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Thread: Horse Guards Parade (Let the Games Begin)

  1. #1
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    Closed Roleplay [WoD] Horse Guards Parade (Let the Games Begin)

    Buckingham Palace loomed behind the brightly lit arena, the sunset not bothering the thousands of locals and tourists who were watching the Olympic beach volleyball round robin play. Two seats were empty for the last two matches of the evening, their occupants unavoidably delayed. One because he was dead. The other was simply waiting for full dark.

    ***

    Sansa put down her violin, silently cursing her inability to get the damned instrument to create the sounds she could feel in her head. She placed it under her chin once more, Air on the G String ready to spring forth once again, but a round of not-so-silent cursing made her pause.

    "For fuck's sake, not again!" Liam Dunsirn strode into his room and easily plucked the violin from her grasp. "Fucking classical music at all hours - at least Ewan seems to be able to escape your damn moping."

    She thought of a sharp retort, but her lips only curled downward. "Sorry," she said meekly. "It's just... Gabe loved music..." Her voice cracked and she looked down at the hardwood floor.

    Liam pursed his lips, gazing down at the top of her bowed head. After a moment he pulled her into his arms, offering the cold bitch a warm embrace. "It wouldn't be so fuckin' annoying if you just knew more than one song," he allowed, rubbing a hand up and down her back as she leaned against him.

    They became aware of her Hunger at the same moment, and he carefully pushed her back from his neck. "You're goin' t' waste away to torpor or something if you don't go feed. Go. It's night, it's London, Ewan is out, and you should be too." Liam traced her jawline with his thumb, and hid his irritation as she pulled away from his touch. She was sleeping in his bed, the least she could do was share it. Oh well.

    ***

    Sansa slipped into her seat in the Horse Guards Parade ground, conscious of the fact that Gabriel had bought the tickets for them, and that she would be sitting next to an empty seat for the remainder of the matches. She'd thought of a hundred reasons not to go, but she was also aware that she was wearing her welcome thin at the Dunsirns' flat.

    Although, Liam wasn't letting her out of his sight. She had seen him following her into the venue, but instead of being irritated found his presence almost comforting.

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  2. #2
    Rod Stafford
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    Once again, Rod had overstayed his welcome. He was hunkered down beside the shelves, stealing away precious moments with Euripides, in the full knowledge they would be his last. Mrs. Albright stalked the halls with impatient clicking heels, counting down to the moment when he was to be wrestled from the Classics section and ejected into the shameful gloom of Mason's Yard. In his mind's eye he pictured the silver-haired librarian; marching with purpose, hips rolling in her pencil skirt, and her blouse, a scandalous extra button now loosed, turned up at the sleeves to reveal a set of sinewy forearms built for dealing with defenseless young stragglers like himself. The heavy doors were thrown open and feisty heels stabbed at the scholarly silence like daggers. In an instant, Euripides was returned to his rightful place. Rod kept low, using the table for cover, and winced when he heard the words:

    "Mr. Stafford?"

    His name rung out then dimished into the stillness. From a quick glance he noticed, with some dismay, that Mrs. Albright had indeed rolled up her sleeves. She brandished a thirty-centimeter ruler with menace and was sporting the sort of skirt which accentuated her curves in all the right places. Her jutting hip struck him like a haymaker. Bag gathered, he skulked the periphery of the reading room until he was within arm's reach of the door. But Mrs. Albright was on the move, prowling the tables with carnivorous intent, and like the proverbial deer-in-headlights, Rod froze.

    "I know it's you, Mr. Stafford. Who else in this rush-hour city of ours would stay past closing hours to read the likes of Tacitus and... Euripides? Second shelf up, dear, not the third. And then, of course, there's the aftershave. Paco Rabanne? One Million? Mm, every penny of it. Yes, it's definately you, and somehow I suspect the reason you've lingered every night for the past week is not for the company of crusty old scholars, is it, Mr. Stafford? Well?"

    There was the sharp, piercing crack of a ruler meeting the desk, and Rod hopped out like a startled rabbit, where Mrs. Albright was waiting. She smiled with delicious satisfaction. And Rod, despite being gripped in a fever of panic, wiped his brow and fumbled for the closest thing to gentlemanly he could manage.

