Encounterlogs
Wrens Odd Encounter Sr Sean 240921
The tale unfolds with Wren, a member of the mysterious Order, being awoken in the middle of the night to handle a delicate situation in the Red Light District. As she silently prepares for her mission, leaving her sleeping husband oblivious to her night's work, she reflects on the obligations of her role. Tasked with containing a supernatural incident concerning a college student named Miles and a vampire dancer, Wren equips herself for a scenario that demands subtlety over force. The urgent call from Order Control sends her racing through the night, her destination a seedy corner of Haven known for its nightlife and supernatural clientele.
Upon her arrival, Wren finds the situation more complex than anticipated. Miles, under the influence of a vampire's allure, is at risk of exposing the supernatural community with his loud accusations. Wren quickly assumes the role of a concerned sorority girl, using her charm and quick thinking to distract Miles and calm the situation. Marshall, a fellow Sword of the Order acting as a bouncer, manages the physical containment, while Wren's empathetic manipulation steers Miles towards safety and oblivion, away from the potentially catastrophic revelation of vampires to the unsuspecting public. Through a blend of wit, charm, and the strategic use of her Order resources, Wren successfully averts a crisis, ensuring Miles is discreetly taken into care for his exposure to the supernatural. The operation concludes with Wren's return home, reflecting on the night's trials and the dual life she leads, concealed even from those she holds dear.
(Wren's odd encounter(SRSean):SRSean)
[Fri Sep 20 2024]
In a warm-hued bedroom
Stripped of its once-bohemian flare, this room has been remade as a cozy, intimate space of wood tones and sultry umber, green and gray. To give a sense of space to the smaller bedroom, the furniture has been moved to the farthest corners while the king-sized bed has been given pride of place against a long, unbroken wall kiddy corner to the exterior window. A neutral-tone, alpaca fur rug with rounded edges lines half of the floor, creating an artificial dividing line between the bed area and the dresser and vanity.
The walls are painted in a three-quarter band of cream, with a bottom molding of storm gray. The cream slowly tapers into a subtle gray-green to the ceiling. Opposite the bed is an eight-drawer dresser with a small stool and a vanity mirror. The vanity has been filled with small jewelry bowls and dishes. High above the bed, a television has been mounted on the wall.
It is night, about 69F(20C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Someone in Haven has found out about the supernatural and is freaking out about it. They're at risk of exposing the secret, hurting themselves, or hurting others. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
Perfect timing. Right? Nearly 11pm. Bedtime for sure. Her husband dead-out beside her. PJ time. Most Order agents simply abed, Shieldbearers out on an operation and the Librarians not really tasked with this sort of thing. Deep in dreamland, as he should be, and taking up far more of the bed than he should be allowed to do, is a passed-out spook splayed out like a starfish, drooling into his pillow. A sweaty, bare foot cloys at Wren's calf as he seems to be doing something like taikwondo in his sleep. There's a mumble in Russian and a whip over, suddenly, a pillow slamming onto her head. Fantastic.
"Stavanger?"
That's not him. That's something else. In her ear. Nearing 11:00pm. "Stavanger. You awake?" It crackles, and then comes through clean. "I hate to do this, kid, but we're a bit short-staffed and we need someone on-site immediately. You're practiced enough, or they wouldn't have let you in. You're Aware. You're Awake. It'll have to be good enough. So. Up you get."
The voice is tired, itself barely awake, and it doesn't want to make this much of a conversation. "There's a breach, and it's not going all that well. Uptown, out in the Red Light District-" Fantastic. "And we need to get the target contained. Scouts report a bit of a tussle. How're you with hand-to-hand?"
Wren rolls over one way when she hears the static in her ear. She hisses out, and tries to avoid that nudge and the pillow to her face, but instead she gets slapped with it, and a voice which she does not recognize. At first it is nothing about her husband, nothing at all, it's someone else. The waif groans, and tries to ignore it, and eventually she taps at her earbud close along the shell of her ear. Ugh, fucking, really? This is what her partner said about 'service,' no matter the time of day, even if they're already asleep. So she tries to rally, scrub her eyes, and she replies with a scowl that is not heard in her voice:
"Copy that, Order Control. Stavanger reporting in. Give me the address in the Red Light District," its so quiet, dim, but it can be picked up by the mic nestled close into her ear. Already tugging on her clothes, she looks over her sleeping companion and digs out her go-bag from under the bed, checks the safe, and gathers more materials. "Not so great on hand-to-hand, but I'll make due." She checks her Glock without looking in the chamber yet, not wanting to startle the man sprawled along the bed getting his black belt in tangled sheets.
"Status on assailant?"
Getting dressed in the dark is a challenge, but Wren manages to find all the things she needs - boots, pants, shirt, motorcycle suit. Hopping on one foot to get her boot down soundlessly, it is a miracle that the man does /not/ wake up, though with his escapades of late there is not much she can do but let him rest. Taking care to honor promises, she is carefully scrawling out a quick note on a corgi-illustrated notepad of spooky, fall-associated aesthetics.
Situation for work on Red Light Drive. Gone to close a breach. Taking go-bag. Will be back before breakfast. LoVe, @me.
Situation for work on Red Light Drive. Gone to close a breach. Taking go-bag. Will be back before breakfast. LoVe, Wren.
He should sleep like a baby. He's had a long day. He usually does. Wren is able to get herself up and armed with little in the way of distraction or interruption. In her absence, the entire bed becomes a cocoon for the man atop him, twisting to wrap himself up in the blankets and snoring violently into the pillows in a manner that will leave him with a horrible sore throat in the morning. He really should drink more water.
"Fantastic," the voice replies, stifling a yawn. Either this isn't so urgent as to necessitate a response, or the person on the other end of the line is as drained out as Wren seems to be. It's bed time, not crisis time. "Not great, but if it gets into a tussle, call in the Shieldbearers. We DO NOT want any bloodshed here. The target is having an awakening. It's an issue of containment, not of violence. We go quiet. We play nice." Perfect. The Order, always the Nice Guys. Absolutely fitting for the glocked-and-locked little biker girl. The note is written, and placed nearby, somewhere safe, and, more importantly, obvious upon waking. As she moves to head out the door, there's a loud rip-snort and a mumble of "...m'no, not Enterprise...s'sobadyou'remeanloveyo-" and then he's out again. And the darkness consumes her.
"You know the Nymph?" the voice says, once Wren indicates she's clear for the ping. "It's nearby that, corner of Badwater and Devilwood. Apparently, so the scouts report, the target was, well, doing as one does at the Nymph, when one of the dancers, a vampire, got a little too excited with the ordered lapdance and went for the throat. No one's harmed, but the man's drunk as all get-out and there are reports of possible hypnosis, failed or otherwise."
"I'd suggest heading out ASAP," Ops Central says, though their voice lacks any sense of time or pressure to it. "Better we get this one bundled away and, if need be, we can do a bit of brainwashing to keep everything mum. Don't bring stakes." That's interesting. "Non-lethal. Got it?"
No gun, no stakes? What the fuck. Wren considers those options, and she holsters the pistol in a concealed part of her operative attire. Definitely not /that/ fitting for the biker girl, no, not quite, it'll always not fit, not quiet. She huffs, and looks over her husband once more, and she cradles him with her eyes, one last glance of remembrance once she is strolling out. "Understood and heard," she mutters into her communique, even though she likely sounds a bit begrudging of the fact, the waif will play nice for the time being, so long as she has the patience to. She does not want to, however, she does not want to fuck this one up, if it's the first time she's entering the field on behalf of the Order as a Sword. Swords go where they're pointed, but sometimes there's a double edge.
