Sees All, Knows All, Does What He Can

( Winter 2037 )

Knock, knock, knock.

Outside Whistler's door, she thought she heard television talk show babble. Rhiannon stepped back a few paces, narrow shoulders climbing to her ears while she pocketed her hands.

To pass the time, she looked at her footwear, the black leather rounds of new boots. She thought you could tell a lot about a person by their shoes. These, still polished and clean, the laces tight and blunt-tipped, hadn't been introduced to many asses yet. Standing there in her sunglasses and hooded sweatshirt, she felt like the unibomber. But she wasn't used to dealing with bruises and cuts that stuck around after a fight. It was embarrassing. The 'what the hell happened to you' stares, the uncomfortable feeling that somebody sympathetic was about to point her to a domestic violence shelter. In the future, Rhiannon decided, she needed to give her civilian friends more credit for dealing with it.

Her shoes creaked as she bounced on her toes. "Open up," she murmured, looking at the number on the door.

Dr. Phil hadn't been the same since he tried to fix the marriage between the Macy's sales clerk and her undead husband. Most thought it had to do with the man having tried to eat McGraw's brains in the third segment. Whistler considered it more likely that the pseudo-psychologist had hit bottom and just came to the realization. Pride had definitely gone before the fall, and it was a long climb back up to relative normalcy.

( You're getting sleeeeeepy... )

Whistler parked his car 'in the rear!' as instructed, locked it up tight (the neighborhood not exactly forgiving, his first impression) and finished his cigarette outside of the, ahem, family, restaurant. He double-checked his PDA to make sure he had the proper location. Somehow he'd hoped that, with Hannah's resurrection of sorts, the Powers That Be would've played a less cruel joke on the blonde pixie. She deserved a step up, not sideways into a joint that traded pies for pancakes.

He dropped the cigarette butt onto the concrete and scraped it along with the heel of his shoe. It was moderately warmer the past three days and most of the slush and snow had receded into the drain pipes. He checked the 'open' sign on the door (foolish really as the dingy restaurant was open 24 hours) and pushed inside the Golden Nugget Pancake House.

Golden Nugget? Apparently you could take the girl out of Las Vegas, but not vice versa.

The hatted man sat at the counter, picked up what looked like a recently wiped plastic-coated menu, and oggled the $7.99 special.

Hannah, otherwise known as 'Carrie' by the staff, was in the public bathroom. She wasn't using it. No power under the sun could make her do that. With hands on hips, she stared into the murky contents of the bowl. The toilet paper, water, and other substances combined to make it look like a sewage soup. Since the last attempt to plunge it, bubbles rose to the surface periodically, aiding the illusion. The plunger handle rested against the porcelain seat like a ladle. "Here goes nothing." Doing a precarious balance, she lifted her shoe and tapped the flusher.

( Possessed plumbing, a freeze frame, and propositions )

The end of the straw poking out of Janine's iced coffee was chewed to the point of uselessness. Her fingers strayed over the keys of her notebook computer, the toe of her black suede boot tapping a staccato rhythm against the leg of the table. She cringed as the sound of grinding coffee beans impeded her creative flow. Another patron at a nearby table looked up and shot her a glare, and Janine pulled the straw away from her mouth long enough to utter a disgruntled and curt, "What?" The man shook his head and returned to his unfurled newspaper.

The usual subjects had been exhausted. Lincoln Park was old news after several days of furious forum posting. Vampire attacks were old hat, and she wasn't getting anything useful -- just the bland, perfunctory reports in the crime blotter section of chintzy neighborhood papers. 'Unprovoked vampire attack at the Berwyn Red Line stop, 9:04 PM. Victim in stable condition, perpetrator not apprehended.' What vampire attack was provoked, anyway?

She needed something hefty, something that would start people talking. No amount of chai would give that to her, unfortunately.

Whistler counted five more grey hairs in the mirror when he'd gotten out of the shower. That was an odd saying, wasn't it? 'In the mirror'? That suggested that the image opposite was the one suffering from the color change in hair follicle. Even that was incorrect. Hair follicles were part of the skin that collected the cells that grew hair, attached to sebaceous glands. And his sebaceous glands were in a revolt, many jumping ship for putting up the white flag of surrender.

Gods help him should he ever consider a toupee.

( You'd Be Surprised )

If the Agent told the woman the true story of Jonah and whale, she'd see their 'revisionist' take on Melville's classic wasn't too far off. "Sounds a bit outta left field, which makes it right up my alley," he laughed. Whistler shook her hand warmly. "I'll have to look out for that.

"You take care, Janine." He offered a smile. "And I'll be sure to click on that site soon as I can."