    "Mrs. Albright, I do apologise. I was brushing up on my Greek and completely lost track of the time," he gave his watched a cursory glance, "Oh! And speaking of which, I must be-"

    Then, like an osprey to the perch, the librarian clamped her talons around his arm. The gap between them closed and Rod found the ruler had made for itself a precarious home on the inside of his thigh; it had to be metal, and cold. Mrs Albright raised a finely-plucked eyebrow.

    "Brushing up, you say?" she said, silkily, "Euripides is Ancient Greek. Mr. Stafford, you have a talented tongue. I'm impressed. But surely a young man like yourself can think of more stimulating pursuits in the eveing? I know I can."

    Whereupon the icy ruler started to climb, slowly, like a serpent up a tree.

    "Well... Mrs. Albright... this was my last chance... to come here."

    "And why is that?"

    Where there was once warmth, there was frost, and much to Rod's relief, the lustful librarian broke her deathgrip and retreated a step. Arms folded, she stood rigid, in prickly evaluation of the nervous-looking yuppie, with his creased shirt and loose tie. Those lips wouldn't stay pursed for long, so Rod, foregoing his sense of pride, came clean.

    "I'm afraid my membership runs out today," he said, but from Mrs. Albright's chiselled frown it was clear his answer failed to satisfy, so he elaborated, "Between university fees, bills, commuting costs, and... everything else, I just can't afford it."

    "But, my dear boy," she sang, through restrained notes of pitying laughter, "After today, you have something much more important than a mere library membership to your name. Don't you think?"

    A moment of silence passed, in which Rod gaped at the old woman. She waited, hands on hips, while he parsed meaning from her words and searched her face for some hint of recognition. Finally, struck by an illuminating thought which chased the shadow of confusion from his face, he uttered, "Mrs. Albright?"

    "Call me Ligeia. I don't mind that you didn't notice me at the ceremony. It was a big day for you, after all."

    "I'm sorry... Ligeia, I didn't-"

    Flushed with embarrassment, Rod backpedalled, quite literally, into the large oak doors. And now, with the stench of fear thick in the air, he could only watch as Mrs. Albright swept down upon him and wrapped his best tie in her bony claws.

    "And as for that other small matter. The London Library will only be too happy to renew your membership, indefinately, and free of charge."

    "I- I don't know what to say! Thank you!" he whimpered.

    "That's a good start. But listen to me carefully. This is just the tip of the iceberg. You are now part of a family that can open very large doors. And, with the right people on your side, you will climb all the way to the top," she beckoned him close, intent on halving his Full Windsor, and purred, "I can get you there."

    She was sexy in a hawkish Dame Helen Mirren kind of way. And Rod was putty in the hands of a strong older woman, there was just something about them. Perhaps there was a fine line between arousal and self-presevation. The warm whisper of words tickled his ear. She smelled like potpourri and chamomile, the attractive whiff of dusty tomes clung to her blouse, and there was something else, a sharp pronounced aroma with which he wasn't familiar. His nostrils flared. It was heat rub. Rheumatic heat rub. She smelled like an old woman. She smelled like sex with an old woman. Horrified, Rod groped for the brass doorknob and reclaimed his manhandled tie.

    "I'm sorry, Mrs. Albright- Ligeia! Grateful though I am for your generous offer, I must dash."

    "Not so fast, Mr. Stafford," she trilled, and gave a crisp nod to the clock above the door, "It is now a quarter past nine, and because of you I will be late home, late to have my jasmine and lavendar bath, and late for Newsnight. You are a naughty boy, Mr. Stafford, and all naughty boys must be punished."

    When Rod spilled out into St. James's Square, rubbing the ruler's sting from his tender derriere, he was greeted by the cool caress of a summer's night. Above, a saphire-inked sky glistened, and the rumble of cars was distant enough to preserve his pensive mood a moment longer. He took a bracing breath. The unseen gaze of Mrs. Albright pressed heavily upon him, urging him onwards. Pall Mall crept into view, where bustling crowds foreshadowed the flavour of the evening ahead. It was a ten minute walk to Horse Guards Parade, where there was an empty seat with his name on it.

