Post by Bonnie Blue on Jan 24, 2016 12:20:23 GMT -5
The camera finds The Daughter of Time standing before a black backdrop, the letters "WCF" splashed across the middle in brilliant chartreuse green. Her body language, the determination in her eyes, her demeanor -- confident without crossing the line into arrogance; all signs of a champion in the making.
Bonnie Blue: Fifteen is just around the corner, y'all, an' I ain't got a date for the dance. Yet. It's like high school, all over again. Headmistress used to tell me that my destiny intimidated the boys. And the girls. And the others, the in-betweens. Truth is, I was kinda awkward in those days. I even had nano-fusion braces...
A shadow flits across her face as she recalls those brighter days; before the Chronovores, before the Dark Timekeeper destroyed everything she had cherished, and left her with only hollow purpose. Ever the professional, Bonnie shakes off the cloud and smiles warmly.
Bonnie Blue: That's neither here nor there at the moment. What is germaine to the topic is that I've got a chance, this week, to get in on a very important -- potentially life-changin' -- opportunity. Final Destination... The competitors already signed: Spencer Adams, Benjamin Atreyu, Steve Orbit... Johnny Rabid; I'd do almost anythin' to get a match with any of 'em singly, let alone all at once. Could y'all imagine? Me, up in that ring -- in a ladder match, my predecessor's specialty -- with those men? My name, for one night, equal to theirs...
Her blue-green eyes take on a faraway look; she's picturing the night, the crowd, the lights, the canvas under her feet. Intoxicated by the fantasy, it takes a moment to pull her attention back to the moment. A contemplative look settles on her features.
Bonnie Blue: But I'm gettin' ahead of myself. Fifteen's a whole 'nother week away, an' there's still Slam 'tween now an' then. Last week... y'all all saw Rebelllution give their all against "Team Villains and One Not So Bad Dude"; saw us pick up the win -- courtesy of Yours Truly -- an' steal the show. That's 'cause we was on the same page. There wasn't no conflict of egos; not that we ain't got 'em. We wouldn't make it long in this profession otherwise. But we know how to lay down personal pride in favor of workin' together. Y'all almost had it, that teamwork... just we was better that night. An' I gotta hand it to Mr. Riddik, Mr. Core, an' Mr. Wolfram -- for all the nasty words exchanged 'tween us, not a single one of y'all denied the legitimacy of our vict'ry. An' y'all s'posed to be the bad guys.
Y'know who did, though? Mr. "I Has Internal Conflict" himself... Lucious Starr. The alleged "odd man out" of the four; the lamb among wolves. It was a nice act; I bought it. Pretend you're upset that you have to team with assholes; insist that you'd rather lose than help them win; claim moral victory when you do, in fact, lose. The only other person in this comp'ny to ever claim that any win of mine was illegitimate is Wade Moor; but that's all water under the bridge now.
Bonnie shakes her head.
Bonnie Blue: I don't even get what your problem is. You weren't the one who got pinned -- that was that racist piece of shit, Wolfram -- an' I was happy to do it. So technically, if you want to split hairs, you didn't lose; he did. An' anyway, ain't no shame in losin'. Happens to everyone sometime or other. Or could it be...?
She tilts her head slightly to one side, brow furrowed just a little as an idea worms into her mind.
Bonnie Blue: Nah. You're not that petty, are ya? I mean, not even Dag... Are you ashamed that you couldn't best a woman? Does that threaten your manhood somehow? 'Cause ya didn't complain when my friend Holmes defeated ya for that TV Title shot. You must be old-school, Gardnerian Wicca. Cakes and ale and misogyny, that's fun. What're ya gonna do when you don't win this week? Whine about throwin' the match again? Or will you at least be creative enough to come up with a diff'rent tune?
A right shame, though. I thought ya had promise. We all did. This refusal to face reality, though; this tendency to lash out at anyone who threatens your narrow view -- well, that just shows your true colors, don't it? So you go ahead. You sit there an' insist that you weren't beaten in fair combat; because you allegedly chose to make it unfair by throwin' the match. In the long run, it only makes you look foolish.
