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I'd like to *nom*inate Andrea. Suddenly having seven serpents popping out of your head can't be easy, but she writes it so well. I'm particularly fond of Sloth~
Threads of interest:
Blood, Sweat and Snakes
The Stuff of Nightmares
Snakes on a Bus

In her visit to the bathroom she missed the insults and threat thrown at Jorge, so when he approached and stood at a respectable distance (quickly encouraged to join them by Andrew’s words and her own enthused nods) nothing seemed amiss. Well, of course there would forever be that stain on Andrew’s mind, but that would have been there no matter which of the two had passed on. Perhaps if reincarnation existed the man who attempted to take Jorge’s life would come back changed, for another attempt at that thing called life.

“I’m glad you’re not going to jail too, Jack and I would have missed you.”

Especially her.

Her first Andy, the green-skinned girl she shared a room with had been around less and less frequently she noted, although she was sure they must just continually be missing each other, especially with how distracted Verdy had been as the case drew closer. Walks with Jack were soothing, and he had been getting more than the minimum recommended half-hour of walkies each day. In short, Andrew was one of the few she had been interacting with recently, and with him lost she would have been truly lonely once more.

Andrew’s teasing came easily and she smiled gratefully. It was a step down the long road to being back to the fun loving Andrew she had first met, without the darkness and discomfort from lack of sleep and stress over the upcoming trial. Perhaps he would never be the same, although lessened the stress of taking another’s life may need more time to fade into the dimness of suppressed memories.

Slipping her phone out of her bag and turning it on to check the time she pondered what was waiting for her back at the mansion. She had an unfinished essay which she had been avoiding for quite some time now, as the due date was still weeks away and the topic dull. She had also been playing a game online to increase her typing speed to that of the other women she worked with (even the woman with only nine fingers was far speedier than herself) and she was sitting stubbornly on the fourteenth level, needing to shave off another two seconds to pass to the fifteenth. Neither prospect seemed demanding, and knowing that she had left Jack asleep with a full bowl each of food and water reinforced the thought that she wasn’t needed back for at least a few more hours. The longer she spent away from the reproachfully glaring essay, the better.

“If Jorge is bailing I’ll join you. I’ll join you anyway, provided I won’t step on your manly-talk toes.”

She rolled her eyes. On the whole her two friends weren’t too ‘grunt grunt I’m a male and so can’t use real sentences’ but sometimes their relentless teasing was a little disconcerting. Due to its prolonged absence, however, she was surprised how much she welcomed back the gentle words not meant to hurt, only embarrass. Something in her was yearning for a highly sugary hot drink, and perhaps something homely to nibble on. If Jorge and Andrew displayed any hesitation she would simply get them to go and finish them at the Mansion. She was determined to move onto that next level before her next shift.

And so the match would take place, the two males would go head to head in the ring. Well, at least it was staying in the gym to be dealt with, rather than festering in Vinci and manifesting later. Besides, Andrew looked like he wouldn’t mind having his own live punching bag for a while. She frowned and moved in behind them.

~“In here thirty minutes and already causing a ruckus.”

Verdy wasn’t sure if she should flush with shame or scoff at Jorge’s statement, especially since he had voiced her own worried thoughts. Although, she suspected the looming match was now a matter of pride, rather than a contest for her attention. It wasn’t the trigger’s fault when someone got hurt, but the bullet’s, or perhaps the hand that squeezed the trigger the wrong way.

In her uncertainty she frowned and the moment passed, morphing into Jorge’s claim of a joke and apology for the behaviour of his colleague. She glanced at him then back to the younger officer, itching to get into the ring and smack some sense into someone who really hadn’t been doing anything wrong. The two were as different as opposites could be and she tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“The same way mutants can’t all be painted with the same brush, neither can police officers. Or anyone, for that matter.”

She was worried for Andrew, could his anger, and therefore fists, match that of the outed parking inspector? Jorge seemed confident, Andrew angry and she herself felt… detached, as if nothing she could say or do could change the outcome of the events about to unfold. Wiping her palms on the legs of her pants she put her own gloves onto the floor and settled in to watch and see.

