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don't fear the reaper

#1
Grice Offline

His shoulder twitched, with a roll, silencing the old bullet wound, beads of perspiration jumping off the bridge of his nose as he pushed the weights over his head again and again.  In the background, some dissonant voice screamed for his attention, but his thoughts waved it away, with a grunt, trekking through the past until his muscles threatened failure with a telltale shake.  Finishing the set, he pulled the earbuds outwards, as Ginuwine's Pony faded, the yelling irritatingly magnified.  He had to look a foot downward to find the source, the balding head of the middle-aged man gleaming like the side of a nearby kettlebell.

He couldn't help an irreverent chuckle as the homeowner brandished a finger in his direction, with a wave of his hairy hand gesturing towards the equipment Grice had been using.  "Not like its doing you any good, Doc."  He smirked, and pressed a piece of Fruit Stripe against his tongue, throwing his shirt over his shoulder before picking up the leather of his toolkit.  "Here's your bill."  He placed the yellow paper on a ledge that would require a stepladder to reach, as he walked out of the door, tossing the man's phone and earbuds on a nearby couch.  "Spend less time swiping right, and more time doing some bench presses, and maybe your arms will even out." A crude gesture followed.  "Gains."  He winked with a grin and closed the door.

Grice didn't need the money, but the entertainment was priceless...and maybe, just maybe, he found it hard to do nothing.  He wasn't raised to stagnate- his hands, and his mouth, needed to toil.  When he wasn't overseas on some Black Ops mission for Carmine, he took to what he knew.  Fixing shit.  What self-respecting, southern-bred bastard couldn't replace a carburetor?  A fridge?  A dishwasher...or on his next case, a heating unit?  His uppers didn't like him straying, but if he started giving a shit about what they thought, he'd have hung himself in the upper level bathrooms a long time ago...probably with the retractable leash they made him wear to hold his fucking ID.

Good idea.  Haven’t done that before. 

A quick survey brought the perfect face to mind, lips sucking inwards to pop the fragrant bubble with an enthusiam only a murderous invention could inspire.  With a heavy drop of his foot, his 1970 Chevelle SS sprinted down Jamesville's roads with a roar that turned most pedestrian heads.  His sweet baby was a loud bitch, and needy too...but that was part of the reason he loved her.  She kept him on his toes.

His exhale was purposely sprinkled with a touch of drama as he waited for the next door to open, eyes habitually darting about his surroundings as he took his measure of the house he was stepping into.  The people he would be dealing with.  With his toe, he nudged an envelope out from the jam, reading the printed name with amusement as familiarity pulled his lips into a grin.

Knox Renshaw. 

Didn't have many professional dealings with him, Grice being Electi, but Carmine had made the introduction.  He rapped his knuckles against the wood again, choosing to ignore the bell before bending over to pick up what must have been overlooked.  As his back straightened, the door opened, his head tilting to follow the endless amount of leg that appeared behind it.

Holy fucking suicide girl.

He'd heard Knox had a hot sister, but this was the stuff of nightmares.  How could the tattooed hunk even look at a woman and get a boner after growing up with this as a standard?  Was there a fair comparison out there left in the wide, wide world?  He suddenly felt the need to take the hunter to a platinum-rated strip club.  He would pay for the lap dances.  By the edge that cut the beauty's eyes, he felt the poor bastard probably deserved them.

She looked like a fucking handful.

Pushing his inner lech aside, he held the letter out between two fingers for her to take, gaze narrowing as he politely smiled, toolkit shifted against his shoulder as hazel eyes inconspicuously traveled behind her and into the interior of the home.  "Sorry I'm a tad late."  A heavy southern drawl.  "Got caught up with ma other job.  Your heater needs fixin', right?"

A grin.

"Better get started.  Today's startin' teh feel like a cold one."   

Moira 
Witch (Carmine)

Played by: starling

Age: 37

Species: Witch

Power: Intangibility

Posts: 7
#2
Moira Offline
The music that drifted through the Renshaw house was a heavy mix of synth and thumping bass. Moira sat in the middle of the living room floor wearing a short, cherry-blossom printed bathrobe, methodically disassembling, unsheathing, and polishing every single weapon she could find in the house. The piece of canvas spread over the carpet glittered with metal–one side a clean, organized battery, the other a jumbled pile vaguely ordered by caliber, weight, and how annoying they were to clean. 

To doctors said she needed two weeks off to heal. Having already spent one of those on the couch and in bed, she decided that immobility was no longer an option if she wanted to retain sanity. Knox was off somewhere, and the opportunity to straighten out her head came knocking in the form of a knife stuck in its sheath with dried blood. Disgusted and motivated, she'd worked all morning on the project. 

