaving behind a smear of drool, but it doesn't bite her. It seems to want comfort.

It doesn't know why this is happening.

Or what is happening.

Amber

If the monster hadn't been so terribly monstrous Amber might have tried to clean it up sooner, if only to relieve her house of the smell (and because it can't be good being a small living creature covered in filth). But she had just brought it home after it tried to eat some kids so fuck that, little shit. You go in the bathroom and then you go in the crate and you're lucky if you get fed kibble or the choice bit of extra-bloody steak Amber brought home to assuage your bloodlust.

Now it is weak and wounded and burrowing against her chest and Amber can't help but scowl and crinkle her nose in disgust. That doesn't mean the heart her domitor keeps trying to fill with shadow isn't moved. Amber is gruff and harsh and ungentle, but that doesn't mean she's heartless.

One arm cradles the animal and the other reaches for her bag. She heads for the door but stops, considers, and heads to the linen closet for a towel. To protect the leather seats of her car she half-reasons, but who is she kidding? It's to wrap up the little beast so the little shit's comfortable and easier to maneuver it without jarring its broken and cracked bones.

She checks the back of the receipt on which she wrote the address and number. Grabbing her phone, she dials the number and puts it on speaker so she can start that sweet sweet Mustang and drive and talk at the same time.

dririmancy

With traffic the drive is a good twenty minutes, but the dachshund is quiet during those twenty minutes. The emergency clinic does pick up after two rings, another woman on the phone, this one with a voice at a lower register; one of those almost gender neutral voices, soothing.

Does Amber need specific directions? The woman gives her directions and landmarks. Can Amber give the woman an idea of what is wrong with the dog; how did she find it? Does it betray any strange behaviors? A number of little questions aimed at figuring out how much of an emergency the creature's fate is and whether or not they should have a gurney standing by.

The emergency clinic for pets is not always quiet but it isn't ever as busy or as loud or as noisesome as an actual ER. When Amber arrives, she'll notice in the waiting room -- which is broad, vast, full of comfortable couches and niches, well air-conditioned and sterile -- that there are a number of tissue boxes. On every table. On every counter.

They take the little beast from her and don't let her come with, but they do direct her to a room to wait. She could leave. The dog would cease to be her problem if she did. They'd care for it: wouldn't they?

They wouldn't know what to do with some of its symptoms. They wouldn't be strong enough for it: doesn't she remember how it broke free of her?

An hour later, they tell her that it was dehydrated. They tell her that they put him on fluids. They tell her that it had a fracture in its paw and in its hip and would she like to see some X-rays. They tell her that it had bitten itself badly and the wound wasn't healing, so they stitched it up. She can see the shaved patch. They give her a prescription for medication which she can crush up and put into its food.

When it comes back to her, it has been cleaned and its fur trimmed in places where cleaning just wasn't possible. It's drowsing; it's drugged; it's still wrapped in her towel.

Over the following days, when it is medicated, it will seem calmer, less prone to barking, but also exhausted -- too exhausted to move. Maybe once it'll wag its tail when it sees Amber and she gives it food. Maybe she'll get used to hearing it sigh when she leaves it.

Maybe she'll start to recognize when it's about to come down with a bad case of the shakes. Try to bite itself.

And then the day of that fight club, you're chosen, YOU, we choose people who we've got dirt on, come one, come all, that date on the flier carefully coded so she'd know, that day comes.

Amber: maybe she'll go to the address indicated. Maybe she won't.

The dog will dream red dreams when she does. The dog will dream red dreams when she sees her first staked vampire. The dog will dream the reddest dreams of all when it smells the dead bird, this time a bluejay, shoved under her mustang's windshield wipers.

The bluejay is missing its eyes,

and the lower half of its beak.

And so it goes. Red dreams. Blood on the streets. Violence curdling, somewhere, somewhen.

An invitation.