Were I a lesser woman -- or a member of #BeachKrew -- I'd have already filed paperwork to have the match reviewed; to determine the veracity of your statements, an' then insist on your bein' punished if it's revealed to be true. But that sort of behavior is beneath me. That's why I'm part of Rebellution, an' you ain't.
Her smile returns, bright and sincere.
Bonnie Blue: And then there's the other participant in our little menage, Adam Young. Or... not so young, these days. The self-professed redneck; a man that ain't ashamed of who he is. I can respect that. Now, I ain't got a lot of experience with Mr. Young myself. I know from my studies that he's a little arrogant, an' not without reason. Perenially in one title chase or another; that speaks to no lack of talent on his part. Lots of comparisons could be drawn 'tween him an' another Southern gentleman -- Mr. Doc Henry.
Y'all know what the diff'rence is, 'tween Adam Young an' Doc Henry? Mr. Young ain't let me down yet. An' I know he won't this week. He's got too much pride not to bring everythin' he's got to the ring; I look forward to that. Mr. Young reminds me of a fadin' Southern peacock -- preening an' vain -- struttin' around to show off feathers yet resplendent still. Leastways in his own mind. Reality is... Adam Young ain't no peacock; he's just another turkey.
I know the kinda guy you are, Mr. Young. Ain't no diff'rent from the rest of these fools; you don't think I'm worthy the honor of facin' you, no doubt, because I have lady-parts. Right? My place is in the kitchen an' not the ring, somethin' along those lines? I've heard it before; you ain't nothin' new. Y'can't call into question my skills or my talent, so you'll go for somethin' over which I got no control -- my gender. An' yet, I willingly subject myself to brutality, week after week; I am often victorious, an' even when I ain't, I got cause to celebrate.
Because every week, I stand toe-to-toe with some of the greatest athletes to grace a wrestlin' ring. Every week, I overcome the inevitable trepidation; the stage-fright butterflies, the fear of gettin' my face beaten in. When my music plays and Kyle Steele calls my name, it's all insignificant. I hear the crowd cheerin' for me, and I know I'll be all right. Every week, dazzled afresh by the bright lights, I step into that ring; I look up at the audience to see girls not much younger'n me, all afire with the knowledge that they, too, can be anythin' they want; an' I know my time is at hand.
Her smile hardens into iron resolve, though its ghost plays at her lips and lends a mischievous spark to her eye.
Bonnie Blue: I stand now at a crossroads, just a few steps away from a chance at real greatness. Oh, I've laid the foundation, to be sure. Gold will be around my waist sooner rather than later. The here an' now, however, are what concern me. I look at my opponents, an' see poverty; not of the bank account, but of character. Considerin' what's at stake this week -- a spot in the Final Destination ladder match at Fifteen -- there can be no outcome other than triumph. The WCF Galaxy deserves a better contender than an entitled, spoiled, two-faced weasel of a warlock -- an' I use the term in its original context -- or a puffed up ol' poppinjay who won't do nothin' but come up short yet again. These men are not worthy to be the potential face of the Wrestlin' Championship Federation.
It's men like them who make me look at Wade Moor with somethin' approachin' respect. I might give him all manner of hell from time to time, but it's only 'cause I want another match. Just the two of us. If this is what I've got to do to get it... walk through a pansy-assed excuse for a wrestler who can't face a loss like a man, and a degenerate redneck with an obvious inferiority complex... not a problem. Y'all remember One, don't ya? Oblivion and an enraged, slightly psychotic version of His Lordship, Andre Jenson, plus li'l ol' me, in a falls count anywhere match. An' how'd that end? With them two gettin' carried out on stretchers, an' Bonnie Blue standin' tall.
Adam Young is the past; there's only so many times ya can resurrect a career from the grave before it becomes irreparably corrupted. Lucious Starr's bright flare was just a supernova; the critical failure of a fusion generator, now a victim to the crushin' gravity of his own ego. You two ain't competition -- you're the practice round. Sunday night, on Slam, I'm gonna show the whole WCF Galaxy why I deserve a spot in that Final Destination match. Until then, gentlemen...
