Logs:A Grand Day Out

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A Grand Day Out
Dramatis Personae

Bonnie, Nemo & Jake

February 17th, 2020

Bonnie ventures out of her territory just for a few hours.. and returns to chaos.


Storefront - Glint - Fallcoast

Wider than it is deep, the shop's storefront is a veritable maze of mechanical creations. Mobiles dangle from the open beams of the twelve-foot ceiling, glinting over stacks of mysterious gadgets held in bowls atop low shelves, themselves containing toys and kits beyond imagination. Clearly, someone, somewhere, wants to make a glittery enameled wind-up duck which quacks the French national anthem. If they do, this shop has just the thing.

The far right wall is entirely devoted to variations on clockwork, some as simple and as elegant as old-fashioned pocket watches, some as .. creative .. as the duck across the room. There seems to be no one style, no one theme, and the items are seldom duplicated in their entirety, stock shifting regularly as new clocks are made and sold.

The far wall, nearly across from the front door, is host to a long counter and a thoroughly modern cash register, as well as the swinging workshop door.

If there is one thing to be said about being extremely light and extremely small, by human standards, it is that warnings on ladders are soooo not made for Nemo.

The petiter-than-petite woman's sequin-glittering rump is in plain view, a few feet above eye level, to anyone entering from the street, and she has both arms streeeetched up above her head as she presses up onto her tippy-toes to loop some fishing line around a hook. The ceiling is criss-crossed with beams, and based on the box nearby, and the mobile she's just finished dangling, it looks like she's refreshing stock. This particular mobile is made of metal, twisted and polished in such a way that it produces an almost hypnotic effect as it spins, flashing in the light, the coppery surface treated with darkeners here and there to give it a richer sheen.

The cheerful jingle of bell that heralds a customer's arrival to the well-presented store of mechanical wonders draws that same figure's gaze absentmindedly ceilingward as she ducks in through the door; sky blue hues regarding the quaint touch with a pleasantly surprised quirk of one brow. Still, once inside it's the likely far more common cast of attention over the assorted goodies displayed upon and against every surface. Jeez. Shiny trinket-y wonderland, Batman. Lingering just barely upon the threshold then, for a moment, the young woman takes in her surroundings with the peaceful air of one who seldom falls victim to haste and hurry. Not when there are Interesting Things (tm) to be considered.

Bonnie Swanson is not the sort of creature who commands a room merely by her presence in it. On the contrary, she seems perfectly content to cause no disturbance whatsoever. She's polite that way. Not particularly tall, neither under nor overdressed for the mundane occasion, a little makeup though far from glamorous, a naturally warm countenance without the over-emphasis that might conjure the word 'vivacious' - at this first glimpse anyway, and if one were prone to such swift judgement - all in all the young woman is unremarkable.

Soon noting the presence of the apparent employee - well, how long can one overlook a sequinned blue bottom, after all? - the blonde raises her brows with a not unkind smile and flicker of amusement. "..do you need a hand?" The offer is swift and sounds genuine enough, her voice bearing a gentle, throaty quality unlikely to startle. Even without the fanfare of the aforementioned bells. As if to punctuate her offer, she moves as though to place down the tatty cardboard box cradled in the crook of one elbow, ready to assist if needed. Manners cost nothing, right?

Kohl-lined eyes, an oddly bright, almost electric shade of blue, turn back to look over her shoulder toward the door when Bonnie walks in, then lift to the hook again to let her adjust the fishing line holding the mobile up. "What, just 'cause I'm short, I can't reach ceilings? Be with you in a sec," she mutters, frowning at her hands, then turns and hops down from the ladder. Mind, for perspective, the ladder is a good six or more feet tall. She is not. Nonetheless, she lands without the slightest hint of trouble, lightly and easily, then starts to reach around the ladder itself so she can drag it awkwardly along the aisle to the next spot with a bare support beam in need of a new mobile.

"Alright," she comments, dusting her hands and tipping her head back to look up at Bonnie as tiny hands prop themselves on tiny hips. "Name's Nemo. I run the place. Need help with something?" Her voice is nothing special, beyond what seems a low-level and simmering impatience with life, the universe and everything. Even standing still, she isn't really -still-, and there's an air of energy about her, just waiting to be expressed.

"If ceilings were universally reachable, I reckon we'd have evolved with dents in our foreheads to accommodate low beams." opines the blonde, quite unperturbed and straightening from her almost-stoop when it turns out she has no need to discard what she's carrying. Nope, instead she readjusts it to a cradle between both forearms and the front of her clean white shirt, not seeming to mind the ragged edges or lingering sticky marks of long-ago torn packing tape. Bonnie's eyes linger in open admiration upon the now neatly hung mobile, drawn by the gleam of light across metal no doubt. Isn't this place aptly named? Though, of course that attention wavers to follow in the wake of the shopkeep's abrupt descent to the floor once more. Huh. Spry. And here she manages to trip over nothing. On level surfaces. In flat shoes.

Refraining from commenting aloud on the matter, the young woman simply trails unhurriedly along behind Nemo and her dragging ladder. The palpable air of 'get on with it' isn't lost on her, thankfully. This is clearly a busy lady. A teeny tiny busy lady. With awfully blue eyes.

"Bonnie." The name is offered simply, in response to the introduction from the petite creature before her, and is accompanied with a slight nod of greeting, smile unwavering. Gesturing to - or rather /with/ - the box carried in her careful grasp, twitching it upward just a fraction, she continues, "..I've something here that's in need of fixing. Family heirloom, you might say. And I'm completely useless at that sort of thing. I'd rather pay to have it done right. If you've got the time, obviously." Venturing to presume, she balances the outer packaging on a hip and delves inside with the opposite hand, in due course revealing an admittedly old looking music box of some sort. She's not offering it out as yet, though. It's staying close.

Item: www.antiques-atlas.com/antique/singing_bird_box_by_griesbaum_1940s/as392a540 Video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=bO_pl_BcvHg

Conversation, meh. The vastly smaller woman deals with that with much the same impatience as before.

The prospect of -repairing- something? Screw mobiles!