"Corner of Badwater and Devilwood. Alright, I'll get over there now." Out of the tiny cottage in the deep dark wood, down the stairs, mounting her bike. Thrum goes the throttle, and she's -racing- off into the shadows of the evening crowded by the crooked trees that seem to carry the gaze of ancient and abyssal depths along her shoulder blades. The woman, without supervision, this time, or anytime (for the most part) is using maximum speed for maximum effort (because she wants to get this done so she can go back to bed). But she didn't forget her helmet which is doubly important as she rockets in zig-zags over the dirt roads that gradually meld through into the rough concrete; clearly Haven has some maintenance issues in the county.
Along Devilwood she travels, sometimes taking the empty sidewalk. But eventually she makes it to that corner. Well, the kitty corner of Badwater and Devilwood, opposite the one where the man might reside. Keeping outside of the street lights, she'll look like anyone walking through the night in the glow of iniquity and crimson-shaded neon. Helmet on, tinted visor. She'll stay anonymous for this one, she hopes.
Behind her as she drives flicker the low lights of a front porch shaped and reshaped by loving hands, a home that is a haven in Haven, a place of safety and quiet, where Service is a distant call and Duty is a joke that causes people to laugh. But Wren is married to the man she is for a reason. Because she desires to be More. And whether or not the Order has done her right, it is not in her to do them Wrong when someone, out there, needs a bit of help. As she once did. No gun. No stakes. Wren, this time, might just have to use her words and her charm. Because killing people on Devilwood on a Friday Night near the Strip Clubs is all but asking for HSD to show up and start shooting, blindly. Probably not great.
Night winds out ahead of her, water sloshing around the wheels, a moment needed just to get enough traction to get moving. This damnable flood has already ruined her front door and now it threatens to get into the internal workings of her well-earned bike. Once she's off, she's off, though, nearly hydroplaning in her attempt to get on-site as quickly as possible. Her phone 'blips' with a GPS ping but her comms are otherwise silent. And it's a good thing she remembers her helmet. Drunk drivers and peering half-blind Suburban moms in their perfectly-white SUVs whip around the far side of town as Wren weaves towards Devilwood and Badwater. Floods and rocks and poor paving make the ride difficult, uncomfortable. Painful.
As she moves into the actual Red Light district, flickering with its head shops, corner-light dealers, and streetwalkers, there's a necessity to slow down. Only then does her comms crackle on again.
"Target's around the corner from the Nymph, Stavanger. Some of the bouncers are trying to calm him down, and a few of the dancers have rushed out to see what the trouble is. They've got him contained for the moment, but he's panicking. One of the bouncers is ours - Marshall. I'd check in with him, see how that dancer's doing. If you don't have any blood bags on you, maybe Marshall will. Calm her first-" Instructions are good, but overexplanation's probably not appreciated.
The situation, albeit messy, is fairly obvious on arrival. Several scantily clad dancers are in an alleyway, their outfits collecting what little light is available and refracting it on every plastic jewel and bedazzled thong. A tall, bald man with a black t-shirt tight across his chest, the Nymph's logo faded across the back, attempts to gently talk down a panicked, pale-in-the face college kid who's rambling loud enough to be heard from the curb.
Arriving on the scene, Wren arrives and glints against the dim shadows of the flickering streetlamps with a pulse of LEDs on her motorcycle helmet, blue while hooked up to the bluetooth on her bike, and now crimson without the linked in bit of tech she's tried to fashion in. The extra information is helpful, to a point, but she sees her contact right away. Without any determining marks for the bouncer to see, she steps from her bike, drops the kickstand and flips up her visor. Is it too late for Suburban moms to even surface at this hour? Nevertheless, the floods do slow her down, and her GPS does happen to try to take her down a few alleyways, which she ignores, so when she finally gets there, damp and splattered in water and leather, she's ready to not ride as quickly as she had before.
Marshall isn't anyone she knows yet, so when she greets him there's no secret handshake, no special /look/ given, instead it starts with: "Got sent over. What's the situation with the dancer?" The man will just have to catch up as she's taking in the entire scene with her very keen eyes, and focusing on every minute detail. If she were more gifted in other realms of psychological empathy, there would be a radiation of energy out from her -- but not yet, that's for other missions. Perception and sight are relied on heavily here, swinging towards the dancer, while the college kid has his moment on the curb. Planting a boot on the edge, she balances there, halfway in the street and sidewalk. No one is going to fuck with her, or her bike, now that she's this close.
Let's get a read on the situation, so this is her time, as she tries to tuck and shove her bedhead up into the helmet, trying to keep herself less identified by now what are 'civilians' to her, as possible. Focusing on the dancers, then, focusing on the kid, and trying in the moment to exude an energy that she manifests with a subtle, but direct stream of sympathetic feeling. Let's calm the college kid down while she waits and listens on what Marshall may have to say. There is a faint sour taste in her mouth, a popping of her ears, but she tries to keep her hands from clenching into gloved fists.
Well. This is a right clusterfuck of a situation, and certainly not something Marshall wants to be dealing with on a Friday night, already nearing Saturday, at least, in the chronological sense. The bald man takes note of Wren, gives her something of a distracted upnod as he attempts to corral and contain a half-drunk, horned-up college student that's babbling, WAY too loudly, about vampires and fangs and whirling eyes, overt and obvious, some of the dancers looking alarmed, others confused, and some passersby, drug dealers, and pedestrians peeking into the alleyway from the curb, simply to watch a free show. "Swear to god, man!" the kid yells, hands held out, fearful of Marshall given the drastic difference in size. Marshall's another Sword, his street clothes his cover, his armor. He's big enough that, if he's Awakened, Activated, he's likely more than able to handle most threats while dressed in big jeans, boots and a tight, black bouncer Tee.
The target he's trying to soothe is, by comparison, maybe 5'5" at his tallest, dressed like a squirrelly frat boy and proudly wearing the Forbearance House colors from White Oak College. He's old enough to be here, and likely too young to actually be drunk the way he seems to be. But it's not just drunkenness. As Wren comes close enough to assess the situation, and Marshall pivots such that he's shielding some of the street-goers from Wren and their target, to allow her to come in closer without needing to speak, or to yell, Wren an see that the target is looking a little pale - odd, given that he looks like an athlete of some kind. Dusky skinned. Tanned from summer practice? He shouldn't be pale. He's scratching at the side of his throat, periodically spasming subtly. As if coming down from a fix, or starting on the front-end of a new, terrifying high.
And then he gets pushed into , his ambient yelling slowing, calming, just a bit. He looks out into the darkness, as if to try to find the source of sympathy that overwhelms him, to find the eyes and voices he surely hears in his head that reassure him he's not crazy. "...H-hey...seriously. I didn't touch her or anything. She's still inside, and she's fine. Really. I just...I was getting a lapdance and I think both of us were getting a bit-" Oh, god. "...excited. You know? And when she turned around to-" He's having a hard time here, though everyone in the alley, bouncers, bartenders and dancers, aren't moved or squeamish at his recollection of a lapdance. This is their job, and it's comparatively tame to some of the shit seen in this part of town.
"...Like...you know? For the touching? I went in for a kiss-" Breaking the Cardinal Rule there, buck-o, "And then she like...reared back and tried to bite me!""