A wry smile pulling at her lips, Bonnie winks and blows a kiss to the camera. Her phone rings, then -- unsurprisingly, her ringtone is her entrance music -- and she glances at the caller ID before she answers it.
Bonnie Blue: Hey DeMarcus, how's it hangin'?
She laughs lightly at his reply, pauses to listen as he speaks.
Bonnie Blue: Me? Just got done cuttin' a promo.... yeah, both barrels. Those jive turkeys don't stand a chance. ...Haha. I know. That's a messed up match you have, too. Give 'em hell. They deserve it....
She is silent a little longer this time.
Bonnie Blue: I know, right? ... Yeah, I remember. I've got some things I wanna run by y'all anyway. Give me about twenty minutes. ...Ok, see ya then. 'Bye!
Glancing up, Bonnie notices the camera is still rolling, and makes a "cut" motion. The scene promptly fades to black.
Back in her motel room, Bonnie reviews the scant few items the private eye had given her. Wrapped carefully in a weeks-old newspaper were a few photographs and a flash drive. It's the flash drive she has now, plugged into her laptop, the files open and staring at her. There are scans of the photos, a few newspaper articles retrieved from microfilm archives, and a lot of poorly-typed notes. The gumshoe had come up with some interesting speculations; none of which Bonnie can immediately confirm. Then again, there's always the Ranchero.
The year 1978 stands out to her. Already seven hundred years into the past, what harm would a few more decades do? It wouldn't be hard just to pop back and check. The effort of a half hour, no more, and she could return mere minutes after her departure. She continues perusing the notes Minella had provided, trying to follow his train of thought. A term, "nosferatu", is typed in bold and italics for obvious emphasis; though the series of question marks beside it are a clear indication that the investigator had doubts.
He is Death, that walks in the guise of man. It comes unbidden, the thought; Bonnie can't be certain it's even hers. Not the personification of Death, no. Nothing so wholesome, so natural as that. He is more, something other, and she knows it at the deepest level of her psyche. Bonnie looks at yellowing photograph above a newspaper clipping; it shows a gathering of people -- celebrities and public figures -- smiling, drinking, raising their glasses in toast. And in the background, barely discernible, an image that might be Johnny Rabid. All she has to do is go find out. There wouldn't be anyone to recognize her; the risk of altering history is minimal.
Her keys are in her hand before she's aware she's made the decision. Sprawled across the bed, engrossed in some nature show on TV, Brian Setzer looks up when she hits the door.
Brian Setzer: Hey, where are you go-- ? Ok...
He vaults off the bed and sprints for the door, pulling it open just as the emerald-green Ford Ranchero disappears in a burst of prismatic color. Curious, he saunters over to the little desk, where Bonnie had left the papers scattered, and sifts through some of it.
Brian Setzer: I don't have a good feeling about this.
Nineteen-Seventy-Eight isn't quite what she'd been expecting. Then again, what could have prepared her for the reality of it? Recorded history failed to capture the gritty, glittery excess; the acrid tang of air exponentially more polluted; the wild, decadent, almost desperate joie de vivre of the era, counterpoint to the waning days of the Vietnam conflict. Such a pointless waste, so many lives sacrificed. No sane species would engage in such a war; a war over nebulous ideologies.
Not without a guiding hand to give a little push, Bonnie thinks to herself. Why would they make those mistakes again? Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria... is it really just the profit margin? She shakes her head. Economics had never been her favorite subject, capitalism least of all.
Bonnie parks the Ranchero down the street from the address mentioned in the newspaper article. She walks down an alley, slips around the back, and nonchalantly joins the catering staff. Quickly, she swipes a chef's jacket and puts it on; nobody seems to notice her, all of them going about their business with a nearly robotic efficiency. Someone puts a tray in Bonnie's hands; she hastens to circulate among the guests, glad of the excuse to get away from the eerily silent waiters. Her eyes scan every face as she moves through the room, searching for a glimpse of the man she knows has to be there.
