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unnamed } { blast from the past
It had been a great day so far. She'd gotten to work early, made it through the full moon without things going to hell, and she thinks that maybe this week could go off without a hitch. That, clearly, is her mistake.
She hasn't been in Chicago all that long. She's been sticking to major cities ever since she left Beacon Hills all those years ago and has managed to sling herself a handful of useful skills. She started tending bar not long after she turned eighteen because tips meant she usually had a fair amount of cash on hand, and bars were more likely to pay someone under the table. Especially someone who may not want to alert the rest of the world that she's actually alive. She's been working at Patty's a couple months and seems to be developing a rapport with some of the regulars when she comes in to find of those regulars stabbed to death in the back alley.
Then the police send the freaking FBI.
The cops want her to stick around and give a statement, when that's really the absolutely last thing she wants to do. She doesn't want to get any more involved in this than she has to. That's why she's stealthily going to grab her leather jacket off the back of the chair where she left it, swing it quietly over her shoulders, and use every bit of werewolf grace she has to sneak out one of the side entrances and do her best to disappear. She may not be able to go back for a while, but it's better than getting busted by the cops.
Her jacket hits her shoulders as she clears the door, ready to make a break for it down the alley, but as she does she catches sight of another one of those familiar suits, but that isn't the thing that stops her in her tracks. It's the scent, familiar in a way that almost bowls her over and when she looks up, she meets a face that she hasn't seen in years. He's a little older, less of a teenage boy and more of an actual man, but a person can't change their scent. There's only one person in the world he could possibly be, and of all the crime scenes in all the world, she didn't expect him to be here.
So she stops, staring uselessly for a moment before she actually manages to spit out the words. "Stiles?"
She hasn't been in Chicago all that long. She's been sticking to major cities ever since she left Beacon Hills all those years ago and has managed to sling herself a handful of useful skills. She started tending bar not long after she turned eighteen because tips meant she usually had a fair amount of cash on hand, and bars were more likely to pay someone under the table. Especially someone who may not want to alert the rest of the world that she's actually alive. She's been working at Patty's a couple months and seems to be developing a rapport with some of the regulars when she comes in to find of those regulars stabbed to death in the back alley.
Then the police send the freaking FBI.
The cops want her to stick around and give a statement, when that's really the absolutely last thing she wants to do. She doesn't want to get any more involved in this than she has to. That's why she's stealthily going to grab her leather jacket off the back of the chair where she left it, swing it quietly over her shoulders, and use every bit of werewolf grace she has to sneak out one of the side entrances and do her best to disappear. She may not be able to go back for a while, but it's better than getting busted by the cops.
Her jacket hits her shoulders as she clears the door, ready to make a break for it down the alley, but as she does she catches sight of another one of those familiar suits, but that isn't the thing that stops her in her tracks. It's the scent, familiar in a way that almost bowls her over and when she looks up, she meets a face that she hasn't seen in years. He's a little older, less of a teenage boy and more of an actual man, but a person can't change their scent. There's only one person in the world he could possibly be, and of all the crime scenes in all the world, she didn't expect him to be here.
So she stops, staring uselessly for a moment before she actually manages to spit out the words. "Stiles?"
no subject
"There's no stuff about it. It's a murder. Murders happen."
DO NOT MAKE THIS A WEREWOLF THING, STILES. Cora was having a nice quiet life keeping to herself, she doesn't need you to magically bring in trouble.
no subject
"They do. Murders happen a lot. I sort of make a career on finding out why." He points to his badge which is not just for show, thanks.
"I'm going to need a statement, though." Better him than another one of the FBI guys, right?
no subject
But him taking her statement is better than anyone else, because she at least knows he won't run too close of a background check - or at least know what to leave out when firing it up the ladder. She relaxes a bit in acknowledgement before crossing her arms in front of her.
"I was just coming in for my shift, I went to take out some of the trash from last night and there he was. He was one of the regulars - Johnny, I think."
no subject
"John Wolsifer, actually. Johnny to his friends. 33, works at the factory a few blocks down. Apparently he's great at darts. Or, I guess he was. Know anyone that might have a beef with him?"
no subject
But she knows enough to know that it isn't always about being a nice guy.