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Who: Wichita, Cindy, and OPEN.
What: A business meeting between two tough bitches and Wichita needs friends, so come say hello.
Where: Some art deco building I made up in Griss Twist
When: Shundi. Nighttime.
Notes: Timelines be damned!
Warnings: None so far.

Griss Twist was an obnoxious name at best on a tattered, blood-stained map before Wichita had set foot in the neighborhood. While not entirely comfortable, this was the first place she had been without feeling wildly uncomfortable. With her new-found ability to relax, she made a point to make a few calls she had been meaning to. One to Martha Jones to make something resembling a plan to meet up. One to a new contact that had been given to her by someone she'd rather not think about; he had led her to believe that this woman could provide her with consistent work. From what Wichita had seen of Cindy, she wasn't so sure.

Wichita considered herself tough shit through and through, but had learned that when it came to otherworldly beings and creatures that she could be crushed in an instant. This healthy respect for other life forms and perspective on where humanity stood on the multiversal food chain was humbling. It allowed her extra percentages to add her overall survival rate, a most coveted upper-hand that she had been hoarding since puberty.

It was armed with this knowledge that Wichita arrived at a building haphazardly placed at the end of a dead-end alleyway. The establishment resembled a Streamline Moderne art deco dining car that had been neglected cosmetically in favor of brutal overuse. The neon lights flickered ominously on the exterior, but once inside, she found it rather pleasant. The tile on the bar was scrubbed clean -- or at least, it appeared to be in the dim mood lighting -- and the present company was sparse enough to keep an eye on. An old jukebox crooned an eerie tune that left her with a spray of goosebumps across her entire body. Wichita opted take a seat at a small, round, dilapidated, table decoupaged with countless images of eyeballs ripped from magazines and newspapers. After unholstering her shotgun from her leg, she placed the butt of it on the ground, her hand on the barrel. Kicking one leg up on an extra chair, she scanned the bar, and waited.

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Griss Twist. Cindy has a soft spot for the neighborhood only because it's where she first lived when she came to Baedal. Of course that first place got burned to the ground, but the person who caused that little issue was dealt with, messily as the very least, by Cindy so it's all good now. Besides, her new place is much better and with her skills in wheeling, dealing, and batting her eyelashes, she can afford the rent and her shoe habit.

Speaking of fashion, Cindy stands out in this shithole not because she's the bright blonde that she is, but that she's dressed to the nines in head to toe red. She looks like a woman on a mission, a woman who looks like she's on a date. She is neither of these right now. She's a woman killing time in between whatever she fills her days with. Being a boss isn't her thing; there's a reason why she's never at the shoe store in Fabletown. But she, unfortunately, likes Rex for some insane reason. He gave her money. The least Cindy could do was size up his friend.

On the phone, she was short and direct to the point with this Wichita girl and Cindy is the same in person, walking directly to the table they had decided on and sliding into a chair just before she lights up a cigarette wordlessly. She eyes Wichita up and down with her gun out for all and sundry.

Oh. A newbie. A baby whatever she's trying to be. Cindy's not impressed. And goddamn it, she hated this song when it originally came out and she hates it now.

Attempting to size Cindy up turned out to be a larger task than Wichita was prepared for. They were obviously worlds apart in terms of style -- Wichita was a simple one-trick pony in comparison. If Cindy had caught her before the pesky apocalypse on Wichita's world, Wichita might even feel inadequate. As things were in the present, Wichita didn't have the means to maintain any semblance of style. Dark wash jeans, a white tee shirt, a leather jacket, and her lucky Bandolino boots. Her boots were worn, used, and ready for retirement, but it didn't seem to worry her.

It was impossible to sit with the shotgun strapped to her leg, but the message an unholstered gun put off wasn't something she could concern herself with. The awareness simply didn't exist any more -- guns had become a way of life in Zombieland that her and her sister utilized tirelessly. She was still a lousy shot, but she was resourceful, deceptive, and manipulative.

Wichita was surprise by the lack of intimidation she felt in her current situation. The words came easily.