Hercules lounged at the edge of the canvas, pupils wide, examining springs and other small metal pieces as Moira set them in front of her. Massive grey paws toyed with the seams, claws flexing over the border whenever he thought he might get away with it. Each time, Moira's intent eyes looked up at him and stared until the paw retreated to his side of the line. Still, he basked like a great lion, the three feet of his eighteen pound bulk stretching half the width of her workspace.

The first knock at the door was lost in an infectious chorus to which Moira added harmony with reasonable skill. Her singing was done privately in the car or the shower, but she wasn't terrible at it. As the song faded, the second knock started. Moira looked sharply at the door, irritated by the urgency. 

Standing, she wiped her hands on her robe and grabbed one of the still-dirty machetes from the pile to her left. She opened the door with her off-hand and looked up into a lined, handsome face of a man she did not recognize.

Thrusting out her chin, she watched him give her the up-down, wanting to sneer and call him out. Being used to it was no longer any excuse to let men look at her as an object, but before she could, he spoke. Mute, she took the letter from him, glimpsing Knox's name in the address line. 

She vaguely remembered Knox mentioning someone coming to look at the HVAC unit today, and another bit about the two of them being acquainted. Well. The heater did need fixing–the dying fire in Moira's side wouldn't last forever. 

Moving aside, she jerked her head, beckoning him inside to house. The machete still clutched tightly, she closed the door behind him and walked back to her place in front of her messy armory. 

"The interior unit is in the hall closet, breaker box is in the half bath to the left." She pointed to the hallway beside the living room. From her position in front of the couch, she would see him working. 

Sitting once again, she began to scour the blade of the machete with a pad screwed to the business end of a power drill. She looked up from her work after a minute and said, "How long have you known my brother?" 

The siblings had only a few connections in town. Most of them were Carmine. He certainly has the build, Moira thought, assessing the tightness of his ass through his jeans. 
Human (Carmine)

Played by: Nary

Age: 33

Species: Human

Posts: 34
#3
Grice Offline

He'd seen his fair share of pornos start this way- a well-hung, blue collar worker showing up for a call to be greeted by a beautiful woman in a tempting robe.  God, it looked so easy to rip.  It was a sad blow to his lascivious imagination, but in this case, there wouldn't be any lengthy, gratuitous pounding, the piled up weapons in the living room tipping a not-so-subtle nod towards the temperament of the machete-wielding woman he followed into the home.

Rust. Dirt. Blood.  

His tongue touched the back of his right canine, working jaw hidden by a smile that completely disguised his vexation at the sight of the abused armory, the echoes of screaming drill sergeants and NCO's unmuted despite the music blaring in the background.  Years and years of pain and back-breaking experience begged him to point out the fucking transgression, but the extra weight one of Moira's feet carried and telltale lean made the leader in Grice clip the bullet resting on his cocked tongue.  

"'Bout a year now.  Moved up here from Georgia after gettin' discharged."

He checked the thermostat before cutting the power to the HVAC unit, glowing flashlight secured by his jaw as he made his way into the closet, the buzz of the drill obscuring the myriad of obscenities he muttered as he routinely went through the process of troubleshooting.  "You one of those preppers, or are those the leftovers of some weird fetish I definitely wanna hear about?"  

She was Carmine, obviously.  He'd known that since he'd met Knox, the pair's names cropping up from time to time at Headquarters.  Even without the information, there were too many sloppy tells, but spelling out her profession was like to put them both in a sour mood.  Death with discovery, right?  Even without Carmine crawling out your asshole all the time to make sure you were wiping correctly, hunting was illegal.  The VRI had been successful in that, at least.

"S'Moira, right?" he called it over his shoulder, pulling off the metal screen caging the blower, dextrous fingers working over the various parts before an acrid smell made his nose twitch with an all-too-comfortable familiarity.  Turning himself over, he moved to look inside shaft, flashlight angled upwards and towards telltale death.  It took significant wiggling to reach the linen-wrapped surprise, fingers burning with palpable magic as he tossed it onto the ground.  His eyes remained affixed for a quiet minute before he turned his back, fixing the broken part in the motor before reassembling the HVAC unit.

He wiped his hands on a red and white rag as he made his way out to the living room, covering the parcel he'd found as he tossed the cloth back into the bag slung over his shoulder.  "Replaced a part in the blower's motor."  A cat.  A big fucking cat.  Great.  Those things may as well have been alarm bells for his kind, the animal's curious eyes already affixed to his.  "I need to check some parts in the attic and on your roof.  That alright, ma'am?"  He didn't wait for an answer before making his way up the stairs- a hound with a cursed trail to follow. 
Witch (Carmine)

Played by: starling

Age: 37

Species: Witch

Power: Intangibility

Posts: 7
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