Nemo perks right up, at that, bright eyes fixed on the box, then pivots on the ball of one black-booted foot and darts around behind the counter, bouncing up onto what sounds like a wooden .. box? platform? it echoes a bit more than a solid surface would .. before hopping onto a stool and waving Bonnie over. "Let's see it, then. Fixing shit's what I do." She frowns. "And making shit."

Generally, people -sit- on stools, but that fact doesn't seem to have registered for Nemo. Standing on the thing and leaning on the counter work just fine for her.

Not that the dinky little engineer seems at all the sort to be easily offended by odd looks.. but it's a testament to Bonnie's amiable nature that she manages to withhold a smile at her hostess' sudden ascension to the lofty heights of 'counter'. Or perhaps she just doesn't find much strange and unusual, these days? Regardless, the blonde approaches the counter and gently places down her treasure; fingertips lightly caressing the filigree of the top in poignant, unspoken reluctance before she relinquishes it. First glance? Well, that probably depends on the training of the eye. It's a small box, encased in gilded and lacquered brass, the filigree emphasising subtly an oval decoration on the top. "It belonged to my nana." Hey, whether Nemo's a big fan of it or not, Bonnie's clearly the sort who'll fill silence with pleasant chatter, not particularly caring if she's heeded or not it seems. Having withdrawn her hand, she shoves both into the pockets of her grey wool coat, flitting a glance upward to observe the expert's expression. Will the prognosis be an optimistic one?

Belatedly recalling, the youngster suddenly produces the winding key from within the depths of her coat, laying it flat to one side of the box. "It's a singing bird box." she supplies, probably unhelpfully. "But he's not working anymore." He? Oh. The bird. Sure, he'll pop up when the catch is slid to one side.. but she's quite correct; his those beautiful, iridescent wings fail to stir, nor does that tiny little beak of bone open in song. Pity. It's beautifully made.

"You make things too? Didn't know that." Hands securely in pockets once more, Bonnie looks over those items closest with a new curiosity. "I like making things.. but they're nowhere near as intricate as this. Just little rustic things. Y'know, for the tourists."

Nemo doesn't even seem to notice the odd looks, honestly, fixated as she is on the box and its repairs. She doesn't even look away from the thing while reaching under the counter for some gloves, and .. yeah, those MUST have been custom made. No way are hand sizes THAT small mass-produced in anything but toddler styles, and despite her size, she is absolutely not suffering from dwarfism: her fingers are, if anything, too -long-, and very delicate about the manipulations they perform with the box and the teensy tiny tools she pulls out to work on it, murmuring all the while.

It's a matter of seconds before she has the box popped open, and, careful not to scratch the gold, or, more to the point, damage any of the mechanisms, she ensures that there's no tension left on the winding springs, then opens it up and gets into the gears and rods inside to study their placement and condition.

The fact that her conversation with the box has been so one-sided may mask the fact that her, "Just a sec..." is meant for Bonnie, toward the end, and a moment later, the concentration on that petite face clears, satisfaction taking its place. "Alright. You're gonna want to get a new gear at some point, 'cause it's looking a little worn, but I fixed the slip, and the teeth look like they'll catch now." She gets it all closed up, then slides it over toward Bonnie. "Wind it up, and give it a test."

For her part, Bonnie likewise doesn't seem to notice the discussion taking place between proprietor and music box. She's away with the fairies, so to speak; gradually, slowly, pivoting on a boot-heel as she looks over the shop. Though clearly enchanted by the wares on display, the witch seems, perhaps unthinkingly, unwilling to wander from the counter while her obviously important possession goes through some life-saving surgery. No, sir.. she'll look with her eyes, not with her hands today! Speaking of.. those delicately proportioned gloves do warrant a look. As do the swift motions of the elegant fingers beneath. Good grief, and she already considers herself 'all fingers and thumbs' on a good day. Look at Nemo go.

Dumbfounded. That might be the word one would be looking for, in seeking to summarise Bonnie's expression by the time the exceptionally diminuitive woman looks up again. "Already? Holy shit that was fast." The faintest flush of rosy hue warms the blonde's cheeks, hinting perhaps that she's not particularly prone to expletives, even so mild as that. With a soft 'ahem', she admirably regains her composure, offering the shopkeep a beaming smile instead. "I mean.. I definitely came to the right place, huh?" At Nemo's behest, she's scooping up the simple winding key, obviously keen to try and see just how successful the operation has been. Still, she remembers her manners enough to continue, even as she's drawing the box a little closer toward herself, "..don't suppose you order in stuff like that? The gear." Clarification offered, she flits a glance up as she turns the box over, opening the lower casing to reveal the little slot for the key. "And uh.. is there anything I should be doing to look after it better? I dunno, oil or something?"

In fairness, the item is clearly well cared-for.. there's not been a speck of dust or much in the way of scratches, save right around where Bonnie's right this second twisting the wide-handled key. But maintenance is probably important.

Cranking the internal workings a few times, the blonde pockets the key absently and rights the music box once more. A motion of her thumb across the switch at the front and hey presto.. the bird pops into view and serenades the pair, wings all a flutter. He seems just as pleased as his mistress. You know, if you're of that sort of fanciful inclination. "Aww." Pleasure is writ across Bonnie's expressive features; namely at the moment in the dimples that appear with her broad grin, flashing a glimpse of pearly whites. "Good as new! That's amazing."

"Order in?" the tiny woman asks, confused, then frowns and jerks her head toward the workroom behind the counter. The door's a swinging one, with signs for public use. "I make 'em from scratch. You want some extras, I'll need to take this baby apart again to get a template, but you should be good for another year or two at least. Just don't jostle it around a lot."

Nemo hops down from the stool, vertical spaces evidently something she has no worries about getting DOWN from, even if she does have to do a bit more effort getting UP, and rummages behind the counter. At her size, she's more or less invisible from Bonnie's angle, at least until she clambers back up again. A padded box appears to have been her goal, some sort of felted lining covered in a finer fabric that won't shed fibers. "Here. Someone dropped this off the other week with something he just wanted junked. It's a little big, but you can pad the inside however. Don't want that sucker getting scratched."

