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WHO:

notquiteidol.
WHERE: The Pound & Pence pub.
WHEN: Saturday night.
WARNINGS: Foul-mouthed psychics and stuff.
SUMMARY: Going for a drink.
FORMAT: Quicklog.

[ She was the messy-haired woman at the bar in the heavy work boots, dirty knees showing from under her skirt. Already nursing a pint of frothy beer. The people in the background were a pleasant hum of busy noise, but nobody approached her.

Maybe it was the leather jacket. There was something tough about a woman in a leather jacket. Or maybe it was the word printed bold and white across the back.

FreakAngels. ]

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I'm the one that usually does the biting, yeah.

[ It's hard to be afraid of much once you've helped bring around the apocalypse. And found out you're practically immortal. Not that she wasn't reckless and a little short on sanity to begin with. The woman flies a homemade flying motorcycle, after all.

She swallows a mouthful of London Porter before responding, mildly: ]

But you can still appreciate a cold pint. I think I can appreciate that kind of vampire. [ A pause. ] How long you been alive then?

Longer than you've been alive, I bet.

Probably. I'm only twenty-three. Betting I'll be alive a lot fucking longer though. You know me and the others can survive having our bloody brains blown out?

[ She says this conversationally. Maybe it's the company. Maybe she's just always like that. ]

Don't know if I really want to be alive forever though. Seems like a right bleeding pain in the arse.

I've met demons like that. Blow their head right off and it just grows back.

Just got to look at living a bit differently then. Watch how it changes instead of thinking about why it stays the same. You either get used to it or you wind up finding a way to kill yourself.

[ She laughs. She has a loud, abrupt, and rather unladylike laugh that shows her teeth. ]

Wouldn't work. I only get stronger every time I die. It opens up the package more. I can already blow things up with my mind. Takes about as much effort as scratching my bum. Built a flying motorcycle from junk parts just thinking about it.

[ An exhale. ] But I'm shite at everything but being a freak. That's the bloody irony, isn't it?

You're a right interesting woman, aren't you?

About how human does that make you?

I think the proper phrase is "utterly mad," but "interesting" is the nice way of putting it, yeah, I suppose so.

[ She absently tilts her mug back and forth, watching the liquid inside sway. ]

My mum and dad were normal. It was something about the time I was born, the tilt of the planets or some stupid shite like that. I didn't ask for the package, and I certainly wasn't bloody bitten or anything. [ K.K. glances up, pointedly. Her eyes are a startling violet, and there's something endless about her stare. ] I think I'm human. But I don't know many immortal humans with the power to end the world either.

Hope you never have to use those powers.

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