Encounterlogs
Rachels Odd Encounter Sr Konstantin 240623
Rachel's day at the Brush & Brew Cafe within Pigment and Paper Studio takes an unexpected turn when she steps outside to confront a series of odd occurrences. Amid an atmosphere of confusion and supernatural phenomena—people engaging in bizarre behaviors and an elderly woman accidentally incapacitating herself with pepper spray—Rachel decides to investigate the source of the chaos. She leaves a companion safely inside the cafe and ventures towards an alleyway, driven by a throbbing head pain that hints at a supernatural presence. Encountering various disoriented individuals, she crosses paths with a figure in a UB40 hoodie and, despite her discomfort in the situation, resolves to confront whatever is happening head-on.
Her investigation leads her directly into a confrontation with the hooded man, who seems to embody the source of the disruption. As the environment around her shifts into a surreal festival scene, complete with music and seemingly hallucinatory participants, Rachel struggles to maintain her grasp on reality. The arrival of a small dog adds to the confusion, prompting her to attempt to retrieve her phone from her pocket, only to find the hooded man's hands already there. Spooked by the encounter and realizing she is outmatched by the man's supernatural tricks, Rachel makes a hasty retreat back to the safety of the cafe, instructing her previously safeguarded companion to leave as she prepares to close up after a truly bizarre and unsettling day.
(Rachel's odd encounter(SRKonstantin):SRKonstantin)
[Sat Jun 22 2024]
In the Brush & Brew Cafe within Pigment and Paper Studio
The room features a spacious and airy layout, with a barista counter located prominently in the center of the space. The counter is sleek and modern, with gleaming stainless steel and a state-of-the-art espresso machine on display. Along the eastern wall, a collection of colorful and eye-catching art prints is on display. The prints are arranged in a gallery-like fashion, with the surreal and bizarre art of Isabelle Vadasra featuring prominently among the work of other local artists. A mural of a fishing net cast across a field of stars covers the northern wall.
To the west, an open archway leads to a painting room where customers can decorate their purchased bisque pieces.
It is afternoon, about 89F(31C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.
The grasping youth turns enough to begin pawing at the wall, rubbing his fingers raw as they scrape against the chipped bricks. A few people further down the street stand together and quietly discuss the befuddled group of randoms near the alleyway's entrance, judgementally shaking their heads. To the other end of the road, a man wearing a stetson and denim jacket turns on his heel after walking to within a few metres, only looking up from his phone to notice them at that point before isntantly deciding that he wants nothing to do with whatever this is and that he can find his way to his destination on the next street over. Reasonable.
Rachel's companion nods uncertainly at her offer to remain here inside, seeming unconvinced of the lack of violence, but glad to be away from whatever danger lurks beyond. The command recieves no resistance, the natural just nodding obediently and offering assurance; "Oh, I wont. I wont do that, miss! I will wait here and not touch anything..". He looks a little lost once he mentally roots himself here in the shop, finding himself without much to do now that he's totally naturally agreed not to touch anything. It's an art shop atleast, so he can spend some time distracting himself with the gallery's curiosities.
The dog walks around the feet of its owner now, drawing its lead behind it till it tangles about her ankles. Even that doesn't distract her from her handle-pulling. The elderly woman inside of the car produces a small canister of pepper-spray, lifting a shaky hand as she calls out some inaudible warning behind the glass of her car windows before depressing the spray's cap. Immediately, it sprays out, splattering the inside of her window with faintly reddish fluid. Immediate regret, as what little of the spray becomes more aerosolized wafts back and stings at her eyes, nostrils and mouth. She quite promptly passes out, everything just a bit too much for her right now. The handle-puller is undeterred by this fearsome display.
Movement from within the alleyway beyond, Rachel's view only allowing a slanted glance into the very mouth of the alleyway across the street. A figure half-reveals itself, dressed in a grotty UB40 pink band-hoodie with the hood raised, a backpack strap visible on the shoulder that comes into view as they glance out of the alleyway before withdrawing back within.
Rachel feels a dull ache at the front of her skull, suddenly, after seeing the figure. A throb of something beyond the natural that makes her eyes feel like they want to spin back into her head and her legs wobble briefly for a moment but nothing more powerful than what she has experienced before. Noise.
