Lola Hawkes
Littleton is a town that doesn't see much
action. It's kind of out of the way from the city proper, but enough
people still live there for it to see a bit of traffic. This is the
town that the Hawkes family has used for human necessities for a long
time-- this was where Lola came for groceries that she couldn't
cultivate for herself through hunting and gardening.
She also
brought her truck here for auto maintenance back when she drove the big
metal beast. She hadn't needed so many tune-ups or repairs since
switching to the Subaru Forester, but wouldn't you know it the damned
thing somehow found a way to die on the side of the road anyways. She
hadn't even made it to the town proper to get that ticking sound checked
out (she and Hector were both woefully useless with machinery, Luddites
that they were).
This puts Lola where she was now-- seeking
shelter in a car with its hazards on on the side of the highway about
two miles outside of Littleton. There was a storm in the area, pouring
rain in bursts and spurts, buffeting with winds and crashing thunder in
the sky above.
It was a break in the rain when Lola decided she
was tired of waiting and got out of the car and started to walk. This
would be what Christopher Finch would see, however it is he happens
across the scene: a very pregnant woman covered with a poncho and a
hood, wearing a floor-length skirt or dress, walking the side of the
road with a shoulder leaned into the strong breeze that would
occasionally gust. The sun hadn't set quite yet, but it had been dark
and gloomy since the storm blew in an hour ago.
Christopher Finch
He’d
been on his way to Littleton chasing a lead on a story that didn’t seem
particularly interesting but had to be followed up anyway. Can’t find
anything worthy if the rock is left unturned, or something like that. He
can’t remember how it goes; he’s too interested in making sure he’s
heading the right way. The rain doesn’t help and GPS are unreliable, he
prefers maps to the recorded voice telling him where to go, always that
second too late to make the turn.
All of this was irrelevant the
moment he saw – was it? – yes, a pregnant woman in a skirt, walking
through the middle of a storm down the middle of the highway. Without
hesitating, he pulls his car over to the side of the road and into the
emergency lane. His hazards flick on, blinking brightly on the back of
the small, silver sedan, and after checking that he wouldn’t be opening
the door into an oncoming car, he got out.
With his jacket in the
car, the wind cut through his long sleeve shirt. It’s not the best kind,
not expected to be tucked under a suit, but decent enough to look
professional. His jeans are less so, faded but not to the point of
looking worn, the denim blue. Casual loafers, the sort he preferred not
get wet since he hadn’t treated the leather in awhile, so he dashed
across a puddle before he looked up at her and lifted a hand in a wave.
“Hey, Miss,” he called out.
Lola Hawkes
When
the car passed and pulled over to the side of the road, Lola stopped
walking and lifted a hand out from under the poncho to shield her eyes
from the wind and the splattering drizzle of raindrops here or there
that were still falling scattered loosely about. When the man got out
of the car in the nice looking shirt and jeans and came toward her, she
moved her hand to wave back, answering his hail and walking to meet him
where he ran to join her.
Up close, he got a clearer look at the
woman. She was young, somewhere in her early twenties probably. More
on the tall side for a woman than not, especially considering that her
descent appeared to be Native American-- perhaps South American as well
or instead? Something like that. Her skin was dark, her eyes and hair
dark enough to be called black, especially in the gloom of a stormy
dusk. The poncho she wore was raw wool, dyed in blacks and reds and
whites, and the skirt was full and hovered an inch or two off the
ground, a muted gray color. Under that, sturdy boots were visible--
certainly not worn for the sake of fashion.
Oh, and looks-like-she-could-have-a-baby-any-day-now pregnant, considering how far the poncho stuck out in front of her.
When
they were near enough to meet, she squinted through the rain and spoke
English naturally and easily with only the slightest lilt of accent--
Spanish? Probably.
"Hey! Thank you. Are you going into town?"
Christopher Finch
He
noticed all this about her, some right away and others gradually, and
reflected on how things sometimes just worked out. Wondered, what her
story was but was too polite to ask and too concerned to chit-chat in
the rain.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am,” he answers her and waves her towards
the car, inviting her with the quick motion of his hand. “Come on, out
of the rain. And careful, there’s a crack in the road up ahead.”