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/city_limits/151858.html
http://asylums.insanejournal.com/city_limits/153507.html

Sneakers were not meant for three inches of melted snow. The mounds of white stuff had melted in a sudden blast of moderately warm weather, and now Avery had to traverse several puddles that could double for small lakes. He had a black Hefty bag full of trash, and he was attempting to reach the bank of garbage cans behind his building. A commotion across the way caught his attention. It seemed someone was being thrown out of the little Thai restaurant that resided on the street behind the vampire's. The owner and two fry cooks were firing away rapidly in some other language, gesturing for someone to leave out of the back door.

"It wasn't bloody cooked! Ya think I'm gonna let your patrons get salmonella!?" Whistler struggled to put his jacket on as he was unceremoniously escorted through the back door of the restaurant. For all intents and purposes, they believed him to be a shady city inspector, checking for health violations. But the underground rumor said they were covering up worse than a filthy kitchen; the owner was accepting 3am 'meat' deliveries that was said to be of the lupine stock. While the Agent expected such shady (and disgusting) dealings from a five-star restaurant, for a hole-in-the-wall take-out?

They screamed more obscenities in their dialect which the hatted man returned in kind. "Ya haven't seen the last of me, you sons of bitches!" he bellowed, brushing off his hat as the trio retreated behind the steel door. He made a mental note to check in with Rhiannon at the first opportunity. First and foremost, bestow the information Jill had passed on regarding the dragon and mutants underground at Lincoln Park, and to help keep an eye on this place.

Avery watched the scene unfold, bag still in hand. He had even forgotten the way his feet were squishing inside of his shoes. It took a moment, but recognition dawned on him, especially when he saw that hat. "Whistler?" The vampire tossed the bag into the bin, glass bottles clinking together. He took a step toward the agitated man. "I would have recognized you sooner, but your pants are up."

Okay, that came out wrong, but looking back on it, he wasn't sure there was a right way he could have said that.

( Taking out the trash )

[Takes place before "Hungry, Thirsty Roots".]

As much as Jill had buried herself in her work of late -- investigating, interrogating and drafting report after report on Lincoln Park -- she was glad to have a little time off for the holiday. Any more 19-hour days would've led to burnout, and the agent sighed with relief yet again as she sat at one of the many coffee shops in Chicago, deciding to give Caribous Coffee a shot over Starbucks.

Jill didn't have all that many people to shop for this Christmas -- ironically enough, her social circle was smaller now than it was when she was supposedly the Golden Child at Wolfram & Hart -- but she wanted to make sure she did something for the few people she considered friends. Two bags sat in the chair next to the agent as she nursed her very hot mug, holding a few gifts she'd picked up for her boss at the FBI and Kathleen, with whom she'd formed a friendship with on top of their professional association.

Jill enjoyed how her mug felt in her grasp as the temperatures outside dipped into the single digits. She grew up in the cold in Baltimore, so Jill fully expected to have to bust out the coats and the scarves come December, but nothing could've prepared the agent for the frigid reality of winter along Lake Michigan.

Still, it beat living in the desert -- for any number of reasons.

New boots. In all his years, on his list of priorities, footwear was low on Whistler's totem pole. It never seemed to matter if the soles were worn, a small patch of newspaper inside covered the main issue. If there was a tear by the seam, he'd duct tape the inside. It got him by. Especially in Searchlight; it was a trivial matter to pull off his shoes outside the double-wide and empty out particles of sand before heading inside. And he could usually pass around the odd puddle if caught in a rainstorm.

But Chicago was a whole other story. The environmental beat-down was too much for his toes to bear. And of course he had to discover this right before Christmas. As much as he despised shopping for himself, he hated doing it during the busiest shopping season more. If only people knew the real Santa Claus -- the one who, yes, flew through the air in a sleigh pulled by reindeer, but disemboweled children as opposed to leaving them presents -- the malls might not be so crowded.

Fatigued, the hatted man pushed past a few stragglers at the door to the coffee shop and grabbed the nearest comfortable seat (which took a few looks and three minutes. And maybe a tiny mental push. He was that tired.)

( Read more... )

( Rhiannon & Whistler Catch Up on Yahoo!Messenger) )

-throws up in his mouth a little-

After going to the library and looking up city ordinance to make sure he wasn't breaking any laws, Avery had gone to the park with his new crossbow and a bag full of empty soda cans. Just to be on the safe side, he ventured further into the park where he wouldn't be disturbed by late night joggers. The vampire set up the cans on a fallen log. This was bound to be a better idea than practicing in his apartment; Avery had patched up the holes in the paint as best as he could, but he didn't need to inflict any more damage than he already had.

