Black like powder (cheryl/open)

[cheryl]

Everyone dealt with pain differently. Even if exposed to the same tragic circumstances, two people will inevitably cope with it differently. For this Jones fellow, brooding and dwelling on it seemed to be the method of choice for coping with pain. That and sharing it. The cynical little goblin briefly feared he would turn full on pity party, grab her and start crying on her shoulder.

And yet, Cheryl didn't feel the urge to look down upon Jones. That was perhaps because Cheryl had her own method of coping with pain: she ran from it or ignored it. Running away from home, ending up in the Marines. For all of Jones' ranting and raving about how terrible of a hand he's been dealt in life, he at least acknowledged and faced his pain. Cheryl had not, and she hadn't even fully acknowledged that's why she didn't feel the urge to pick on Jones for talking about his problems.

Plus, Jones tried to be nice to her. He could've worded himself better, perhaps been a tad bit more racially sensitive, but he meant no ill-will, or didn't seem to at least. Any misconceptions he had was due to ignorance, and there didn't seem to be any maliciousness or smug sense of superiority behind his ideology -as is the case with genuine racism.

Cheryl therefore waved her hand dismissively at Kaitlyn, saying "It's fine. Don't worry about it," when she tried to apologize on Jones' behalf.

The compliments didn't escape her, though they didn't seem to phase her either, negatively or positively. Indeed, she did bear a little resemblance to Kristen Stewart -minus the giant chin, and Cheryl's cheekbones were a bit more well defined. Her minimum amount of make-up suggested she didn't dwell too much on her looks though.

There was another thing that didn't escape her either, although she didn't comment on it just yet. No, first she went back to the bar counter and snatched up the remainder of her deep dish pizza. She didn't bother to announce that she'd be right back, so it may at first appear that she was leaving. But no, Cheryl returned, pizza in hand, and scooted into a seat at the table with Kaitlyn and Jones.

After Jones finished speaking, Cheryl took a forkful of pizza and said to Kaitlyn, "How did you know my first name?" before shoving her food in her mouth.

[glenn]

Kaitlyn nibbled away at her food one-handed, fingers picking at the fries and kettle cooked chips, dipping them in ranch dip or ketchup as her other hand dug into her bag, pulled forth a PDA and turned it on with a flick of her thumb. "since we're disclosing what we know, or don't," she looked at Jones with a sidelong glance before returning to her PDA, "or don't know about each other, I have a bit of a comprehensive database on people of interest in the military, criminal underworld or......government agencies. For favors of course. But I only know about the same as Jones, maybe a little more. You for instance, eight weeks basic training followed by fifteen weeks training in armored vehicles, nine weeks in infantry training and an undisclosed time with the metal gear ray system."

She set the pda down, on that little screen it also listed her time with.....a small gang, various crimes from petty theft to larceny. "Sometimes the best information does come from the underbelly of the world, last place no one would think to look for it. Unless you know where to look for it." She took her hand off the PDA, finger brushing the power switch as she looked up at Cheryl again and gave her that cold cut look of hers; like a block of ice.

Her attention focused more on Cheryl than Jones, but still she kept an eye on him figuratively speaking as she took another bite of her food. "Getting paid to take out things that do harm to people. Sounds like what I do, minus the supernatural angle." There was no need to hide it, no need to anymore anyways. She felt she could trust them and if not, well, she could always erase them when they least expected it. No sense in letting loose ends stay loose and all that. "So you are more or less a supernatural bounty hunter, or assassin, I take it," she whispered to him, fingers dipping into her kettle chips, scooping up a few covered in gobs of cheese, dipping them in the ranch dip before popping them expertly into her mouth.

Of course it was obvious she wasn't entirely human if one took a moment to see that she was eating enough food for maybe ten, maybe twelve people.