As an afterthought, she adds, "Eh, $20 for the fix'll be fine. Easy work, and I like flying shit."

There's a soft 'oh' of comprehension from Bonnie, as her oceanic eyes drift toward the indicated door. Hm. Public use. That distracted air sharpens, just a touch, focusing in on whatever whim just meandered through her mind. The oh becomes audible a splitsecond later. "Ohh... a workshop kinda deal? That's a cool idea. I may have to pick your brains sometime.. I've been toying with some new ideas for charms and stuff, but I've only worked with wood and crystals up til now." Returning that blithe smile to Nemo, one of those infuriatingly ever-cheerful sorts, she adds for no reason other than because she's of a mind to, "I like changing things up. Holds my interest longer."

Evidently satisfied with the repair, Bonnie leaves the bird box on the counter a moment as its tiny occupant snaps out of view again; setting herself to the idle task of shrugging the small leather backpack from between her shoulders and onto the same surface, gently of course. "Twenty bucks? Bargain. Thank you." Then it's to the serious business of retrieving her wallet from the confines of the bag. Given its size, you wouldn't expect that to be very time consuming.. but from the sounds of it there's a /lot/ of junk kicking around in the soft-lined depths.

Looking up as the petite boss-lady reappears and sets something down before her, the blonde arches her brows, regarding the padded box with obviously genuine surprise and interest. "Ooh. That's a lot nicer than a beat-up Fedex box, not gonna lie." There's some agreeable nodding, also, when mention is made of avoiding scratches. Good all round advice, that. "He's cute, huh." This in reference to the 'flying shit' now retreated within the music box. "I coveted that thing when I was a kid. Didn't think he'd eventually be mine. Ah!" The exclamation precedes the triumphant arrival of a twenty, which she palms down between herself and Nemo. "There we go. You sure I can't give you anything extra for the box?" She hasn't reached for it yet. No grabby hands from Ms Swanson.

Nemo waggles a thumb back toward the workshop door, explaining, "I run seminars and shit, give lessons on tool safety. You do stuff wrong in there, you're gonna lose fingers. Or eyes. Molten metal's no joke, and neither're the presses or saws or anything elses. Plus, the insurance is a bitch, so I can't let folks in without supervision unless they've been certified."

The energetic little woman plops down on a very fluffy cushion by a computer next to the stool, typing something in, then waits a few seconds, looking over at a printer. Soon enough, paper starts coming out, and after scribbling her signature at the bottom, she hands it over to Bonnie. A receipt. It has a brief description of the repairs conducted, and her advice for maintenance. "Here. I've gotta get back to work, but the schedule for the workshop shit is on the Website. If I'm not here, one of my minions can help you out."

The blonde listens with interest - and the real kind, not the polite sort. "Awesome. I'll definitely have to check it out. Always keen to learn." Yes, she does have that sort of labrador-esque enthusiasm about her, now that her curiosity is piqued. Maybe not quite as dippy valley girl as she appears. Accepting the proferred receipt, she folds it neatly into quarers with a couple /zips/ between thumb and forefinger, before tucking it inside that Mary Poppins backpack and buckling the upper flap deftly closed. That gets tossed back onto her shoulders in a practised motion, freeing her hands to stow the bird box away in its new, safely padded and felt-lined home.

"Oh yeah, sure thing, don't let me hold you up any longer. Thanks again for this." She pats the box, having hefted it lightly to the crook of her elbow. Not that she's presumptuous - she's picked up the ratty Fedex box too, to dispose of herself. Or maybe to put some other trinket in. Who the hell knows. "I'm gonna go get some coffee. You have a nice day, Nemo. I'll see you around!" The nicety has an air of certainty to it. Whether Nemo likes it or not, again.

Well, maybe the Lil Miss Sunshine thing gets less annoying, the more you're exposed to it. Regardless, the jingle of bell declares its departure for now, restoring the shop to calm and quiet.

Main Bar - Leigh's Pool Hall - Hanging Hills

Fading neon highlights streak on an old plate glass window, rendering it almost opaque from glare, the narrow front of the establishment highlighted by that, peeling applique lettering spelling out "Leigh's Bar & Biliards", with an additional "l" drawn in magic marker in between. The carpet is worn, once thick, now like a yard that's been cut too low, a stubble of polyester fibers on a tough backing. A sign for Chango beer flickers, half functional, beside a backsplash mirror that could use a wipe-down, and the acoustic tiles above have a faint yellowing from the smoke that wafts upward. Several pool tables are set up in a long, narrow room, (OOC: go to 'pool help' to play pool) and in back a pair of saloon style swinging doors lead to a place too brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs. The walls contain racks of gloriously mismatched sticks from which to choose, but none of the regulars trust them.

OOC Note: This section contains horror, blood, gore, violence... Very Bad Things (tm). You have been warned.

There is something odd that pulls at those mystical protective senses. Something distasteful, something wrong. A deep throbbing ache, like an infected tooth or swollen cyst pushing against skin. In this place, this smokey run down pool hall. This fetid, dingy bar. One could almost imagine it is the building itself, or the clientele.

For the latter there are about eight men and three women. All showing colors of one of the local biker gangs. One known for moving meth, heroin and any college coeds stupid enough to go slumming in the area. Five work their way through a pool game. Two women, though only one is playing the other is hanging on the largest biker as she makes snarky comments at the others. The final woman is tending bar for the other five men. Who laughing, telling stories and passing back and forth cigars stuffed with dope as they drink beer.

In those eyes there is something other than completely human. Their teeth are a bit too sharp, the skin a bit too greasy. The laughs from each of them are just too sick and unpleasant. The long black veined tongue that flicks from the largest biker around his paramour's jaw. Well the trail of crimson and black slime it leaves on her lewdly moaning neck really is not right at all.

Of course of all the things that are not right in here, beneath the pool table they play on is a familiar tubby little Corgi. It's stretched tight features motionless as it simply sits there. A long line of drool hanging from it's thin lips, seemingly linking it to the floor.