Two sets of shoulders, Jorge and Andrew’s, blocked her from the angry officer and she was effectively out of the circle of glares and insults. Grateful but a little worried she undid her gloves and slipped them off to hold them loosely in one hand. Something about the situation (or was that everything about the situation?) made her nervous, and she wanted her mutation to be available to her should it come down to that.

Apparently it wasn’t coming down to that but rather a match between Andrew and the snorting young man. If he accepted the challenge would he have enough energy left to beat Vinci? What would happen if he didn’t? Vinci didn’t seem like the type to just walk away from an opponent even if they were clearly beaten. Would she herself become a bartering chip? A trophy? If Andrew won would Vinci catch up with them some other time, possibly with others or a weapon of some sort?

Distracted from her concerning thoughts by Jorge pat-slapping Andrew’s shoulder she frowned but said nothing. It would be pointless to waste her breath; men in hotheaded rage would never listen to a woman’s scolding or demands of a cessation. Every movie she could think of agreed, there was no way anything she said could change the outcome, all she could do was hope that Jorge was right about the man’s boxing skill, that Andrew even after this long on the bag could beat him.

That or Andrew could always refuse the offer.

Somehow judging from the angry redness of his ears she doubted it.

It was them. They walked, no, -marched- up the hallway as if they were preparing for battle instead of mourning a loved one. Verdy wasn’t sure if she held more pity or loathing towards them but the loathing section was more prominent at this point in time as she saw the way that Andrew acted. To drag a dead man’s name all around through court, for the sole purpose of causing someone else pain was cruel.

Andrew’s suggestion that they move inside was one that showed his level headedness. While she had been getting tense, ready for a storm of evil words, he was moving them to a safe place where they would be out of the weather. The thanks he gave to herself and Jorge seemed almost like a farewell so she squeezed him back in the hug and refused to let tears cloud her vision for more than the hug’s duration. He was going to be fine, he was honest, defending a friend, and he had her lucky marble, although she was fearful of its potency against the angry, red woman bearing down on them.

Slipping into the courtroom in front of Jorge but behind Andrew, she took in the layout with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. The Judge wasn’t in the little podium-esque square of wood, so she was fairly sure they didn’t need to bow, but she dipped her head so as to not make eye contact with the jury who were semi-assembled in their area, speaking in low voices or organising papers and things. As she was not associated with the case she made her way towards the seats reserved for the public, hopeful that most of the family members would have better sense than to sit near her if they weren’t getting up to give witness.

Currently alone in the sea of wooden pews she felt a wave of loneliness for Andrew, as well as herself. The support which she and Jorge provided was nothing compared to the pressure of the trail. Would he be able to hold himself together? Or would he buckle and be crushed?

Shaking off such disturbing thoughts she turned her thoughts to the courtroom itself. Would it have some form of measures to ensure that the judge and jury were not influenced by any mutations present in the room? For if someone like Slate with mental influence were inclined to, it would be possible to communicate with any of the inhabitants of the room. In fact, many mutations could have caused serious issues in the trial, and the only way to deal with them would be a zero-tolerance. Could the courtroom have some form of mutation-nulling aura? So that any x-genes couldn’t sway the proceedings? Her palms didn’t feel any different, but she was disinclined to test to see if her ability had been negated, nor could she see Andrew’s wrist enough to tell if the promise band, so like a tattoo, was still there.

Folding her hands into her lap with a sigh she resigned herself to waiting and seeing. What more could she possibly do? Somehow she felt rude sending messages to the unknowns in the cosmos twice in the one day when before she had mainly ignored them. Although… truly she must have had tonnes of prayer space stored up, once more couldn’t hurt.