And a glimpse is all she gets. No sooner has she spotted him, than he turns away to have his image partially captured in the flash of a camera. For the barest instant, their eyes had met. Even as he moves to look toward her again, Bonnie is weaving her way back through the crowd. She's seen all she needs to here. Something pries at her consciousness, subtle and questing. Bonnie closes her mind, the way the Brothers of the Temporal Schism had taught her, and hurries out of the building. The back alley seems darker than before; narrower, too, and full of turnings that hadn't been there before.
A thick mist seeps up from the wet pavement as Bonnie finally makes her way back onto the street. Only it's the wrong street. Somehow, she'd gotten turned around. The fog grows thicker, curling around her ankles; she tries to ignore it, looking at the street signs to get her bearings. No more than a block in the wrong direction. The young woman sets out again on the right course, her long stride quickening as a primal sense of dread prickles the back of her neck. Just ahead, the Ranchero waits under the halogen glow of a streetlamp; light and safety mere yards away.
Instead of running, she stops cold and turns around. Burgeoning with menace, the mist rolls to a halt inches away, the ragged trailing edge clammy as it brushes against her skin. Bonnie stands her ground; immediately around her, time slows to a crawl, then stops altogether. She takes a step back, outside the bubble of null-time, and thrusts it forward, spreading her hands out to either side. The sphere, visible as a shimmer in the air, elongates to form a wall that holds back the advancing fog. Satisfied, Bonnie walks calmly back to the car -- only then does bewilderment set in. What in the hell just happened? Did I just...? But how...?
Bonnie is still thinking about it sometime later, when she parks the car once again outside her motel room. Somehow, she'd managed to invoke a field of anti-time; of absolute stasis. How, and more importantly, why elude her. She gets out of the Ranchero, walks back into the room, and collapses, exhausted, on the bed. The bipedal feline drops the slip of paper back onto the desk and walks over to join her; ignoring any concept of personal space, he stretches out next to her, his green eyes wide and expectant.
Bonnie Blue: Do you really have to do that?
He flashes her a toothy grin and sits up, giving her some room.
Brian Setzer: You want to talk about it?
Bonnie Blue: Not yet. There's... a lot to process. Besides, I need to focus on the present. Everythin' else can wait.
Brian Setzer: You saw him, didn't you? Then?
The young blonde swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits up.
Bonnie Blue: I'll tell ya when I'm sure. For now... I need to get a shower, and then go meet the guys about an hour ago.
And with that, the Daughter of Time grabs herself some clean clothes and disappears into the bathroom, leaving the bipedal feline to stare after her. One clawed hand reaches up to stroke his chin in an attitude of contemplation. He may be curious, but he knows better than to push. When Bonnie's ready to talk, she'll talk. Even so... he makes a private resolution to follow up on the P.I.'s evidence himself. Twenty minutes later, she's out the door, and Brian Setzer is on his own.
Bonnie Blue: Fifteen is just around the corner, y'all, an' I ain't got a date for the dance. Yet. It's like high school, all over again. Headmistress used to tell me that my destiny intimidated the boys. And the girls. And the others, the in-betweens. Truth is, I was kinda awkward in those days. I even had nano-fusion braces...
A shadow flits across her face as she recalls those brighter days; before the Chronovores, before the Dark Timekeeper destroyed everything she had cherished, and left her with only hollow purpose. Ever the professional, Bonnie shakes off the cloud and smiles warmly.
Bonnie Blue: That's neither here nor there at the moment. What is germaine to the topic is that I've got a chance, this week, to get in on a very important -- potentially life-changin' -- opportunity. Final Destination... The competitors already signed: Spencer Adams, Benjamin Atreyu, Steve Orbit... Johnny Rabid; I'd do almost anythin' to get a match with any of 'em singly, let alone all at once. Could y'all imagine? Me, up in that ring -- in a ladder match, my predecessor's specialty -- with those men? My name, for one night, equal to theirs...
Her blue-green eyes take on a faraway look; she's picturing the night, the crowd, the lights, the canvas under her feet. Intoxicated by the fantasy, it takes a moment to pull her attention back to the moment. A contemplative look settles on her features.
