World of Darkness World of Darkness: Attrition - Fixing Things [Fin]

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

[the wee hours of 13 Aug 2008]

Warning: texting while walking may be hazardous to your footwear.

That was, admittedly, not the first thing that ran through Sarah's mind as she sat on the curb of Sunset Boulevard. But it was somewhere around second or third after the wave of anger cleared out. It was really the only excuse she had; a blind man with a broken cane would have found that raised slap of sidewalk, but not her, not tonight. Tapping away at those little keys, eyes glued to text on a tiny screen, the concrete might as well have reached out and grabbed her.

And the damage certainly was done. These rugged old army boots had seen her cross the county, the last three states on foot. Slits in the toes told of the countless times that her claws had passed worn leather to tear into something or other. But now, a sole was so loose as to nearly come off in her hand.

Fuck! How the hell am I gonna fix this? Rubber bands - scrounged from the soggy newspapers on a half-dozen yards, and now being wrapped carefully around tread and lace hooks - might do for a night or two, but it sure as hell wasn't good for the long haul. Back at the bus station, she knew, there were shiny new boots, part of the incredible bounty that Lucien had bought her over a week earlier. But those were things she was trying to keep in good shape for those few occasions when she'd have to look good; the first time she popped claws, they'd be ruined.

In frustration, she grabbed the cellphone from where she'd dropped it in the grass, and typed out her predicament. Not in full, of course; nobody needed to know why there were slits in her boots. What she didn't respect was an actual reply from Crescent_Sun, pointing her toward an all-night repair shop.

"Of course," she muttered. "If anyone's gonna know that kind of thing, it's the local vamp."

Fifty minutes later, she was bootless in the tiny little waiting area of an honest-to-Luna boot repair shop, the smell of leather rich in the air as the owner worked on her boots in back. To his credit, he hadn't done much more than blink at the slits in the toes; I guess when you run an all-night niche business in L.A., you learn pretty quick not to ask questions. With nothing else to do, she focused on the chatroom.

Lucien was running up the Amber flag again, and Sarah sighed with dismay. *I don't like this kind of dodge*, she texted to him privately, and it was true. The previous night, he'd made a show of finding Amber's wallet (non-existant, of course) and wanting to return it to her; now he was at it again. I'm putting an end to this. She knew that the rich boy meant well, but whatever Sarah was, it was something about as honest as her existence would permit. Carefully, she tapped out to the room that it was she, not he, who wanted to find Amber, that Lucien was trying to help, and asking as politely as circumstances permitted for him to stop helping. After a few quick proddings that she turned away as it being a "private matter", the conversation thankfully moved on.

Unfortunately, in moving on it went to Declan. Or rather, "Crazy Perault" as some preferred. Lucien decided that this was apparently the perfect time to launch into joke mode at Declan's expense. And to her surprise, Sarah found herself joining a small chorus of protests, standing in defense of the oft-rumored UCLA groundskeeper. She even sent a private note to Lucien, asking him to knock it off.

His reply of *How would he ever find out?* came all of about ten seconds before Owns_The_Night revealled himself to be none other than Declan Perault, in what Sarah couldn't help but think of as a cosmic joke on Lucien.

With Declan online though, she had more important business to deal with. A quick flurry of messages - working around his gaps away from the keyboard, gaps she was pretty sure involved raging against a punching bag or furniture or something - communicated a number of pertinent bits of info:

* That she had a cellphone now; the pre-arranged system of notes on the campus bulletin board was now moot.

* That the Topanga Pack wasn't going to give her the time of day.

* And that Lucien wasn't herd. Explaining the last took several posts, during which she was pretty sure that the wary werewolf would think that the young vampire had gone around the bend. To her surprise and relief, he seemed to accept her explanation of the underwear model as someone who could twist space and read minds as, if not the most normal thing in the world, at least something believable. And for all I know, maybe wizards are as common as dirt around here, she realized. Maybe he has lunch with them on a daily basis, or uses them to kill fleas, or whatever.

As things were hitting a more ameniable tone in chat - Lucien giving up on the Crazy Perault Comedy Hour and something resembling apologies making the rounds - a cleared throat caught her attention; two new soles, bright and shiny, adorned her rugged old boots. For a moment there, alone in the shop with the forty-something owner, Sarah considered taking something more than the boots with her. But her hunt earlier in the night had gone well - very well, actually - and the thought was more habit than intent. Peeling three twenties from the small stack in her wallet, she traded crisp bills for two worn old friends, laced them back up, and left the shop for points yet to be determined.

She smiled to herself as the door closed behind her, bells jangling at her passage. It was nice, for a change, to be able to fix things.