(and I got nothing else D:)

[Jones]

Jones thought as they spoke. His brain making connections and he couldn't help but think this situation seemed like a bad joke 'a old man, a goblin and an assassin walk into a bar...'. He was tired, just short of exhausted to be honest but he kept his head up as he ate and listened and thought. Thought on what he knew of the women before him. One he knew quite a bit about. The other had just admitted she killed mundane people on a regular basis. Reaching up to wipe a bit of grease off his chin he returned from his mirthful (for him) musings and looked to Kaitlyn raising an eyebrow and then tilting his head in thought. Leaning back farther in the chair he spoke up.

"Never thought of my job like that. I have been doing it so long I haven't even thought of a definition... Assassin. No I wouldn't call myself that. Assassins sole job is to kill, and while I do that... alot... I do other things... bounty hunter?... Closer I suppose. But has implications I don't much care for."

He pursed his lips in thought trying to think how to put it. This conversation wasn't something Jones usually had. His job description tended to be... fluid... at work depending on the current situations and wither or not people were screaming. The whole Yeti situation last month had been hairy enough. Stupid mating season, and stupid IT guys who had kept sending Jones pictures of Chewbucca photoshopped so he was wearing bikinis... till he went and explained that he didn't appreciate the pictures.... He choose wisely to not mention it all. Including the bloodstains that took two weeks to get off the walls of the I.T. department.

"I... I am just a garbage man. It's someone has to do the job or the world drowns in filth."

He didn't mention the fact he helped train people, or did research from time to time. But it was true. Jones didn't have romantic notions of his job. It was just what he did. He looked up curiously thought.

"What about you ladies? How did you get into your... fields."

[cheryl]

"Cool," Cheryl responded to Kaitlyn, in a nonchalant tone of voice, her gaze never straying up from her pizza. It indicated she was either unbelieving or unimpressed, or more than likely simply so used to working with people and organizations like Kaitlyn that it didn't phase her anymore. Plus, the careers of certain military personnel could be looked up online.

As well, looking at Cheryl's uniform and knowing enough about what it meant would tell one anything they needed to know about the Master Gunnery Sergeant. She had three distinct badges for all three of the jobs she'd trained for: infantry, tank driver and RAY pilot. None of her badges had a wreath or star above it though, indicating she'd not been in the Marine Corps for seven years yet. And yet she was a Master Gunnery Sergeant, a rank that usually takes around twenty or more years to achieve. Then again, they did just get through a zombie epidemic and pressing times often see military personnel catapulted up the chain of command.

But it was still pretty impressive that Kaitlyn knew her first name.

"Cool," she said again, in an equally nonchalant tone of voice to Mr. Jones, when he got done explaining his story. Once again, her gaze never drifted up from her pizza. But it was obvious she was paying attention to them, even if she did keep shoveling food into her mouth.

Then Jones inquired about how her and Kaitlyn got into their line of work, to which Cheryl responded, "Well, it was either this or prison." Cheryl'll been a rogue living on the streets, stealing to survive, before she was finally caught and brought before a Judge. Since there was a war going on and since military recruitment was low, the Judge gave her a choice: join the Marines or go to prison. Naturally, this meant Cheryl loved telling that age old joke.

"Ya know, if I'd went to prison, I would've been out by now."

Her tone didn't change, meaning the sarcasm of her remark may've been lost on the two. Joking aside though, she couldn't help but return the favor and inquire about her two newly found acquaintances.

"What about you two? How'd you get into your lines of work?" she said, her gaze finally lifting from her pizza to zig-zag between Kaitlyn and Jones, before returning to her food.

[glenn]

How did she get her job? How did she get it indeed, that was a good question to ask. How, did she get into being an assassin? Well since she couldn't answer them at all, she merely took another bite of her food and looked at them both from where she sat, opened her mouth and spoke the flat out truth, voice never hitting a pitch or stuttering. "I don't actually remember how I got into my line of work, which is why I'm trying to pick up the shards and pieces, to try and piece it all back together." But she did note the sarcasm, it was there but it wasn't exactly obvious at first, more for the fact the choice of words over the tone of voice. "A sarcastic response, so instead of the military, you could have been in prison I take it? A most endearing choice."