It had been a perfectly pleasant day, all told. A rare venture into 'the city' to run errands, have an old music box repaired, visit a friend or two. All was quiet, all was calm. Only when it came to crossing the town square, practically //in sight// of the lights of home did that nameless 'other' make its presence felt, rousing a fully embodied grimace across usually smiling lips. Of course. She'd been complacent.

And now she'll have to be stupid and go slumming.

Unobtrusively nudging open the weighty door of the grim establishment, a blonde makes her way inside with a defiant st to her jaw already; knowing full well that so much as a passing glance marks her as out of place. Although honestly.. who would wish their appearance to suggest this environment suited them? Ugh. She takes care not to touch the walls, the furniture, even the door itself, it transpires, was opened with a bump of her hip, upon which she rests a small box, cradled in the crook of one arm.

Flitting a swift glance over the charming clientele, Bonnie pads quietly toward the opposite end of the bar, keeping some distance for the moment. Always best to observe, right? Only..


As those big blue-green eyes note the canine presence lurking beneath the pool table, there's a palpable flicker of disquiet within the Warden's otherwise stubbornly neutral expression. Where that creature is, it seems, is precisely where she'd rather she were //not//.

Can't be helped now. Setting her package gently down on the bartop - after swiping a fastidious palm across the surface - the young woman appears content to wait for the attention of the bartender. And hopefully only the bartender, for the time being. Best laid plans etc.

Whatever might be hoped, the moment she enters the bar she's the target of every eye in the room. The only sound is snickers and the rumbling country-rock as she nears the bar. A few laughs erupt when she wipes at the grime. The crack of a pool cue on the table sounds like a peal of thunder as the only female player takes her shot, as if trying to get the others attention back on the sport.

"You're in the wrong place, sugar." The bartender says mater-of-factly. "If you're smart you'll start running now." She adds before a beefy hand slaps down on the bar to Bonnie's right. A fat, sweat smelling biker lears and chuckles.

"She ain't gonna run Heather. She's here because she's looking to ride the train." There's a leer from the man as he makes a show of looking Bonnie from the feet to her ear. As the other men at the bar laugh, two more standing from their stools and moving to surround Bonnie against the bar. "Besides." One of the others says, his blond hair dirty and unkempt, he has the wiry build of a man once in good shape but long since having given himself over to narcotics. His pockmarked face hinting he's probably using some of the meth the gang is famous for. "Little girl here is now property, ain't that right little girly?"

The men all laugh as the bartender shakes her head and wordlessly pours Bonnie a beer. "Drink it all up, might help the pain later." She says smirks. "Stupid kid."

There's a knife at the end of the bar, the man sitting there pulling it free as he begins to rise to his feet. Dark black beard, and long hair, as if his face and head were just a perch for some kind of wild animal. "Lets get her clothes off quick, she ain't gonna need them anymore." He says with a wet, flu like chuckle.

Behind all of them, their attentions all wrapped around Bonnie. In the filthy mirror a familiar shape seems to walk up Jake's worn, wrinkled form striding into view from the nothingness of the mirror. He stops at the other side of the glass. His left eye a burning sickly yellow. His fingers stretch out and press flat against the glass then slowly begin to push forward. Distorting it, wiggling within it. Then starting to part the mirror like saran wrap, pushing his hands from the otherside into this world.

Outwardly calm - though her heartbeat must surely be almost audible as it thuds against her ribs - the blonde raises her expressive eyes to those of the bartender. The closest thing to 'decent' in the place. A wan smile accompanies her gaze. "I'm not the one in the wrong place." Her tone is quiet, but firm. Admirably, she manages to keep even the hint of a waver from within the throaty timbre of her voice. And bizarrely enough? The words do ring oddly true. There's an air of undeniable //authority//, for which there's no logical explanation. Of course, that may well be a red rag to this herd of lecherous bulls.

Maintaining the mutinous line of her jaw, the Warden slowly turns her attention toward the first of the bikers to approach her. Poor Fat Bastard. She regards him coolly, almost thoughtfully it might seem. Though admittedly, as the other two form a semi-circle around her at the bar, she's forced to partially give up the pretense of unflappable indifference; turning her slender back to the edge of the bartop in order to have them all within her sights. "...property?" The term is echoed, ice edging the word despite her angelic appearance. Fixing the wiry blonde figure with a glare - hardly likely to intimidate but still surprising perhaps in its intensity - Bonnie remains otherwise perfectly still for a long moment, as if debating just //how// insulted she'll choose to be.

In the end? She settles for a simple request, eyeing each of them in turn, imperceptibly drawing inward, in increments, the very life force of the air and earth. "You're not welcome here. It's time for you to go now." Well. That's guaranteed a reaction, one way or another.

The motion of the fellow with the knife, and his suggestion, draws her eye sharply that way, the fingertips of the hand to that side reflexively twitching as though in some physical threat of response. She could have thrown him clear across the room with that thought. Only.. something distracted her even further. Looking to the mirror, the blonde notes the familiar - if not particularly comforting - silhouette beyond the glass. Shit. If she throws Stabby that way, she risks them /all/ noticing, thus ruining the elemtn of surprise, whether that may be in her favor or.. decidedly not. She's not willing to risk it.

"I'll be keeping them, thank you." she replies, perfectly well-mannered when it comes to the suggestion of relieving her of her garments. "Now, you gentlemen just be on your way.. and we'll say no more about it, hm?" Keep them from following her gaze. Solid plan. Right?

Whatever it is about her, her confidence, her stance, or her not breaking down like they're used to. It gives the bikers pause, with a hesitant laugh blondie turns to look towards the largest biker at the pool table. "What the fuck boss? She some kinda cop or something this a trick?" The knife weilding beard and hair mop arrives making the three around her now four. "I don't give a shit." The hairiest man says with a sneer. "I'll knife the cunt and fuck that hole first" This brings up a chuckle from bar at large, off setting the trepidation they seemed to have gained from her too cool reaction.

"I like her." The bartender says with a breathy tone. Leaning on the bar behind Bonnie. "Now I want a turn before you all mess her up too much." She adds with a languid purr. "Maybe I should go first? Put on a show princess?" She asks Bonnie, her stud baring tongue stroking her lower lip as she tugs up her dirty t-shirt, showing a tattooed body and a pair of breasts roped in by a black sports bra.