"So. What do you do?"

As Wichita should, Cindy would say, about her feeling inadequate. She's clearly a Mundy, just by her aura, not by her fashion sense. Cindy's unsure of whether this girl could take going into the fog every so often to go monster hunting and bring back tidbits of materials to sell on the black market. Aside from the general monster thing, there are the side effects of the fog: the dreams, psychological disturbances, the terrible sleep. Things that even Cindy can't shake herself.

If this child can let those things not affect her actions, she might have a chance. If she doesn't, Wichita is as good as dead. And Cindy isn't going to tell Rex "I told you so." Okay, no. She totally fucking will.

"That is the question I'll be asking, thanks." She leans forward to dust off the ashes into a chipping ashtray in the middle of the table before continuing to speak, using her cigarette for emphasis. "You want a job. Sell yourself."

Taken entirely aback by the question, Wichita is quiet for a moment. She keeps her features hard and unreadable for the sake of business, but she's already feeling a little performance anxiety. Perhaps it was the fact that this friend was Rex's, and if Wichita failed to impress, perhaps she'd fail in Baedal just like she had on the Barge.

Determined not to let that sway her, she meets Cindy's eyes and begins in an even tone.

"Where should I start? Is there experience in particular that you're looking for? Rex didn't give me any information about the job but your name."

Cindy could be nicer, but why should she? Fog hunting isn't like selling shoes or flipping burgers. It requires a thick skin, a hard soul, and generally a fearlessness that one cannot buy online. Wichita doesn't seem to have it; she looks breakable, even if she survived the apocalypse. Maybe she just got lucky.

Cindy isn't feeling this whole holding her hand through whatever this is. It's not an interview. More like a skills assessment. If Wichita can't hack this, tough shit for her. Time to go apply at the corner coffeeshop.

"Start with what you know how to do. Cleaning, cooking, riding reverse cowgirl..." Cindy points at Wichita's shotgun with her cigarette. "...Shooting."

"I'm shit for a shot." She starts. It's probably not the best admission, but maybe if she lays the spectacular failures out first, Cindy will find something she can work with. Looking down at the gun resting on her arm, she continues.

"...but I'm a fast learner. Tasks and assignments won't be followed with questions. I'm a good fence and an even better spotter." She clears her throat, not sure if she's making any headway or blowing it. Whether this falls through or not isn't particularly a concern the more she considers it. Finding work won't be hard, it's simply a matter of finding work she can stand. If Rex gave her Cindy's contact information, this was the job that would be tolerable.

"I'm accustomed to human targets and prey." Whether they were zombies or the poor saps she held up, it didn't particularly matter. She was liable to shoot a sentient human form in Zombieland.

Not a very good list, to be honest. Compared to everybody else Cindy has gone hunting with, Wichita is a risk. A danger. She could get herself and everybody else killed. But Bigby once gave a cinder-cleaning princess a chance. There are ways to get to where Wichita needs to be with minimal fatalities.

"There are no humans in this job. At least they aren't what we go after," Cindy starts, taking on last pull before stubbing the cigarette out. "Learn to shoot. Well Learn to use weapons other than just guns. Knifes. Bats. Your hands. It'll save your life. No one else is going to babysit you here, especially not me. I don't have kids for a reason."

They'll probably ruin her figure too, but that's neither here nor there.

"What targets are there, then? I don't have a fucking clue what this entails. Rex knows what I do -- have done -- and I know you can work with me if you give me a chance." She relaxes a little. This sort of negotiation came easier once Cindy's expectations and disappointments became clearer.

Continuing uninhibited, Wichita gesticulates to accompany most of her speech at this point.

"I started to learn hand-to-hand, but my training is fractured, at best. Tell me where to go and I'll get better. I can use knives. They're necessary where I'm from. Bats, too. Ammunition isn't always available, but the walking dead are, so it's a necessary accoutrement to whatever your first plan is. Or second. Or third."