Having adequately scoped the situation out, Rachel leaves the man inside to disintegrate into a puddle of sweat. She shuts the door, leaning on it with her hand sandwiched behind her body. Now, a reasonable and logical person in a reasonable and logical town would perhaps find a phone and call the authorities. Here in Haven, though, the police do little to corral the supernatural - they hide it, certainly, but solve the problem? Not so much. Not usually.
That means that Rachel's other reasonable and logical option is phoning someone she knows. Of course, she's been a Handful (capital H intended) lately, and another ding on her record might not be looked upon favorably. So, that that leaves everything that's distinctly unreasonable and illogical.
Go for the alleyway, or go for the people posing a risk to themselves and others?
One's easier.
One's the root problem.
Rachel offers up (or down, as the case may be) a prayer to the powers that be and quietly walks in the direction of that questionable figure with the backpack and the poor fashion taste.
The throbbing subsides ten or so seconds after the figure withdraws into the alleyway, Rachel's skullrattle ceasing and her eyes no longer feeling like they're going to try making an escape from their sockets. Rachel's erstwhile companion is left behind with his eyes on the paintings, calming himself by enjoying the artwork with all the focus of the afforementioned fly.
the journey across the road takes her past the car-botherer with her yappy little hound, the wall-stroking dudebro, and the middle-aged couple examining the the brickwork with their noses practically pressed into the gappy mortar between. As she passes the baseballcapped student, Rachel hears him murmuring to himself; "Catch.. catch it.. got to.. yeah.. gotta get it..", grasping at the air ahead of him. His fingers find purchase, their tips slipping between the bricks and gripping with his thumb beneath as he starts to try and prize the brick free fruitlessly. "G-got it!", he squeals with delight, face lighting, "I've done it! I got it!".
The alleyway beyond is clear as far as Rachel can see from its mouth, the passageway splitting into a T junction at its end as it meets the backstreet that runs between two rows of buildings beyond, parallel to the road. A fainter sensation comes to her now as the steps onto the gritty filth of the alley-floor, far more managable especially with the warning she recieved from the more intense exposure earlier. A drum beat sounds out, quiet and distant, echoing down the alleyway from beyond.
The smell of cigarette smoke and cannabis mixed, faintly, and faint echoes of conversations all around her. It's easy to tune out, atleast.
There is the sound of movement just ahead and to the right, where a rank of dumpsters lines the left side of the alleyway in front, half way between Rachel and the T-junction. Beyond that, nothing occurs, the bewildered naturals observing from the streetside forgotten.
For those ten or so seconds, Rachel presses her thumb and forefinger over her left and right eye respectively. This is a horrible, no good, very bad day. Home was so close. Unfortunately, this is part of her job as a part of the supernatural community; it's in all of their best interests to ensure that the unaware remain so.
Past the girl and her dog, past the wall scratcher, past the middle-aged couple she walks. She slows only momentarily, as if she were considering lingering long enough to catch their eye and send them home. But no, any second lost puts her a second further from reaching her real target. She speeds up, now at a brisk stride.
Rachel's not dressed for this. She's in heels that are strapped to her ankles in a way that leave her liable to twist them with a bad misstep. Her nose rejects the smell of the alleyway, wrinkling.
Could keep playing this game of cat-and-mouse. A little dumpster dive wouldn't be so hard. Or...
"Come out," she says with a fatal calm.
The stench of refuse suffuses the alleyway, rotten food from eateries and decaying cardboard ridden with damp. It's not so bad though, there's a certain lifting quality to the place. It's got some charm, right? The dumpsters have this delightful uniformity to them, all sat in a row. Orderly but also just a little bit askew. Haha. One of them, the most stray of the five, looks like it'd have a cheeky personality. There's a throb behind her eyes and then she finds herself looking at five unremarkable dumpsters in a line in a reeking alleyway that no one would spend time in intentionally, without very good reason.
The shuffling feet of the student at the entrance of the alleyway leave her behind as she proceeds, the dumpsters drawing closer. As she calls out, there's a silence that yawns wide, almost daring her to do something else and risk being swallowed.