Grinning seemed to be this man’s speciality, and she supposed if she weren’t quite so tense, or if she was alone or with a girlfriend rather than Andrew, perhaps his pearly whites might have produced a reaction that wasn’t the blunt ‘go-to-hell-I’m-not-interested’ type. His reaction to her bluntness took a moment or two, but the sneer proved her suspicion of an alright face hiding a creepy personality. She could feel Andrew’s eyes drilling either into herself or the man who was standing in front of her, taking a step back as if steading himself from an unexpected punch. The lingering feeling of being watched made her feel a little better, she wasn’t alone in this.

The return of the grin and his use of the affectionate term as he stepped over the invisible line into her personal space with a flick of the eyes at Andrew, as if daring him to protest or make a move to stop him, irritated her. While it was true that Andrew really had no place to say anything for a moment she was unsure why the man in front of them wouldn’t back off, when she was clearly here with him. Perhaps he would have continued no matter what the relationship between them had been. He seemed the type. The male equivalent of ‘homewrecker’.

Why wouldn’t she accept his personal instruction? Well; one, she was quite happy with Jorge’s instruction and two, she was far too busy calculating how much further he could step forward before she could reasonably kick him in the place where it would hurt the most. True it was an unethical move, but if he was as used to fighting as his cocky manner suggested she was fairly sure that one of her punches, greatly weakened by the effort she had used today, would do nothing but amuse or aggravate him.

Thankfully as he took the final step into her range and she stiffened, ready to unleash the kick of pain a hand fell on the young man’s shoulder, halting her calculated kick before her foot even left the floor. It was Jorge, and the badge wasn’t even required to make the man hesitate. He seemed to recognise the grizzled detective as higher up on the ranking, as he deferred to him and backed off a little. Just enough so Verdy could breathe again.

Jorge’s use of ‘officer’ startled her, the young man didn’t seem to have the air of an officer. The clarification of parking inspector explained it, all the power trip of a real officer without the danger or elevated IQ. With the young man’s back turned to her she felt safe enough to smirk at the older enforcer of the law. Officer Vinci’s comment on correcting her posture made her bristle, but at least he called her by something that didn’t assume a nonexistent familiarity.

Jorge’s defence of her posture made her ears pinken a little, but the warning that followed held back any smirk which might have graced her features. Worry clouded her mind for a moment, while she was sure the older detective could take care of himself it seemed a little foolish to challenge the younger and most likely hot-headed man. The tense moment after the threat made her sweat worse than the boxing but thankfully he seemed to realise he was out of his depth and walk away, not without a parting shot and Andrew and an offer for herself. She swallowed all the bitterness and snarky comments possible to retaliate with, including ribbings about the fact that it wasn’t Andy walking away from a fight, and opted instead for a sickly-sweet smile.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Jorge’s concern and Andrew’s defensive glare made her smile weakly, she knew how to pick her friends, she hadn’t even asked and yet both were ready to protect her from the moves of the smooth-talking creeper. She took a deep breath and let it go, stuff like that happens all the time, to people all over the city and probably the world. Still, she had forgotten and the unexpectedness had shaken her a little. Never had she felt more like comfort icecream, something that until this moment she had been certain was a myth.

“Yeah I’m alright, a little ruffled, but I guess it’s more a compliment than anything else.”

Accepting it as a compliment was difficult, but that was what it meant and just because the man’s intentions weren’t pure didn’t mean it couldn’t be taken as something more pleasant. Her innocence in giving him any signals only furthered her assurance that there was nothing she could have done to improve the situation. Skimpy gym crop-top and shorty-shorts might have prompted advances from the inhabitants of the gym, but her loose, long legged attire was a little less revealing than what she would have worn were she attention seeking, however, apparently the limited female presence in this gym marked her as a target for roaming eyes with two incidents in the one trip. Since nothing had really happened, except for Andrew semi-staking a claim in her defence, it was not really an issue that needed to be addressed. There was nothing she could do about it anyway, the change of clothes she had brought weren’t any less revealing than the ones she wore (and it was possible that the second shirt had a dipped neckline rather than the frumpy straight one she was wearing) and the lack of sweat could start again the ribbing. At least when she was covered in sweat it was implicit that she had already been working out for some time, and less tolerant of the average testosterone-fuelled advances.

