roadrunnermuses | meme } { open rp post

Sam is tracking ... well, Sam doesn't really know what he's tracking. He knows that there's been an odd amount of supernatural activity in the area. He knows that vampires can have weird territories and the city he's in is definitely one of them. But what he doesn't know is what the supernatural activity is or if it's related to the vampire community at all.

He's bored, so he's being nosy.

So have a very tall Winchester, poking around where his nose doesn't belong. Also, feel free to bite it off. It's what he deserves, really.

It had been a trying evening. Evenings were always trying when there were Garou involved. Fortunately, this one was dead.

Now.

Artemis knelt beside the body of the wolflike creature, her tan duster bunched up around her heels as she meticulously cut into its arm. She carried a long, ritual knife. Generally, it was for melee combat, but it worked just as well as a surgical tool.

Three werewolves in a week. The latest had been the most difficult. And Artemis realized that he'd taken a good chunk out of her leg, as she dragged the carpus into an alley. This did not bode well for Artemis, for her people, and for the state of California at large. Her brow furrowed in concentration, not on the task at hand, but at wondering what the hell a werewolf pack was doing in Liam's territory. They had an agreement. Which meant that these were some kind of independent faction. At least, she hoped so. Two points didn't make a pattern. But three...

Of course, that all depended on her precise, careful cuts into the Garou's arm.

Sam is still poking around where he doesn't belong, and as he rounds a corner, he happens to catch sight of the wolf like creature and the woman standing over him with a giant knife.

Well. Looks like he found it.

He reaches slowly behind his back for his gun, but doesn't draw right away. "Everything okay?"

Cursing herself for not hearing someone approaching, Artemis' back stiffened just slightly.

Sloppy. Very, very sloppy. She'd assign the blame to the pain in her leg or to thinking about werewolves or to letting Tima talk her into watching that Survivor thing (the idiot box really did make you stupid) later on. For now, she had to play a very careful game.

She didn't turn to look over her shoulder, but her wrist curled slightly, angling the flat part of her blade over her shoulder so that she could see what she was dealing with.

A boy. Perhaps not much older than Tima. Significantly bigger than she was, however. Walking alone on the street. Brave or stupid. His hands weren't where she could see them which was always upsetting. She listened for a pulse. Mortal. And he didn't look too frightened by this obviously upsetting scene. Someone who was wise? A mage or a changling? Hunter? Drunkard? (No, she didn't smell alcohol). Idiot? Packmate?

Bloody hell she hoped he wasn't a packmate. She would have to get a look at his aura.

Very slowly, she turned to look over her shoulder. Her hair was still mussed up from the fight, hiding a good deal of her face. Only one eye peered at him. "Right as rain in the City of Angels," she said.

When it comes to Winchesters it's usually brave and stupid. Like Gilberts. Sam also isn't buying that everything is right as rain because this? This doesn't look right as rain.

"Really?" He makes a face. "Because I didn't think that Los Angeles was known for giant wolf creatures."

They really need to redo those brochures.

She stood up. Slowly. Without dropping her knife. And she turned to face him. Also slowly.

Artemis was, at first glance, a waif-like creature. Wild brown curls and bottomless brown eyes. A frail thin frame, draped in an oversized coat. She dressed unexcitingly; nothing but a black blouse and an old pair of jeans.

Unassuming.

"You're one to talk about giants," she said, looking him up and down before taking stock of his aura. Human. With an little extra...something. A glimmer she could not identify. Nothing remarkable about the color patterns. She'd seen the very same many times over, even on her sisters.

Curious.

"Heh." Sam makes a bit of a face at that, before studying her right back. He can't read auras - he might have been less stupid with regards to some of his life choices if he could, but this is neither the time nor place for that. He takes stock of her like a hunter would, trying to figure out if she was, in fact, human.

"I skipped out on the claws and fangs package."

"Ah, he has a sense of humour," she said, to no one in particular since their only company was stone dead.

Judging his aura safe--at least for the moment--Artemis turned around and knelt down beside the wolfy corpse, running her knife along its arm again. She didn't turn her back on the stranger. Not completely. But she positioned herself as best she could to make it clear that he was not her quarry.

"So what are you, then?" she asked, slowly peeling back a layer of hairy skin.

"Human, last I checked." Since they were standing over a wolf corpse, he figured he could at least take the time to figure out what exactly it was he was dealing with. "Should I ask you the same thing?"

