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Today's Weather:

It's autumn and there's a bracing nip in the air. That, and the looming
threat of rain implied by the dark clouds overhead, make this a
quintessential fall day, perfect for relaxing in the half-light by the
window with a warm beverage and a good book or some soothing music.

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He's been out riding again, despite the cold, down and away from the city,
all the way up to Caith and back. On the return trip, he's stopped at the
diner, nearly empty on this day of all days, of course, to order a meal
he'd no real desire or intention of eating. After lingering in the
brightness and warmth for a little, and tipping enough to soothe the
annoyance of the one on-duty waitress, he's stepped out into the cold and
dark again - walking a little ways along the roadside, before heading back
to the parking lot to make his way home.

Stumbling out of an alley next to the diner, a woman who could've been
Sera a year ago will run headlong into Jack if he's not careful, for
certainly /she's/ not. Her hair is a tangled mess; in her bloody hands are
clutched masses of broken black feathers, dripping crimson and ragged. Her
clothing has become soiled and torn, she's only wearing one sneaker now,
and has no winter coat, and looks so cold, wet and bedraggled, hollow and
thin, frail and lost. Claire, in bad shape, muttering, "All 'long on dere
bleedin foodzies goddem now...." A string of saliva runs from the corner
of her slack lips; her twilight eyes wear an expression of terror and
pleading. I'm caught; help me, even as she staggers, even as she moves
like some almost-frozen zombie, simply trying to walk along. Everything's
fine here, nothing to see. Move along.

"Oh, Jesus," His voice is flat. Why go to Bermuda for lurking horrors or a
convenient apocalypse when you can find them right here at home. "Claire.
Claire." He puts out a hand to touch her shoulder. Hey, I'm here...can I
help? At all? "It's me, Jack."

"Jacky," she whispers, still looking hollow, jerking to a stop at the
touch, lurching to try and stand up without leaning into him. Don't touch
me, her eyes plead. I'll hurt you; I'll take you away. I remember. The
feathers are shown; they drip gore, splattering it, steaming it as she
holds them tightly. "They're awake," she says, whimpering. "It /bit/... I
couldn't... he tried to tell her it was different," Claire says, and she
slumps, looking defeated, crying now. "I tried." I'm so sorry.

"The waking ones?" he asks, gently. He's already skinning out of his
jacket, though he takes a deep breath at the sight of the feathers. "And I
know you did. It's alright. Really." Though the reassurance isn't all that
effective, considering he's only half an idea of what the hell he's
talking about. "Here. You're freezing - let me get this on you, at least?"
The leather's lined with something quilted and warm.

"He'll be all right without her," Claire says, dropping the piles of
feathers to the ground and letting them splatter there. She sounds absent,
forlorn. "He will... but it isn't /fair/. It isn't /right/," the dark-eyed
woman whines, wiping at her eyes, leaving a bloody smear over her face
like some odd war-paint. It isn't just the feathers that were bloody.
Claire's hands have been slashed open across her palms; the cuts look
jagged and not fresh, but re-opened.

"It rarely is either of those things," he comments, with the faintest
touch of asperity, though he's still trying to offer the jacket. At the
sight of the blood, he draws in a quick hiss of breath. "Sharp, are they?
And who will be all right without her?" he wonders, quietly. A glance down
the street, though it's still empty and dim - Orion burns in a break in
the clouds overhead. He's already tugged one of those clean hankies from a
pocket. "Here. Give me your hand." His tone is peremptory - the better to
hide his pity.

It's a pity that people can't follow Claire's trains of thought,
considering that she doesn't continue talking about the same people for
more than five seconds at a time, if even that. Both hands are offered out
as she whispers. "Mercy. I broke the glass. I cut him," she confesses. "He
didn't need stitches... I told him." Poor Lorne, he was so frightened of
Claire, but dealt with her remarkably well. Her twilight eyes seek for
Jack's; he's such a dear soul for helping her, considering all the trauma
she might put him through. Both hands are slashed open; they're both dirty
as well, as though she's been mucking about in the alley for some time.
Hands are offered out to Jack, and she'll put on the coat, even dirty as
she is. So cold. "Ray," Claire finally confirms.

Jacket first - it's a weight of black dull leather, adorned with zippered
pockets, though there's a good layer of insulation beneath it, enough to
cut down the chill. "That's better, at least," he murmurs, before spitting
onto the cotton scrap and dabbing at the edge of the wounds, cupping one
hand in his own palm. And - she's said someone's name?

Celliers says "Ray? That's - that's Seravina's constable, isn't it?"

He remembers Ray. AFter all, they got itno a fist fight at their first
meeting.