Bonnie Blue: But I'm gettin' ahead of myself. Fifteen's a whole 'nother week away, an' there's still Slam 'tween now an' then. Last week... y'all all saw Rebelllution give their all against "Team Villains and One Not So Bad Dude"; saw us pick up the win -- courtesy of Yours Truly -- an' steal the show. That's 'cause we was on the same page. There wasn't no conflict of egos; not that we ain't got 'em. We wouldn't make it long in this profession otherwise. But we know how to lay down personal pride in favor of workin' together. Y'all almost had it, that teamwork... just we was better that night. An' I gotta hand it to Mr. Riddik, Mr. Core, an' Mr. Wolfram -- for all the nasty words exchanged 'tween us, not a single one of y'all denied the legitimacy of our vict'ry. An' y'all s'posed to be the bad guys.
Y'know who did, though? Mr. "I Has Internal Conflict" himself... Lucious Starr. The alleged "odd man out" of the four; the lamb among wolves. It was a nice act; I bought it. Pretend you're upset that you have to team with assholes; insist that you'd rather lose than help them win; claim moral victory when you do, in fact, lose. The only other person in this comp'ny to ever claim that any win of mine was illegitimate is Wade Moor; but that's all water under the bridge now.
Bonnie shakes her head.
Bonnie Blue: I don't even get what your problem is. You weren't the one who got pinned -- that was that racist piece of shit, Wolfram -- an' I was happy to do it. So technically, if you want to split hairs, you didn't lose; he did. An' anyway, ain't no shame in losin'. Happens to everyone sometime or other. Or could it be...?
She tilts her head slightly to one side, brow furrowed just a little as an idea worms into her mind.
Bonnie Blue: Nah. You're not that petty, are ya? I mean, not even Dag... Are you ashamed that you couldn't best a woman? Does that threaten your manhood somehow? 'Cause ya didn't complain when my friend Holmes defeated ya for that TV Title shot. You must be old-school, Gardnerian Wicca. Cakes and ale and misogyny, that's fun. What're ya gonna do when you don't win this week? Whine about throwin' the match again? Or will you at least be creative enough to come up with a diff'rent tune?
A right shame, though. I thought ya had promise. We all did. This refusal to face reality, though; this tendency to lash out at anyone who threatens your narrow view -- well, that just shows your true colors, don't it? So you go ahead. You sit there an' insist that you weren't beaten in fair combat; because you allegedly chose to make it unfair by throwin' the match. In the long run, it only makes you look foolish.
Were I a lesser woman -- or a member of #BeachKrew -- I'd have already filed paperwork to have the match reviewed; to determine the veracity of your statements, an' then insist on your bein' punished if it's revealed to be true. But that sort of behavior is beneath me. That's why I'm part of Rebellution, an' you ain't.
Her smile returns, bright and sincere.
Bonnie Blue: And then there's the other participant in our little menage, Adam Young. Or... not so young, these days. The self-professed redneck; a man that ain't ashamed of who he is. I can respect that. Now, I ain't got a lot of experience with Mr. Young myself. I know from my studies that he's a little arrogant, an' not without reason. Perenially in one title chase or another; that speaks to no lack of talent on his part. Lots of comparisons could be drawn 'tween him an' another Southern gentleman -- Mr. Doc Henry.
Y'all know what the diff'rence is, 'tween Adam Young an' Doc Henry? Mr. Young ain't let me down yet. An' I know he won't this week. He's got too much pride not to bring everythin' he's got to the ring; I look forward to that. Mr. Young reminds me of a fadin' Southern peacock -- preening an' vain -- struttin' around to show off feathers yet resplendent still. Leastways in his own mind. Reality is... Adam Young ain't no peacock; he's just another turkey.
I know the kinda guy you are, Mr. Young. Ain't no diff'rent from the rest of these fools; you don't think I'm worthy the honor of facin' you, no doubt, because I have lady-parts. Right? My place is in the kitchen an' not the ring, somethin' along those lines? I've heard it before; you ain't nothin' new. Y'can't call into question my skills or my talent, so you'll go for somethin' over which I got no control -- my gender. An' yet, I willingly subject myself to brutality, week after week; I am often victorious, an' even when I ain't, I got cause to celebrate.