Messy. Real fucking messy. No wonder Order Control mentioned that a gun wouldn't fit in this situation. This is a bit more than Marshall can handle word wise, street wise, Wren flashes a grateful, if guarded look to her Sword-in-arms, and with confirmation that the dancer is alright, she gets closer to the college kid spazzing out and blabbing to anyone along the street that he's gotten bit. "Hey dude, you from Forebearance at White Oak? I thought you guys had a mixer tonight," she opens with something completely distracting so that he has the opportunity to talk about everything else but what he wants to. A slight narrowing of her eyes, and she exudes a bit more pressure, let's change the tone here. Keying into his needs, his desires, there is a lot to sense there for a drunk still not-grown man-child wearing Daddy's polos. With a sniff, she lifts her eyes quickly over the street and around, with vigilance while keeping her attention darting over to Marshall. "I was hoping to come, but I know it's usually no girls allowed, and all that shit, you go through your initiation yet? I hear Forebearance has wicked sick parties." Please, kill her now, this is not her favorite thing to do, but she'll do it. If it'll get him off the street.
Meanwhile, she's attempting to flick out her phone and type some requests into the database and system for the Order, making a request for a drop for the kid a block away from here. He needs medical attention, and a good mind-wipe, possibly, a test for vampirism. No good. Her eyes scan along his throat, while she tugs off her helmet. Let's use a bit of feminine charm, and a toss of loose, tousled curls. Sex-bed head, it's a really great look for any woman out at night in the Red Light. A smile splits her lips, and another casting over to someone. Whatever she's sent into the system pings his contacts too in a back pocket of his pants.
Messy. Real fucking messy. No wonder Order Control mentioned that a gun wouldn't fit in this situation. This is a bit more than Marshall can handle word wise, street wise, Wren flashes a grateful, if guarded look to her Sword-in-arms, and with confirmation that the dancer is alright, she gets closer to the college kid spazzing out and blabbing to anyone along the street that he's gotten bit. "Hey dude, you from Forebearance at White Oak? I thought you guys had a mixer tonight," she opens with something completely distracting so that he has the opportunity to talk about everything else but what he wants to. A slight narrowing of her eyes, and she exudes a bit more pressure, let's change the tone here. Keying into his needs, his desires, there is a lot to sense there for a drunk still not-grown man-child wearing Daddy's polos. With a sniff, she lifts her eyes quickly over the street and around, with vigilance while keeping her attention darting over to Marshall. "I was hoping to come, but I know it's usually no girls allowed, and all that shit, you go through your initiation yet? I hear Forebearance has wicked sick parties." Please, kill her now, this is not her favorite thing to do, but she'll do it. If it'll get him off the street.
Meanwhile, she's attempting to flick out her phone and type some requests into the database and system for the Order, making a request for a drop for the kid a block away from here. He needs medical attention, and a good mind-wipe, possibly, a test for vampirism. No good. Her eyes scan along his throat, while she tugs off her helmet. Let's use a bit of feminine charm, and a toss of loose, tousled curls. Sex-bed head, it's a really great look for any woman out at night in the Red Light. A smile splits her lips, and another casting over to Marshall. Whatever she's sent into the system pings his contacts too in a back pocket of his pants.
Tonight? What? "Huh?" Another College student. That's all the kid can make out. Why else would someone know about Alpha Gamma Omega's mixer? He tries to peer at her, but she's obscured, behind Marshall and keeping herself anonymous. "You Phi Beta?" He asks of Wren, the bullshit of Greek Life in a small town enough to pull focus, briefly. "Haven't seen you around. Yeah, we've got a - " He rocks, a bit, eyes flitting, words dying in a choke in his throat. When he finally regains his footing, with the gentle help of two of the dancers, flitting in to his sides to steady him - better a safe customer than a mess, after all - he manages to right himself, blinks wildly, and stares at Wren with a renewed, if overly-intrigued interest. "Huh?....Fucking...yeah, it's almost October. And I did Rush Week back in Sophomore year. I'unno know. Are you, like, some Freshman girl?" Ah, cockiness. Utterly unearned, and utterly impossible to erase. He's a short kid, but he holds himself like he's got Daddy's Credit Card. And clearly, he does, to afford a private booth and a lap dance at the Nymph on a Friday Night.
He snorts, faintly, and walks forward, trying to drag the dancers that had helped stabilize him as if they were his roadies, walking towards Wren. "Yeah. Sick parties. Understatement. Alpha Gamma Omega throws the BEST parties, and we don't just let -anyone- in. Tri-Delts are always welcome though. You one of those Phi Beta prudes?" Panic has turned to judgment, but his mind isn't entirely assuaged, and he periodically looks back into the side door, both yearning for, and terrified of, whatever waits inside.
The helmet comes off and the orders go through and a file comes back - Miles Alderman, Junior, Alpha Gamma Omega, legacy kid. Latent Demigod. PoliSci Major. HSD is on standby and there's a car en route of Swords to pick him up when the situation is quelled.
And then Miles pauses. And so does Marshall. Even a few of the heavily-made-up, sparkly dancers do. Mostly out of shock, if nothing else. Using the distraction, Marshall pulls his phone out, checks it, grunts in a wordless sound of affirmation, and then starts typing on his phone.
Ew. Android texts. Stavanger. Good to meet you. Wish it were better circumstances. Kid's a regular. Been on watch. He got handsy w/ Corella, and her fangs kicked in. Little scratch, I think, but she's spooked and a bit blood-hungry now. Got eyes on her inside, might need some soothing. Any *blood emoji*?
"Damn. You do NOT belong here," one of the onlookers says, and another wolf-whistles, and one of the dancers, even amidst the mess, RUNS up on Wren and says "...Oh MY Gawd, who does your HAI'?!"
"Ohh thanks! I get it done down at 'You Wish' girl. Isn't it just?" Wren drawls out with a flash of a charming smile and a wink towards one of the onlookers, and she decides to pop a hip, slinky, showing off 'that leg' for Miles while he makes those dumbass judgments. If the onlookers are going to rizz her up, then this is going to help Miles get over himself about those needs and distractions she has, so she allows the one who ran up to her to hang on at least until they got bored.
All the while she's balancing her phone and holds at a wrist-slanted angle to peer at it, there is a small shake of her head to Marshall once her phone vibrates along her now ungloved hand. No, there's no blood. She has no store of it around her place, even so, she didn't swing by a base or waypoint to pick some up. Continuing the conversation with Miles, she smiles down to the dancers and then aside to him with a jaunty tilt of her head, "Freshman have the most fun, or did you not?" There is a slight hint of a pout to her voice, dialing up the charm. "Phi Beta, but not my choice, I got assigned for the dorm, not for the people," she scoffs disgust, and a flash of disdain in her eyes that carries deep into her skin. Greek rivalries, an inner cringe, so not worth the time. But she makes it worth the time, because that's what he needs right now. A throb of one of the veins along her brow, and she puts more pressure on Miles, but not enough to pop him like one of those liquid stretchy fidget toys that most people stomped on as kids. Instead, this is more like digging into clay and making something go, twist a certain direction. It requires focus, control, and so when her eyes flicker and lashes sweep downwards it may look like she's getting a bit flirty with him. Not that she's interested remotely.
Anything to go back to bed, and not see his stupid mug ever again. "I'm far from a prude, but I'm sad I can't prove it to you right now. You know? You look like you're ready to head back and join your brothers for the night. They're probably waiting. You didn't get an invite?" Playing on some insecurities, pushing him in that direction. Daddy's Credit Card can't buy respect. And maybe, she's banking on the fact that he is really the Omega runt of a very stupid litter.