Now that was sarcasm, or rather a case of being a deadpan snarker, even if it was unintentional snark on her part, the fact that she could manage a deadpan tone let alone that cold expression meant that deep down in that heart of her's, she was capable of more than just cold emotionless but it didn't want to show itself, maintain that level of professionalism and all that! But as she ate her food, listened to Jones' unique choice of words to describe his profession she had to quirk an eyebrow. A garbageman? Really? Well one could make that assumption about assassins at times, taking out the trash people want gone for good the human filth and detritus that polluted the world and basically asking for some good old fashioned Darwinian intervention. Of which, Stitch had gotten quite good at providing. "Drowning in filth and garbageman are both unique choices of words for someone who routinely takes care of something or someone that may cause people or groups of people immense trouble. I suppose that's the word you will want to stick with." She finished by taking a bite out of an extra spicy wing, barbeque sauce catching at the corners of her mouth, quickly wiped away with her tongue. In a more formal setting there would be more tact and grace, but here, it didn't look that out of place.

"Hunting the supernatural must be interesting to say the least, well maybe not for you, since you seem quite seasoned, quite used to it, though I have to ask or rather wonder, what drove you to being a supernatural garbageman in the first place?" She asked softly, hands pushing plates aside for the moment, rather she was finished for now as she looked at him, a small spark of electricity slithering up across her cheek before disappearing behind her eye or rather, vanishing into her eye. "Because I wonder, how someone who looks cut out to be a family man instead of a bounty hunter or assassin, or....garbageman," Her words trailing softly, lingering on the arr, exaggerating the whole words length, fingers knitting across each other before resting her chin in the cradle. "would choose what some would call, the logically extreme choice to a problem. Though most would call it asinine or stupid. But those are the ones who still live in the day....as you call it.""

[Jones]

Jones noticed the spark, that bit of flowing electricity this time. He caught it and while his eyes briefly narrowed that was more a reaction to her asking about why he became a garbage man. He was waiting his turn to speak to ask about that spark, to ask why and how come... when her next comment drive that from his head like it was launched from a cannon. For a moment it all flashed before his eyes, a splash of blood, the scent of copper so think you could gag, and the death rattle... so soft you could almost imagine you heard it. For a moment the static rage in his eyes sunk, his face turned a bit paler but shiftly it returned as quickly as it fled, his teeth clenched and his hands bunched into fists so fast and so hard that between where bandages stretched apart from them you could see snow white knuckles, and then red as the scars on his hands ripped open and the red slowly started peering up through the white of the bandages. The talking around stopped when the crack of a breaking bottle sounded out as the bottle of guiness in his hand cracked just on the verge of shattering. Only a last second of control had stopped it. A last desire to not be holding a handful of shards. The remains of the guiness dripped out of the cracks onto the floor and then onto the table as he moved it there and sat it down. Not even knowing he was doing it muscle memory took over as he loudly cracked his neck once to the left and his eyes which had quickly closed as the rage drifted out sprang open and a rage as cold and as great as a glacier drifted in them. Despite that only the bottle, a few physical cues, and a slight tightening of his features betrayed the rage that burned in him. That screamed, the shouted to burn the world.

Reaching into his pocket Jones began to pull out a cigarette as his eyes drifted over the crowd whose conversation had stopped when that bottle had cracked and one by one those his eyes swept over adverted their gaze from the cold anger that seemed as ancient as time. They went back to their drinks, their groups and as he looked back the conversations restarted as he sat their just holding the cigarette. He stared at it, at the white being tinged with red. He began to speak as the rage guided him back. Back to his past... dangerous territory. His voice was soft, he didn't raise his voice. Didn't speak loud. Just spoke as if talking to furniture. It was like he didn't even know they were there anymore. His voice was low and cold.