Behind this, the opening in the mirror is pushed wider still. Those claw like hands of Jake's forcing reality to part as something pushes past him. Like a black haze, pushing into the room and then sliding along the bar to the side opposite Bonnie. It moves like a cloud and seems to be utterly silent, at least in the material world. Whatever it is, it mystically screams as it moves. Like a migraine given existence. Where it stops at the end of the bar the wood it touches begins to dry out and split. Twitching and shifting as the dark haze seem to be taking on a more humanoid form.

Soon joining the vile smoke in our reality is something else that pushes past and around Jake. A pinkish slime, flowing and oozing it climbs up the mirror in fetid globs. Collecting against the ceiling in a puddle as it expands in bubbles and tendrils of slime. Pulsating like a cancerous sack it grows ever larger as more and more fluid enters our reality. Only stopping it's expansion as Jake himself finally manages to climb through the mirror himself. Letting it close behind as he casually begins to adjust his wrinkled clothing. His wide smile showing cracked, yellowed and bleeding teeth as the veins around his glowing left eye pulsate and squirm. He seems about to say something when the lead biker's voice barks out harsh and angry.

"She ain't no cop. She's better, and shes just what I want. I thought we were going to have to go looking for you sheepdog." The head biker grins as he strides across the floor towards Bonnie. "Was wondering who took on the job after that old bitch died. Now we're gonna fuck and eat you." He says, his mouth opening to show a double row of sharp teeth as he laughs. "This is like Christmas." The massive man chortles, his black and red tongue stroking his nose and beneath his right eye.

The knife-wielding prick gets a sidelong glance from Bonnie that //oozes// with disdain, to the point of curling her upper lip in disgust. "I could tell just by looking that you weren't into girls." Oh yes, further insult the chap who just declared an intent to stab you. Great idea. She's presumably stalling, or trying to; emboldened by having them all on the proverbial back foot, even for a moment. And still she draws power to herself, coiling it within her core. It does nothing to quell the adrenaline invoked by fear, of course. But it's better than having //only// the fear.

Aside from the softest exhalation that's almost but not quite a snort, the Warden ignores the woman behind her, keeping the brunt of her focus on the group of men blocking her path. Not that she seems of a mind to attempt to barge through them. Yet. Likewise, the blonde somehow keeps her gaze from straying to the manifestations encroaching upon her world from that damned mirror. The nails-on-chalkboard sensation of that gathering dark is one thing but //ugh// what is that edging across the ceiling? Gross. She can't help a fractional shiver, a minute tremble of slender muscle that she instantly both quells and regrets. Won't help her case at all if they caught that.

And then, there's Jake. He's far from a white knight, let's be honest.. despite being the only one who //might//, maybe, possibly be on the side of the Warden here and now. She can't be one hundred percent certain. Ever, actually, when it comes to him. So, following his interruption, it's to the leader of this hellish gang that she turns her gaze now, as he barks.

Wait. He knows what she is? And.. that's apparently spurring him onward, rather than deterring him. That's a landslide into the realm of fuckery. Drawing herself up a little straighter, Bonnie meets his gaze as he approaches, standing her ground for all she's worth.

"You're right." she murmurs, barely above a whisper, as a fist clenches down by her side, "..I //am// better." Bold play. And emphasised by the sudden 'whoomph' of force hurtled intangibly through the space between herself and the Alpha, intended to hurl him back a good few feet and into midair, for as long as she can hold him.

Whatever he is.

"Back. The fuck. Off." The words are eked out through gritted teeth. Fuck it. If they already know who she is, why hold back?

"Thats right bi.." The rest of the word is cut off as the giant shark mawed biker is hurtled back. His form landing on the pool table, then crashing off the far side onto the floor. There's a stunned silence as the rest of the room looks from where their leader landed to Bonnie and back again. Then it's the hair pile she insulted who acts first. His large sharp knife raising up in the air as he snarls.

"Kill the bitch!" Then the blade snaps forward, for a second. It's suddenly stuck in mid air as the black cloud finally moves. Something like a hand grabbing the hairy biker by the arm and then hurling him down the length of the bar like a toy. Then it's wading into the other bikers, it's mystical form screaming and wailing just outside of normal reality as it smashes the unnatural bikers into tables and chairs.

The explosion of chaos in the room only grows worse as a tendril of pinkish bloody slime snaps down from the ceiling around the neck of the bartender. Then another invades her screaming mouth before she's ripped off the floor into the mass of fluid above. Her clothing being ripped from her both as her form is manipulated and bent. Soon more tendrils viciously penetrating her, beating her orafices savagely till blood drips down onto the spot she once stood, and Bonnie whom she was leaning against. The moment the bartender seems completely controlled by the slime more tendrils whip down and rip one of the men near Bonnie upwards as well, repeating the brutality on him as well.

Swearing in incoherent fear the fat biker pulls a heavy pistol from his coat and fires upwards into the seething mass. At least until Jake's right hand passes over his face. With a wet rending rip the fat man's ample flesh begins to tear away from his muscle and bone. His babbling profanities turning into horrific shrieking as every bit of flesh and hair from his ears to the tip of his nose. Is ripped off like some nightmarish unmasking on 'Scooby Doo'. Though now only the bloody muscle and hole for his nose is left of the man's face. Four more shots are fired from the gun, hammering into Jake's chest as the Doctor slumps back against the mirror coughing blood. His last action is to toss the mass of flesh from his hand to the black smokey mass. Where it sticks, and stretches and spreads. As if merging with the cloud to become it's living face, which now screams in this world as well.

Pulling himself to his feet the large biker snarls. "KILL HER! THIS IS ALL HER MAGIC!" He yells, the leather of his gloves splitting as claws burst forth from his fingers. Infront of Bonnie blondie turns to look at her, fear and hate in his eyes. He draws back his fist and then swings for her head. The metal studs on his gloves glinting in the chaotic light.

There's the barest hint of a victorious smirk as the large biker crashes onto the pool table, then vanishes to the floor beyond. But.. there's still the matter of the rest of them. So her triumph is short-lived. Thank goodness for disembodied ephemeral darkness, huh?

