Ghostly pursuits

[cian_oneill]

It had taken over an hour to answer questions, three times, and be allowed to leave, and Cian wasn't sure what time it was when he finally made it back to Rhiannon's place. He'd gone into the market almost on auto-pilot, paying for the purchases with money he didn't even count and receiving change he hadn't even checked.

All he could think about all the way through the dark was the eyeballs of the dying man. Peter Green, and his fiance Fiona Hindmarsh, now carted away to the morgue for examination by the ME, who had been more than a little stunned at what he'd seen. Enough to sober him up pretty quickly.

Ghosts. That had been Peter's last word, and Cian had seen the disbelief in the detective's eyes when Cian had told them the same thing each time they'd asked in the different ways they'd put the question to him.

He'd left out the part about the smell. Having to explain his acute senses wasn't something he was about to embark on, especially in circumstances like this. "Aye, ghosts," he said for the sixth time when another detective had asked him again.

Rhiannon wasn't home from the bar job when he arrived, something he could tell when he turned into the street, her car not in the driveway. He pushed the door into the darkened garage open and without turning on the lights proceeded to put the items he'd picked up from the market away. The light from the refrigerator was relatively bright, and his eyes narrowed a little at the sudden brilliance. He took out a beer and uncapped it, the top going in the bin as he made his way across to the couch, and sat down. A swig later and finally the scent of the alley and the corpses started to recede.

Old Sweat and Canvas Bags

[rhiannon_lee]

It had been years since Rhiannon stepped foot in an actual gym, the kind that regular fitness buffs frequented. She got her exercise at night on patrol and in sparring sessions with Cian. A major reason why she avoided gyms was that nobody her size should be capable of lifting what she could, and so it became an exercise in false straining. But she liked the places, especially old ones where the punching bags were cracked and the mats smelled like old sweat. They reminded her of the first days of training, way before things got fucked up. Those were good memories.

The gym had a help wanted sign. Rhiannon was doing okay on money, not great but able to pay the rent, based on temp work as a bartender. It couldn’t hurt to go inside though and ask, even if her primary purpose was the questionable ambiance. She pulled open the door and stepped inside, perhaps looking a bit different than the typical gym bunny, pale and tattooed and in too much make-up.

[Takes place before 'What Happens When?']