"It is," Claire says, nestling her spidery frame into the black leather,
carefully letting her hands reach out, her fingers curling faintly as she
watches him dab at the wounds. She's bleeding faintly, still, and the dirt
and grime in the wounds seems more than just superficial; this will have
to be irrigated, flushed out by something more than a simple spit and
kerchief deal. "He shot the television. It deflated," she marvels quietly.
"I tried," she whispers again. "He says I /can/ help. I /am/ helping," she
maintains, looking somewhat hopeful.

Celliers frowns at that, both the wounds and her agreement. "Love, this -
will you let me take you somewhere safe, for just a little? I won't try to
keep you, but I want to help your hands better than I can here. And yes,
you are helping, aren't you? Talking to me for one, and the others. Thank
you." He looks at her levelly, still holding her hands in his, though
there's pleading there, in that pale stare. Let me do something concrete,
for once? "It wouldn't be far."

"There aren't safe places, Jacky," Claire whispers, sounding not at all
miserable, but almost comforted by that fact, her fingers curling around
his gently. You're here. I'm here... it'll be all right. "Besides," she
says, and her eyes are shining, wet with tears. "She's almost here," she
explains. "We'll go together, at least? Couldn't leave her behind, could
you?"

Almost here. Kitty hasn't been having much to do with sleep the last few
weeks - she hasn't been doing /nearly/ enough to burn off the urge to get
into trouble, and the only other way she can keep it in check is by
working herself steadily into the ground. Deciphering prophecy. Checking
on friends. Wedding preparation. Holiday preparation. Tech design work.
Under-the-table software development. Tracking terrorists ... all right,
that does a /little/ for her adrenaline habit, but not enough. By her
standards, it's still too quiet, and she's reduced to walking through the
night, half hoping for trouble to come and find her. There's a diner that
way. Coffee. And ... why does something smell of blood?

He grins, humorlessly. "That may well be so, love, but I would feel much
better if we could go somewhere else than her. And...who's almost here?"
he wonders, warily, again casting a nervous glance up and down the street,
to where the diner sits gleaming under its lights. Despite hte cold and
current lack of jacket, he's not shivering.

Wearing Jack's jacket, hands bleeding, one half-dressed in kerchief,
Claire stands in the fog, in the cold wind, and is frail as a stick
figure, her hair whipped about, twilight eyes dark, void and far-reaching
as she whispers, "Pieces of eight." A gentle laugh, and one of her hands
reaches up to touch Jack's cheek; dripping red, she'll draw a gentle line
as though drawing upon him with war-paint. What smells of blood? It would
be simply that, Pryde... The crimson that flows from the clairvoyant all
but fallen into Jack's arms. "There's a good girl, now," Claire whispers,
her knees buckling. "All... all her angels," she sobs, but her eyes have
fallen shut, and she'll hit the ground, if she's not caught.

Pieces of eight. Spanish gold. What /does/ happen to pirates when they try
to retire? One of a couple of things... Voices over the same way, two
figures and one falling - Kitty's walk turns into a jog, eyes widening.
Won't /she/ be surprised when she sees who it is. "Hey. Hey! You!"

He's slow on the uptake these days, yes..but not so much so that he can't
catch the girl as she drops, though he's caught off balance and the impact
brings him to his knees on the pavement. At Kitty's shout, he turns
awkwardly, Claire cradled in his arms, teeth bared in a momentary snarl;
he hasn't yet realized it's a friend approaching. "Who's there?" he
demands, roughly, before looking down to Claire's face. He's the one who's
supposed to be doing the fainting, isn't he?

Out like a light, frail and /too/ thin, feverish like some sickly, wasted
child--except that Claire is thirty years old in body--half her life spent
in the same room, half her life spent unable to see the green grass, to
see the sky, to see the twilight that her eyes so resemble. She trembles,
perhaps out of sickness, perhaps out of cold, or fear, but all the same,
in her Jack's arms, she is limp and shaking, eyes closed, her expression
bearing no peace, no fear... nothing. She breathes; her heart beats.
Caught in her hair, tangled, are still a few bloody, black feathers.

Catching her. What the hell is he doing. Blood burning, temper rising,
moving fast, Kitty comes close enough to see - "... Jack?" Oh. False
alarm. Sheepishly, she eases a little, and offers, "Um. Need a hand?"
/Then/ she looks down to see who he's holding - eyes flare wider. "Oh,
God." And she drops to one knee herself, reaching out as if to touch the
woman, or her hair, or the feathers. She pulls her hand back barely in
time.