"This... reminds me of a story... once upon a there was a man. He wasn't a rich man, or a particularly handsome man. He wasn't a great warrior or the son of a prophet. He was just a man who decided to become a knight, a knight holding the copper shield and defending law and order. His only desire was to protect and serve. He loved his job. It was hard, and usually thankless but he felt he was doing something. Was making a difference at the end of the day. Making the world a better place."

Jones's face curled up in a sneer but it... and a bit of the coldness faded as he continued.

"But what would a tale of a brave knight be without a princess. She too wasn't of noble blood. But from the moment he lays eyes on her all he could think of was her. A princess in all but name and blood. Five times he went where she worked and sat their, eating as he tried to work up the courage to ask her out. Then on the sixth time..."

The corners of his mouth raised a bit. A smile panicked to find itself in unfamiliar ground.

"She informed him that that night he was taking her out. They were going to dance, they were going to get a cup of coffee, and they were going to eat. They did, they got it, and they went... it was the best date the man had ever been on. He was walking on air for days. Time after time he went it and after the first date he never again have trouble asking her out. And over the course of a year he worked up courage again. This time to ask her to marry him. To enter holy matrimony. When he finally slayed the dragon of fear he was surprised she was surprised... and accepted... They had a story book wedding and with in a year the princess had an heir. A girl whose features had the best of both her mother and her father. A daughter who brought endless joy and contentment to the two. They didn't have a perfect marriage. They argued from time to time. Disagreed. But every problem that occurred they worked through and only served to make their bonds stronger. As six years pasted the man began to believe he had found it... his happily ever after and the rest of his days would be filled with joy."

The smile vanished and no expression graced his face as he twirled the red and white cigarette between his bandaged fingers.

"... He was so very stupid in those days."

The cigarette vanished in the crushing power of his fist as he crushed it in his hand and went on like nothing happened.

"One day he went home from work early. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky shining down upon his dark blue uniform. His black polished shoes shone and a wordless song was whistled from a grinning mouth. He figured he would see his daughter. Play with her, wear her out... and then see if he and the princess could get around to making his daughter a play mate the old fashioned way. Even if it failed there was fun in the trying. But when he got to his house he felt something wrong. Something off. He shrugged and opened the door... and he will never forget what he saw."

Jones eyes were fixed on the distant, his irises contracted as he was pulled into the past.

"Blood slathered the room, he will never forget the sight of it sprayed around like a bomb willed with it had gone off. The smell so like copper, and worst of all. The sight. His daughter lying with her head almost torn off. Her little... braids laying along her as only a brief bit of flesh hold it to her neck. He mouth opened in a scream that echoed soundlessly in the mans head. And beyond her was his wife... and a monster. It had teeth like railroad spikes, claws like sickles. It's black hide practically glowed with hunger as the woman weekly struggled, her body dead even if her mind hadn't realized it. Not many humans could live long without a throat."

Jones chest began to expand and contract with the sheer effort to keep the scream within his throat. He began to speak a little faster.

"The man screamed, no words, no articulation. Just a wild scream of denial, a pleading scream to let it not be happening as in the same motion as the scream began he drew his gun and emptied the clip into the creature. Eight bullets flew out, eight bullets hit home and there I was holding an empty clip. I began to charge thinking maybe I could save her? Maybe I could bludgeon it to death with the gun?... I don't know. I just remember it lashing out at me. Slapping me aside like I was a bug and my back impacting the wall... and then blackness."

Letting go the cigarette his hands sought his face and finger tips clawed at his face.

"I awoke as the police barged in on the leavings of the 'animal attack' as it was later called. I was stuck to the ground, glued their with my families own blood. It clung to me like cheap paint. I began to scream again. To shout, to plead them to help them despite it was too late... and I begged them to hunt it. To hunt the monster... instead I soon found my self in an asylum 'for my own good' when I talked about the monster they sedated me, when I screamed or attacked a guard they sedated me. When I punched the walls till my fist bled they sedated me. In time.. it taught me to channel the rage. To keep it hidden enough to get by. They released me in time... saying I just needed time. To reach the final stage of my grief... to accept and move past anger."