He stepped back several feet and loaded a wooden bolt into the weapon. Squinting one eye, he aimed, fired...and watched as the arrow sailed off into the foliage.

"Oops."

Thank Christ he wore dark pants.

It wasn't the shortest route home, but when you'd downed as many spirits as Whistler had -- and considering his constitution (and the plethora of drinking contests he'd shared with Rhi and a few select others through out the years, many equalled a fuck of a lot more than a normal human constitution could handle -- common sense short-circuited his internal GPS. Besides it was a nice night in Chicago and as he'd agreed to make the city his base of operations for the coming future, a stroll off the beaten path, get the lay of the land, was always a good thing. Even if he'd lost his way three times already.

And at least he was in what he thought was a secluded area of the park when the call of nature reared its ugly mug and demanded attention. The maple tree was a good a place as any, and didn't seem to mind a bit of extra watering. Had he been more sober, Whistler might've heard the rustle through nearby brush and the (slowing) whizz of the wooden missile as it locked on and cut through his stream of... consciousness.

Another inch and he would've had an interesting, albeit painful piercing.

( William Tell Gown Awry )

( Mary and Rhoda )

[Takes place before Liar, Liar plot]

Some things man was not meant to witness. Outliving their children ranked among the top five. A nuclear holocaust? That went without saying (and so far, fingers crossed, would continue to be just a fever dream). A very large man dressed in nothing more than a g-string and a feather boa, belting out "I Will Survive" at a karaoke bar, should've been on the list, certainly.

A Hybrid, however, was altogether a different story. Especially if he was the ambassador to the United Nations on behalf of the Powers That Be. He got to see the real underbelly of existence. The forgotten, the discarded, the bigoted. Whistler lost count of the number of squabbles he'd been in the middle of. Nothing serious enough lately that required calling in the big guns, i.e. Rhiannon Lee, his right hand. But as his de facto partner in peacekeeping, it was always a good idea to check in.

Plus he missed the woman more than he'd let on. Before the rift, before the appearance on the world stage, moving to Chicago, the duo had been on each other's radar, always a stone's throw to either knock back a beer or crack heads (okay, she cracked heads, he mostly ducked). Las Vegas was a tonic for their friendship. Now Whistler was back on the road for days, weeks at a time, checking in when he could. And a part of him hated that. He despised that their meetings were becoming more planned in advance, or case-work on the road, rather than a simple bang on the door.

Speaking of a simple bang...

She could hear a couple carrying on from ten yards away. It was mostly the woman making all the racket, the intensely over-exaggerated kind that couldn't possibly be part of good sex. When something felt that good, a woman couldn't breathe. And you needed air to scream.

"Prostitute," Rhiannon concluded. She lifted her fist and rapped the hotel door a second time. "Whistler, get off the toilet and answer the door!" Of course she had no way of knowing if her friend was actually in the bathroom. Maybe he was throwing on a set of clean-ish clothes. She took a step back and rocked between her feet. Rhiannon slid her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants. They were baggy and long, so that only the toes of her boots poked out. She had a thermal on to keep her warm. Chicago got cooler a lot quicker than Las Vegas, and the wind was crispy enough to turn her cheeks pink.

He'd been crouched on the fire escape, contemplating a chilly escape into the night to avoid the cacophony next door. One thing Whistler didn't need a reminder of was his lack of a sex life. And while he carried an adventurous streak, auditory voyeurism felt dirty. The distant knock filtered between squeals and brought the hatted man inside, careful this time not to bang his head on the metallic window frame. He paused momentarily for the second rap at the door (to rule out the headboard crashing through the thin drywall) and threw it open. The gust of Chicago air sucked in from the action rustled the papers on the rickety coffee table.

Whistler smiled at his best friend as he eased back to let Rhiannon inside. "I dunno if you can call this hotel room a step up from the double-wide I rented in Searchlight," he said. "But the mini-fridge has beer if you want one."

Despite the rough verbal greeting, Rhiannon was actually glad to see her best friend. She wandered into the rented room but purposefully jostled his shoulder on the way. "Everything's better than Searchlight," she said, smiling. While she had grown accustomed to Nevada, it had never felt like a permanent home for her, a fact that Rhiannon hadn't realized until she picked up and left, and remembered what it was like to love a place. Love was still coming, but she definitely liked Chicago.

The brunette went straight to the mini-fridge and selected a bottle for herself. She handed one to Whistler. "When'd you get in? I was starting to forget what you looked like." The door closed on a sticky sound.