"Yeah, but..." But nothing. Wren's hair is stunning, and even if she, perhaps, wasn't as well made-up as the dancers, the fact that they're making her shine makes her the object of attention. And so, she becomes the focus of Miles' attention. His childish mind easily molded by her somewhat-more-practiced one. She coos and drawls with dancers and they fawn over her, most of them simply seeing an out and trying to take it. The kid's drunk and he has pull and none of them need this mess tonight. Most of them, at least. They've got tired eyes and they claw onto and into Wren, seeing her angle, at least, to an extent, and helping her in it. Putting her forward, making her the lure for Miles' attention so that they can go back inside. Do their job. Go home to their wives or husbands or polycules or just lonely apartments with Paramount Plus. All but one.
One of them watches her from a dark corner, behind Miles, near the back exit, with sharp, piercing eyes. She watches Wren and she watches Marshall and she says absolutely nothing. She's dressed in nothing and is probably cold, but she doesn't seem moved. And she doesn't seem displeased. "Huh?" Ah, the man of the hour "Yeah, yeah. Heard of that place. Looks nice-" That's all he can muster? No wonder he's here, and not at his party. Sorority girls don't go in for short guys. Most of the time. Wren strains herself, and Marshall notices, sidestepping subtly to be present as a physical support. And subdual for Miles, should it be needed. He may not know, exactly, what she's doing, but the Order's got the blast of their newest Sword - Angelborn, and as such, with their innate charm. And with all the warnings attached - don't seduce, don't manipulate, her boyfriend's a Temple Spook with a mean streak and -very- bad impulse control and -very- good marksmanship. Watch. Witness. Report. Miles eases, until he's riled, again. Taunted.
"Oh? No, no, girl, I -got- the invite. It's my party-" It's not, but it's not a lie. He breaks away from the dancers supporting him, trying to swagger up to Wren, "Come on. I'll take you back with me. My car's around the corner, and you can show me how fun you a---Fuc-" And he goes stumbling, likely from the vampire saliva in his bloodstream, but it looks like a drunken stagger, and he goes toppling forward, and in that moment, Marshall steps forward, grabbing him under his shoulders, his voice rumbling "...Alright, kid. That's enough for tonight. We can keep the car here. Let's call you an Uber, get you back. You push yourself any further....we're calling HSD."
Once Marshall intervenes, Wren takes her foot off the metaphysical accelerator. That was the right time to step in, and she brushes some hair away from her face; a hint of sweat on her brow, glossy enough to draw attention to her unusual features, and the bone structure. The cheekbones. Oh god. The cheekbones.
And she plays into the indignation of Miles, at least, for a second while holding eye contact with Marshall for a few bouts, "Come on man, he's already coming back to the college with me, but yeah, I can help with the Uber." The half-complaint, and subtle, vague twitch of her face as it struggles to burn back to life in the musculature to make it more lively and less like she's casting a spell or staring down Miles for seduction is clear. She's a Good Guy, trying to mitigate the interference with an absent politeness that some college girls happen to have.
Scooping Miles from Marshall, she uses this chance for further stabilization and orientation. Just with words, nothing more in the tank tonight to suppress and alter. Out of the corner of her eye she spots the woman, glinting in the dark, and barely dressed. Time to go, before she might get any ideas. "Let's not get the HSD involved okay? Sorry sir, I'll get him that Uber and use my prude skills to get you the fuck out of here," she half-breathes to Marshall and aside to Miles as if this were some Shakespearean soliloquiy and she just happened to be Iago or someone with a bit of mischief. She's getting him out of trouble. She's valuable, and trustworthy, she's reliable! And, there might be 'sex' in it for him. Sounds like the perfect way to end the night. A hand on his shoulder, and she starts guiding Miles to the farthest corner, away from the Nymph. An eye flicks back over her shoulder. Marshall doesn't owe her a thing. Let him take care of the vampire fucked up on cocaine blood.
Well, the vampire's on watch, and if Wren's got nothing for her, oh well. Miles was the issue, and his ranting and raving was quelled impressively quickly by Wren's talents. Her physicality far, far second to her ability to simply wrangle a situation. Manage a crisis. Her husband would be proud. Miles comes into her arms like a drunken baby, scratching incessantly at the side of his throat, where there are no bite marks, but, rather, four long, jagged scratches, surface-level but still slightly bleeding. Miles shouldn't go to a party, or to his room. He should get to the Clinic, to ensure he's not been hooked.
"Huh? Yeah, no," and an arm slings itself around Wren's shoulder, "She's got me." And it's as if she's performed magic, as a car arrives without Wren even needing to fuck about on her phone. The pickup she'd called in earlier, but Miles just sees a nice, black SUV and says "Oh, Uber Black? Nice!" He goes to the back right door, pulling it open and already talking as he steps up and into the seat, "You here for Miles? Yeah, to the College, I've got a part-" And then he's YANKED inside the car, the door closing as the tinted window rolls down a crack for a voice somewhat familiar to tell Wren
"Good work Stavanger. We'll get him to the Clinic. Head home. Marshall's got the rest covered. Heads-up, though," It's the tired voice, the one on the comms, "Next time, make sure you're prepared for all eventualities. If you don't have a blood bag, keep one stored in a go bag. Silver bullets too. Always handy." Chastising alongside praise. God forbid Wren just get away with no more interference.
Wren salutes with two fingers and gives a low nod to whoever resides in the shadow of the dark line of the car. "Understood, if I had more resources at my disposal and clearance, I would've been able to have those things as needed," she relays, uncaring that there is feedback there. The woman has a bit of feedback on her own, because it's true. The Order hasn't given her jack yet, and maybe, this'll produce some results. Perhaps even a bit of a reputation. So with a nod, she slips her helmet on, and turns away from the nice black SUV that carries her target off to the Clinic. But not before she makes a direct line of sight along the edge of the Nymph's sidewalks, perhaps, in hopes for a glimpse of Marshall and then --
High. Pitched. Ringing. In her ears, behind her eyes, full vibrations, the struggle of sensing all of their desires in one huge tsunami of a wave. It takes everything for her, in that helmet, back in the fishbowl of her vision as it swims to stay upright as the vehicle speeds off. No collapsing. But things have never been this strong before, every thread thrumming all at once, tearing at her in every direction. Desires unfulfilled, and rarely ever slaked in the fleshpot that is the Red Light District. Breathe. BREATHE. Boxes of breath, air, five, ten, fifteen. She's standing there for too long, if people, Marshall, or anyone else look back. The waif attempts to slow them down, until they are small, little dim things, like blurry essences of mingled and muddled things. Not her own. Not anyone's that she knows, just someone's. Someone's. They have to just be someone. No one.
So that loud screech of a ping pierces through the resounding pall of high-pitched, dog-whistle sound in her ears, and the scream that accompanied it. A harsh breath, not angry, but pained exhales from her, because of that scream. Because, she was not there. Sometimes an angel just can't catch a break.
Hopping back on her bike as if it were merely a hobby horse for instant transport, she scours back home, speeding back into the safety of the cottage. Up the stars, through the door, her go-bag drops, and carefully she sheds her clothes. An ice-water in hand for a man that requires more hydration than he regularly imbibes. She's safe, exhausted, and unharmed. Making him drink the water won't be a struggle, but trying to sleep with a pounding head will.
So much for night work.
