Another morning, another accident to clean up after. David cards a hand back through his hair, staring the length of the hall as it runs a ribbon of madder red toward the opposite end of the flat. A pair of feet peek from behind the sofa, one socked and one not, the flesh of the latter the mottled grey-blue of easily recognizable death, a hint of purple at the heel where the blood has settled.
He glances around the place, at the spray decorating the walls. Jesus. "What blood is left," he mutters to himself, cut off when his eyes land on a hand on the kitchen counter. Just a hand, the black lacquered nails curling in toward the palm. The rest of her is beneath the table, rigor locking her expression at death into a semi-permanent snarl.
"If Islington is going to tangle with the East End again, I need a budget approval for more body bags," David tells his contact drily, and zips his PPE up to the throat.
Just Dance
Life isn't just babysitting the thirsty undead while the bulk of them sleep, and handling things more suited to an impermanent human touch, it can have its high moments. His off time is never really his own time, as he's here to network - or, as Casey put it with a smirk, "make some new friends" - but David finds himself enjoying the music, the energy, the life.
Maybe a bit too much. What's in this drink? but he's finished his cup of the communal punch and offering his hand to the next pretty, amiable-looking woman he sees. "Up for a dance?"
David Reid | Day Men | Human
Another morning, another accident to clean up after. David cards a hand back through his hair, staring the length of the hall as it runs a ribbon of madder red toward the opposite end of the flat. A pair of feet peek from behind the sofa, one socked and one not, the flesh of the latter the mottled grey-blue of easily recognizable death, a hint of purple at the heel where the blood has settled.
He glances around the place, at the spray decorating the walls. Jesus. "What blood is left," he mutters to himself, cut off when his eyes land on a hand on the kitchen counter. Just a hand, the black lacquered nails curling in toward the palm. The rest of her is beneath the table, rigor locking her expression at death into a semi-permanent snarl.
"If Islington is going to tangle with the East End again, I need a budget approval for more body bags," David tells his contact drily, and zips his PPE up to the throat.
Just Dance
Life isn't just babysitting the thirsty undead while the bulk of them sleep, and handling things more suited to an impermanent human touch, it can have its high moments. His off time is never really his own time, as he's here to network - or, as Casey put it with a smirk, "make some new friends" - but David finds himself enjoying the music, the energy, the life.
Maybe a bit too much. What's in this drink? but he's finished his cup of the communal punch and offering his hand to the next pretty, amiable-looking woman he sees. "Up for a dance?"