The hatted man pressed two thumbs under the cap of his drink and popped the metal disk into the air, whereupon it landed and rolled along the counter before coming to a stop just left of the laughably-sized coffee maker. "Uh, four hours ago," he answered, intently checking his watch. "Drove like hell from Silicon Valley. Someone was trying to market and distribute vampire-snuff films. Seriously, the shit I get called on these days."

Whistler took a long, cool sip of his beer and motioned Rhiannon to the fold-out couch, which was cleaner than it had a right to be in relation to the rest of the hotel room. The Argyle Inn was big in its day; it was one of a few bases during Prohibition and the height of luxury until the 1950s. Given his travels, it was entirely possible the Agent had stayed here before.

"What's shakin' your monkey tree?" He pulled out a cigarette and offered another to the brunette.

( On Being a Chickenshit )

( Plans for Lincoln Park )

You'll never find, as long as you live
Someone who loves you tender like I do
You'll never find, no matter where you search
Someone who cares about you the way I do

Whoa, I'm not braggin' on myself, baby
But I'm the one who loves you
And there's no one else, no-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh one else

Whistler threw a pillow at his locker.

"Some of us are tryin' ta sleep, Gerald!"

Five minutes had gone by since Rhiannon, Kris, Connor, and Faith slid the sewer grate back and descended into the hole in the concrete. Hayden had stood nearby and watched; once their heads cleared street level, he squatted down and replaced the metal frame. Then there was nothing for him to do but wait. And with a Marlboro Red smoldering in his left hand, and a comfortable seat on the back of his truck, Hayden Maragos was the picture of patient waiting, unless you knew him.

He scratched his shoulder blade and looked around. The parking lot of the closed KFC was quiet. Once in a while, the wind picked up a piece of litter and scuttled it along the gutters, or he would hear traffic from a few blocks north. The round lump of a necklace in his jeans pocket was the only thing to look at. He pressed his thumb against the shape. If he took it out, it would still be warm from her neck.

Instead he flicked the cigarette on the ground and watched that tendril of smoke drift up and get lost in the wind. It was definitely going to rain. The edge of the street map flapped under his backpack.

Whistler probably should've eaten before pulling into the parking lot at the burnt-out building off of Halsted. Despite its decrepit nature, the taunt of eleven herbs and spices (ten of which were salt) made the Agent's stomach grumble. But his connection with Rhiannon overpowered common sense (when didn't it, Whistler wondered) and so he made haste to her general vicinity upon arriving in the windy city.

He'd missed her by several minutes. The hatted man had a knack of being in the right place, but not necessarily at the right time. He'd been sidetracked to settle a dispute in Blaine, Kentucky (pop. 267 (human) and 14 (Negasi demon)) over property rights. Seems the city council wasn't up for, as they called it, 'foreigners' setting up in the quaint hamlet. It was the first time Whistler quoted the Constitution to them and he was sure he'd gotten at least thirty percent of it wrong but it shamed the Mayor enough to allow a 'trial period'. Something told the Agent it wouldn't be the only border dispute he'd be called to handle anytime soon.

Shutting off the Impala's engine, he caught the shadow of a man sitting on the back of a pick-up, parked next to Rhiannon's car. The short-haired fellow was smoking like a chimney, waiting. A wave of deja vu washed over the Agent. Just who was waiting for whom, anyway?

Shaking out a stick from his own soft-pack, Whistler ambled over. "Missing out, aren't you?" he asked.

( The Lumberjack and the Dwarf )

Called contacts in Washington; they won't give access to restricted area. Be careful if you go exploring.

( Not my idea )

"Fer the love of Christ, no Gerald! We are not stopping so you can look at the biggest ball of twine in America."

To the casual observer, the hatted man seemed to be talking to a caller through his Bluetooth. (God how he hated that gadget but it had become necessity. The Agent racked up two minor traffic accidents in the last month alone trying to talk on his Blackberry -- another necessary evil -- while driving.)

He was having a conversation, as he loaded the last of his belongings into the Impala. Just not on the phone.

"Seriously Gerald, it's not like Hannah needs a fuckin' forwarding address. She's an Agent now. All she's gotta do is think about me, uh you, and she'll appear. So just settle in the damned car, will you?"

The gnome glared out the passenger window.

"Don't start that with me again. You do NOT have bronchitis. Chicago'll be a good change. It's got seasons. And deep dish pizza."

There was a sigh on the wind.

"Yes, we can listen to Kashmir once we're on the Interstate."

For the city that never slept, dusk at Times Square felt like a ghost town.

Everyone was on pins and needles. The curfew in effect, the spectre of boogeymen looming under sewer grates, New Yorkers reluctantly learned to adapt to the change, hopeful that soon things would turn back to normal.