Finch
is just over six foot, a little broad shouldered, and looks reasonably
fit. His face is kind, smiling easily as he opens the door for her,
having walked ahead to do so. He’s from New York but lacks the attitude;
most would have left her to drown in the onslaught of rain without a
glance her way.
Lola Hawkes
With a confirmation
that the tall white man was heading into town and a wave of his hand to
invite her along after him, Lola ducked her head to the breeze and
followed along after him toward the car. With his warning, she minded
the crack in the road and managed not to scuff the toe of her boot on it
while walking toward the car that he had driven. Her long hair was
successfully kept out of her face only by the mercy of it being drawn
into a plait, but loose strands still whipped her face and tried their
best to make their way into her mouth.
The man had opened the door
for her. She didn't know he was from New York, and she was secluded
enough that she might not even be aware of the stereotype of New Yorkers
being assholes (except she did, if only because of the one time she
visited the city with a pair of Galliards to spread a story and check in
on a relative from afar). She did recognize that it was a good gesture
to stop for someone stranded on the roadside.
Truthfully, people
would be less inclined to stop for her were it not for her advanced
stage of pregnancy. She had a very tough demeanor, and didn't look like
she smiled much. Her facial features were softened, rounded by
maternity, but the expression was by default set to something hard and
neutral. Without this extra weight and roundness she was strong and
lean and hard-bodied and tough as hell. Combine that with her ethnicity
and people were as worried that she was going to carjack them as they
were that her mate might do the same.
Christopher would pick up
some of this hard-flint demeanor once he settled into the car and she
had as well. She wasn't smiling or putting on any charms to express her
gratitude toward him. She simply fastened her seatbelt, then turned
and stuck out her hand across the center console (or bench seat,
whatever) to offer it for a shake.
"Name's Lola Hawkes. I appreciate your stopping-- the storm would've made that a hell of a walk."
If
Christopher were familiar with the Denver werewolf community, or in
particular the history and heritage of it, he may recognize the name.
Lola Hawkes of the Uktena, of the Hawkes family that has safeguarded and
protected the Caern for as long as most anyone can remember. The name
was pretty well known for how old it was here.
Christopher Finch
Once
she, and her long skirt, is tucked into the car, he shuts the door and
makes his way around the front to get in the drivers seat. He settles in
to his seat, pulling his belt across to click into place, and was about
to turn the heat on for her when she proffered her hand.
Twisting
his shoulder, he took up her hand and shook it with a smile.
“Christopher Finch.” There’s no recognition at her name. He’s remarkably
in the dark when it comes to Denver’s community affairs and history.
That would, hopefully, be rectified sometime in the very near future.
Turning
back to the wheel, he flicked the heater on a little warmer and up a
notch, before saying, “Nothing worse than being caught out in a storm.
Couldn’t just drive on by, Miss Hawkes.”
He checked the mirrors,
waited for a spot in the traffic, and pulled smoothly onto the road.
“Where is it that you’re heading? I’m not that familiar with the area.”
She’d have to give some directions.
Lola Hawkes
The
woman's grasp to answer the shake is a firm one without being the
squeezing sort of overcompensating. Her palms had callouses of all
kinds-- older ones from holding and firing heavy guns, more recent ones
from handling a bow and arrow. Others from manual labor; chopping wood
to warm her home and the like. She nodded when given the name return,
then settled into the seat when the man pulled away from the side of the
road and began to drive.
She settled, but sat as though something
near her lower back was uncomfortable. Perhaps an ache and pain of
pregnancy, or perhaps something she was carrying. He could ask if he
wanted, but something told him the answer might be a snap of teeth
despite the fact that he'd just shown her a great kindness and let her
into his car. Something about the woman seemed rough and feral like
that.
All the same, she didn't snap teeth or growl when he asked where she was going. Instead, she pointed straight up the road.
"This'll
take you right into Littleton. If you can drop me off at my mechanic's
house, I'd thank you." A pause, one that is uncomfortably long and
stark. Lola wasn't the most conversational thing, but after the silence
was about to need to be broken somehow she finally interjected with a
question that sounded like she felt like she needed to make small talk
but was terrible at it.