Finally he looked at the two and with a coldness the was almost an aura around him.

"Why would I want to do that? Why would I accept this. I never asked for it. It came to my life. Ripped it from me. So... That is how I entered this life. Because I knew the garbage. I lost my family to it... and I will do what needs to be done... to keep it from happening. That is what I tell myself at least. The truth is through... after twelve years of doing it. I wouldn't know how to do anything else."

[cheryl]

It was about that time....Cheryl began to lose interest. Odd really. She'd found the two to be the most interesting bar patrons when she was merely overhearing their conversation. Now that she had sat down with them, she felt the better part of their conversation was over. Or maybe it'd been so long for her that she didn't know how to carry on a conversation?

Regardless, her lack of attention made the words of Kaitlyn and Jones like a surreal haze. Her subconscious probably heard them. Indeed, she probably subconsciously clung to every word of theirs. But consciously, she only titled her head down and finished off the last bites of her deep dish pizza. When she was finished, she once again almost wiped her mouth on her sleeve, but caught herself just in time and used a napkin instead.

And for being such a dank little pub, this place certain had good service. The moment she was finished, someone came up and grabbed her plate and empty bottle. Her pizza left her thirsty, so before the man left, she asked for another orange soda. As he went to get it, Cheryl reached into one of her pockets and fished out her wallet. Once it was out and opened up, Jones and Kaitlyn may notice the big wads of cash inside it. With the military paying for her food, electricity, plumbing and housing, her paychecks quickly added up.

As Cheryl rummaged through the large dollar bills, she suddenly became re-aware of her situation -of the reality of sitting here at this table with Kaitlyn and Jones, of the reality that they had been exchanging words. Maybe her time in the Marine Corps had made Cheryl an adrenaline junkie and she quickly lost attention and interest to anything that didn't get her blood pumping. Or then again, maybe it was the fault of something else -after all, she'd been a troublemaker before the Marines.

"Sorry, did one of you say something?" she said, her ears perking up in genuine curiosity.

[glenn]

Kaitlyn listened to his story to his sullen tale as she sat there, fingers idly picking at the prongs of her nearby fork that she held in her hand. It was disturbing to say the least, the hairs raising on the back of her neck as if she had received an electrifying backlash from her own abilities. He lost his family, murdered by some kind of monster that existed in the twilight, beneath the mundane scum that she put away on a day to day basis. It was sad, but she did not cry nor did she feel bad for him, it was unfortunate at best and Kaitlyn consigned his story and how he became what he was to fatalism. At times she would have found that line of thought highly erratic but today, today was different. If his family wasn't butchered, wasn't taken away from him she would never have met him in the first place, or maybe she would have, maybe he would have been a loving, happy man and not this broken, battered shell who had consigned himself to fighting the things that man was never meant to fight.

She played with the prongs, listened to him and slowly brought herself from her focus, opening up her senses to the area around them, she picked up on Cheryl's boredom, her focus completely gone from the conversation and slowly she stopped plucking at the prongs, looked Jones right in the eye and gave a nod. "You have my condolences and I do hope you find this creature and put it down for the safety of others." It had been so long since she had felt that twinge, that itch at the back of her neck, it was hard to describe but it felt like, like someone rubbing wet sand against your neck and leaving it there to dry. Irritating to the say the least but as she looked up at Cheryl who had just now seemed to snap back to her senses, she shrugged. "I guess so, but you looked rather placated with your pizza that I didn't want to disturb you."

"We were merely discussing why he became a supernatural cleaner, that is all." Kaitlyn spoke up softly, words dancing across her tongue as if she had practiced this over and over, choosing her words carefully as she took in the surrounding people with a sweeping glance. To some, it would have seemed like paranoia but it was not, it was her being overly cautious, better safe than sorry they always say as one never knew when a rival lurked around the corner, mingled with the crowd or was a few hundred yards away armed with a high powered rifle and just waiting for the opportunity to drop you like a bad habit. But for Kaitlyn she never had this problem, she always covered her tracks always made sure to check for witnesses as dead men told no tales. It was her set of rules and regulations and she stuck by them with a slight zeal.