Ever the welcome sight, the rescuing angel, the sweeping form of salvation from the dark, Wren goes home. The cacophony is silenced, and is quieter still, upon her arrival at home. Her poor, wretched soul, the thing she's plucked from hell's grasp, is enough of a handful on his own, and his walls fall only for her, and slowly still, for even amidst his cold sweat, he's seen the note. He knows there's been work, and he tends to her, as she tends to him. One broken thing unto another. "...hi. Sorry." It's like a prayer. One for her alone. And Sword Stavanger is given her rest.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Upon her arrival, Wren finds the situation more complex than anticipated. Miles, under the influence of a vampire's allure, is at risk of exposing the supernatural community with his loud accusations. Wren quickly assumes the role of a concerned sorority girl, using her charm and quick thinking to distract Miles and calm the situation. Marshall, a fellow Sword of the Order acting as a bouncer, manages the physical containment, while Wren's empathetic manipulation steers Miles towards safety and oblivion, away from the potentially catastrophic revelation of vampires to the unsuspecting public. Through a blend of wit, charm, and the strategic use of her Order resources, Wren successfully averts a crisis, ensuring Miles is discreetly taken into care for his exposure to the supernatural. The operation concludes with Wren's return home, reflecting on the night's trials and the dual life she leads, concealed even from those she holds dear.
(Wren's odd encounter(SRSean):SRSean)
[Fri Sep 20 2024]
In a warm-hued bedroom
Stripped of its once-bohemian flare, this room has been remade as a cozy, intimate space of wood tones and sultry umber, green and gray. To give a sense of space to the smaller bedroom, the furniture has been moved to the farthest corners while the king-sized bed has been given pride of place against a long, unbroken wall kiddy corner to the exterior window. A neutral-tone, alpaca fur rug with rounded edges lines half of the floor, creating an artificial dividing line between the bed area and the dresser and vanity.
The walls are painted in a three-quarter band of cream, with a bottom molding of storm gray. The cream slowly tapers into a subtle gray-green to the ceiling. Opposite the bed is an eight-drawer dresser with a small stool and a vanity mirror. The vanity has been filled with small jewelry bowls and dishes. High above the bed, a television has been mounted on the wall.
It is night, about 69F(20C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Someone in Haven has found out about the supernatural and is freaking out about it. They're at risk of exposing the secret, hurting themselves, or hurting others. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
Perfect timing. Right? Nearly 11pm. Bedtime for sure. Her husband dead-out beside her. PJ time. Most Order agents simply abed, Shieldbearers out on an operation and the Librarians not really tasked with this sort of thing. Deep in dreamland, as he should be, and taking up far more of the bed than he should be allowed to do, is a passed-out spook splayed out like a starfish, drooling into his pillow. A sweaty, bare foot cloys at Wren's calf as he seems to be doing something like taikwondo in his sleep. There's a mumble in Russian and a whip over, suddenly, a pillow slamming onto her head. Fantastic.
"Stavanger?"
That's not him. That's something else. In her ear. Nearing 11:00pm. "Stavanger. You awake?" It crackles, and then comes through clean. "I hate to do this, kid, but we're a bit short-staffed and we need someone on-site immediately. You're practiced enough, or they wouldn't have let you in. You're Aware. You're Awake. It'll have to be good enough. So. Up you get."
The voice is tired, itself barely awake, and it doesn't want to make this much of a conversation. "There's a breach, and it's not going all that well. Uptown, out in the Red Light District-" Fantastic. "And we need to get the target contained. Scouts report a bit of a tussle. How're you with hand-to-hand?"
Wren rolls over one way when she hears the static in her ear. She hisses out, and tries to avoid that nudge and the pillow to her face, but instead she gets slapped with it, and a voice which she does not recognize. At first it is nothing about her husband, nothing at all, it's someone else. The waif groans, and tries to ignore it, and eventually she taps at her earbud close along the shell of her ear. Ugh, fucking, really? This is what her partner said about 'service,' no matter the time of day, even if they're already asleep. So she tries to rally, scrub her eyes, and she replies with a scowl that is not heard in her voice:
"Copy that, Order Control. Stavanger reporting in. Give me the address in the Red Light District," its so quiet, dim, but it can be picked up by the mic nestled close into her ear. Already tugging on her clothes, she looks over her sleeping companion and digs out her go-bag from under the bed, checks the safe, and gathers more materials. "Not so great on hand-to-hand, but I'll make due." She checks her Glock without looking in the chamber yet, not wanting to startle the man sprawled along the bed getting his black belt in tangled sheets.
"Status on assailant?"
Getting dressed in the dark is a challenge, but Wren manages to find all the things she needs - boots, pants, shirt, motorcycle suit. Hopping on one foot to get her boot down soundlessly, it is a miracle that the man does /not/ wake up, though with his escapades of late there is not much she can do but let him rest. Taking care to honor promises, she is carefully scrawling out a quick note on a corgi-illustrated notepad of spooky, fall-associated aesthetics.
Situation for work on Red Light Drive. Gone to close a breach. Taking go-bag. Will be back before breakfast. LoVe, @me.
Situation for work on Red Light Drive. Gone to close a breach. Taking go-bag. Will be back before breakfast. LoVe, Wren.
He should sleep like a baby. He's had a long day. He usually does. Wren is able to get herself up and armed with little in the way of distraction or interruption. In her absence, the entire bed becomes a cocoon for the man atop him, twisting to wrap himself up in the blankets and snoring violently into the pillows in a manner that will leave him with a horrible sore throat in the morning. He really should drink more water.
"Fantastic," the voice replies, stifling a yawn. Either this isn't so urgent as to necessitate a response, or the person on the other end of the line is as drained out as Wren seems to be. It's bed time, not crisis time. "Not great, but if it gets into a tussle, call in the Shieldbearers. We DO NOT want any bloodshed here. The target is having an awakening. It's an issue of containment, not of violence. We go quiet. We play nice." Perfect. The Order, always the Nice Guys. Absolutely fitting for the glocked-and-locked little biker girl. The note is written, and placed nearby, somewhere safe, and, more importantly, obvious upon waking. As she moves to head out the door, there's a loud rip-snort and a mumble of "...m'no, not Enterprise...s'sobadyou'remeanloveyo-" and then he's out again. And the darkness consumes her.
"You know the Nymph?" the voice says, once Wren indicates she's clear for the ping. "It's nearby that, corner of Badwater and Devilwood. Apparently, so the scouts report, the target was, well, doing as one does at the Nymph, when one of the dancers, a vampire, got a little too excited with the ordered lapdance and went for the throat. No one's harmed, but the man's drunk as all get-out and there are reports of possible hypnosis, failed or otherwise."
"I'd suggest heading out ASAP," Ops Central says, though their voice lacks any sense of time or pressure to it. "Better we get this one bundled away and, if need be, we can do a bit of brainwashing to keep everything mum. Don't bring stakes." That's interesting. "Non-lethal. Got it?"
No gun, no stakes? What the fuck. Wren considers those options, and she holsters the pistol in a concealed part of her operative attire. Definitely not /that/ fitting for the biker girl, no, not quite, it'll always not fit, not quiet. She huffs, and looks over her husband once more, and she cradles him with her eyes, one last glance of remembrance once she is strolling out. "Understood and heard," she mutters into her communique, even though she likely sounds a bit begrudging of the fact, the waif will play nice for the time being, so long as she has the patience to. She does not want to, however, she does not want to fuck this one up, if it's the first time she's entering the field on behalf of the Order as a Sword. Swords go where they're pointed, but sometimes there's a double edge.
