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[obscurian]

Hit me.

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Open Prompt

[obscurian]

[New York City, 1926. A wandering street in the middle of the day. A young man stands on a corner handing out pamphlets calling for something named the Second Salem. It's all very dramatic and eye-catching. Someone sprung for color prints. But underneath the fuss, you get the impression that someone is very, very serious about dealing with witches.

And haven't strange things been happening lately?

The young man handing them out is tall, though no one notices with the way he hunches over. He doesn't make eye-contact.]

[unheeled]

[Rita ducks her head as she hurries down the street, holding onto the hood of her cloak with one hand. Damn this white hair, she sticks out like a sore thumb in the crowd. The whole point of running from her father is to not be found, but her condition makes that difficult.

God. How is this fair? Sure, she was trying to help rid the world of the zombie menace, so yeah, it's poetic that she's now one of the undead. But come on. No way she deserves her father hunting her like she's trying to take the company from him. She's classier than that. She's waiting until he dies, like a good aspiring CEO.

She weaves her way between some tourists taking up most of the sidewalk (rude), aiming to pass behind that guy on the corner, when some businessman in a rush blocks her way. It's all she can do to step aside in time to avoid a head-on collision, though of course what happens is a sideways collision with the guy with the pamphlets.]

Damnit. [The curse is hissed as she crouches down to help pick up the pamphlets that fell out of his hand. So much for not drawing attention to herself.] Hurry up, butterfingers. Grab your stupid flyers so I can get the hell out of here.

[obscurian]

[Credence stumbles, dropping his pamphlets and scraping his knees against the ground. He means to keep his eyes down but the woman's hair is too strange to ignore entirely. He wonders what it means. A witch sign? Mister Graves didn't have white hair. Just streaks of gray at the temples. Not like this woman, pale and thin, but still decidedly young.

He looks away quickly and takes care to make sure their hands don't touch. He's been called worse names.] Have you heard the word, miss?

[It's asked quietly. He stands and removes his hat. It's polite. You have to be polite.]

[unheeled]

[Stupid hood. Rita shoves a few pamphlets in his hand and tugs the hood so far over her head that it casts a shadow over half her face.]

What word.

[The only 'word' she cares about is run, so she can keep living. Or rather, so she can start to learn how to live as this.]

[obscurian]

About the darkness in our city.

[Credence keeps his eyes down. She doesn't look like Mister Graves, not quite, but there's something about her. Something she doesn't want anyone else to see. But she's not used to hiding or she'd be dressed differently, be standing differently.]

[unheeled]

[She freezes for a moment. The darkness? Does he mean--]

Don't be stupid.

[She sticks her hands in her pockets, glancing around to make sure there's no one coming for her.]

I don't believe in conspiracies.

[She doesn't have to believe because she knows they're real. She's in one.]

[obscurian]

[Credence keeps his eyes firmly on her shoes. Her expensive shoes. He doesn't know anything about fashion, let alone the sort of things that women wear, but usually you can tell if something costs a lot. It looks a certain way. Refined. Not the sort of thing a person wears when they need to move fast and not be seen.] But you do believe.

[unheeled]

[With no one chasing her, she can indulge him. It's not like he's going to forget what she looks like now that he's seen her hair. If she can make him like her even the slightest bit, he's less likely to rat her out when her father's enforcers come after her.

Yeah. She's that desperate.]

Fine. Tell me about the darkness.

[obscurian]

[Credence hands her a pamphlet without a word. It goes on and on about witches and magic but, despite the wording, actually does note a few strange occurrences that haven't been properly explained. Property damage. A death or two, perpetually unsolved. Something unseen going about with devious purpose.

You know. Usual crazy town conspiracy stuff. Which...might actually have a point buried down deep.]

You've seen things.

[It's not an idle question. Not really a question at all. People either laugh or throw things at him if they listen at all. Not this woman. She's listening, really listening. No reason to do that unless she's seen something.]

[unheeled]

[These stupid pamphlets. Rita flips through one, skimming the headings, mostly looking for the word zombie amid the bullshit. Has word gotten out yet? Maybe they call them something else. Either way, most of the tension visibly leaves her face when she's done looking through the pamphlet.

She meets his gaze -- as much as she can when he's trying so hard not to look at her]

I've been through things.

[He could sympathize with her. He could help her. She's been all alone since she got infected, more alone than she thought possible. She'll take a conspiracy theorist if it means she might stand a chance at more than just surviving.]

[obscurian]

[Credence lifts his eyes a touch, meeting hers briefly before looking away again.] I'm looking for someone. At the center of it.

[A child.

He's quiet a moment, thinking.]