Footsteps ahead, and a hooded face appears round the corner at the end of an alleyway. A gap-toothed man stares over, his pale face grimy-white, the pink fabric hood about his head having fallen back slightly to reveal the red-yellow-green coloured front of his rastacap. He grins as he sees Rachel standing there, baring the yellowed set of tombstones again as he prepares to recieve fresh company. "Ey, girlie! Wagwan!", he asks, eyes glassy and sclera pinkish. He steps out into the alleyway, revealing his bell-bottomed jeans. "How you feeling? you feel it too? It's goooood out here today", he insists, starting to walk towards Rachel. As he starts to close the distance, snapping his fingers idly, Rachel hears the drums pick up a little.
Boom Boom Clap, Boom Boom Clap, and the sound of distant vocals picking up in concert, shouted words, familiar. The smell of cannabis, and the din of a crowd having a good time about her as though she were trapped in a plastic bubble among them that muffles the report of their words too much for any of it to be intelligible.
Rachel has some power available to her, but in the supernatural community, she's young, and they're table stakes. It's not her magical know-how that offers her protection. No, there's always someone more powerful, more capable. In the end, it's not the possession of strength that matters - it's the perception of it.
So, while the alleyway shrinks in on her and the stranger draws ever closer, she doesn't reach into her bag. She doesn't turn tail and run. She stands her ground, her thumbs hanging loosely in her pockets. "Is it?" she asks, as if they were simply discussing the weather. "It seems a little *loud* to me." She says it like she's prompting an old friend to agree. "I was going to ask you to keep it down. You know." Her affect's too friendly - hey, we're in on the same secret, you and me. "Just from neighbor to neighbor."
The stench is overpowering. Her head hurts. No telling how long she can keep this up, but for now, she maintains an implacable serenity.
"Haha, yeah man, it's like not even a problem though man, just enjoy it, giiirrl, c'mooon!", the crusty caucasian implores as he nears Rachel. The stench of the alley fades, as the tune picks up.
"We will, we will, rock you!" Clap, Boom Boom Clap!
"We will, we will, rock you!" Clap, Boom Boom Clap!
"Wooo!", screams a nearby festival goer. On the stage, a fifty metres away, is a band with a white-shirted lead singer belting out powerful vocals with a fist thrust in the air. He has his foot up on the amp before him, stomping away to the beat of the drums as he repeats the line and the cheering crowd scream it back, enraptured at his beck and call.
"Come on, Rachel!", a girl stood next to Rachel implores, clapping her hands over her head having just screamed out joyfully. She has bright red hair and golden bodyglitter on her cheeks/decolletage, wearing a tie-die tank top with a black fist emblazoned on it. A girl to the other side squeals along too, screaming the repeated lyrics at the top of her lungs; a pretty girl with black hair and black tattoos, dressed in a white ribbed croptop and purple skater-skirt. Ahead, a man with long dreadlocks bearing cyclindrical pewter beads turns back to look at her, grinning widely and warmly with wild abandon. A joint's lip end bobs infront of his face, its roach clamped between his teeth where a long scar splits his lips and races up the side of his face, up into the front of his dreadlocks. He wears a bright multicoloured wool poncho that reeks of patchouli. "Like, relax man, it's all good!", the man encourages Rachel in a blazed-out russian accent, cannabis smoke escaping his mouth with every breath.
Suddenly, a dog yaps just next to Rachel's ankle, the stab of its claws pressing against her ankle drawing her attention for a second as the white-haired pup from before yaps at her and the pink-hooded man standing in the alleyway with her, currently reaching into her pocket for her phone with one hand, his other grubby-nailed gripper holding an old-looking tape recorder playing "We will rock you" by Queen, the air around it seeming to shimmer slightly as it plays the tune. His attention is elsewhere as he continues trying to rob Rachel, and at any moment the halycon allure of the festival threatens to drag her back if Rachel doesn't act.
Rachel's composure is no more. When a stage appears out of nowhere, Rachel takes an uncertain step back. It puts her right next to the girl with the bright red hair, whom she didn't see at all until right this second. She jerks away, not to touch her - if she even could. That puts her just next to that tattooed skater. It's not Rachel that's on drugs - probably - but her eyes go saucer-wide as if she were.