But now, now she could relax a bit, sit down and talk with other people about normal things, mundane and boring things that others found exciting. It fascinated her to hear of how someone took the bus to work, or how someone got a promotion or a raise, it was the innocent little stories that spoke to her the most and it was because of those stories that she made sure mobsters and crooks never saw the next sunrise. Of course, a little money never hurt when going about offing the bad guys, that was the term normal people used right? bad guys? "I suppose everyone enjoys some or several facets of what life has to offer. You being a career soldier, probably enjoys excitement and thrills. While Mr.Jones here," Kaitlyn paused and blinked at him, she didn't really actually know if he enjoyed any such facet of life, or if he just enjoyed killing the things that enjoyed destroying the facets of life that people enjoyed. It left her for the moment.....speechless.

[Jones]

Jones didn't move barely blinked for a moment as he was lost and then he heard it. It wasn't a wonder he heard it. The wound was loud, wet, and came from multiple locations on his own body. Jones blinked for a bit still absorbed in his ancient rage when it slowly occurred to him that wasn't a normal sound. A sound that was peculiar even in his life. Jones looked down a bit hesitantly as if afraid ask for once and then looked at the others.

"...Did... Did my pockets just blow their noses?"

Sure enough the sound he had heard just moments ago had been the sound of noises being blown from multiple pockets. Jones had heard it it just had taken a moment to dawn on him what it was and as he looked down a bit horrified an expression of deeper horror came to him as he realized what it was.

"... Oh god... you guys again?!"

With that tiny furry heads poked out of his pockets, the ears and noses twitching as tears ran out of black eyes that stared almost unblinking. Some were holding bits of cloth and the origin of the sound became clear as they used them to blow their tiny mouse looking noses. They looked like mice... but most mice do not have handkerchiefs and tiny bits of what looked like ceramonial outfits on them. Nor did they have what was undoubtedly thumbs. As one they raised their heads and opened their mouths. Jones held up a hand.

"Keep it down."

The 'mice' froze and as one nodded and stage whispered.

"Hail to the back story of the god of anger and gunpowder, killer of werecats and bringer of the cake of cheese!"

Jones looked down at his pockets and shook his head slowly. Mumbled that 'he didn't live right' and reached for the non-cracked beer as he asked.

"Okay.. there is what... twenty of you in my pockets. Where are the rest? Please tell me they are not in my house."

Again came the chorus of loud whispers.

"Hail to the trunk of the chariot of the god of anger and gunpowder for it was right cozy as it lay in storage. We thusly arrived and kept it safe from spiders and rats who might wish to chew on the fingers of the god of anger and gunpowder!"

Jones sighed loudly and took a swig from his remaining beer and then looked at the two women.

"Ladies, Aeslin Mice, Aeslin Mice, Ladies..."

Jones paused and looked at Stitch.

"And yes... I suppose one of the few good things about my job... it is seldom boring."

"Hail to the lack of boring!"

[cheryl]

Sorry it's taken me so long.

Cheryl finally fished the appropriate cash from her wallet -and then some, for a generous tip- and placed it on the table. More than enough to pay for her pizza and two sodas. One hundred dollars worth. By the time she put her wallet away, someone had already walked up and handed her an open orange soda. It was ice cold and she began to down it, halting when it became apparent she had a brain freeze.

"Cool," Cheryl said to Kaitlyn's comment. She was just about to say her farewells when she heard something. The Master Guns' big, pointy ears twitched and fidgeted with interest. Out from Jones' pockets came little obnoxious horrors. Cheryl's eyes widened and she gasped, as though looking upon the cutest puppy or kitten there ever was. Except these weren't puppies or kittens.

Eagerly, she reached forward with her free hand in an attempt to grab one, whispering with giddy urgency, "I want one!"