Whistler stood staring at the news scrawl as it wound its way underneath the Coca-Cola advertisement. 'Envoy to Speak with United Nations Tomorrow'... 'Explanation of Current Crisis'...

That was him, wasn't it? The Envoy. Huge fuckin' letters letting everyone know answers were coming.

God he hoped he didn't flop sweat on camera.

But if the delegate from Uganda decided to lob a tomato at him, Rhiannon had his back.

And for the Agent, that was enough.

Finally returned to Searchlight after an orientation that lasted days if not a week, the first thing Whistler did was scour the local news. Granted, the Powers had given him all he needed to know, but it lacked the human angle. Knowing an event was one thing; understanding the emotional ripples was quite another.

The internet was on overload. When he could log on, the blogosphere was rife with conspiracy theories, cell phone videos of various events, dusted-off instructional videos from the 1950s on how to handle cataclysmic events ('House in the Middle' was always his favorite) but mostly, mostly, there was panic, fear, and uncertainty. Leaders of nations did their best to explain the unexplainable, and it wasn't helping.

He'd loaded up on Jolt cola, cigarettes and pre-wrapped ham and cheese sandwiches, and took the long walk from his doublewide into Las Vegas. Military personnel and transport kept a discrete presence but it made its point: we'll protect you but we're not exactly sure how or what from.

Tossing the wrapper from his third sandwich into the trash, he finally approached Rhiannon's warehouse and made the climb up to her door.

Rhiannon heard the footsteps from her couch. She was sitting flipping through a two-year old phone book, trying to find a single sub shop that still had delivery guys. Apparently people didn't like approaching random door stoops anymore. The fates of a dozen missing Pizza Delivery guys was suddenly in perspective.

"If you're a looter, come back later," she yelled, holding her index finger on a number and listening to her cell. Apparently the number she had reached was no longer in service.

( Nunchucks and Job Offers )

"This is Jeop--"

The television screen changed to static. Every channel. Noise and light.

The Agent switched off the set. The noise and light continued. This time outside.

He slipped on his shoes and grabbed his smoke. Stumbled out of his double-wide. Everyone on the block had the same idea.

Lights in the sky. A glowing, shifting mass. Not pulsing, not threatening. But there.

"Oh shi-"

Anyone watching his porch would've noticed the hatted man disappear.

Whistler.

Whistler.

Our Agent.

Agent.

It is time.

Time.

To talk of the future.

The balance.

Balance.

Is askew.

As it was foretold.

Foretold.

And refuted.

Much to discuss.

Much to prepare for.

*Rap, Rap, Rap*

Rhiannon waited for a response at Whistler's door. Meanwhile she jiggled her legs and looked around. It was another dry, dusty night in Searchlight. Faint kitchen sounds drifted from neighboring trailers. A family was watching television.

'This... iiiiis Jeopardy!'

She wedged the collection of newspaper articles between her knees. To pass the time while Whistler plodded around, she pulled her hair into a ponytail and tightened it.

Since his return, Whistler had steered clear from media, both in printed and televised form. Staring at the weekly Examiner and its questioning Do the Dead Walk Among Us? and a grainy, (possibly) doctored photograph, it was enough to send him into spasms. And sadly, those rags were closer to the truth than he'd liked. But reading true misery day after day, wars fought overseas, how base humanity could be to one another,...after a while it got to be too much.

Instead, he started journaling. The Agent wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if his experiences would inspire a generation of future Slayers, or provide insight on how to shine a light into dark corners. This was... personal. He'd tried to fill in over fifty years of backstory in his history with Meg and was sure he'd left out all the best (or worst) bits. And there was much she didn't want to know, either. But someone might. Someday. He didn't like the word that popped in his head to describe his new activity, but Legacy was the one that fit.

The three raps against the screen door caught his attention and, carefully marking the page with the purple ribbon, Whistler closed the book and shuffled to the door.

"Good, you're here." She pulled back his screen door and let herself in. "We need to talk." When her mind was set on a conversation, the Slayer was a tornado bursting onto the scene.

The trailer's interior was lit by sunset and a table lamp. Her eyes adjusted quickly. It was forever since she'd been in there, so Rhiannon nosed around for anything new. All she noticed was a notebook that looked recently attended to. She dropped her bundle of newspapers on top, giving Whistler a none too subtle message. 'Me first'.

( The H Bomb )

( Family Pains )

It wasn't easy to blend in, especially when you dressed in a fashion cross between early Salvation Army and later Jackson Pollock. The Agent could've blended in claiming Irish heritage had his visit coincided with Saint Patrick's day. And while the city had once been a booming copper town, those days were past and claims to be scouting the area for work in mining wouldn't hold up.