The dog yaps. "AAH!" she yelps, tearing away. It's actually fortuitous that she stumbles and falls, given that the man has his sticky fingers in her pocket. If he hasn't gotten far enough to grip her phone, it'd mean that she gets away scot-free for the moment.
Rachel scoots back, seated, her feet pushing against the ground and then scrambles to standing. Whomever this is, he's got tricks up his sleeves beyond Rachel's knowing - and even she knows it's time to run.
As she peels away, the man looks panicked upon realising she is lucid. "Uh, ey, girl uh.. why don't you uh, -listen- to the music!", the wannabe reggae dweeb insists, tentatively taking a step or two towards the supine Rachel after she falls. Spooked, the little white dog bolts, yapping as it flees. At the end of the alleyway, the grasper hangs onto the corner of the alleyway's entrance, emptying his stomach out onto the pavement. THe older couple look around confused, the man's arm wrapped around his partner's shouldrs reassuringly although he himself looks as bewildered and fearful as her. The woman at the car calls out for the dog, "Cmon! Here! Here!" as it comes running, quickly darting up to her and walking its legs up to her knee.
As Rachel rises to her feet, the man skips back a step, looking like he's about to bold himself, until she hot-foots it. He turns and runs himself, the throbbing pain returning behind Rachel's eyes as the music fades away along with that fizzing static that seems to go through her body and make her bones vibrate, just behind the melody of the tune.
Not a good self-defense mechanism to simply stay put, heels of her hand pressed into her eyeballs as if Rachel could smash the pain away. It's lucky that the man is just as spooked as she is. Luckier still, maybe, that the crowd's coming back to normal and she doesn't have to deal with them, too. By the time she looks again, the man's gone.
She should be, too, before anything more happens. There's muck all over the back of her expensive skirt, and she smells vaguely of refuse. Disgusting.
Again, past the couple, past the girl and the dog, until she's at the front door of her workplace. She yanks it open. Her politeness, her gentleness, doesn't resurface. It bears re-emphasizing: this has been a no good, very bad, horrible day. "Hey, you," she tells the man who'd been in here before - he better still be. "They're gone. You gotta go. I have to close up."
Rachel is obeyed in short order, the man pauses on his way past to ask; "Oh, did you find-" before halting suddenly upon reaching Rachel and getting a whiff of the alleyessence on her. He dips his head and scurries off before he finds himself dealing with an irate Rachel, perhaps more dangerous than the man in the alley with terrible taste in music/fashion/slang/hygiene/profession
Her investigation leads her directly into a confrontation with the hooded man, who seems to embody the source of the disruption. As the environment around her shifts into a surreal festival scene, complete with music and seemingly hallucinatory participants, Rachel struggles to maintain her grasp on reality. The arrival of a small dog adds to the confusion, prompting her to attempt to retrieve her phone from her pocket, only to find the hooded man's hands already there. Spooked by the encounter and realizing she is outmatched by the man's supernatural tricks, Rachel makes a hasty retreat back to the safety of the cafe, instructing her previously safeguarded companion to leave as she prepares to close up after a truly bizarre and unsettling day.
(Rachel's odd encounter(SRKonstantin):SRKonstantin)
[Sat Jun 22 2024]
In the Brush & Brew Cafe within Pigment and Paper Studio
The room features a spacious and airy layout, with a barista counter located prominently in the center of the space. The counter is sleek and modern, with gleaming stainless steel and a state-of-the-art espresso machine on display. Along the eastern wall, a collection of colorful and eye-catching art prints is on display. The prints are arranged in a gallery-like fashion, with the surreal and bizarre art of Isabelle Vadasra featuring prominently among the work of other local artists. A mural of a fishing net cast across a field of stars covers the northern wall.
To the west, an open archway leads to a painting room where customers can decorate their purchased bisque pieces.
It is afternoon, about 89F(31C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.
The grasping youth turns enough to begin pawing at the wall, rubbing his fingers raw as they scrape against the chipped bricks. A few people further down the street stand together and quietly discuss the befuddled group of randoms near the alleyway's entrance, judgementally shaking their heads. To the other end of the road, a man wearing a stetson and denim jacket turns on his heel after walking to within a few metres, only looking up from his phone to notice them at that point before isntantly deciding that he wants nothing to do with whatever this is and that he can find his way to his destination on the next street over. Reasonable.