Are you afraid, miss?

[unheeled]

[Oh really. Well, she's at the center of something. And even though he probadly doesn't mean her, he might be compelled to help her out if she tells him what he seems to want to hear.]

Yes. [She doesn't have to pretend at that much. Just one thought of the monstrous zombies her father keeps locked in the subbasement is enough to make her shiver.] Very afraid.

[She glances around again -- for real, not for show -- and tells him, in a whisper,] Help me.

[obscurian]

[Ma would know what to say, Credence thinks. Ma always knows the right hings to say, but Ma also hates magic and things that don't fall in line. This time he has to figure it out on his own, something more than just watching and waiting.]

How?

[He lifts his eyes again. He could call for Mister Graves, if it comes to that. But maybe it's something he can do. He's never been able to help people before, not in a way that matters.]

[unheeled]

[He's willing. Score.]

Hide me. They're looking for me. They want to lock me up. Please.

[obscurian]

[Credence nods just once. No one would look in the church.]

I can do that, miss.

[He puts his hat back on, eyes down.]

It's not far.

[unheeled]

[Oh thank god.]

Hurry.

[She's right behind him as she follows, clutching the pamphlet close like she's a new recruit to his conspiracy circle. Always, always, she is holding the hood in place, because her father's enforcers could be anywhere at all.]

[obscurian]

[Credence leads the way silently, head down. Neither of his sisters stop him, and Ma is too busy yelling at unbelievers to notice. The Second Salem church also functions as a mission, which is the only reason Ma has any money at all, and people come and go all the time. Mostly children, or anyone who wants a meal and doesn't mind the preaching. No one who wants to be remembered.

It's not a bad place to hide, if you don't mind the draft. The heat doesn't come on unless it's below thirty. Ma says it builds character.

Credence holds the door open, eyes down, for the woman. He hasn't asked her name. That's possibly unwise.]

[unheeled]

[Rita is finding that a lot of things no longer bother her -- like temperature changes and minor wounds. Her body is half dead, after all. She can survive anywhere as long as she gets to feed.

But that's a problem to solve later.

Right now, she ducks into the church and looks around for familiar faces. None -- good. As soon as the door is shut, she lets out a sigh and sinks into a pew. The relief is not an act. Her father won't come looking for her in a church. She's about as nonreligious as they come.]

[obscurian]

[Credence removes his hat, wondering what he's supposed to do now. Ma is the one who talks to strangers and makes them believe. Except that this woman already does believe - in something, if not in magic - and that begs a response.]

You have a name, miss?

[he asks eventually.]

[unheeled]

[The reprieve is welcome. She's been trying to outthink and outpace her father for what feels like far longer than it's actually been.

A name?] Obviously I do.

[But which one will she give him? Not Rita. Not Gilda, either. She looks away, thinks hard. She could use a drink. Whiskey, or tequila.

Margarita.]

Margaret. [Turning to him, she meets his gaze and lies again.] My name is Margaret.

cw for child abuse

[obscurian]

[Like Saint Margaret the Virgin, Credence thinks. Also called Saint Marina the Great Martyr in the book his sisters stole from the Catholic church in Harlem. They all got whipped for that, though not for stealing.]

Credence Barebone, Miss Margaret.

[He runs his hands over the brim of his hat to try and steady himself. It doesn't quite work, so he does it again.]

No one comes here. You can stay for a while.

[unheeled]

[Credence. What a fitting name for a guy handing out pamphlets about 'the word'.

But again, the relief that ccrosses her face is sincere. No one comes here.

Perfect.]

I'm going to need a room.

[obscurian]

[Credence looks down quickly, running his thumb along the brim of his hat. They don't have guest rooms. People come in sometimes for meals and if Ma is feeling generous sometimes they leave the kitchen open, but Miss Margaret doesn't look like the sort of woman who would accept sleeping on the floor.

She can have his room, Credence supposes. It's a glum thought.]

Upstairs.

[He lifts his eyes briefly.]

You'll have to say the right things, when she comes back. Act like you believe. Otherwise she'll make you leave.

[unheeled]

[Okay, so she'll have to play a part. She can do that. She was almost literally killer as Gilda. Margaret is a scared young woman on the run, trying to hide. Easy.]

Will the pamphlet give me enough to say the right things?

[obscurian]

[Credence nods. It won't make her own of them, but it ought to calm his Ma for a bit. She can't be mad if he's doing what she asked. Though Ma usually finds fault in most things Credence does, whether or not she asked him to do them or not.] Yes, miss.

[He pauses, still running his thumb over the brim of his hat. It helps a little. Gives him something small to focus on.]

Are you hurt, miss?