Because every week, I stand toe-to-toe with some of the greatest athletes to grace a wrestlin' ring. Every week, I overcome the inevitable trepidation; the stage-fright butterflies, the fear of gettin' my face beaten in. When my music plays and Kyle Steele calls my name, it's all insignificant. I hear the crowd cheerin' for me, and I know I'll be all right. Every week, dazzled afresh by the bright lights, I step into that ring; I look up at the audience to see girls not much younger'n me, all afire with the knowledge that they, too, can be anythin' they want; an' I know my time is at hand.
Her smile hardens into iron resolve, though its ghost plays at her lips and lends a mischievous spark to her eye.
Bonnie Blue: I stand now at a crossroads, just a few steps away from a chance at real greatness. Oh, I've laid the foundation, to be sure. Gold will be around my waist sooner rather than later. The here an' now, however, are what concern me. I look at my opponents, an' see poverty; not of the bank account, but of character. Considerin' what's at stake this week -- a spot in the Final Destination ladder match at Fifteen -- there can be no outcome other than triumph. The WCF Galaxy deserves a better contender than an entitled, spoiled, two-faced weasel of a warlock -- an' I use the term in its original context -- or a puffed up ol' poppinjay who won't do nothin' but come up short yet again. These men are not worthy to be the potential face of the Wrestlin' Championship Federation.
It's men like them who make me look at Wade Moor with somethin' approachin' respect. I might give him all manner of hell from time to time, but it's only 'cause I want another match. Just the two of us. If this is what I've got to do to get it... walk through a pansy-assed excuse for a wrestler who can't face a loss like a man, and a degenerate redneck with an obvious inferiority complex... not a problem. Y'all remember One, don't ya? Oblivion and an enraged, slightly psychotic version of His Lordship, Andre Jenson, plus li'l ol' me, in a falls count anywhere match. An' how'd that end? With them two gettin' carried out on stretchers, an' Bonnie Blue standin' tall.
Adam Young is the past; there's only so many times ya can resurrect a career from the grave before it becomes irreparably corrupted. Lucious Starr's bright flare was just a supernova; the critical failure of a fusion generator, now a victim to the crushin' gravity of his own ego. You two ain't competition -- you're the practice round. Sunday night, on Slam, I'm gonna show the whole WCF Galaxy why I deserve a spot in that Final Destination match. Until then, gentlemen...
A wry smile pulling at her lips, Bonnie winks and blows a kiss to the camera. Her phone rings, then -- unsurprisingly, her ringtone is her entrance music -- and she glances at the caller ID before she answers it.
Bonnie Blue: Hey DeMarcus, how's it hangin'?
She laughs lightly at his reply, pauses to listen as he speaks.
Bonnie Blue: Me? Just got done cuttin' a promo.... yeah, both barrels. Those jive turkeys don't stand a chance. ...Haha. I know. That's a messed up match you have, too. Give 'em hell. They deserve it....
She is silent a little longer this time.
Bonnie Blue: I know, right? ... Yeah, I remember. I've got some things I wanna run by y'all anyway. Give me about twenty minutes. ...Ok, see ya then. 'Bye!
Glancing up, Bonnie notices the camera is still rolling, and makes a "cut" motion. The scene promptly fades to black.
=================================================================
The year 1978 stands out to her. Already seven hundred years into the past, what harm would a few more decades do? It wouldn't be hard just to pop back and check. The effort of a half hour, no more, and she could return mere minutes after her departure. She continues perusing the notes Minella had provided, trying to follow his train of thought. A term, "nosferatu", is typed in bold and italics for obvious emphasis; though the series of question marks beside it are a clear indication that the investigator had doubts.