Rachel's companion nods uncertainly at her offer to remain here inside, seeming unconvinced of the lack of violence, but glad to be away from whatever danger lurks beyond. The command recieves no resistance, the natural just nodding obediently and offering assurance; "Oh, I wont. I wont do that, miss! I will wait here and not touch anything..". He looks a little lost once he mentally roots himself here in the shop, finding himself without much to do now that he's totally naturally agreed not to touch anything. It's an art shop atleast, so he can spend some time distracting himself with the gallery's curiosities.
The dog walks around the feet of its owner now, drawing its lead behind it till it tangles about her ankles. Even that doesn't distract her from her handle-pulling. The elderly woman inside of the car produces a small canister of pepper-spray, lifting a shaky hand as she calls out some inaudible warning behind the glass of her car windows before depressing the spray's cap. Immediately, it sprays out, splattering the inside of her window with faintly reddish fluid. Immediate regret, as what little of the spray becomes more aerosolized wafts back and stings at her eyes, nostrils and mouth. She quite promptly passes out, everything just a bit too much for her right now. The handle-puller is undeterred by this fearsome display.
Movement from within the alleyway beyond, Rachel's view only allowing a slanted glance into the very mouth of the alleyway across the street. A figure half-reveals itself, dressed in a grotty UB40 pink band-hoodie with the hood raised, a backpack strap visible on the shoulder that comes into view as they glance out of the alleyway before withdrawing back within.
Rachel feels a dull ache at the front of her skull, suddenly, after seeing the figure. A throb of something beyond the natural that makes her eyes feel like they want to spin back into her head and her legs wobble briefly for a moment but nothing more powerful than what she has experienced before. Noise.
Having adequately scoped the situation out, Rachel leaves the man inside to disintegrate into a puddle of sweat. She shuts the door, leaning on it with her hand sandwiched behind her body. Now, a reasonable and logical person in a reasonable and logical town would perhaps find a phone and call the authorities. Here in Haven, though, the police do little to corral the supernatural - they hide it, certainly, but solve the problem? Not so much. Not usually.
That means that Rachel's other reasonable and logical option is phoning someone she knows. Of course, she's been a Handful (capital H intended) lately, and another ding on her record might not be looked upon favorably. So, that that leaves everything that's distinctly unreasonable and illogical.
Go for the alleyway, or go for the people posing a risk to themselves and others?
One's easier.
One's the root problem.
Rachel offers up (or down, as the case may be) a prayer to the powers that be and quietly walks in the direction of that questionable figure with the backpack and the poor fashion taste.
The throbbing subsides ten or so seconds after the figure withdraws into the alleyway, Rachel's skullrattle ceasing and her eyes no longer feeling like they're going to try making an escape from their sockets. Rachel's erstwhile companion is left behind with his eyes on the paintings, calming himself by enjoying the artwork with all the focus of the afforementioned fly.
the journey across the road takes her past the car-botherer with her yappy little hound, the wall-stroking dudebro, and the middle-aged couple examining the the brickwork with their noses practically pressed into the gappy mortar between. As she passes the baseballcapped student, Rachel hears him murmuring to himself; "Catch.. catch it.. got to.. yeah.. gotta get it..", grasping at the air ahead of him. His fingers find purchase, their tips slipping between the bricks and gripping with his thumb beneath as he starts to try and prize the brick free fruitlessly. "G-got it!", he squeals with delight, face lighting, "I've done it! I got it!".
The alleyway beyond is clear as far as Rachel can see from its mouth, the passageway splitting into a T junction at its end as it meets the backstreet that runs between two rows of buildings beyond, parallel to the road. A fainter sensation comes to her now as the steps onto the gritty filth of the alley-floor, far more managable especially with the warning she recieved from the more intense exposure earlier. A drum beat sounds out, quiet and distant, echoing down the alleyway from beyond.
The smell of cigarette smoke and cannabis mixed, faintly, and faint echoes of conversations all around her. It's easy to tune out, atleast.
There is the sound of movement just ahead and to the right, where a rank of dumpsters lines the left side of the alleyway in front, half way between Rachel and the T-junction. Beyond that, nothing occurs, the bewildered naturals observing from the streetside forgotten.
