#and not the fun kind of havok that we spell with a k ;)

[practically-an-x-man]

of course my hips decide to act up on the day I have a full shift at work and THEN am scheduled to work stunts for theatre rehearsal

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

18 for the spotify wrapped game, please and thank you!

#18 - "Black No. 1" by Type O Negative

For the Spotify Wrapped Snippet Game

This is definitely an Ollie song/band (though, actually, she doesn't dye her hair fyi). I don't have her "voice" figured out yet, so this also made for a fun way to give it a try. Thanks for sending the prompt in!

Dysthanasia Taglist: @thecyrulik @theimperiumchronicles @k--havok (Sorry, I forget to do this so often that a couple of you might have no idea what's going on in this ^^;)

Words: 1,008

Content Advisory: Swearing, (mostly) joking references to violence

“Ollie?”

She was pretty sure she’d never heard Mergus shout before, actually. It was impressive he could make himself heard over the aneurysm-inducing volume of her stereo at all.

“Ollie!”

She kept ripping the stupid sticky notes from her bedroom wall, wadding them up and hurling them to the carpet, but with only a fraction of her attention.

“Oleander Blume.”

Oh, well, golly gee. Guess she was really in for it now. Smirking, she turned and spotted Mergus standing in front of the stereo set-up, hands shielding his ears. He’d lived through the Black Death, Industrial Revolution, and the Break, but couldn’t find the pause icon on a control panel. She strolled over and slid the volume bar down until only the tinny ringing of temporarily damaged hearing remained. With a sigh, Mergus lowered his hands.

“How on Earth could playing racket at that level be enjoyable?”

“Oh, what, you never cranked your hurdy-gurdy as hard as you could just to forget about the world for a while, old man?”

For that, he looked up at her with his Fledglings These Days Face. Though she rolled her eyes, Ollie pulled the hood of her sweatshirt back and swiped stray wisps of blonde hair away from her cheeks.

“Fine. I’m listening, okay?”

Rather than come right out with what he wanted, Mergus went and perched on the end of her bed. A vision of order and dignity in his flawlessly pressed suit against the backdrop of her tangled pentagram-pattern bedspread and a pile of black and red laundry she still hadn’t hauled to the washer. He plucked a pair of ripped jeans and a fishnet shirt out of the way so he could pat the spot next to him. Damn, it was going to be that kind of night then. Ollie dragged her combat boots as she walked, but parked her ass where told to all the same.

“Whatever it is, just say it. That fucking ghost got into my room again, so I’m not in the mood for a long fireside chat.”

His gaze flickered over to the remaining collage of sticky notes that had spelled her name out in spiky, three-foot high letters. “I thought one of Hawthorne’s aides warded your suite recently.”

“Well, that crusty ass zombie obviously didn’t send one of his best or brightest because the stupid haint made a mess.” Added to it. Whatever.

“Ceph only acts out for attention. They’d leave you be if you acknowledge them once in a while.”

“They’d be out of my hair permanently if I torched their room too.”

He didn’t dignify that with more than a raised eyebrow. He didn’t have to. Not when the memory of Wes Mayer attempting to do the same thing was still a household punchline. Of course, the ass-dragging mutt didn’t have enough brains or subtlety to fill a thimble either. Ollie, on the other hand, made a living on sneaky strategy.

“I stopped by,” Mergus said, “because I have an assignment out on the coast for you.”

“With who?” She already saw it coming, of course. The second he mentioned where they’d be going she knew.

Ollie still let out an agonized groan and flopped back on the bed, arms straight out to the sides as if she’d been crucified, when Mergus answered, “Renato.”

“Why don’t you just send a fluffy little dog along with me instead? Would be about as useful.”

The fine lines gathered in the corners of his eyes and lips deepened with the onset of his I’m Really Quite Serious Face. “I’ve considered the requirements carefully. This is the best way to meet all of them.”

“The best way to finally drive me bugfuck, you mean.” Sweet Satan on a stick. She could already imagine it. Having to watch him preen in the visor mirror every thirty seconds. Controlling her gag reflex while he flirted with every stranger from there to the Pacific. Listening to him bring up that goldfish for the billionth time. She’d beat his perfectly-shaped skull in with a tire iron before they got halfway to their destination.

“I already took into account your history together,” Mergus said. If bloodborn could develop gray hairs, his neat curls and close-cropped beard would’ve had new streaks. “You’ll be taking separate cars, staying in separate accommodations for the most part—but you will work together if it comes down to a fight. Is that understood?”

Ollie lifted her head enough to meet his stern gaze, her eyebrows and curiosity raised. “Who are we fighting?”

“If all goes well, drastic action won’t be necessary.”

“Is it Grandpa Ghoul or Muttley Mayer? Or both?”

He surrendered with a sigh. “Hawthorne and I have…not yet come to an agreement on how to best handle the matter.”

She grinned. “So, keep our heads on a swivel and chainsaw any ouroboroi that get in the way in half.”

Fledglings These Days Face made another cameo. “I’ll stress again that violence is a last resort. And you are not packing a chainsaw.”

“Fine.” She stuck her tongue out.“Spoilsport.”

“Can I rely on you to be civil in a meeting with Renato when I give you both your instructions then? Say, nine o’clock, my office?”

Propping herself on her elbows, Ollie made a show of considering it. “I’ll try to keep the biting and stabbing to a minimum. Sure.”

The smile that made his eyes glitter was worth any future headache. Mergus patted her knee and stood, smoothing his jacket and tie into place. “It means a lot, coming from you, my girl.”

Once alone again, Ollie glanced over at the small hill of laundry. With only a slight scowl, she got up and started stuffing it into a bag to take to the wash room. She was going to need clean clothes to pack soon. Good thing ninety-nine percent of her wardrobe consisted of black. When she made a mess with that chainsaw she planned to buy on the trip, the stains would never show.