HE looks bad enough, especially with a streak of fresh blood on his
cheekbone. The kneeling has become a defensive crouch, until he realizes
precisely who it is. "Miss Pryde," he replies, voice held to a calm he in
no wise feels. "Thatwould be very good. Miss St. Thomas is ill, as you
see. I think it's an infection." He's trembling, too - he's thin enough
that the cold bites worse than ever, and Claire has his jacket on. The
woman's body is held tightly against his, as if he'd share what little
warmth he produces.

The feathers fall away from Claire's hair, drifting down to the sidewalk,
the crystalline patters that fractal along their spines glinting just
ever-so-briefly in the lamplight. As soon as they hit the concrete, they
melt away like snow, leaving nothing so much as a faint grease spot on the
ground, or maybe something like ash, or soot, and then... seconds later,
not even that. Claire's eyes flutter open, and she whimpers, begging, one
hand pawing at the air, "Not.. not the hospital." I'd rather die. Don't
take me back there. The eyes of a child look to Kitty, look to Jack, wild
and unfocused; she'll run, weak and helpless from here, if she has to.
Don't take me back there.

Kitty nods back up to Jack - well, her /face/ is turned up to him. Her
eyes are caught by the feathers still, and then by the ash, and then by -
nothing. "Not the hospital," she agrees firmly. "Not ever the hospital,
Claire. Jack - whose place is nearest? Where can we get her warm fastest?"
Her mental map of the city is outlined in bus routes and rooftops - not
direct routes, and not suitable for taking a collapsed seer.

"There's the diner," he notes, jerking his chin in its direction. "But
I've only got the bike there, and I can't take her on it while she's like
this. Nor can I handle three. I think I'm closest, though. Perhaps we
should call a cab. OR a ride? I fear if we go to the diner, they'll call
the police." His voice is tight. "And no hospital, no, don't worry."
Hospitals scare him nearly as much as they do her, apparently.

"No!" Claire suddenly yelps, curling into Jack's arms, sobbing. "They...
They can't. They wouldn't," she begs. The world around them shifts,
groaning as though it begs, /aches/ to be something else, the whispers and
screeches and skitterings of shadows and promises of entropy, of decay...
which are the shadows, and which are the real? "Anywhere," Claire
whispers. "Anywhere."

Kitty's cellphone, slim and black, makes its appearance: she holds it up -
hoping Jack recognizes it - and unfolds. "Pete's got a car. Or Seishi and
Sigerson. If we can reach them." The way things are shifting, she's not at
all sure. Just - trying not to get lost. "Or a cab. Cab's fine." She
hopes. Numbers dialed, listening to rings. No police. No hospital. Jack's
got Claire - who's got Jack?

The Englishman shudders once, almost a spasm, brought on by more than
chill, this time. "Call a cab, yes - that'd most likely be the swiftest,
if there is one in the area?" As reality twists, he edges over, to set one
hand on Kitty's shoulder. There'll be physical contact to keep them from
getting separated, or so he hopes. "But whatever you think best."

Claire's eyes are almost brilliant for a moment, the twilight field more
stars than sky, and she whispers, not at all lucid, "Mother, mother... are
you there?" She smiles, sweet and radiant, and she might... might have
been lovely to look at, might have been striking, if it weren't that she
looked so worn, so tired, so beaten. Bloody. "Sweet dreams til sunbeams
find you," Claire sings, her singing raw, untrained but not unpretty.
"...sweet dreams to leave your worries... behind you." So eerie,
lighthearted, warbling and weak, as her voice is failing. "...But in your
dreams, whatever they be... dream a little dream... of me."

Cab it is, and Kitty comes /that/ close to resorting to outright
attempting bribery over the phone as she negotiates for one. Somewhere she
notices just what it is Claire's singing, and she shivers under Jack's
hand, eyes widening just a little further.

Jack lets his eyes half-close, for a long moment, head cocked as if to
attend to that singing. But his breath hisses out in shock. "Kitty. Do you
have any means of getting in touch with a healer of some kind? Liam,
maybe? She's already worse than I can help, with what I know," he
confesses, unhappily, opening his eyes.

"He made her take it apart," Claire says, struggling to get to her feet,
lurching briefly, and from one moment to the next, she goes from seeming
beaten down and bruised, to looking... not /healthy/, but almost...
/almost/ able to walk alone. To Jack's eyes, to his senses, however, she's
no better, spiralling to pieces at the core of herself, held together by a
sheer force of will that seems all but impossible. "She forgot all about
him," Claire explains.