Would she have reacted in time to avoid that blade? We'll never know. Though the wide-eyed look she snaps in that direction perhaps suggests the Warden herself is not entirely confident of it. Seeing as shadow itself seems to take on dealing with //that// assailant, however.. the young woman sees no sense in questioning her luck. It might run out at any moment. When the shadowy mass wades into the remaining bikers, Bonnie is right beside it. Metaphorically anyway. Planting her feet, the comparatively diminuitive creature shifts focus to each of the men in turn; some unseen force grappling them, so tight about their ribs their very breath is snatched, before tossing them toward the mass as one might toss kibble to the jaws of a waiting dog. Yes, even a creepy, black eyed dog with far too many teeth, such is her affection for darkness at this moment in time.

It was a romance that was doomed from the outset.. but Bonnie simply doesn't care that the bartender suddenly disappears ceilingward. One less pair of eyes roaming too hungrily over her. The sounds that follow, though.. that's warning enough that she oughtn't look up. Not even when rivulets of warm blood begin to meander steadily downwards through her hair and over her delicate features, trailing crimson. A smear of it mars her cheek as a result of an unthinking swipe of one hand, diverting a droplet from her dark lashes. Fortunately, as it happens, macabre looks good on her.

The gunshots place the scene, for a fraction of a second, in freeze frame. Even the hideous shrieking could be overlooked, but the shots.. the girl looks in time to see the last four bullets toss Jake backward against the mirror, too far away for her to intervene. But then.. they're not going after //him//, are they. Well, small mercies.

There simply isn't time to gather her wits. The baleful screaming from the newly formed Lovecraftian creature nearby is all-consuming. The leader is on his feet again. Blondie is throwing a punch directly for her. Fuck. She had a good run. Bonnie closes her eyes tight, flinging up a barrier of energy that may or may not deflect the blow.. and braces herself, turning her bloodied cheek toward the incoming metal studs.

Those studded gloves impact her shield and careen off. Then again as the other fist swings in. Then as blondie rears back to try and hit her a third time the bartender drops on him. Tendrils still linking her to the rapidly shrinking pool of slime on the ceiling. Her naked body is changing, far more pink and red, stretching as if growing taller. Filling as she becomes more and more lewd pinup model. The woman spreads slime and blood covered kisses on Blondie's face, tears at his shirt and jeans with long fingers that soon sport claws of their own. Then she's jabbing those clawed digits into his stomach, shuddering in orgasmic pleasure as she disembowels the man. His own shires mixed with lustful moans, which are soon cut short as the bar tender's tongue fills his mouth. A flash of spines on it's length as it sinks behind his teeth and fills his dying mouth with blood.

With a wet thud the other man who had been drawn to the ceiling smashes into the floor a twisted pile of broken bones wrapped in flesh. Leading to a scream of pure rage as the black cloud now has fully merged with it's mockery of a face. The dog like maw seemingly floating in the air as the rest of it's body remains smoke. For a moment. Then it's once more wading back into the various bikers. Still recovering from where Bonnie had been hurling them about, they find themselves smash and torn apart. Their skin and meat melting into the creature as it builds itself a body out of their mass. A few more sporadic gun shots fire off pathetically in to the creature as it ravages.

The female pool player, stunned by the chaos and horror turns to run. Only to suddenly drop to the floor with a wet thud. Her shriek of pain is cut off as she's quickly dragged beneath the table to a chorus of bone crunching snaps. The only other pair of bikers still standing is the snarling leader. Now more of a thing of myth then a man, the double row of sharp teeth in his mouth drooling as he starts towards Bonnie. His claws outstretched. Besides him is the woman he was molesting with his tongue earlier. She seems about to say something when one of the leader's clawed hands snakes around her waist, hefts her up and then hurls her at Bonnie with bone crushing speed. Seemingly ment to knock her down and breach her shield.

Holy shit, it worked.

When the expected pain doesn't come, Bonnie cracks first one eye, then the other, staring dazedly at the blonde biker through.. well nothing, according to the naked gaze. But some manner of telekinetic force holds solid enough to protect her from those desparate blows. Long enough, at least, until soneone falls from heaven to land atop him.

Now, it's no secret that the Warden is.. something of an ingenue. Actually, the epitome of an ingenue. But that it's this lewd and violent display that finally has her averting her eyes is almost comical, given te circumstances. In the midst of this deranged carnage, with blood soaking her honey-gold tresses and skin, the Warden actually has the tenacity to //blush// at the over-the-top moans of climax from that cartoonish depiction of mutated womanhood. As if //that// would be wrong to look at, but seeing a man have his face torn off or a woman violated by pink, fleshy slime on the ceiling were just run of the mill.

The professor. She'd almost forgotten about him.

There's a halting sense of intent and motion, as if Bonnie were fully prepared to simply stride in the direction of the mirror. But that sharp-toothed blackness stands between her and that notion, screaming and snarling and melting bodies into its coalescing form. Sickeningly entranced, the youngster remains rooted to the spot, briefly lost in observing the thing as it melds and transforms into.. what?

There's motion on the periphery of her vision. Too slow this time, Swanson.

Exhaling an audible 'oof', abruptly winded and knocked back hard against the bar's edge, Bonnie's denim clad legs go out from under her, booted feet skidding and losing purchase upon the slick gore underfoot and sending her to the floor in an undignified tangle with the biker slut who was just flung at her. Scrabbling with her heels, trying and failing to find grip, the girl ends up with her shoulders pressed to the lower panels of the bar's front, trying to wriggle free of the unfortunate woman atop her. Conscious? Dead? Neither. Who cares. Get //off//.

Wide blue-green eyes go, inevitably, to the Alpha Biker. Or what //was// a biker. Now it's all teeth and claws and coming right at her. Her efforts double.. but even if she scrambles free of the other woman, then what? Can she summon enough to knock him back again? Only if she successfully swallows the bile and panic rising in her throat.

Flinching back from the psychic hit the Alpha Biker is forced to stumble back a few feet. He brings up a hand to wipe at the blood coming from his crushed nose. "Bitch." He snarls through his rows of teeth. Then as he starts forward another voice sings forth.

