Gypsy Girl

Dec. 18th, 2013 08:37 pm
whistlersmum: (Default)
[personal profile] whistlersmum in [community profile] birthright_rpg
He'd snuck the kid's menu from the stack while he waited to be seated. Once in the booth, the Agent flipped over the copy of the Junior Short Stack to discover Gypsy Girl, number twenty-two in the series. Whistler tucked it underneath his placemat, a mental note to take it home later. Three more and he'd have the whole Denny's set. A day would come when someone would pay good money for them.

He always planned for the future.

A blonde waitress brought his coffee and a full carafe. Membership had its privileges.

He picked up the menu and studied the all-day breakfast. It felt like a Grand Slam kind of day in Sin City.

on 2013-12-19 02:11 am (UTC)
rhiannon_lee: (fireplace)
Posted by [personal profile] rhiannon_lee
Rhiannon wiped both shoes on the door mat and dropped her hood. Everything in the restaurant had a yellowish tinge, as if a cloud of vaporized grease hung in the air, and it well might. The pungent scent of bacon overwhelmed her senses. She searched the long row of booths for a particular man’s face and crossed the room on briskly moving legs.

“Hey.”

The brunette dropped onto the vinyl cushion, the stuffing of which exploded from one corner. “Got a minute?”

on 2013-12-20 03:17 am (UTC)
rhiannon_lee: (fireplace)
Posted by [personal profile] rhiannon_lee
"Of course. You think I stopped there for the scenery?" She smiled a little and looked up as her food arrived. Rather than add butter or syrup, she picked up a waffle and bit it like a piece of toast. "By the way, I know who you're talking about. Holly. I've run into her once or twice. She was curious about slayers."

'Interesting boyfriend she's got', Rhiannon thought, but left it unsaid. No reason to spark a potential intervention if Holly had it under control.

on 2013-12-20 08:14 pm (UTC)
rhiannon_lee: (80s hair)
Posted by [personal profile] rhiannon_lee
Rhiannon noticed the cigarette was about to scorch her fingers, so she stubbed it. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing,” she hinted. “Being wanted. Whatever it is, all types respond to it. Maybe you’re the fulcrum.” It seemed to her that fate or the gods tugged on whatever strings they wanted, whenever they wanted. Perhaps Searchlight was just a puppet theatre, or a modern-day coliseum.

“So spin on.” She drained her cup.

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