It had been one of those nights....

Fursa drove along the city streets in her minivan, the smell of the vomitus of the earlier part of the evening assaulting her sensitive nose. She knew that she'd have to have the light tight rear area detailed to get the smell out and made a note to have Marco coordinate the effort. As she turned the corner out of Smoketown and headed toward the uptown haven, she realized that she'd lost her sunglasses again.

"Nuts" she mumbled, noting that her whiteless eyes were noticeable to just about anyone who looked at her. She wondered absently why she couldn't hold onto a set of the things to save her unlife. A small gas station went by outside and she thought to stop, but realized that she had to do a particular sort of a cross-traffic turn that she despised. Besides, she didn't want to risk being stopped by the barely vigilant local gendarmes on this night of all nights. No, it was better to drive a little out of her way to hit the 7-11 at 4th and Hillcrest Boulevard.

Pulling into the lot of the convenience store, she took a moment of pause. "This is why you have ghouls, Fursa." she grumbled to herself as she shut the van off. She vowed to herself that she was going to get Timkin to the US if it killed Magnus and Thora. The seat belt slipped off and she unlocked the door, trying to think of a latin sounding name for the "hereditary" condition that made her eyes that way. It was hereditary alright, she got it from her sire. The flourescent lighting forced her to squint a bit as she got out and detached the 20 gauge from her body, stowing it with the sword under the front seat. The van door slammed and she walked in, noting that she wasn't too far from one of her favorite places to hunt.

Still squinting, she walked into the store and took note of how she measured up to the height markings on the door frame. Turning to the back, her long coat swept behind her as she made her way past the clerk, trying not to look at him directly, yet seem friendly enough not to become a suspect. The smell of cheap hot dogs and spilled soft drinks assualted her sensitive nose, making her feel a little queasy in light of the evening's festivities with the mortal. Sheesh! How did she manage to get herself into such things!

The sunglass rack was far too close to the hot dogs. She wondered absently how the kine could stand to eat the stuff. Then she paused a moment at the thought, skaking her head to herself realizing what she was thinking and seeing the immediate irony of it. Of course, there was something sick in the fact that the only glasses on the rack were called "Moodwaves" and were touted as a product that registered your mood as you wore them. Pondering that, she paused. How a set of sunglasses could tell her mood was quite beyond her, especially when she could hardly tell her own mood half the time anyway. And what *was* with this mortal fascination with peculiarly irridescent everything? It turned out that the selection of "Moodwaves" was limited to a certain group of flourescent hues and a number of equally disturbing mirror surface colors. Of course she was concerned with UV protection--even though she had no idea why--and finally settled on something that only a Toreador on acid would wear. The fuchsia framed, orange-yellow lensed "Moodwaves" seemed the perfect disturbing touch to any wardrobe and she claimed them quickly.

Making a note to keep this set of glasses around so she could be sure to pass on the sense of wonder to Wynde and Modrelena, she walked away from the rack and paused momentarily by the Cheetos. Thoughts of Mikhail floated around her skull in a way that reminded her of those eerily absent serial killer looks Sorentaine always had on her face, making her wonder if the Tzimisce blood truly is what caused it. Chilled by the thought that she might be able to get a look like that on her face made her wonder if she needed to go to the country haven more....

Then she shrugged to herself. Her immediate conclusion was that without a mirror she couldn't make an informed decision and she turned to go to the front again. As her squinting eyes drifted over the candy aisle, she remembered something that Magnus had said about how bubble gum sticks to his fangs. A light smirk drifted over her tattooed face as she walked the rest of the way to the register.

The clerk smiled and said something that sounded pleasant, even if it was in an amazingly thick foreign accent. She smiled in return, eyes still squinting as he peered at her closely. The soggy money came from her sachel and it dawned on her that she had not obfuscated herself beyond what was needed to walk among the Kindred, but brushed it off as she knew the video cameras negated the effect anyway. Somewhere inside, she kicked herself for being so incredibly lax. The clerk took the money even as she squinted at him, waiting for her change quietly.

"Do you need a bag?" the clerk asked in that thick accent of his. His eyes swept over her, curious, yet unwilling to ask about the tattoos, which seemed like a good thing to her.

"No thanks" she replied, not looking at him. The glasses came up, tags ripped off and trashed at the edge of impossibly fast, and then slid onto her face with a gloved hand. She realized that the tacky colors she chose probably did nothing for her, but sunglasses is sunglasses, right? The clerk eyed her but a second before the phone rang and he was off to other matters. She exhaled the unneeded air from her lungs and stepped out to the van again, making note of the tone quality of the tinny little bells that jingled on the shop door.

The seat belt went back on, though the weapons did not, and she pulled out. Catching a glimpse of the glasses on her face, she grimaced and drove the four miles back to the haven in silence. She reminded herself to keep a couple extra sets of safety glasses in the glovebox of the van. Surely, getting her glasses like this was not a formula for fashion sucess.

Fiction

The Granite Home Page