"I've got a couple ways of trying," Kitty admits. She's lucky that she
/can't/ see. Get her hands clean, bandage her up, treat her for shock and
hypothermia... nice, mundane, physical problems. Try to offer comfort.
"Cab's coming..." And then Claire's talking instead of singing, and
Kitty's eyes flick back to her, with almost understanding. "He made her -
Sera and Ray?" Not a question that requires an answer, thank goodness. She
climbs to her own feet, trying to offer support.

Jack also gets to his feet, though he's kept his grip on both women,
leaving them a line three abreast. It's starting to look like some bizarre
parody of the Yellow Brick Road scene. "Claire," Jack begs. "Please don't
go. Not yet? Let us help you, for a little."

"I'm here," Claire says, somewhat absently, and will walk, or wait--a cab
is coming, isn't it?--and doesn't look /too/ miserable, there in the foggy
cold, so small in Jack's jacket, even with how thin he is. "Red balloons,
red balloons," she whispers, rocking back and forth on her feet, leaning
to rest her head on Jack's shoulder--that's bound to leave a red, wet
mark, bloody, staining and unpleasantly warm, then cool once she's pulled
away and the night air can get to it. "Starting to hear me better, aren't
you, Kitty?" Claire says, with a measure of relief.

Coming, with bribery promised to speed it on its way. Close by now. Black
feathers and red balloons. The girl's a ghost. Kitty shifts to try to get
her own arm around at least one of them, for warmth; she'd offer Jack her
own jacket, but it would rather less than fit. She manages a smile for
Claire, a quick one, and helps her toward the roadside. Cab'll be coming.
Cab'll be warmer. "It's harder to get the context just with words," she
admits. "But I think we're starting to get enough." Just smile and nod;
it'll be all right.

Jack's shaking like a leaf, at this point. "Yes, we are," he agrees, teeth
chattering. "And it won't be long now," he urges, voice rough. A look back
at the Diner. The bike can safely sit overnight, since the place is really
never closed.

Hypothermia is not something anyone wants to deal with; thank heavens the
cab will be there, and will be warmer. And Claire will finally offer Jack
his coat back, once they're going to get into the cab; once she does,
she's almost back to her usual self. /Almost/. Almost excepting that she's
still down to one sneaker, she's lacking the $60 in her pockets, and her
hands are still slashed open, the poor dear. Twilight eyes will glance up,
looking for the moon, and Claire whispers, "No. No, it won't be long,
now." Ominous words.

Kitty has money in her pockets - and the cab driver is getting all of it.
Bribery? Yes. There's no blood in the back, really. The moon's just a
sliver, tiny and faint, almost to the dark. Kitty glances aside at Claire,
worried. She wanted a taste of /every/ season. It's a long way till
spring. "What are they looking for?" she wonders aloud, quiet, once
they're settled and the cab is moving. Jack said his place was closest.

Jack gives a few shuddering breaths, but looks far more content, once
they're in teh warmth of the cab. He quietly gives directions to his flat
to the cabbie, who eyes the trio suspiciously in the rearview.

"Roses, red as hearts' blood," Claire murmurs. "And the heart of an angel.
Bruised," she murmurs. "It won't be, at all, where you think," she laughs,
gently, wiping at her eyes. "He nearly threw it out the window, once. I
was on the beach, when she told him to run, I was there, with you all. And
when there was... the screaming," Claire murmurs absently. "And... they
took... they took her... away," she says, her breath hitching. "They
/took/..." She reaches up a hand to touch her cheek, biting at her lower
lip, gentle laughter. "Oh, oh, /John/. When will you /ever/ learn?" Such
pity in her voice. Such love, almost like a mother to a son.

Entropy. Decay. 'Is this the way she sees it?' "Roses," Kitty whispers,
and /her/ eyes have gone almost as unfocused as Claire's. "Of course. You
were there. Was that you talking?" The heart of an angel. The pillar on
the ship; the heart of an immortal, still beating. Clues /how/ long ago,
that they never knew to look at? "It was such a /nice/ dream..."

Jack has turned to peer at the pair of them. "The field of roses?" he
echoes, voice hopeful. Do you know, too? "ANd what won't be where we
think? The Tower? And what angel?"

"Robin red-breast has been tryin to wake you, Travellin' Jack," Claire
mutters, sounding annoyed, and her hands reach for both Kitty and Jack's
hands, almost tentative, as her eyes lift to meet those of the cabby, in
the rearview mirror. Deep brown eyes meet twilight, and the driver looks
to Claire; for a moment, as though they've known one another all their
lives, they stare, easily lost in one another's eyes, but the woman
continues to reach for the hands of these people who may... or may not be
friends. Take my hands, if you will? And the driver nods, if perhaps
imperceptibly. I know, Little One. I know. She turns to look to Kitty,
twilight eyes open impossibly wide, starry maps spinning wide and dizzied,
constellations spanning heavens and existences beyond this one. "You can
hear the city talking like it doesn't care," she says, pleading.
Understand me, Kitty. There isn't /time/.

