*Ting* (Things are not supposed to make that sound) is a metallic noise. Followed by some grinding of concrete. *Ting* makes you, your wobbly, bleeding, self wish desperately for a man to rescue you. Said man has just taken a few steps back to be out of reach of your little acquaintances, so he is forced to watch you as you react to *ting*. Nicely you fall. That elegance of flailing limbs, the wondrous spray of buttons (BUTTONS! Everywhere!). And that sense of recognition. Been there. Done that. Not quite. But well. Somehow.

“First you throw yourself at me from a bookshelf, now its a fence. Andrea, Andrea... You will either kill yourself trying to walk down the street or you will kill the man trying to carry you on his hands.” The words carried that flavor of amusement that only he could produce. Nearly only he. Distinctive it was, his harshly pronounced words, that hint of amusement in his eyes, falling down, all of them, on her hair. “And you even got yourself new friends, who get you in trouble. Better then the last one I expect.” Now... That one had tried to kill him. Maybe. And failed. Certainly. Memories.

He made a few steps to the fallen woman. Went down to his knees, carefully keeping his eyes on her slightly hissy hair. (Which was not amused at the sudden change of position.) Feeling over her. Her injured self. Well. His face, that young face, old face, was level with hers. His steely eyes looked onto the glasses with intent. And just lightly, he extended a hand towards her. Not palm open, but just so, in the way that you could grasp the fingers. Those hissy little things were under supervision. But so was she.

I'm living in old places sometimes. Where do you stay when you go down memory lane? I just arrived at a conclusion. Under Martins heavy boot crunched the fence this time. With a slight ting.

There she was, wallowing in her own self pity.. and he spoke again. At first she pointedly ignored him, not recognizing the cue of bookshelf and leaping upon him, but then she heard her name dropped- not once, but twice. He knew her?

But... from where?

It took a moment to sift past all of the muddled emotions and thoughts that question brought up, until realization slowly kicked in and she knew why his voice was so familiar. Martin! Feeling deflated and curiously like a kicked puppy, she stared up at him while he continued to speak. It was Martin... the gardener. Someone she had fallen out of a window on, as well as someone who had helped her when she had stumbled into a patch of very nasty plants. Here he was... in a dark alley. looking down at her with an expression she couldn't quiet see thanks to her glasses.

...and here she was. Defeated by a fence, and looking like she had taken a tumble down a hill. She felt shame prickle at the back of her neck. She was the very picture of a train wreck. Green and splotchy, and now with snakes! Why could she never meet him on a good day? A day when her wriggling head was calm, her clothes fit her right, and she wasn't getting mugged, or jumped in the streets? Quite quickly, the shame was replaced with a flicker of anger. She knew Martin... why had he scared her so? Why hadn't he identified himself sooner, rather than worry her into thinking he was some knife wielding stranger?

Then the anger was then replaced by an uncertain fear. Martin had a knife, and he knew how to use it well. She had witnessed him take people down, in self defense yes, but he had been so quick and so... cold about it. She shuddered involuntarily as he stepped toward her, wondering to herself if she could really claim to know anything about him at all, with her eyes locked on his form as he became clearer and clearer to her sheilded vision. He knelt before her, looked her straight in the eyes.... and held his hand out for her. Which only served to agitate her slithering, hissing companions. The serpents Curled inward, tensing like they were ready to strike and kept all of their little orange eyes on the male. Her fear softened, overshadowed with a mix of emotions she couldn't quite get a hold of. She chewed on her lip, and lifted her hand slightly from beside her. What was she doing...?

He was familiar to her. A reminder of happier times, in a happier place. His voice, his manner, brought with it images of the mansion. He was one of the people she had purposefully left behind. ...And yet, here he was. It tugged at her heart a little, and she desperately held back the urge to lung forward and hug him. No, she wasn't going to embarrass herself even more tonight by leaping upon the first friendly face she had seen in weeks. "...Martin?" Her hand paused uncertainly in the air. "...What are you doing here?" A good question, really.... Blinking, her head tilted ever so slightly and her serpents calmed. She relaxed temporarily, and so did they. She reached the rest of the way up to grasp his fingers gently. It was... odd. It felt like a dream. Maybe she really had passed out, and simply hadn't woken up yet..

Of all the people to meet in an alley...

She spoke in recognition. Hearing his own name uttered by the hissy-haired Gorgon send a slightly cold shudder down his spine. This was a great risk as he had not done what he normally would. Take your time. Think. This had been spontaneous action on his part. Spontaneity and uncontrolled actions were bad in his line of work. Dealing with them was a pain. Of course it had to happen here and now. That she had to have looked so utterly (yes, he had taken his time then to watch, if only from shock) like the piece of flailing helpless woman that she was.

If he left her alone, she would probably find herself being mugged again within the hour. This, his mellow heart, of course, promptly bit him in his proverbial backside. She started questioning him. With the usual questions. Yes, what do I do here? What am I doing? These are good questions. They beg for answers. And so answers will be given: “I live here.” And sometimes I kill people, too. That he did not say. But yes, he lived here. Around here. And this was perfectly true. The whys and the hows and the whats... they were much more difficult then the blatantly obvious statement of stupefying (The conversation, hex hex) nonvalue.

Yes. He pulled her up. “And I think we should go there, get you that drink I spoke of.” He did not think of giving her a glass of water. That bottle of Bourbon, which he had painstakingly acquired (Yes, it's not always great to look barely 20.) and stowed in the cupboard of his bathroom. That might be wise now. Cue to remember: She need not enter that bathroom. She might not appreciate the local atmosphere. The fauna and flora really. That room was the kind of incubator to produce the next two strains of the Spanish flu. Independently. And grow you a new bathrobe (With beard). In the idle phases. “I think I might have clothing, too.” Just like that. Near-nakedness happening. Was perfectly normal. (Also: I did not wish to see that in Bullet time. It burned in my eyes.) Hint: The three eyes were firmly planted on the ground now, trying to dig wells maybe. Deep, soothingly shadowy, wells.

Continued in:

Look, the Tables are dancing!