"Corner of Badwater and Devilwood. Alright, I'll get over there now." Out of the tiny cottage in the deep dark wood, down the stairs, mounting her bike. Thrum goes the throttle, and she's -racing- off into the shadows of the evening crowded by the crooked trees that seem to carry the gaze of ancient and abyssal depths along her shoulder blades. The woman, without supervision, this time, or anytime (for the most part) is using maximum speed for maximum effort (because she wants to get this done so she can go back to bed). But she didn't forget her helmet which is doubly important as she rockets in zig-zags over the dirt roads that gradually meld through into the rough concrete; clearly Haven has some maintenance issues in the county.
Along Devilwood she travels, sometimes taking the empty sidewalk. But eventually she makes it to that corner. Well, the kitty corner of Badwater and Devilwood, opposite the one where the man might reside. Keeping outside of the street lights, she'll look like anyone walking through the night in the glow of iniquity and crimson-shaded neon. Helmet on, tinted visor. She'll stay anonymous for this one, she hopes.
Behind her as she drives flicker the low lights of a front porch shaped and reshaped by loving hands, a home that is a haven in Haven, a place of safety and quiet, where Service is a distant call and Duty is a joke that causes people to laugh. But Wren is married to the man she is for a reason. Because she desires to be More. And whether or not the Order has done her right, it is not in her to do them Wrong when someone, out there, needs a bit of help. As she once did. No gun. No stakes. Wren, this time, might just have to use her words and her charm. Because killing people on Devilwood on a Friday Night near the Strip Clubs is all but asking for HSD to show up and start shooting, blindly. Probably not great.
Night winds out ahead of her, water sloshing around the wheels, a moment needed just to get enough traction to get moving. This damnable flood has already ruined her front door and now it threatens to get into the internal workings of her well-earned bike. Once she's off, she's off, though, nearly hydroplaning in her attempt to get on-site as quickly as possible. Her phone 'blips' with a GPS ping but her comms are otherwise silent. And it's a good thing she remembers her helmet. Drunk drivers and peering half-blind Suburban moms in their perfectly-white SUVs whip around the far side of town as Wren weaves towards Devilwood and Badwater. Floods and rocks and poor paving make the ride difficult, uncomfortable. Painful.
As she moves into the actual Red Light district, flickering with its head shops, corner-light dealers, and streetwalkers, there's a necessity to slow down. Only then does her comms crackle on again.
"Target's around the corner from the Nymph, Stavanger. Some of the bouncers are trying to calm him down, and a few of the dancers have rushed out to see what the trouble is. They've got him contained for the moment, but he's panicking. One of the bouncers is ours - Marshall. I'd check in with him, see how that dancer's doing. If you don't have any blood bags on you, maybe Marshall will. Calm her first-" Instructions are good, but overexplanation's probably not appreciated.
The situation, albeit messy, is fairly obvious on arrival. Several scantily clad dancers are in an alleyway, their outfits collecting what little light is available and refracting it on every plastic jewel and bedazzled thong. A tall, bald man with a black t-shirt tight across his chest, the Nymph's logo faded across the back, attempts to gently talk down a panicked, pale-in-the face college kid who's rambling loud enough to be heard from the curb.
Arriving on the scene, Wren arrives and glints against the dim shadows of the flickering streetlamps with a pulse of LEDs on her motorcycle helmet, blue while hooked up to the bluetooth on her bike, and now crimson without the linked in bit of tech she's tried to fashion in. The extra information is helpful, to a point, but she sees her contact right away. Without any determining marks for the bouncer to see, she steps from her bike, drops the kickstand and flips up her visor. Is it too late for Suburban moms to even surface at this hour? Nevertheless, the floods do slow her down, and her GPS does happen to try to take her down a few alleyways, which she ignores, so when she finally gets there, damp and splattered in water and leather, she's ready to not ride as quickly as she had before.
Marshall isn't anyone she knows yet, so when she greets him there's no secret handshake, no special /look/ given, instead it starts with: "Got sent over. What's the situation with the dancer?" The man will just have to catch up as she's taking in the entire scene with her very keen eyes, and focusing on every minute detail. If she were more gifted in other realms of psychological empathy, there would be a radiation of energy out from her -- but not yet, that's for other missions. Perception and sight are relied on heavily here, swinging towards the dancer, while the college kid has his moment on the curb. Planting a boot on the edge, she balances there, halfway in the street and sidewalk. No one is going to fuck with her, or her bike, now that she's this close.
Let's get a read on the situation, so this is her time, as she tries to tuck and shove her bedhead up into the helmet, trying to keep herself less identified by now what are 'civilians' to her, as possible. Focusing on the dancers, then, focusing on the kid, and trying in the moment to exude an energy that she manifests with a subtle, but direct stream of sympathetic feeling. Let's calm the college kid down while she waits and listens on what Marshall may have to say. There is a faint sour taste in her mouth, a popping of her ears, but she tries to keep her hands from clenching into gloved fists.
Well. This is a right clusterfuck of a situation, and certainly not something Marshall wants to be dealing with on a Friday night, already nearing Saturday, at least, in the chronological sense. The bald man takes note of Wren, gives her something of a distracted upnod as he attempts to corral and contain a half-drunk, horned-up college student that's babbling, WAY too loudly, about vampires and fangs and whirling eyes, overt and obvious, some of the dancers looking alarmed, others confused, and some passersby, drug dealers, and pedestrians peeking into the alleyway from the curb, simply to watch a free show. "Swear to god, man!" the kid yells, hands held out, fearful of Marshall given the drastic difference in size. Marshall's another Sword, his street clothes his cover, his armor. He's big enough that, if he's Awakened, Activated, he's likely more than able to handle most threats while dressed in big jeans, boots and a tight, black bouncer Tee.
The target he's trying to soothe is, by comparison, maybe 5'5" at his tallest, dressed like a squirrelly frat boy and proudly wearing the Forbearance House colors from White Oak College. He's old enough to be here, and likely too young to actually be drunk the way he seems to be. But it's not just drunkenness. As Wren comes close enough to assess the situation, and Marshall pivots such that he's shielding some of the street-goers from Wren and their target, to allow her to come in closer without needing to speak, or to yell, Wren an see that the target is looking a little pale - odd, given that he looks like an athlete of some kind. Dusky skinned. Tanned from summer practice? He shouldn't be pale. He's scratching at the side of his throat, periodically spasming subtly. As if coming down from a fix, or starting on the front-end of a new, terrifying high.
And then he gets pushed into , his ambient yelling slowing, calming, just a bit. He looks out into the darkness, as if to try to find the source of sympathy that overwhelms him, to find the eyes and voices he surely hears in his head that reassure him he's not crazy. "...H-hey...seriously. I didn't touch her or anything. She's still inside, and she's fine. Really. I just...I was getting a lapdance and I think both of us were getting a bit-" Oh, god. "...excited. You know? And when she turned around to-" He's having a hard time here, though everyone in the alley, bouncers, bartenders and dancers, aren't moved or squeamish at his recollection of a lapdance. This is their job, and it's comparatively tame to some of the shit seen in this part of town.
"...Like...you know? For the touching? I went in for a kiss-" Breaking the Cardinal Rule there, buck-o, "And then she like...reared back and tried to bite me!""