"You can taste the trouble in the air," Kitty murmurs, and her hand clasps
over Claire's. Bleeding hand, like the blood they left behind. Her other
hand lifts to unzip her jacket and hold to something under her shirt - the
size and shape of a certain bronze medallion. "Bright flash, the mirror
shatters..." And she lifts her own eyes, meeting Claire's. Not afraid.
"Angels in your dreams, Jack. Black wings on one side - and /her/ angels
on the other. It's not three problems. Three and three make three, and
three makes one. It's all one, isn't it?"

He takes her hand, murmuring something wry about 'fearful symmetry' as he
does. And, ungracefully, reaches past Claire for Kitty's other hand, after
taking his own medallion out from beneath his shirt. "I think," he says,
slowly. "That I begin to see. At least, a very little." The blood on his
face has dried to a rust-colored streak.

Hands joined, eyes looking each to each, will anyone notice that the cabby
is accelerating in a fashion that is... not at all safe? Trust in me. In
me. Claire murmurs, "Soon. So, /so/ soon." Tires rumble as the car leaves
the road itself, jolting over curb, past railroad tracks, clipping a
dumpster, but--oh, it went /through/ that bus stop. Halfway /through/ it.
And the cabby's gone all sideways, and the air smells sweet like roses,
and then oversweet, like rotting, and Claire promises, "Home again, home
again, jiggedy jig..." Her thin, frail hands give a squeeze, and her
feverish self clings close, if only briefly. The cab's going to collide
with a building--that's it, it's light's out, a head on at over a hundred
miles an hour, and you're all dead. And yet...and yet? "Do you think..."
she begs, her voice shaking as the world itself /howls/, flashes of the
world around them coming undone, and between her hand and Jack's, between
her hand and Kitty's, there are thin, sweet petals, red and crushed,
fragrant and bright. "That she was pretty? ...that she was perfect and
tiny?" Angels to some, demons to others, shredded wings, eyes torn out,
clashing at one another. Brother against brother. Hatred. Lover against
lover. Portals opening left and right, taking away life, spitting out
grotesque mockeries of anything resembling humanity. Hell in the facet of
repetition, condemnation through repetition without learning of mistakes
or chances to rectify them.

Holding. Don't let go. Kitty leaves her own medallion under her shirt, no
need to advertise more than her name does already - reaches for Jack's
hand, holding hard enough that the silver ring presses into both their
flesh. There isn't time. She has to squeeze her eyes closed half the time
all the same: reflexes she has to overcome, to hold on to this ride.
Holding her breath, too, from moment to moment. Petals. Blood, roses,
poppies. "Babies are," she manages to say, barely. "Babies are." Red and
squashed, blue and struggling, perfect and tiny all the same. New things
in the world. New chances. More than pretty. The way the world tries to
weave itself back together.

He's clinging to the others, grip painful, and trying to close his eyes
against the visions. Though it doesn't last very long - he has to see, for
all that he doesn't want to, for all the loathsome things it shows.
Because, maybe, there will be a glimpse of the Tower, even here. "Who
was?" he asks, from a throat gone dry. "Who?" Then, as Kitty speaks,"Yes.
I remember. Another chance. Another way for humanity to be made new. The
unbelievable perfection of a tiny hand - and you, somehow, had something
to do with its making." His face is still, but his voice is suddenly thick
with tears. "I know."

"I'll see you again," Claire promises, twilight eyes watching carefully,
wearing adoration plainly, and her hands are warm, are /strong/, are the
hands of Mother, something eternal and safe and loving. For all the
horror, for all the fear and the strain, there are visions of beauty,
perfect glimpses, moments left as only pieces, only /hints/, fragile
and... the barest breaths may steal them away. But there is hope, there is
/chance/. Challenge. Life. The Tower stands, and it waits, still amidst
that field of roses... Soon it will be the black knight's move, and you'll
have to be prepared. Don't panic. All her angels. Hearts. Bruised hearts.
Crystalline dreams.

And when Jack and Kitty might open their eyes, hands are tightly held on
the corner near the diner, the loop closed with Claire nowhere to be
found, hands full of rose petals, of black feathers, and there is the
faintest promise in the wind, eerie and lost in the growing breeze.

"...dream a little dream of me..."

Something /is/ coming.

Soon.