"Not that one." Comes out, followed by a gurgling cough. The Professor sitting up slowly from the floor behind the bar. As he speaks the once black smoke, now mutated form of meat and skin reaches out and snatches up the biker like a toy. It's long simian arms grabbing the biker's and holding them apart, lifting his kicking legs off the floor. The canine like snout brushing drooling fangs against the Alpha Biker's neck. Each tooth actually a broken femur or rib from the other bikers. Or at least what was the other bikers. Only torn blood spattered clothing seems to be left.

The other woman is quickly plucked from Bonnie's way. The disgustingly voluptuous creature ripping the woman's clothing off and hastily beginning to molest her. Once more exaggerated moans and screams of pain rise up. As whatever the bartender has become seems to be aroused not only from copulating, but rending it's victim. The woman's skin bunching and swelling as the bartender forces her claws beneath it.

From beneath the pool table the small Corgi pads it's way out. It's jaws distended around the head of the pool player. Her dead eyes looking towards Bonnie as the small fat dog begins to swallow the last of the skull like a snake. Then stares quietly at Bonnie with those empty endlessly black eyes. Now blood colored drool beginning to run from it's jaw once more.

"Look who has shown up at such an interesting time." Jake says as he walks over towards Bonnie and holds his left hand down towards her. The right still covered in blood from ripping a man's face off. "Let me help you up before I deal with Conipicles." The Alpha biker shudders at the name and begins hissing in an infernal language. One that if not understood makes the skin crawl as the soul recoils from it.

Yeah, admittedly the audible crunch of bone as the biker's nose is crushed is good. She can't help the faint thrill at having landed another solid blow, albeit a last ditch effort. But Bonnie swallows drily when the large figure starts to lumber forward again. There's not much left in the tank, and even less time to think of anything. When he hurls the insult at her, though.. frankly, something in the usually cherubic Warden threatens to snap. Refraining from lowering herself to trading such words, she instead hawks back in her throat, then spits as forcefully as she can in his direction. A final, defiant and wordless 'fuck you'. Far from ladylike, and quite unlike Bonnie. But what the hell.

And then, just like that.. he's levitating. Did she do that? Oh no, that.. thing did. Resting her head back against the cheap faux wood of the barfront, the blonde observes this through hooded eyes, her expression oddly remote.

There's a similarly dull response to the tramp being lifted from her lap.. though again, the grimly lewd and lecherous sounds prevent her from actually //looking// to ascertain the womans fate. Best left to the imagination. Or.. not even that, if she can help it. Bonnie stays where she landed moments ago, leaning back in an awkward recline, bloody tendrils of her long hair clinging in disarray to her jaw, throat, collarbones. Oh, look...

The appearance of the corgi is met with a level gaze, and a complete lack of surprise. When the young woman's eyes focus properly on those lifeless ones within the canines ghastly maw, she does flinch; looking for the first time as if she might retch and pressing her lips in a firm line as she turns her face away..

And finds an offered hand, waiting to help her up. Blinking out of the lapse and reverie, Bonnie raises her eyes to the mismatched ones of the Professor. Who is she to judge right now, when it comes to appearances. She accepts, heaving herself unsteadily to her feet where she sways, then abruptly rests back against the bar's edge once more, bracing her free hand there. "..thank you." Manners, even amongst all this. Strange what quirks surface in people isn't it. That crawling ripple of sensation as the hellish thing responds to what she presumes to be his name has Bonnie physically cringing, as if icy fingertips were trailing over her nape. But she valiantly tries to overcome it, speaking through gritted teeth toward Jake, gaze settled upon and holding to the Alpha creature held suspended before them. "He knew who I was. That's.. new." There's no trace of sympathy for the thing. Not a smidge. She seems content to watch //this// one meet his end. Now who's going to be fucked and eaten, huh?

The wet morbid copulation on the floor continues on as a kind of low beat background music, mixing with the twang of Country rock still playing on the speakers. Eventually the moans and screams end as the woman finally, mercifully dies though the wet noises do not.

"Thats better, and you're welcome." Jake says, the professor smiling lightly. Like a child knowing he's about to get a present that he's wanted all year. The veins around his left eye have grown longer and darker since she last saw him. That eye is not even pretending to be human anymore. Like a gaping hole to somewhere else the yellow orb glows brightly in his skull. Something dark and murky moving around in it's luminous sheen.

"You seem upset. Then again I imagine these people have been fouling your.." The Professor pauses, looking for the right word. "Bailiwick? Hearth? Your hood?" He chuckles at his turn of phrase. The fact that he has bleeding gun shots in his chest, and his right hand is covered in gore. That there are two monsterous things wearing the better part of fourteen people about seems to make the laughter all the more insane.

"Thats enough of that." Jake finally says and the monstrous simian-dog-demon monster tightens it's bite on the Alpha biker's throat until the hissing infernal tongue stops wagging. "I need the page." Jake continues. This makes the Biker hiss and cough, struggling as it once more speaks in it's terrible language. Jake frowns and makes a squeezing motion and those femur and rib formed teeth begin to puncture the Alpha Biker's neck until he lapses into English.

"Aaaaaaaah, fuck, fuck, Belenoph will not let you get away with this. The book is his, this page was gonna got to him in her soul." The Alpha biker manages to twist a clawed hand to point at Bonnie.

"Hmmm." Jake intones as he leans against Bonnie's arm, entirely too familiarly close. "You were going to be UPS. To hell." There's a another chuckle from Jake at his own joke as the thing that was once the bartender crawls over to the biker's dangling legs from where he's being held aloft by the monstrous rage creature. She then begins to climb and dig her claws into his legs, making him gurgle and moan

To her credit, Bonnie manages not to lose herself in staring at that 'eye of his. She's always had remarkably good manners in that regard. Besides.. he did just save her. Though no doubt for his own purposes rather than heroics. Not to be overly cynical. "I suppose 'upset' is as good a word as any.." There's the faintest lacing of a soft growl, low in her chest. As a matter of fact, since their last meeting, it might be noted that there's a distinctly.. 'feral' sort of quality to the young Warden. But that's neither here nor there at the moment. More pressing matters to attend to.

