multiversallogs | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."