For those ten or so seconds, Rachel presses her thumb and forefinger over her left and right eye respectively. This is a horrible, no good, very bad day. Home was so close. Unfortunately, this is part of her job as a part of the supernatural community; it's in all of their best interests to ensure that the unaware remain so.
Past the girl and her dog, past the wall scratcher, past the middle-aged couple she walks. She slows only momentarily, as if she were considering lingering long enough to catch their eye and send them home. But no, any second lost puts her a second further from reaching her real target. She speeds up, now at a brisk stride.
Rachel's not dressed for this. She's in heels that are strapped to her ankles in a way that leave her liable to twist them with a bad misstep. Her nose rejects the smell of the alleyway, wrinkling.
Could keep playing this game of cat-and-mouse. A little dumpster dive wouldn't be so hard. Or...
"Come out," she says with a fatal calm.
The stench of refuse suffuses the alleyway, rotten food from eateries and decaying cardboard ridden with damp. It's not so bad though, there's a certain lifting quality to the place. It's got some charm, right? The dumpsters have this delightful uniformity to them, all sat in a row. Orderly but also just a little bit askew. Haha. One of them, the most stray of the five, looks like it'd have a cheeky personality. There's a throb behind her eyes and then she finds herself looking at five unremarkable dumpsters in a line in a reeking alleyway that no one would spend time in intentionally, without very good reason.
The shuffling feet of the student at the entrance of the alleyway leave her behind as she proceeds, the dumpsters drawing closer. As she calls out, there's a silence that yawns wide, almost daring her to do something else and risk being swallowed.
Footsteps ahead, and a hooded face appears round the corner at the end of an alleyway. A gap-toothed man stares over, his pale face grimy-white, the pink fabric hood about his head having fallen back slightly to reveal the red-yellow-green coloured front of his rastacap. He grins as he sees Rachel standing there, baring the yellowed set of tombstones again as he prepares to recieve fresh company. "Ey, girlie! Wagwan!", he asks, eyes glassy and sclera pinkish. He steps out into the alleyway, revealing his bell-bottomed jeans. "How you feeling? you feel it too? It's goooood out here today", he insists, starting to walk towards Rachel. As he starts to close the distance, snapping his fingers idly, Rachel hears the drums pick up a little.
Boom Boom Clap, Boom Boom Clap, and the sound of distant vocals picking up in concert, shouted words, familiar. The smell of cannabis, and the din of a crowd having a good time about her as though she were trapped in a plastic bubble among them that muffles the report of their words too much for any of it to be intelligible.
Rachel has some power available to her, but in the supernatural community, she's young, and they're table stakes. It's not her magical know-how that offers her protection. No, there's always someone more powerful, more capable. In the end, it's not the possession of strength that matters - it's the perception of it.
So, while the alleyway shrinks in on her and the stranger draws ever closer, she doesn't reach into her bag. She doesn't turn tail and run. She stands her ground, her thumbs hanging loosely in her pockets. "Is it?" she asks, as if they were simply discussing the weather. "It seems a little *loud* to me." She says it like she's prompting an old friend to agree. "I was going to ask you to keep it down. You know." Her affect's too friendly - hey, we're in on the same secret, you and me. "Just from neighbor to neighbor."
The stench is overpowering. Her head hurts. No telling how long she can keep this up, but for now, she maintains an implacable serenity.
"Haha, yeah man, it's like not even a problem though man, just enjoy it, giiirrl, c'mooon!", the crusty caucasian implores as he nears Rachel. The stench of the alley fades, as the tune picks up.
"We will, we will, rock you!" Clap, Boom Boom Clap!
"We will, we will, rock you!" Clap, Boom Boom Clap!
"Wooo!", screams a nearby festival goer. On the stage, a fifty metres away, is a band with a white-shirted lead singer belting out powerful vocals with a fist thrust in the air. He has his foot up on the amp before him, stomping away to the beat of the drums as he repeats the line and the cheering crowd scream it back, enraptured at his beck and call.
