sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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Just keep an eye on that card every now and then, he said. You'll know where to go when the time's right.

Beth's entirely aware that probably means it's magic. Which means there's any number of other things it could be doing. Which means she seriously considers not taking it home with her, in case it could be used to track her -- but the only other place she could keep it is at the shelter, and she won't do that. It'd endanger everybody else there, the ones who come in for food, the ones who work there, Peter --

She won't, that's all.

So she sticks it to the fridge with the same magnet Spike left for her back in May, and that's where it is the Monday after Thanksgiving, when she sees that it's changed. There's an address there now, in that same elegant typeface, like it's been there all along.

Aequitas. She's looked it up. Latin for justice.

It's with a certain sense of fatalism that she steps off the bus a block from the address on the card, five days later, and walks toward the building.

(It's also with the same black wig she wore that night, as a sole concession to paranoia.)

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"Equality. Everyone here is treated the same because we are all the same. We're all sentient beings with lifelong experiences of the good, the bad and the downright unmentionable. We've all known success and hardship, frustration, anger, pain... Happiness and friendship and so on. Most of us are made of organic material of different kinds. Maybe we have different ranks outside, but in here?"

He spreads his hands, his small gesture symbolizing the vast expanse of the club, the very essence of it. "In here, anyone can speak to royalty. Humans can mingle with myths, lords dance with commoners, and if you should say the wrong thing, the very spirit of Aequitas forbids holding grudges.

"Justice, because justice is served here without discrimination. You break the rules, you have no place here. Minor transgressions are met with minor penalties, but if you done a really bad thing? You're out."

It sounds ... well, let's not mince words: it sounds like heaven. Somewhere this thing she is doesn't matter. Somewhere she won't be attacked, or expected to attack anyone else. Somewhere we're all just people; and she believes him when he says it.

She chews her lip. "What," she starts, a touch unsteadily, "what kind of really bad thing?"

"Harassment, abuse, telling outsiders about the club. Ripping people off. My guests are to be treated like celebrities and royalty, the lot of you, but with that privilege comes responsibilities."

He smiles, taking in the look on her face, because he knows how good it sounds. He knows how good it is, and he'll take pride any day in building this little enterprise of his from the scratch. Honestly, it's only these past few months that he's starting to see genuine results of his efforts. It's unbelievably gratifying.

"Like respecting the other guests, and the employees. Like following the rules, including not drinking the blood of other patrons, no fighting, no mind controlling, no telepathy. Respect, if not common sense. Is there even such a thing?"

"As common sense? I dunno."

The waiter's returning, with two glasses on a tray. He smiles as he sets the glasses down, one in front of each of them, and slips away again.

There's alcohol in this one; she can smell it from here. And suddenly the idea of having something stronger than fruit juice and club soda seems incredibly attractive.

"I think..." he murmurs, starting to form a theory of sorts. "I think there might just be such a thing as common sense. Only problem is, it's all too often--"

He frowns, pausing for another drag of nicotine and tar. "Well, it's a bit common. Not to mention it's subjective, and that's downright scary."

She picks up the glass, but doesn't drink yet.

"Scary how?"

The very air they breathe is ripe with tension, isn't it.

...no, not really. Just a tad thick with (un)worldly experience. "You can never count on your common sense to match everyone else's. Which means no matter how much you trust someone, you can never trust them to be on the same page. Well," he changes his mind, the frown easing into mild amusement. "The same page isn't that difficult. The same paragraph, though? Never. Same sentence, and we're talking telepathy. Not shitting Sherlock."

"Because what you think makes sense isn't necessarily what someone else thinks...." She considers that, and takes an absent sip of her drink. "Yeah."

Pause.

"I guess that's why specific rules are a good thing?"

"They're a lifesaver, that's what they are, sugar. I mean that literally too, if my doomy gloomy tone of voice wasn't suggestive enough."

It feels strange to talk so openly with a virtual stranger, to discuss things without his flippant live and let live 'tude. Maybe that should be called something else, but he'll settle for it even if it is a misnomer. It is never just flippancy. It isn't ever just about living and letting other people lead their own lives.

But in the here and now? It feels as though he's leaving all that pretense behind. He had the same feeling the first-and-last time they met.

Another, slightly longer drink, and she glances up at him from behind her hair. Not that it's her hair; the short black bangs are still unfamiliar. Still reassuring.

"Did I say thanks for inviting me, yet?" Her smile's a little shy, but most of the awkwardness is gone. "Because ... thanks for inviting me."

Regardless, the faux black brings out her pretty pale skin - regardless, Lorne can appreciate crafting a new identity for yourself with what means you have. He smiles back, sipping his drink shortly after she does.

"Does it matter? You're as welcome now as when you stepped through the fugly doors and lit up the room! --I do apologize for those, but you can never be low key enough when running this kind of underground operation."