So he played tourist cum amateur historian to the wandering eyes of the less than forty thousands who called Bute, Montana home. Every day Whistler pounded the streets, a slow walk through the Dumas Brothel Museum (had he visited there before? the red velvet felt familiar), the Berkeley Pit, Copper King Mansion, Venus Alley. And he certainly couldn't resist seeing where Daschell Hammett originally plied his trade at the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

It was pure distraction, and he knew it. Every morning he'd wake, shower and shave, wave to Missus Bannister as he whizzed past the kitchen of her bed and breakfast, and hop in his Impala with intent to steer onto Anaconda Road and Meg's Amazing Edibles before exercising yet another cheesecloth-thin excuse to postpone. It's Saturday, probably a large catering order, won't have time for unfamiliar faces. No one should be shocked on a Monday. That cheesesteak from last night isn't sitting right.

He felt like a coward. Whistler could stare down an apocalypse, but not his own past. Hannah's words played over and over. "You know they're okay now. So you don't need to go ordering a sheet cake, just to get a look at Meg."

The Agent protested, as was his wont.

"I don't want you to get your feelings hurt."

And his feelings would be hurt. Not at seeing his daughter again. But to know she made a life for herself without his help. That she didn't need him. But maybe that was exactly what Whistler needed. To know Meg thrived in spite of him.

Stepping out of the Impala, feet firmly on Anaconda Road and a copy of the Montana Standard tucked under his right arm, the Agent strolled across the street and opened the door to the past.

( Once upon a time )

Meg Melone was written by Kate.

"Should take you two weeks to get through, knowing your viewing habits.

~W"

One, two, three... sliiiiiide.

One, two, three... sliiiiide.

It was ten o'clock and the lights in Searchlight's tiny bowling alley had gone dim. The only staff member left behind was Whistler, entrusted with closing up shop. He was in a back room, probably locking cash in a safe; She didn't really know. Hannah was too busy fulfilling a childhood dream.

Using the polished, wooden lane as a slip-n-slide for her socked feet.

New and improved control over her solid form allowed her this childish joy. It also supplied a heapin' helpin' of pain when she lost her balance. "Whoa-- shiiit!" Thunk. "Oww... my ass." Hannah rubbed her posterior and waited for the sensation to subside. She wondered if she could bruise.

One, two, three, four, five... "Ugh."

Why anyone would pay for their shoe rental in pennies was a mystery. They were intrinsically evil. 'Give a penny, get a penny' wasn't for anyone's benefit. And the mix of more nickel than actual copper meant it held residual energies. Get enough of them together and they could disrupt electronics. Batch 'em up in a plastic thingee beside a cash register, and no one's cash out was safe. It could bring down governments.

Evil.

Six, seven, eight, whoa shiiit!

Whistler ran out of the back office after the thunk and couldn't help but laugh as he spied the spirtely Hannah rubbing her backside. Served her right. He'd just waxed the alleys. If she'd asked, he would've recommended waiting another hour. The Agent learned the hard way the first time he tried it. "Hurts like a sunovabitch, doesn't it pixie?"

"Uuuughhh." She flopped like a fish, limbs akimbo. "All these months, I've been pursuing the feel-goods. Now I remember why I avoided pain." Hannah propped herself up on her elbows. "Still, I'm proud of myself. Doing pretty well with the old body, if you ask me. Now if I could just convince them to give me my mortality back..." Her face was a comical mixture of hopeful and smirking. It was highly unlikely.

"How's tricks?" she asked her hatted friend.

( Meg and Aaron Melone )

Julie hummed to herself as she worked on cleaning the bar. Basketball was over for the weekend and there weren't many patrons in the Lighthouse that evening. The regular foursome of elderly card players had a table toward the back that she checked every so often to make sure they were well supplied with drinks and snacks, but aside from that the bar was mostly empty and she was getting a headstart on cleaning.

The door chimed and the werewolf looked up from her task to see a familar face walk through. It had taken her a long time to work through her anger at Hannah's death and for her not to place the blame squarely at Whistler's feet. It had been difficult, even knowing it wasn't his fault she'd still wanted to blame him, but eventually she'd worked through it.

"Hey stranger, long time no see," she greeted him with a friendly smile and moved to go back behind the bar. "What are you drinking tonight?"

Whistler had intentionally missed the earlier festivities. Not that he couldn't get wrapped up in the 'Road to the Final Four' (and he was a fan of college basketball), but with so much pressing on his mind of late, he couldn't bring himself to paste on a fake smile and make small talk. He'd especially hoped that Connor wasn't working this late; while their last conversation had gone well, by now he'd probably heard about Rhiannon's forced commitment to the latest government blunder and worried that the blame would be spread around. After all, the Agent was supposed to 'know stuff' like this in advance.