Verdy awoke from a rather pleasant dream to the rather unpleasant feeling of Jack’s slobbery tongue sweeping her face. The second it took her to leap from the bed and dash to the bathroom to spit in the sink and ferociously brush her teeth was soundtracked by a wailing ‘eeeeeeeeew’ followed by swearing through frothy paste.

“Why would you do that?!”

Jack cocked his head at her innocently and she frowned, it was difficult to stay mad at the little pirate captain. One final spit and rinse and she felt sufficiently cleansed from the rude awakening to return to bed. Jack barked at her as she moved towards the bed, then barked again as she sat down on the edge of it.

“What is wrong with you this morning?”

She glanced at the clock and saw a few minutes past eight. Far too early to be out of bed, the lazy side of her complained, and she felt a great desire to agree with it and tumble beneath the covers for another forty winks or so. The rational side of her was yelling something incomprehensible but she ignored it with a sigh and fell back against the soft mattress. Jack began barking the moment her head touched the pillow.

“What!!!”

She shoved herself out of the bed and raked the room with her eyes looking for the lead. If she took him for a quick walk now perhaps he would calm down and she could catch some more sleep before noon. She glanced at the clock again and froze.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Andrew’s trial was today, and she had promised-kind-of-sorta, that she would come and be there, as emotional support. Jack couldn’t go, of course, but he would be fine to stay in the room by himself. In fact, now that she was tearing around the room rummaging for a clean shirt to wear under her work suit Jack seemed content to jump onto the bed, turn around three times and settle into the warm patch she had left, his work done.

Finally retrieving a pale blue blouse from where it had been lurking in the bottom of a draw she shook it out and inspected it. The front was mainly ok, but the sleeves looked like they could do with an iron before an important occasion, and the trial of her boy-gap-friend on the subject of murder was definitely an important occasion.

Cursing her lack of foresight and hanging space she slipped a hanger into the shirt and hung it from the inside of the bathroom door, the steam would encourage most of the crinkles to fall out of the thin material, and any that didn’t… well she could either live with it, or dash down to find an iron in the shared laundry, depending on how much time she had.

She was in and out of the shower in a flash, only spending enough time to scrub herself into a clean pinkness and wash her hair. She speed-dried and brushed her hair simultaneously before scraping it into a sensible bun with all the green carefully concealed. Despite the fact it wasn’t her on trial demonstating that the company Andrew kept was wholesome could make a big difference if it were a juried trial, people were incredibly judgemental and she was secretly glad that neither herself nor Andrew had particularly obvious mutations, there was bound to be at least one bigot in the jury. Cursing her lack of foresight she recalled a concealer she had read about which would cover tattoos, although if Andrew had on long sleeves that shouldn’t be an issue.

Drying her bangs so they left her eyes well and truly exposed she touched on mascara and eyeliner with a shudder. Why did women have to wear makeup to be taken seriously? Slipping on a sheer pair of tights and the sensible, flat, mary-jane-type shoes she wore to work she tugged on her skirt and checked the time. She was still running late, but she might just have enough time to iron if she ran. Snatching her bag up and pulling on her jacket over her bra, the blue shirt dangling on the hanger from her other hand she wrestled for a moment with her phone on the charger. Skipping out on the vest she ducked into the hallway, grateful for the lack of people, and dashed onwards to the laundry where she was certain she had seen an iron. Perhaps they had one in their room, but she wasn’t sure where it was. The seconds until the iron was warm enough were spent organising a cab on the phone and praying nobody walked in on her, as she had removed the jacket in the steamy warmth. A quick job with the iron and her shirt was respectable. Not wishing to crease it she re-hung it, donned her jacket once more, buttoned it to a decent level and dashed to meet the cab at the gate.

((OOC: Crazy long post, and it's only half of what I wrote... I split it up 'cause it looked too weirdly long. The other half can wait. Working tommorow, so I mightn't be on until late.))