Messy. Real fucking messy. No wonder Order Control mentioned that a gun wouldn't fit in this situation. This is a bit more than Marshall can handle word wise, street wise, Wren flashes a grateful, if guarded look to her Sword-in-arms, and with confirmation that the dancer is alright, she gets closer to the college kid spazzing out and blabbing to anyone along the street that he's gotten bit. "Hey dude, you from Forebearance at White Oak? I thought you guys had a mixer tonight," she opens with something completely distracting so that he has the opportunity to talk about everything else but what he wants to. A slight narrowing of her eyes, and she exudes a bit more pressure, let's change the tone here. Keying into his needs, his desires, there is a lot to sense there for a drunk still not-grown man-child wearing Daddy's polos. With a sniff, she lifts her eyes quickly over the street and around, with vigilance while keeping her attention darting over to Marshall. "I was hoping to come, but I know it's usually no girls allowed, and all that shit, you go through your initiation yet? I hear Forebearance has wicked sick parties." Please, kill her now, this is not her favorite thing to do, but she'll do it. If it'll get him off the street.
Meanwhile, she's attempting to flick out her phone and type some requests into the database and system for the Order, making a request for a drop for the kid a block away from here. He needs medical attention, and a good mind-wipe, possibly, a test for vampirism. No good. Her eyes scan along his throat, while she tugs off her helmet. Let's use a bit of feminine charm, and a toss of loose, tousled curls. Sex-bed head, it's a really great look for any woman out at night in the Red Light. A smile splits her lips, and another casting over to someone. Whatever she's sent into the system pings his contacts too in a back pocket of his pants.
Messy. Real fucking messy. No wonder Order Control mentioned that a gun wouldn't fit in this situation. This is a bit more than Marshall can handle word wise, street wise, Wren flashes a grateful, if guarded look to her Sword-in-arms, and with confirmation that the dancer is alright, she gets closer to the college kid spazzing out and blabbing to anyone along the street that he's gotten bit. "Hey dude, you from Forebearance at White Oak? I thought you guys had a mixer tonight," she opens with something completely distracting so that he has the opportunity to talk about everything else but what he wants to. A slight narrowing of her eyes, and she exudes a bit more pressure, let's change the tone here. Keying into his needs, his desires, there is a lot to sense there for a drunk still not-grown man-child wearing Daddy's polos. With a sniff, she lifts her eyes quickly over the street and around, with vigilance while keeping her attention darting over to Marshall. "I was hoping to come, but I know it's usually no girls allowed, and all that shit, you go through your initiation yet? I hear Forebearance has wicked sick parties." Please, kill her now, this is not her favorite thing to do, but she'll do it. If it'll get him off the street.
Meanwhile, she's attempting to flick out her phone and type some requests into the database and system for the Order, making a request for a drop for the kid a block away from here. He needs medical attention, and a good mind-wipe, possibly, a test for vampirism. No good. Her eyes scan along his throat, while she tugs off her helmet. Let's use a bit of feminine charm, and a toss of loose, tousled curls. Sex-bed head, it's a really great look for any woman out at night in the Red Light. A smile splits her lips, and another casting over to Marshall. Whatever she's sent into the system pings his contacts too in a back pocket of his pants.
Tonight? What? "Huh?" Another College student. That's all the kid can make out. Why else would someone know about Alpha Gamma Omega's mixer? He tries to peer at her, but she's obscured, behind Marshall and keeping herself anonymous. "You Phi Beta?" He asks of Wren, the bullshit of Greek Life in a small town enough to pull focus, briefly. "Haven't seen you around. Yeah, we've got a - " He rocks, a bit, eyes flitting, words dying in a choke in his throat. When he finally regains his footing, with the gentle help of two of the dancers, flitting in to his sides to steady him - better a safe customer than a mess, after all - he manages to right himself, blinks wildly, and stares at Wren with a renewed, if overly-intrigued interest. "Huh?....Fucking...yeah, it's almost October. And I did Rush Week back in Sophomore year. I'unno know. Are you, like, some Freshman girl?" Ah, cockiness. Utterly unearned, and utterly impossible to erase. He's a short kid, but he holds himself like he's got Daddy's Credit Card. And clearly, he does, to afford a private booth and a lap dance at the Nymph on a Friday Night.
He snorts, faintly, and walks forward, trying to drag the dancers that had helped stabilize him as if they were his roadies, walking towards Wren. "Yeah. Sick parties. Understatement. Alpha Gamma Omega throws the BEST parties, and we don't just let -anyone- in. Tri-Delts are always welcome though. You one of those Phi Beta prudes?" Panic has turned to judgment, but his mind isn't entirely assuaged, and he periodically looks back into the side door, both yearning for, and terrified of, whatever waits inside.
The helmet comes off and the orders go through and a file comes back - Miles Alderman, Junior, Alpha Gamma Omega, legacy kid. Latent Demigod. PoliSci Major. HSD is on standby and there's a car en route of Swords to pick him up when the situation is quelled.
And then Miles pauses. And so does Marshall. Even a few of the heavily-made-up, sparkly dancers do. Mostly out of shock, if nothing else. Using the distraction, Marshall pulls his phone out, checks it, grunts in a wordless sound of affirmation, and then starts typing on his phone.
Ew. Android texts. Stavanger. Good to meet you. Wish it were better circumstances. Kid's a regular. Been on watch. He got handsy w/ Corella, and her fangs kicked in. Little scratch, I think, but she's spooked and a bit blood-hungry now. Got eyes on her inside, might need some soothing. Any *blood emoji*?
"Damn. You do NOT belong here," one of the onlookers says, and another wolf-whistles, and one of the dancers, even amidst the mess, RUNS up on Wren and says "...Oh MY Gawd, who does your HAI'?!"
"Ohh thanks! I get it done down at 'You Wish' girl. Isn't it just?" Wren drawls out with a flash of a charming smile and a wink towards one of the onlookers, and she decides to pop a hip, slinky, showing off 'that leg' for Miles while he makes those dumbass judgments. If the onlookers are going to rizz her up, then this is going to help Miles get over himself about those needs and distractions she has, so she allows the one who ran up to her to hang on at least until they got bored.
All the while she's balancing her phone and holds at a wrist-slanted angle to peer at it, there is a small shake of her head to Marshall once her phone vibrates along her now ungloved hand. No, there's no blood. She has no store of it around her place, even so, she didn't swing by a base or waypoint to pick some up. Continuing the conversation with Miles, she smiles down to the dancers and then aside to him with a jaunty tilt of her head, "Freshman have the most fun, or did you not?" There is a slight hint of a pout to her voice, dialing up the charm. "Phi Beta, but not my choice, I got assigned for the dorm, not for the people," she scoffs disgust, and a flash of disdain in her eyes that carries deep into her skin. Greek rivalries, an inner cringe, so not worth the time. But she makes it worth the time, because that's what he needs right now. A throb of one of the veins along her brow, and she puts more pressure on Miles, but not enough to pop him like one of those liquid stretchy fidget toys that most people stomped on as kids. Instead, this is more like digging into clay and making something go, twist a certain direction. It requires focus, control, and so when her eyes flicker and lashes sweep downwards it may look like she's getting a bit flirty with him. Not that she's interested remotely.
Anything to go back to bed, and not see his stupid mug ever again. "I'm far from a prude, but I'm sad I can't prove it to you right now. You know? You look like you're ready to head back and join your brothers for the night. They're probably waiting. You didn't get an invite?" Playing on some insecurities, pushing him in that direction. Daddy's Credit Card can't buy respect. And maybe, she's banking on the fact that he is really the Omega runt of a very stupid litter.