  3. #3
    Rod Stafford
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    According to the Dickens’s Dictionary of London, "Pall Mall is a street of palaces. Happily it lies out of the din and bustle of traffic, and there is nothing to vulgarise the quiet splendour of its appearance." That particular passage sprung to mind as Rod stepped onto the street in question, where an endless convoy of taxis and cars cut a ravine through the urban jungle. Here, the palaces, greying monoliths of Pierre de Caen, housed princes of society. They called them gentlemen's clubs, where the privileged mingled in dinner suits, courting each other's company by virtue of their most prevalent and valued commodities, power and wealth. Such ugly elitism stirred within Rod a certain disquiet, echoed by the harsh drone of engines, the crunch of wheels, and the buzzing of crowds. It was the natural throb and churn of the city, a noise so oppressive and thick one could drown in it. Departing the pavement, he sought refuge in the gloom of Waterloo Gardens, where the strobed glare of traffic had no purchase.

    He found comfort in the shade. The irony of which was not lost on him. His kind thrived in it, hidden in plain sight by the world of darkness they had built up around them, a world he'd spent his last seven years evading. But shadows were persistent, and relentless, and they concealed secrets irresistible to even the most disciplined of minds. His time on the outside was at an end. It started with a ceremony, held in the Round Room of the Maughan Library, a short, understated affair in which oaths were made and contracts signed. Rod was a little disappointed at the time, and then sickened with himself for feeling so, thereafter. Six others were sworn in with him, also in attendance had been seven sponsors, and four representatives, one from each of the prestigious cabals, to preside over the proceedings. One of whom was now known to him as Ligeia Albright, the oversexed over-sixty from the library. He cringed at the memory of their encounter, and the shameful indignity of it, and how it was made once again vivid by the garden's warm peaty musk.

    A family was what she called it, but if that was the case, then surely she had positioned herself as its creepy incestuous grandmother. No family tree was perfect, and despite the temptation to prune, one must resist and resign one's self to merely trussing and trimming its ugliest branches. And if his experience served as any kind of indication of what to expect from his new family, then Rod shuddered to think of all the depraved, cut-throat cousins and poisonous, sycophantic sisters that populated it. So his life was about to become even more peculiar, that was the sacrifice he was prepared to make in the humble pursuit of knowledge. Besides, it was nothing new. Strangeness courted him, it hung from him like ill-fitting clothes, but let it never be said that Rod Stafford didn't wear it well. Although, admittedly, there were times he expected to find Ant and Dec lurking around the corner.

    When Rod reappeared, he was greeted by the towering Duke of York memorial, which pointed the way to the Mall. After descending the flight of stairs from the stone column, and almost tripping over a young couple who'd selected it for an amorous pit stop, he reached the famous stretch of road synonymous with British pomp and circumstance. And true to form, there were Union Flags all the way to Buckingham Palace, billowing brilliant and bold against the black tree canopies. Even at this late hour, a swell of people trickled from St. James's Park; there was a spirit of celebration in the air, and smiles all around, as kids mounted their father's shoulders to contribute to the epidemic flag-waving, their mother's armed with leaden souvenir bags, there were merry revellers who staggered in song, and tourists uniformed in bright novelty shirts. And, across the road, a great snaking mass of bodies were shuffling into Horse Guards Road, where there came an almighty hullabaloo.

    The approach to the arena was a gauntlet run of rowdy fans, quirky volunteers, and overzealous security guards. Caught up in the turbulent tide, Rod found himself poked, prodded, fumbled, and groped in just about every way imaginable. And just as he and his fellow sheep were herded into something close to order, rows upon rows of fast food stalls closed in from either side until they were surrounded - it was a trap. That greasy temptress was on the wind, Rod took one gluttonous gulp and he was doomed. The crowd dispersed, enraptured by the ballet of spiralling steam and sizzling fat, and, caught in its spell, participated in another proud and time-honoured national tradition, the great British queue. But even while waiting in crawling lines, spirits soared, and there was laughter and camaraderie amongst the people. This was a different sort of London. It was a London with a bright, positive outlook, a city that was able to feel good about itself, even under the scrutinising glare of the world's media. And yet, it was only one side of the story. For London, as ever, was a tale of two cities. For most, it was the best of times. And for the rest, well, it was business as usual.