"What brought you out here, then? If you aren't familiar with the area."
Christopher Finch
If
Christopher seemed bothered by her demeanour, he doesn’t show it.
Pregnant women are not to be trifled with; it was a simple law of
nature. They were entitled to behave in anyway they saw fit and the rest
of society was meant to fall in line, so much so that they were
expected, in any decent society, to go out of their way for them – just
as he had. He was relaxed, paying attention to the road rather than the
ache, or weapon that she had at her lower back.
“Sure,” he says,
glad that the direction was simple enough. He figures that it was her
car back there, the one left on the side of the road and doesn’t ask
about it. Though as the silence had stretched on he had considered doing
so just to break up the growing tension, mostly, it seemed, on her
behalf.
She breaks it with a question instead and his mouth
flicks up into a quick smile. “Promotion,” he tells her with a quick
glance in her direction. Then, back to the road. “Isn’t that always the
way? Chasing the dollar and opportunities. New York is a cesspit of
corruption and competitors.” He checks the review with a flick of
hazel-gold eyes. “I’m hoping Denver’s a little better.”
“What about yourself, Miss Hawkes? Have you lived out here long?”
Lola Hawkes
'Promotion',
was the answer, and he smiled at her and asked, in a way, if she knew
how it was. The flat way that she looked at him suggested that no, she
didn't quite know that it was the way at all. But she's at least polite
enough to listen. She'd asked the man a question, it was only good and
proper to hear him out when he responded. Plus, with strangers it was
more comfortable talking than it was sitting in silence.
So, she
would converse. Her hands would fold and settle overtop of her stomach,
but this was happening under the poncho and out of sight. Her eyes
were out the windshield while they spoke.
"Grew up out here."
That made sense, Littleton was the suburb on the edge of the sticks, and
she was coming in from the west. Where the Caern was-- he may have an
idea of where that was, at least.
"Out west from here. Near Roxborough." She paused, then added: "Been to New York. Fuckin' hellhole."
Christopher Finch
“Great,” he says with light enthusiasm. “You’d be able to give me a few tips on the best places to see around here, then?”
More
than that, she’d be a great source to go to for some information but
that would sound a little too intense for someone that had just picked
her up on the side of the road. These sorts of things took time and he’d
read her right; she wasn’t interested in chatting or warming up and
those sorts took awhile to make comfortable. A lot were just dead ends
but maybe he could fish something out of her, at least make her feel a
bit more at ease.
At the mention of New York being a hellhole he’d
laughed, short but genuine and his brows had hopped, while he nodded in
agreement. “Can’t disagree with you there, Miss. I’d like to, but
there’s not much to back up any other claim than that.” Yes, it was a
hellhole. “Even the supposed civilized aren’t very civilized. Worst of
the lot, I think, all trussed up in finery to coat their ugliness.”
He stole a glance at her. “Got an opinion on anywhere else? Have you been to L.A? It’s not much better.”
Lola Hawkes
"I went on a road trip this winter."
She
explained this to him, starting to tell a story to give some
background. "Drove out to Charlotte, North Carolina. Then went up to
New York City." She paused, and when she said the next part of the
story she sounded exhausted. He can imagine-- if this was over the
winter, she would have had to have been pregnant already to be as far
along as she was in April. "And then out to San Jose."
"Charlotte was nice. New York was like you said, but crowded and tall and concrete."
And she sounded like she hated every single aspect of those words that
she described. There was a special hate there for New York City that
only a bumpkin could foster. "San Jose was warm in December. I didn't
like that much. Nice forests in California, though."
Under the
poncho she pushed at her stomach, then shifted her hand and pushed at
the heavy revolver holstered at the small of her back. The safety was
on, of course, but it was jamming her in the hip. "Never been to L.A..
Went to Las Vegas, though. K--," she started to say something and
stopped abruptly with a small widening of her eyes. She had gotten
comfortable and started speaking conversationally, filling the drive
with her opinion of the country's landmarks. She'd almost said Killed a couple of vampires and got shit-faced. Instead, she cleared her throat and asked.
"What do you do? Said you got promoted."
