sunnydalealum: (Beth Lehrer)
In the apartment, Beth sits huddled in an armchair that feels far too big for her, clasps her hands tightly in her lap and tries to stop shivering.

"I know them," she says, her voice hollow.
sunnydalealum: (Angel Investigations)
February 14th, 2007
Manhattan


Nobody on the street (not even the beat cop on the corner) seems to notice anything odd about the fact that very well-dressed people, singly or in pairs or larger groups, have been walking into the closed-for-repairs underground parking garage and not walking out. Nor do they notice anything odd about the people in question, even those whose faces don't appear remotely human.

As with one particular group, centered around a tall figure with a lionlike face.



Angel has drawn the line at wearing the House Varadeem livery, but each of them sports a badge of sorts with Vayan's sigil -- the same intricate pattern on the ring Angel's already wearing. It doesn't make them blend in with the Rrhayaowr, even the human-looking ones, but it makes certain matters clear to the others waiting in line. There's already delighted gossip making its way through the crowd, glances and whispers.

They've learned the club's name by this time, and it's making the oldest members of the team very uneasy. There's a muttered explanation while they wait, kept vague against the sharp ears of the rest of their party. Aequitas: the Latin word for justice. It's just a little too close for comfort to another place they knew once, with a name meaning mercy.

Probably just a coincidence.

The heavy doors at the far end of the lot are just opening, and two big burly demons taking up positions to either side. A ripple goes through the assembled beings, and the line starts to slide forward like (Andrew tries not to think it) like a snake.
sunnydalealum: (Gunn)
The Warehouse (Angel's HQ)
June 12, 2005


Someone knocks, and the door opens before the echo even fades, much less before a normal human could get across the room to answer it. "Packagefor MISTER CharlesGunnEsquire," the bike messenger says. Clearly he says that a lot, in the exact same lack of tone.

Gunn automatically scrawls the usual jumble of letters -- CHGUN, is what it more or less comes out to -- and is handing back the pen when the "Esquire" sinks in. He hasn't been Esquire since LA. Also, the messenger's helmet? Isn't. It's horns, curled back like a ram's, with a faux hawk down the middle. And the guy's tattoo is moving. Gunn isn't sure whether to be creeped or impressed or yeah.

Doesn't matter, he's already out the door as Gunn puts the envelope rip cord and pulls out a single sheet of expensive paper. There's a couple lines of type on it -- no signature, no salutation. He half-reads it in the couple seconds it takes to fold the thing up into a thick, tight rectangle.

"Anything interesting?" Angel asks, not looking up.

"Just junk mail." Gunn says, and jams it into his back pocket.
sunnydalealum: (Angel)
The Warehouse (Angel's HQ)
June 9, 2005, 8:30pm


When your boss is nocturnal and so is most of your clientele, the working day tends to start shortly after sunset.

It's not quite dark yet. This is a slow time of day, the gradual easing into work mode: finishing breakfast/dinner, sharpening weapons, talking out plans for the rest of the night.

There's a knock at the door.
sunnydalealum: (Angel)
The Warehouse (Angel's HQ)
May 27, 2005, 11:30pm


The van pulls up into its regular spot (the one protected by a low-level Do Not Notice Me spell, courtesy of Jonathan). Doors open and slam shut again, and five figures collect on the curb and start up the sidewalk for home, with the easy relaxed walk of a good night's work done.

It's Spike who first notices, and points to alert the others: there are lights on inside the building.

"Just because you don't pay the power bill," Gunn mutters.

"Wasn't me, mate," Spike returns, a little louder.

Angel raises a hand for silence, staring intently at the dim light in the window. There's a shadow moving inside.

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