He is Death, that walks in the guise of man. It comes unbidden, the thought; Bonnie can't be certain it's even hers. Not the personification of Death, no. Nothing so wholesome, so natural as that. He is more, something other, and she knows it at the deepest level of her psyche. Bonnie looks at yellowing photograph above a newspaper clipping; it shows a gathering of people -- celebrities and public figures -- smiling, drinking, raising their glasses in toast. And in the background, barely discernible, an image that might be Johnny Rabid. All she has to do is go find out. There wouldn't be anyone to recognize her; the risk of altering history is minimal.
Her keys are in her hand before she's aware she's made the decision. Sprawled across the bed, engrossed in some nature show on TV, Brian Setzer looks up when she hits the door.
Brian Setzer: Hey, where are you go-- ? Ok...
He vaults off the bed and sprints for the door, pulling it open just as the emerald-green Ford Ranchero disappears in a burst of prismatic color. Curious, he saunters over to the little desk, where Bonnie had left the papers scattered, and sifts through some of it.
Brian Setzer: I don't have a good feeling about this.
========================================================================
Not without a guiding hand to give a little push, Bonnie thinks to herself. Why would they make those mistakes again? Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria... is it really just the profit margin? She shakes her head. Economics had never been her favorite subject, capitalism least of all.
Bonnie parks the Ranchero down the street from the address mentioned in the newspaper article. She walks down an alley, slips around the back, and nonchalantly joins the catering staff. Quickly, she swipes a chef's jacket and puts it on; nobody seems to notice her, all of them going about their business with a nearly robotic efficiency. Someone puts a tray in Bonnie's hands; she hastens to circulate among the guests, glad of the excuse to get away from the eerily silent waiters. Her eyes scan every face as she moves through the room, searching for a glimpse of the man she knows has to be there.
And a glimpse is all she gets. No sooner has she spotted him, than he turns away to have his image partially captured in the flash of a camera. For the barest instant, their eyes had met. Even as he moves to look toward her again, Bonnie is weaving her way back through the crowd. She's seen all she needs to here. Something pries at her consciousness, subtle and questing. Bonnie closes her mind, the way the Brothers of the Temporal Schism had taught her, and hurries out of the building. The back alley seems darker than before; narrower, too, and full of turnings that hadn't been there before.
A thick mist seeps up from the wet pavement as Bonnie finally makes her way back onto the street. Only it's the wrong street. Somehow, she'd gotten turned around. The fog grows thicker, curling around her ankles; she tries to ignore it, looking at the street signs to get her bearings. No more than a block in the wrong direction. The young woman sets out again on the right course, her long stride quickening as a primal sense of dread prickles the back of her neck. Just ahead, the Ranchero waits under the halogen glow of a streetlamp; light and safety mere yards away.
Instead of running, she stops cold and turns around. Burgeoning with menace, the mist rolls to a halt inches away, the ragged trailing edge clammy as it brushes against her skin. Bonnie stands her ground; immediately around her, time slows to a crawl, then stops altogether. She takes a step back, outside the bubble of null-time, and thrusts it forward, spreading her hands out to either side. The sphere, visible as a shimmer in the air, elongates to form a wall that holds back the advancing fog. Satisfied, Bonnie walks calmly back to the car -- only then does bewilderment set in. What in the hell just happened? Did I just...? But how...?
======================================================================
Bonnie Blue: Do you really have to do that?
He flashes her a toothy grin and sits up, giving her some room.
Brian Setzer: You want to talk about it?
Bonnie Blue: Not yet. There's... a lot to process. Besides, I need to focus on the present. Everythin' else can wait.
Brian Setzer: You saw him, didn't you? Then?
The young blonde swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits up.
Bonnie Blue: I'll tell ya when I'm sure. For now... I need to get a shower, and then go meet the guys about an hour ago.
And with that, the Daughter of Time grabs herself some clean clothes and disappears into the bathroom, leaving the bipedal feline to stare after her. One clawed hand reaches up to stroke his chin in an attitude of contemplation. He may be curious, but he knows better than to push. When Bonnie's ready to talk, she'll talk. Even so... he makes a private resolution to follow up on the P.I.'s evidence himself. Twenty minutes later, she's out the door, and Brian Setzer is on his own.