"Come on, Rachel!", a girl stood next to Rachel implores, clapping her hands over her head having just screamed out joyfully. She has bright red hair and golden bodyglitter on her cheeks/decolletage, wearing a tie-die tank top with a black fist emblazoned on it. A girl to the other side squeals along too, screaming the repeated lyrics at the top of her lungs; a pretty girl with black hair and black tattoos, dressed in a white ribbed croptop and purple skater-skirt. Ahead, a man with long dreadlocks bearing cyclindrical pewter beads turns back to look at her, grinning widely and warmly with wild abandon. A joint's lip end bobs infront of his face, its roach clamped between his teeth where a long scar splits his lips and races up the side of his face, up into the front of his dreadlocks. He wears a bright multicoloured wool poncho that reeks of patchouli. "Like, relax man, it's all good!", the man encourages Rachel in a blazed-out russian accent, cannabis smoke escaping his mouth with every breath.
Suddenly, a dog yaps just next to Rachel's ankle, the stab of its claws pressing against her ankle drawing her attention for a second as the white-haired pup from before yaps at her and the pink-hooded man standing in the alleyway with her, currently reaching into her pocket for her phone with one hand, his other grubby-nailed gripper holding an old-looking tape recorder playing "We will rock you" by Queen, the air around it seeming to shimmer slightly as it plays the tune. His attention is elsewhere as he continues trying to rob Rachel, and at any moment the halycon allure of the festival threatens to drag her back if Rachel doesn't act.
Rachel's composure is no more. When a stage appears out of nowhere, Rachel takes an uncertain step back. It puts her right next to the girl with the bright red hair, whom she didn't see at all until right this second. She jerks away, not to touch her - if she even could. That puts her just next to that tattooed skater. It's not Rachel that's on drugs - probably - but her eyes go saucer-wide as if she were.
The dog yaps. "AAH!" she yelps, tearing away. It's actually fortuitous that she stumbles and falls, given that the man has his sticky fingers in her pocket. If he hasn't gotten far enough to grip her phone, it'd mean that she gets away scot-free for the moment.
Rachel scoots back, seated, her feet pushing against the ground and then scrambles to standing. Whomever this is, he's got tricks up his sleeves beyond Rachel's knowing - and even she knows it's time to run.
As she peels away, the man looks panicked upon realising she is lucid. "Uh, ey, girl uh.. why don't you uh, -listen- to the music!", the wannabe reggae dweeb insists, tentatively taking a step or two towards the supine Rachel after she falls. Spooked, the little white dog bolts, yapping as it flees. At the end of the alleyway, the grasper hangs onto the corner of the alleyway's entrance, emptying his stomach out onto the pavement. THe older couple look around confused, the man's arm wrapped around his partner's shouldrs reassuringly although he himself looks as bewildered and fearful as her. The woman at the car calls out for the dog, "Cmon! Here! Here!" as it comes running, quickly darting up to her and walking its legs up to her knee.
As Rachel rises to her feet, the man skips back a step, looking like he's about to bold himself, until she hot-foots it. He turns and runs himself, the throbbing pain returning behind Rachel's eyes as the music fades away along with that fizzing static that seems to go through her body and make her bones vibrate, just behind the melody of the tune.
Not a good self-defense mechanism to simply stay put, heels of her hand pressed into her eyeballs as if Rachel could smash the pain away. It's lucky that the man is just as spooked as she is. Luckier still, maybe, that the crowd's coming back to normal and she doesn't have to deal with them, too. By the time she looks again, the man's gone.
She should be, too, before anything more happens. There's muck all over the back of her expensive skirt, and she smells vaguely of refuse. Disgusting.
Again, past the couple, past the girl and the dog, until she's at the front door of her workplace. She yanks it open. Her politeness, her gentleness, doesn't resurface. It bears re-emphasizing: this has been a no good, very bad, horrible day. "Hey, you," she tells the man who'd been in here before - he better still be. "They're gone. You gotta go. I have to close up."
Rachel is obeyed in short order, the man pauses on his way past to ask; "Oh, did you find-" before halting suddenly upon reaching Rachel and getting a whiff of the alleyessence on her. He dips his head and scurries off before he finds himself dealing with an irate Rachel, perhaps more dangerous than the man in the alley with terrible taste in music/fashion/slang/hygiene/profession