Except when it involved him directly or indirectly. Then the bets were off.

He glanced up from the polish of his shoes and gave a tired smile to Julie. "Whatever you've got that's guaranteed to peel wallpaper," he replied. "And then set it on fire, would'ja?"

( Do you trust your government? )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/free_form2/23287.html

Looking down at the envelope in his hands, Connor wondered if Whistler himself ever got letters. Was writing to a mind-reader redundant? He hadn't been inside the Agent's trailer since Hannah died. He wondered if the blonde's ghost ever lingered there. He hoped not, the thought of it made him itch.

His shoes left prints in the loosely-packed sand as he walked across the front yard, then up the steps to the door. He'd left a vague voicemail earlier about dropping by, but hadn't mentioned the reason.

Knock, knock...

He felt like an expectant father. Bags were packed at the foot of his bed, ready to jolt out of the double-wide at a moment's notice. Not an exact moment. When (if) Hannah returned from riding the Ghost Train with good news, Whistler planned a stop-over at Rhiannon's apartment to inform her of his road trip. In another time he'd have asked her to join, but it didn't seem right now that she was back with Joseph. The Agent didn't want to present the wrong image.

"What is... American Idol?," he shouted at the television.

"Sorry, the question is 'What is Survivor'? Survivor." Alex Trebek lived to mock the hatted man, he was sure of it.

A series of raps sounded against his screen door. Hannah would be so polite, but she wouldn't have needed to knock. And Rhiannon would've just barged in and taken a beer from the fridge. Corbett wasn't due back so soon.

"C'mon in, Connor," he shouted, and tossed a piece of popcorn at the flickering, pixelated image on his screen.

( I lost on Jeopardy, baby )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/free_form2/18847.html?view=45727#t45727

Gonna take a Sentimental Journey,
Gonna set my heart at ease.
Gonna make a Sentimental Journey,
to renew old memories.

Got my bags, got my reservations,
Spent each dime I could afford.
Like a child in wild anticipation,
I Long to hear that, "All aboard!"

There was something about the old '45s that Whistler enjoyed. The crackle through the speaker, the scratch from wear and tear. It gave the music gravitas, meaning. It wasn't pristine, but it was timeless. And no one could croon that song like Doris Day.

Since coming down from the roof at the Rock 'n Bowl, the Agent had restrung the patio lanterns outside his double-wide, and replaced the folding, rickety slats of death with proper wooden deck chairs. Even Gerald was feeling the mood, surrounded as he was with Hannah's nick naks that were appropriated after the blonde began her new life as a Higher Being.

If he closed his eyes, Whistler could imagine he was on a secluded lake, a slight breeze caressing his face.

Seven...that's the time we leave at seven.
I'll be waitin' up at heaven,
Countin' every mile of railroad
track, that takes me back.

Never thought my heart could be so yearny.
Why did I decide to roam?
Gotta take that Sentimental Journey,
Sentimental Journey home.
Sentimental Journey.

"That's a pretty song," said the ghost of Hannah, called there by him thinking of her. Perhaps there was a greater purpose behind it, some reason the Powers would send her, but at times the blonde found herself simply arriving places without instructions. Her surroundings would come into focus like a signal on an old television, and it would be her task to adapt quickly and make herself useful. With Whistler, at least there was no reason to pretend anything. He had known she'd be an Agent longer than Hannah had.

The girl's slight weight settled onto the second chair. She gazed into the yard at Gerald, her chin resting in her palm. The music lulled her into nostalgia. The desert scents came back to her, as did all the soft night sounds of her old neighborhood. Instead of a dress, Hannah wore an old uniform. The waitress apron was a dreaded accessory in life, but now it was a long lost friend. "Women used to be a whole other thing, didn't they?" she asked, letting old Doris caress her ears.

( Tripping down memory lane )

Every evening after dusk, old man Jim Carruthers would toddle from his trailer under the pretext of walking old woman Carruthers' toy poodle. Told everyone who listened that the 'ball and chain' was too busy drooling over Alex Trebec (maybe it had something to do with (a) Trebec was Canadian and -- unbenownst to the populace at large -- (b) a demon) and he'd taken it upon himself to ensure Cupcake didn't soil the shag carpet.

The truth was a far different story.

In fall 2004 he was diagnosed with Stage 1 lung cancer. He kept the secret from his wife, not out of guilt but of fear. Fear that the worry and strain would take its toll on her far quicker than the cancer would him. So each night, Carruthers would excuse himself from the trailer park, and along with Cupcake would take a long walk. And invariably they'd stop off at a bench, do their respective business, and the old man would have a one-sided conversation about his happiness for making it through one more day and his secret fear he wouldn't wake up for the next, and make the poodle promise not to gnaw on his scrawny fingers if that should happen.