"Low key," she repeats. "I like that. And -- it moves around? So the address on the card changes to show it?"

"You bet it does!" He leans in closer, raising his free hand so as to shield his mouth from view. See, this is confidentiality at its finest. Shush.

"To be honest, I'm running out of new and inventive places to book that isn't under ground. That's just taking it too far, you know?" Hand goes down. "Not to mention the added security risks with those logistics. Not my cuppa anything, if you catch my not so subtle drift."

It takes her a second, but she does catch it. (Not as long as she'd be comfortable with, to be honest.)

"I guess you never use the same place twice, either?"

Suddenly there's a shift in the air, a displacement felt only by the way your fillings start to hum. Three young adolescents approach, pale white from their tippy toes to the tops of their long-haired heads; a tall, willowy girl framed by two similarly tall and willowy boys, all of them watching Lorne and his new acquaintance with startlingly pale blue eyes. They titter amongst themselves, walking over arm in arm in arm.

"This is delightful!" One of the boys says, eyes moving from Lorne to Beth and back again, followed swiftly by the girl: "Krevlornswath has surprised us yet again." By the tone of her voice, she approves wholeheartedly.

The boy on her left scoffs, on the other hand. "I am not surprised. He is what he is."

The girl considers this, and nods. "They both are."

She looks up, glances uneasily from one to the other to the other. They look younger than she is, younger even than her little sister (and with that thought she suddenly misses Laura fiercely, painfully). And they look almost human; almost.

(Krevlornswath? she wonders briefly.)

She looks at Lorne again, uncertain, waiting for a lead.

"Introduce us!" Two of them demand, and the one left out fills in, "It is only polite."

Lorne smiles, but he's not a hundred percent happy about the Krevlornswath business. Nevertheless, he's a businessman, and the customer's always right even if he doesn't necessarily agree with them.

"Naturally, my darlings. The Triune, Emma, Emma, the Triune. The Triune govern a very particular niche of fate. Ever wonder about the technical repercussions of the Power of Three? These are the lovelies who keep that in check." He winks.

"Emma."

"Emma."

"Hmmm," the girl hums. "This is unexpected, Krevlornswath. Not only do you invite a Slayer, you speak with her as to an old friend. It so makes us wonder what will happen next, even if you do constantly belittle our demesne. We shouldn't care for you at all!"

"But it's so daring!" Left boy exclaims with a grin that is mirrored on the other boy's face. "Practically unheard of. More than enough to balance things out."

They're admiring her like she's some fascinating new plot twist on their favorite prime-time drama, and talking to Lorne like he's the writer. And she's not at all sure how he feels about that, but she can feel herself starting to bristle.

"What's so daring about it?" she asks, more to see how they'll react to her speaking than because she really wants the answer.

As the unit they are, the Triune grabs one chair each from the surrounding tables, heedless of whose feelings they might hurt, and sits down. As soon as they're seated, their arms hook together as if they'd never moved out of place to begin with. "It upsets the order of things," boy on the right explains. Girl fills in, "It is unexpected. No Slayer has ever been welcome at Aequitas."

As one, they turn their heads to watch a small group of vampires surreptitiously looking their way. "Some may find it unsettling," they speak as one.

At which Lorne smiles, ever playing his part as the amicable host. "I can only hope the rest of my patrons follow your admirable example."

Beth takes a swallow of her drink to keep herself from saying anything else.

It doesn't work.

"So if you," you three she almost says, except she's not entirely sure they are three and not one mind in three bodies, "if you govern fate, how come you don't already know what's going to happen next?"

Three pairs of identical eyes slide in their sockets to settle on Beth, three heads turn in unison to face her.

"Infinite possibilities," they tell her, their three voices melting together in one complex string of sounds.

"We know where you come from," boy on right fills in. His twin continues, "We know where you come to an end."

It seems as though the girl always gets the final word. This time, it takes on an admonishing tone. "What happens in the duration is up to you. We are ever watching, ever aiming for a balance. Unfortunately, mortals are rarely geared towards balance. You always want too much and too soon; you have no patience."

Beth's lips compress, and she looks at the table.

"Yeah, that's us," she says with brittle cheer. "No patience at all."

Lorne watches Emma, gears turning in his carrot-topped head. Then, addressing the Triune. "Listen, my pearlescent pretties, why don't you go cheer us impatient mortals on from a distance? Me and Emma only just met again after a really long time no seeing... I hate to be a party pooper, but--" He smiles. "Next round is on me, how's that?"

The girl watches him with assessing eyes - after a series of tiny little eternities, she nods. Her fellow thirds smile. They know what game he's playing, Krevlornswath, but they don't mind.

"Until our paths cross yet again," girl says, standing up in perfect sync with her boys. She smooths the front of her robes and inclines her head, as do the others. As they came, so they leave. They have seen enough.

She watches them go, still deeply uneasy.

Very quietly: "Are they always like that?"