Gaze remaining rapt on the dangling 'biker', Bonnie either doesn't notice or is past caring about the proximity of Jake beside her. Weirdly, it's practically a comfort, all things considered. Certainly when that infernal cursing starts up again, she shudders and frowns, wrapping her arms about her slender midsection. That formerly white t-shirt is ruined. She's definitely going to have to go wash up before she leaves, lest people run screaming into the night at the mere sight of her, looking like some slasher movie victom. Or antagonist. "Territory." she offers the word gently toward the Professor, auto-pilot helpful as is her nature.

The snippets she catches during this exchange are.. intriguing, to say the least. Names and such are no doubt filed away for later contemplation. Not that it's likely to show up in a Google search, she's willing to wager. One thing appears imminently more important of course.

"Page?" The blood-soaked blonde looks between the biker and the chuckling man beside her, ignoring the continuing background symphony of necrophilia nearby in order to settle her gaze upon the latter in question. Yes, that part she'd really like an answer to. What with it involving her soul and all.

"Territory?" There's a sigh from Jake. "How mundane." Then he chuckles and stares at her for a long moment. "You seem different." He says, tilting his head to the left and to the right. "Stronger, angrier?" There's a grin as he leans against her again, though this time more of his chest to her arm, then arm-to-arm. As his left limb goes around her own as she hugs herself. His lips turn and brush against her temple. "It's attractive." Jake murmurs with a grin.

"But work first." The Professor says as he turns back to the biker. "I guess you're going to take some time off. Your master does not scare me. I'm already doomed. What are you going to do? Make my endless nightmareish agony worse with a pitchfork and lack of deoderant?" Then he's turning back towards Bonnie with a chuckle.

"Why yes a page, in a book. A very important book. Very dangerous book. Would you like to know more?" He gives her a squeeze with his arm about her unless she pulls away. "It's expensive knowledge." He whispers and winks. Meanwhile the duo of things are beginning to consume the Alpha Biker in their own way. Tearing into his flesh and clothing, or simply beginning to absorb his arms into it's mutating body. The simian-dog-monster and voluptuous nightmare slowly consume the writhing demon.

"I like to keep //some// things mundane." replies the blonde, somewhat pointedly. Consider the surroundings. Let her keep some of her boring everyday words, if it helps her, right? If choice of phrasing plays even a small part in keeping her from worrying overmuch about the drying blood painting her features, or the bestial assailing of cbodies even as they're disemboweled then that's probably for the best. Certainly the young woman doesn't recoil from the Professor's contemplative gaze; no, she remains, arms folded, and looks right back. Well, upward slightly. He's taller. Everyone's taller.

Different. Stronger. Angrier. That could all be true. Or none. The Warden gives nothing away in her expression, for now.. save for a slow blink in response to her stature being described as attractive. Surely covered in congealing blood and passively allowing a roomful of creatures to be slaughtered isn't very-.. oh wait. Remember the audience. She's probably quite literally the pinup from Hell. Adorning the garage walls of demon and hellhound alike, somewhere in the Abyss. Regardless. She doesn't argue. Nor does she seem overly disgusted by the affectionate brush of lips. Tis not for her to judge.

As Jake returns his focus to the rapidly diminishing biker, so too does Bonnie.. though her eyes trail downward, as the one-sided discussion continues, to observe the mangled bartender clawing and pawing her way up his legs. A sick sort of fascination. Or maybe she merely wishes to appear as though she's paying little heed. His master, hm? Curiouser and curiouser.

Does she want to know more... there's the sixty thousand dollar question.

Drawing a slow, meditative breath, the young woman looks upward through sooty, ensanguined lashes, as if the answer ought to be ironically obvious, a wry twist briefly quirking at her lips. "Let's just say I'm done with blissful ignorance." she offers, with the suggestion of a sharp purr edging her tone. Yes, kitty seems to have developed //some// claws. Despite almost losing them in a barfight from the underworld. "But I also think I'd best make myself more presentable, before going anywhere..?" She indicates her bloodied and bedraggled appearance with a subtle downward glance and shift of narrow shoulders.

"I suppose it's nice now and then to have something not a nightmare." Jake says morosely. Then his head snaps up, his eyes, one yellow, one pale blue match with the Corgi sitting on the floor. It's empty black eyes staring back. "That is where they've hidden it."

As Jake speaks the biker shudders in a mix of agony. The two monsters continuing to pull him apart in sections. Soon he's nothing but a limbless torso, which the massive simian-dog creature drags back towards the mirror. The other thing crawling along after, making vauge mewling sounds as she licks the blood from the floor as she lewdly drags herself after.

"There is a difference between the spirit lands and what we know of as Hell. It will be quite a few years before he's able to escape one for the other." Jake chuckles and pauses. Turning his head towards Bonnie he leans forward and taps her chin with the index finger of his right hand, leaving a smear of the fat biker's blood, what of it is still wet on skin.

"You think I care about a little blood? I'd take you right here right now." Jake grins like the Cheshire cat, once more showing those yellow blood smeared teeth. "Or I'll kill you." His face tightens. As the two creatures step away into the mirror his yellow eye flares. "I still owe you for my wife's grave." He growls out through gritted teeth. "Remember that? Do we?" Jake's voice climbs in pitch as he seems consumed by rage.

"I REMEMBER!" He screams at her, dark bloody tears running from his yellow orb as normal saline ones dribble from his pale blue eye. Flecks of blood and spit on his lips as he looms over her. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT I COULD DO TO YOU? HOW MUCH OF A MONSTER I WOULD TURN YOU INTO?" He snarls like an animal, his hands raising up and clawing at the air infront of her. "That little voice inside of you screaming and crying as it watches the rest of you relish the taste of children. Your territory to hunt, homes, schools, day cares. I wonder what imaginative name the press would give the newest serial cannibal." Then there is a shudder, and he steps back from her. Looking down at his hands, suddenly seemingly lost in trying to get the blood off.

"No. I.. no." Jake murmurs in a pained tone as he turns and walks away.