Whistler began to feel like old man Carruthers. Just after dusk he wandered to the Nugget, ordered a slice of pie and coffee (hoping that Hannah would pop in and pinch the cook, just for fun), play exactly two dollars in the slot machine, then climb up to the rooftop at the Rock 'N Bowl and, as promised in his note, wait for Rhiannon to show.

The first three days were the hardest; since then, he'd transformed the area into a mini-trailer away from home. The Agent stole electricity from the junction box to power a string of patio lanterns and a coffee pot. Two deck chairs were unfolded and, despite their 1970s flare, functional.

It made the wait possible. But it couldn't guarantee the apology would be easy. Or accepted.

The thing about Whistler, though? He made it hard to stay angry at him, even if you were the queen of long-standing grudges.

On Rhiannon's twenty-fifth birthday, she had come home to find someone had been there. The only person who still had a key was Whistler, and he left her a wind-battered note on the door. The inside of her studio apartment had been turned into a winter wonderland. Strings of white lights, hot chocolate, fake snow, a styrofoam Frosty, and a miniature skating rink. All because she hadn't gotten a real winter in years. It was elaborate and unexpected and weird and sentimental. In short, it was Whistler.

So no, she wasn't angry. What she was, was uncomfortable.

"It's not because of what you said." Rhiannon had climbed onto the roof of the bowling alley. She stared at the back of his hat. She was sorry she had taken so many days to get there, but this wasn't easy. Tucking her hands in her pockets, she kept her distance for the moment. "It's because you hung up on me. I know it's childish, but that's..." The slayer's head shook back and forth. "You stole whatever I might've said, and maybe it was important. Probably not, but we always yell it out. You didn't let me."

"Yeah." So many words flooding his brain, and that was the best response Whistler could immediately come up with. She was right and he knew it. In their long-standing friendship, whenever an issue presented itself, they saw it through. Words would fly hard and fast, tempers flared, but they never turned away from it.

( One small step )

( Note left on Rhi's Door )

"'Course I haven't heard shit about government agents and such. I've been... busy."

Whistler turned up the collar on his jacket with one hand while the other held the cell phone close to his ear. He surpressed a sneeze. A week on the roof of the Rock 'N Bowl took its toll on his health, but he didn't care. His word was his bond.

"If you know anything, Rupert... yeah, yeah. Rumors and gossip. Maybe if you actually did something proactive... What? No, that's not what this call is about." The Agent grabbed his soft pack from the ledge, stuck it between lips and fired up his zippo. "Remember some months back you wanted me to look in on that Samantha? Whoa, hey! It's not MY fault she went walk-about before I got there! Christ!"

A large exhale, accompanied by a short cough. "The chip was offered and I'm callin' it in. What? No, this is personal. Get out your pad and quill."

( Note taped to Rhi's Door )

[Whistler's phone rings. Rhiannon is calling.]

"Just because she's late, it doesn't mean she's pregnant. Speak to me."

"The jig is up. What are you on?"

"My last cigarette and a pack of malamars. Good to hear your voice."

"You, too. Manage to stay dry last week?"

"You remember Christmas dinner? How I fixed up the double-wide? Apparently I should've saved a little for a rainy day. Discovered a leak in the roof, the hard way. I've been airing out the bed for days. Please tell me you were soaked to the skin."

"Possibly through it. If nothing else, it's a convenient excuse for bloating. I know you love hearing about the ugly side of the feminine life."

"Aside from that time I ran your errand at Walgreen's, you mean. I still don't get why they call 'em wings if ya can't fly."

"That wouldn't matter if you got the right kind to start with. I haven't worn a pad since I was twelve. You don't know uncomfortable until you've had one shift on you and get stuck to your ass cheek."

"Okay I'll give you that one. Won't even attempt a retort."

"That's a first. Speaking of firsts, I got my first ass-kicking of the year. Wanna hear about it?"

( All the things I should've said that I never said )

"Hey, Rhi. Sorry I bailed at the party. I couldn't find you in the crowd and I wasn't looking to the tick-tock into twenty-twelve. Though I'm convinced it should be twenty-eleven.

"Hope you had a good night. Talk sometime."

He'd made several rounds at the Masquerade Ball, and found himself in desperate need of a smoke. There was only so much small talk the Agent could endure.

He started outside, caught sight of two people talking, and decided better of it.

Whistler slipped out quietly, got in his car and drove.

Watching fireworks at midnight lost its appeal. So did Las Vegas.