Christopher Finch
“Sounds
like a nice drive,” he tells her, thinking on all the places she had
mentioned and what he knew of each place. Being that he wasn’t pregnant,
couldn’t be, or imagine how it might be a toll on the body, he doesn’t
think of how exhausting a long road trip might be. These were adventures
and experiences and, if he had his own way, he’d spent majority of his
time on the road opposed to sitting behind a desk in front of a glaring
screen.
At her near-slip, Lola earned a sharp and curious glance,
but she didn’t go on, instead asked him about what he did. This is where
people either were drawn towards or distanced from him and he’s placing
bets that she’s going to fall in the later.
“I’m a journalist,”
he confesses. He doesn’t make it sound like a dirty word, though his
field was seen with contempt and reporters with distrust, and although
there wasn’t any obvious pride, he certainly liked what he did. He
expected, by that quick glance he gave her that she, however, might not
have the same sort of interest.
Lola Hawkes
The
sharp glance that Christopher gave her didn't go unnoticed, and Lola
didn't back down from it one bit. She met his eye and held it for as
long as he would. She all but challenged him to say something, to call
her out on it.
Lola hadn't ever had the best people skills. That
was a part of growing up in a house out in the wild and resenting
whatever time she had to spend in school. She'd much rather be with her
family, or out at the Sept with the Garou and Kinfolk, learning to be a
great Warrior rather than bothering with human history lessons. She
was learning, having Celduin and several werewolves back in her life to
keep her tempered had taught her patience, but when uncomfortable and
around strangers that she presumed to be unfamiliar white human men,
Lola slipped back to old abrasive habits.
Thankfully, he seemed
content to at least acknowledge her question enough to answer it. He
said he was a journalist, and Lola nodded and looked back out the
passenger window instead.
"Writer. I've never been much of a
reader. Have to keep my eyes open on the land. I keep my family's
ranch, and we're close out to the National Park, so I have to watch for
cougars and coyotes."
And wolves, but those weren't native out here. He didn't need to know about the population in her back yard.
Christopher Finch
“That’s
what I love about the world,” he says about their differences.
“Diversity.” It’s all summarized in that neat little package and,
although he could go on about it, they’re arriving down the street that
she had indicated and he slowed his car, looking out the window for an
obvious auto-shop or something that could pass in kind.
“I don’t
know much about coyotes or cougars.” Seems they are common enough out
here for her to be concerned about them; she runs a ranch, it makes
sense. “Never have come up close and personal to either.”
Spotting
the place, he cruises to a stop by the curb without bumping against it
and, once the hand-break is on and the car idling with the heat still
pumping out the vents, he turned to her. “I bet you’ve got a couple of
stories.” He smiled at her, small, a bit warmer than polite, still
unaffected by her brisk attitude. She’d been social enough in a
potentially awkward situation; she got plenty of credit for that.
“Anyway,”
he looks past her, ducking his head some to look out through her window
and to the building beyond. “Is this place still opened? I can wait.
Don’t want to leave you stranded.”
Lola Hawkes
They
pull up to the curb, and Lola reaches out from under her poncho to
unbuckle the seat belt. He guessed that she had some stories, and Lola
paused her uncomfortable reach across her large stomach to look the man
in the face. Then, she smirked, and the expression was a little sharp
and a little rough. Like a war veteran would probably smirk and
chuckle. "Oh, I've got stories, pal."
Then, unbuckled, she
reached for the door, but paused when he offered to hang around and wait
up. She shook her head and turned back to him to explain: "Nah,
Roberto was friends with my dad. His house is actually just behind the
shop, so if he's not in there I'll just go knock. He's friends, he'll
help out."
For how rough the woman seemed to be, the gratitude in
her face is genuine and clear both when she concludes with: "Thanks,
Christopher. You saved a fat pregnant bitch some really sore feet, and a
really crabby husband at home to follow. You got good spirits
and karma on you tonight." Oh-kay, weird voodoo hillibilly. The door
opened, and she hefted herself out of the car door and managed to lean
down enough to bid him farewell. "Thanks. Have yourself a good night."
Then
she'd close the door and make an amusing sight sway-waddling her way
quick through the rain up to the shop door which, mercifully, was
unlocked so she could duck inside quick after.
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