"I know you're human," she said irritably, shoving her fingers under a fold of flesh. "That's obvious. But there are precious few kinds of humans who come upon a scene such as this and don't run away while wetting themselves. So I'll put the question to you again. What are you?"

Her fingers brushed against something sharp and hot. Grabbing it, she pulled, yanking out several smaller arteries and capillaries in the process.

There it was. Again. An innocuous, little chit of metal. No bigger than her thumbnail and half as thick. The third microchip in the third werewolf.

Bloody fantastic.

... Is that a microchip? Sam's curiosity gets the better of him as he takes a step closer, his hand coming out from behind his back as he does. There, two hands, neither of them holding a gun.

"I'm a man of letters." That seems safer than saying that he's a hunter at the moment.

That was enough to pull Artemis' attention away from the microchip. Curiouser and curiouser. She'd already found more than she bargained for when she left the compound this evening.

"Aren't you all dead?" she asked, raising a thin eyebrow. "Not that I imagine that would ever stop someone, but I am curious."

He raises his eyebrows. Someone who's actually heard of them. "My grandfather was one. Henry Winchester?" If she knows of them, she might know if him, though Henry said he wasn't very far up in the ranks.

"It sort of ... skipped a generation, but me and my brother are trying to set it up again."

The name Henry Winchester meant nothing to Artemis. She shook her head, frowning a little bit. "I only ever met one member," she admitted. "Charles Something-Or-Other. Bit of a peacock. Lived up to the name, however."

Artemis stood up. She wiped her blade on there werewolf's jacket before slipping it back into her boot.

She held out one hand (the less bloody one) to the boy of letters. "Artemis Seth."

She didn't react badly to "Winchester" either, which is a good sign. At least he and Dean's reputation hadn't proceeded this far. He extends a hand to shake hers, silently thankful that he doesn't have to shake the bloody one.

"Sam Winchester."

"Sam Winchester," she repeated, testing the name out on her tongue. A good, solid name.

And a good, solid grip.

She slid her hand free, hoping he wouldn't pay too much attention to its temperature.

"You have working hands. Not like the men of letters that I recall."

"We're a little more hands on than the ones in the past." He doesn't want to say hunter outright, because he and Dean aren't really, not anymore. None of their cases are the small time, picking off monsters here and there like they used to be.

"We like to be prepared."

Artemis gave him a soft, approving grunt. She had no doubt in her mind that the soft hands of the last wave of men of letters had been responsible for their destruction.

At least someone was trying to learn from the past.

"Good," she said. "In that case, you can help me get this," she nodded to the corpse, "to the car. Leaving it out here will only inspire another wave of big foot hysteria."

He nods a bit, because no one really wants that, but he is awfully curious about one thing. "Sure. But, uh. Is that a microchip?"

She glanced at the slip of metal in her hand. "It appears to be. I'm not much of an electronics expert, but I'm sure the people back at the lab will be very, very eager to examine it."

That's right. She had a lab.

Artemis slipped the chip into her pocket, then nodded down to the werewolf corpse. "Come along, then," she told the boy. "We have a lot of work to do."

And with that, she started to slowly limp down the alley, toward the street.

Sam would very much like to meet these lab people. And hope they don't have a Winchester bias to boot. So he does as he's told, trying to shoulder more of the weight if he can, to take some of the pressure off her leg.

"Is that the first one you've found?"

"Third," Artemis replied curtly, looking from side to side for sign of unwelcomed guests. "First one I've gotten with the chip completely intact. At least I think it's intact. I can't really say for sure."

Around the corner was a bright, red Camry hybrid. It was Diana's car, but Diana wasn't going to be in any condition to drive it any time soon, so Artemis had helped herself. She liked the car. She liked that it was a quiet as a stealth-bomber.

And that it had an automatic trunk, which she was able to open from across the street.

Sam follows her in the direction of the car that was opening it's trunk all on it's own. Got to love modern technology. "Why would someone be microchipping werewolves?"

It just doesn't make any sense.

"I suppose it depends on what the microchip does," Artemis replied. "Although I rather doubt it's anything wholesome. And I rather doubt it's being done with the wolves' permission."

Werewolves weren't exactly fans of technology. It went against nature far too much.

She used one hand to shove aside all of Diana's crap, clearing a space in the trunk. "The fact that they're invading the territory makes me think that the chips are somehow feeding suggestions into their cerebral cortexes. LA is not a werewolf stomping ground."

Edited 2013-10-06 18:44 (UTC)

Couldn't resist, I hope that's okay! Gimme a Winchester?

let me know if this doesn't work

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