"Yeah, but..." But nothing. Wren's hair is stunning, and even if she, perhaps, wasn't as well made-up as the dancers, the fact that they're making her shine makes her the object of attention. And so, she becomes the focus of Miles' attention. His childish mind easily molded by her somewhat-more-practiced one. She coos and drawls with dancers and they fawn over her, most of them simply seeing an out and trying to take it. The kid's drunk and he has pull and none of them need this mess tonight. Most of them, at least. They've got tired eyes and they claw onto and into Wren, seeing her angle, at least, to an extent, and helping her in it. Putting her forward, making her the lure for Miles' attention so that they can go back inside. Do their job. Go home to their wives or husbands or polycules or just lonely apartments with Paramount Plus. All but one.
One of them watches her from a dark corner, behind Miles, near the back exit, with sharp, piercing eyes. She watches Wren and she watches Marshall and she says absolutely nothing. She's dressed in nothing and is probably cold, but she doesn't seem moved. And she doesn't seem displeased. "Huh?" Ah, the man of the hour "Yeah, yeah. Heard of that place. Looks nice-" That's all he can muster? No wonder he's here, and not at his party. Sorority girls don't go in for short guys. Most of the time. Wren strains herself, and Marshall notices, sidestepping subtly to be present as a physical support. And subdual for Miles, should it be needed. He may not know, exactly, what she's doing, but the Order's got the blast of their newest Sword - Angelborn, and as such, with their innate charm. And with all the warnings attached - don't seduce, don't manipulate, her boyfriend's a Temple Spook with a mean streak and -very- bad impulse control and -very- good marksmanship. Watch. Witness. Report. Miles eases, until he's riled, again. Taunted.
"Oh? No, no, girl, I -got- the invite. It's my party-" It's not, but it's not a lie. He breaks away from the dancers supporting him, trying to swagger up to Wren, "Come on. I'll take you back with me. My car's around the corner, and you can show me how fun you a---Fuc-" And he goes stumbling, likely from the vampire saliva in his bloodstream, but it looks like a drunken stagger, and he goes toppling forward, and in that moment, Marshall steps forward, grabbing him under his shoulders, his voice rumbling "...Alright, kid. That's enough for tonight. We can keep the car here. Let's call you an Uber, get you back. You push yourself any further....we're calling HSD."
Once Marshall intervenes, Wren takes her foot off the metaphysical accelerator. That was the right time to step in, and she brushes some hair away from her face; a hint of sweat on her brow, glossy enough to draw attention to her unusual features, and the bone structure. The cheekbones. Oh god. The cheekbones.
And she plays into the indignation of Miles, at least, for a second while holding eye contact with Marshall for a few bouts, "Come on man, he's already coming back to the college with me, but yeah, I can help with the Uber." The half-complaint, and subtle, vague twitch of her face as it struggles to burn back to life in the musculature to make it more lively and less like she's casting a spell or staring down Miles for seduction is clear. She's a Good Guy, trying to mitigate the interference with an absent politeness that some college girls happen to have.
Scooping Miles from Marshall, she uses this chance for further stabilization and orientation. Just with words, nothing more in the tank tonight to suppress and alter. Out of the corner of her eye she spots the woman, glinting in the dark, and barely dressed. Time to go, before she might get any ideas. "Let's not get the HSD involved okay? Sorry sir, I'll get him that Uber and use my prude skills to get you the fuck out of here," she half-breathes to Marshall and aside to Miles as if this were some Shakespearean soliloquiy and she just happened to be Iago or someone with a bit of mischief. She's getting him out of trouble. She's valuable, and trustworthy, she's reliable! And, there might be 'sex' in it for him. Sounds like the perfect way to end the night. A hand on his shoulder, and she starts guiding Miles to the farthest corner, away from the Nymph. An eye flicks back over her shoulder. Marshall doesn't owe her a thing. Let him take care of the vampire fucked up on cocaine blood.
Well, the vampire's on watch, and if Wren's got nothing for her, oh well. Miles was the issue, and his ranting and raving was quelled impressively quickly by Wren's talents. Her physicality far, far second to her ability to simply wrangle a situation. Manage a crisis. Her husband would be proud. Miles comes into her arms like a drunken baby, scratching incessantly at the side of his throat, where there are no bite marks, but, rather, four long, jagged scratches, surface-level but still slightly bleeding. Miles shouldn't go to a party, or to his room. He should get to the Clinic, to ensure he's not been hooked.
"Huh? Yeah, no," and an arm slings itself around Wren's shoulder, "She's got me." And it's as if she's performed magic, as a car arrives without Wren even needing to fuck about on her phone. The pickup she'd called in earlier, but Miles just sees a nice, black SUV and says "Oh, Uber Black? Nice!" He goes to the back right door, pulling it open and already talking as he steps up and into the seat, "You here for Miles? Yeah, to the College, I've got a part-" And then he's YANKED inside the car, the door closing as the tinted window rolls down a crack for a voice somewhat familiar to tell Wren
"Good work Stavanger. We'll get him to the Clinic. Head home. Marshall's got the rest covered. Heads-up, though," It's the tired voice, the one on the comms, "Next time, make sure you're prepared for all eventualities. If you don't have a blood bag, keep one stored in a go bag. Silver bullets too. Always handy." Chastising alongside praise. God forbid Wren just get away with no more interference.
Wren salutes with two fingers and gives a low nod to whoever resides in the shadow of the dark line of the car. "Understood, if I had more resources at my disposal and clearance, I would've been able to have those things as needed," she relays, uncaring that there is feedback there. The woman has a bit of feedback on her own, because it's true. The Order hasn't given her jack yet, and maybe, this'll produce some results. Perhaps even a bit of a reputation. So with a nod, she slips her helmet on, and turns away from the nice black SUV that carries her target off to the Clinic. But not before she makes a direct line of sight along the edge of the Nymph's sidewalks, perhaps, in hopes for a glimpse of Marshall and then --
High. Pitched. Ringing. In her ears, behind her eyes, full vibrations, the struggle of sensing all of their desires in one huge tsunami of a wave. It takes everything for her, in that helmet, back in the fishbowl of her vision as it swims to stay upright as the vehicle speeds off. No collapsing. But things have never been this strong before, every thread thrumming all at once, tearing at her in every direction. Desires unfulfilled, and rarely ever slaked in the fleshpot that is the Red Light District. Breathe. BREATHE. Boxes of breath, air, five, ten, fifteen. She's standing there for too long, if people, Marshall, or anyone else look back. The waif attempts to slow them down, until they are small, little dim things, like blurry essences of mingled and muddled things. Not her own. Not anyone's that she knows, just someone's. Someone's. They have to just be someone. No one.
So that loud screech of a ping pierces through the resounding pall of high-pitched, dog-whistle sound in her ears, and the scream that accompanied it. A harsh breath, not angry, but pained exhales from her, because of that scream. Because, she was not there. Sometimes an angel just can't catch a break.
Hopping back on her bike as if it were merely a hobby horse for instant transport, she scours back home, speeding back into the safety of the cottage. Up the stars, through the door, her go-bag drops, and carefully she sheds her clothes. An ice-water in hand for a man that requires more hydration than he regularly imbibes. She's safe, exhausted, and unharmed. Making him drink the water won't be a struggle, but trying to sleep with a pounding head will.
So much for night work.
Ever the welcome sight, the rescuing angel, the sweeping form of salvation from the dark, Wren goes home. The cacophony is silenced, and is quieter still, upon her arrival at home. Her poor, wretched soul, the thing she's plucked from hell's grasp, is enough of a handful on his own, and his walls fall only for her, and slowly still, for even amidst his cold sweat, he's seen the note. He knows there's been work, and he tends to her, as she tends to him. One broken thing unto another. "...hi. Sorry." It's like a prayer. One for her alone. And Sword Stavanger is given her rest.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)