"Monsters and not the type that hide under your bed or in the closet. Monsters like the ones we saw last week. You can't see them because the fog is so thick, but they can certainly see you. Smell you. You have to be sharp and ready to kill with no hesitation. If you have any emotional attachment to killing things that are still alive, drop it now. They don't care about you. Don't care about them."

She's going to lay it all out on the table here for Wichita. There's no reason to sugarcoat it. Fog hunting is what it is and it pays decently for a reason. It's dangerous work, physically and psychologically. No one who goes out there comes back the same. Cindy's willing to risk that for money.

"I'll advise you to get better before going out there, otherwise, I'll be shipping you back to Rex in a body bag and I'm not in the mood to see him snotting it up," Cindy continues, folding her hands together and leaning them on the table. This kid has spunk, if only because she knows the importance of a backup plan having a backup plan. She isn't about to take her out anytime soon, though. There's a lot more left to learn. "Is that shotgun the only thing you have?"

"I arrived after the monsters, but I saw the damage. Do you take those things down by yourself?"

The number of questions she had made her feel a little light-headed, and so she checked herself. One at a time. Wichita could do research after this conversation to appear more competent at their next meeting if she really had to. If there was going to be a next meeting. Reading Cindy wasn't easy.

Nodding at Cindy's only question, she takes pause and answers carefully. "Don't know where to get anything else. I have a steel nail file that I've used to kill with before, but that's it."

It seems obvious that Cindy isn't the type to entertain too many questions, but it's too much for her not to ask.

"Where'd you learn how to hunt?"

"A girl can't wait for a prince to come and save her ass." How true this is in Cindy's case Wichita will never know. Plus this answers both questions in a way--yes she did take them down herself and she learned on her own through trial and error. Okay, maybe Bigby helped with the training, but most of it was Cindy getting her ass kicked when she fucked up. Once you catch a boot to the head in a desolate Russian forest in the middle of winter, you learn quickly how to avoid it next time.

That nail file could be helpful in a pinch, but why let something come down to that close? Pulling her purse into her lap, Cindy casually rifles through it until she comes up with a matchbook and a pen, writing Seoraj's address and CiD number on the inside before pushing it across the table. "Find him. Tell him I sent you and you're in need of a decent knife. Find a way to pay him because he doesn't even do discounts when you offer to suck him off." Not that she tried or anything...

Satisfied with that answer -- and realizing it's the best she's going to get out of Cindy -- she leans back in her chair, glancing around the seedy bar. When Cindy pulls out the matchbook and pen, Wichita begins to pay more attention. Memorizing the number as she writes it down, Wichita accepts the matchbook from Cindy.

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll find the cash. Do you have any training contacts? Or better yet, do you have the time for me? I'll pay." Of course, how she would scrounge up the funds for payment was something of a mystery to Wichita, but she had always found a way to make ends meet.

"I'm also in the market for indentured servitude since I don't have a fucking clue about this place."

She'll pay? Well, that makes finding a contract easier.

"Sukkardi, we go to Sangwine. 5AM," Cindy replies flatly, not showing a bit of many calculations she's doing in her head of what prices she'll be setting. Sangwine's rural enough to give them space to train, yet if they're lucky, the fog will come close enough to give Wichita a taste of where she wants to poke her nose. "As for the rest, ask Rex." Cindy's already used up her be nice to Mundanes quota today.

"Done." Her response is immediate. This is the in she needs and she's not about to fuck this up.

"Sukkardi. Sangwine. 5 AM. Forward me the bill." Wichita has no plans in the future to ask Rex anything, ever, but finding answers was something Wichita rarely struggled with.

Standing, Wichita re-holsters the comically large shotgun to her petite leg. Without a word, she turns to leave.

Cindy watches Wichita get ready to leave without moving herself. She's preparing to lit up another cigarette before she sees that piss poor shotgun and ends up snorting a laugh before she shoots off a bit of advice.

"Get something smaller. Easier to conceal. You look like you're playing dress-up with your father's gun."

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i'm going to go out on a limb here and say that i'm attracted to your fictional character. amagad.

get off that limb! /flails

NOOOO /CLIIIIIIINGS

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