    Loneliness was a state of mind. It was the place a person carried with them, from a cold flat or an empty bed, a prison from which no stranger provided salvation. The roar of a fifteen thousand strong crowd blew through him like a winter's chill. In the heart of the stadium, the game was racing towards its conclusion, exciting spectators with the promise of an American victory over Spain. His back to the action, Rod climbed the steps and scanned row after row for that one familiar face. There was a resounding cheer, the Americans had won, and the crowd rose in celebration. All except one. She was a pale beauty, crystalline and still, captured in a photograph that had come to life. Sansa. She was exactly as he remembered her and yet all at once utterly different. They were from different world's in the beginning, in more ways than one, and over the subsequent six years he'd learnt to become a part of her world, and she had become a part of his. And yet, here they were, still worlds apart.

    The crowd subsided, filling every seat on the row, except one. The empty seat, it was a sight that resonated with him deeper than he'd anticipated, and in that moment Rod felt a sharp pang of pity for his old friend. Friend. He wondered if she considered him in the same way, if at all. Six years was a long time, much had changed, and it wasn't as if they had much of a history in the first place. Steeling himself, he advanced, sidling tentatively along the length of the row, with a couple of hot dogs cradled in his hands. His approach had gone unnoticed. It was make or break time. Do or die. He took his seat, took a breath, and:

    "Hot dog?"

  4. #4
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    The celebration around her seemed like theater. Sansa couldn't even bring herself to clap, and found herself sitting like a stone at the edge of a waterfall, the river parting around her before its jubilant tumble.

    A voice brought her out of her reverie, and she turned her head slowly, a polite dismissal ready. She ended up mutely shaking her head no to the offered hot dog and sitting in semi-shock as the man helped himself to Gabe's unused seat.

    Sansa stared in disbelief, and then managed to put a hesitant smile on her face. "Rod, isn't it? It's been a long time."

  5. #5
    Rod Stafford
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    "You remembered. That's a good start."

    He was smiling, relieved to have avoided a round of embarrassing reacquaintances, and also quietly pleased because she knew his name. It meant that their first encounter had been at least, in some way, memorable. His own recollection of those early days was kaleidoscopic, a vibrant, jumbled mess of memories, which he pieced together with all the dread and regret of a recovering drunk. It was a long hangover. The day he met Sansa Martin, however, remained vivid in his mind; football, pub brawls, dancing, and drinks - a special evening, by anyone's standards, or perhaps it was just another night in Liverpool. And now, there she sat, somehow leagues apart from the girl in the Manchester United shirt who blushed and snorted giggles into a beer glass. There was apprehension in her smile. The hot dog was withdrawn, leaving Rod to gauge which one to tackle first. Undecided, he cast his neighbour a curious sideways glance.

    "Sansa, you are a difficult woman to reach."

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    She looked away, down to the sand and whatever between game entertainment was going on, but she wasn't really seeing anything. "We try to keep to ourselves." Sansa bit her lip a bit, not used to thinking about herself in the singular. "Sorry, I mean, I keep to myself."

    She sighed, her pale cheeks coloring a bit. "I heard you were in the U.S. That is, Thaddeus told me you were. A few years back."

  7. #7
    Rod Stafford
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    "I've been back in England for some time now. America was... eye-opening. A land of opporunity, certainly, but there's no place like home."

    He finished with a weak smile, offered as small recompense for the deficiency of detail in his words. After all, it was impossible to think of his time in America without considering the ones he left behind, and their memory was sacrosanct. And it seemed that he wasn't alone in such sentiment: Sansa's plural slip was telling, but it was neither the time nor the place to be confronting demons. Another cheer from the crowd rolled around the stadium, this time to greet the Italian and Austrian teams. Then, in a sudden moment of clarity and decisiveness, Rod tore a chunk from the hotdog in his right hand. The second hotdog was once again offered and once again politely declined.

    "Are you sure?" he said, between mouthfuls, "Well, I suppose you could always grab a bite on the way home. Who are we supporting?"
    Last edited by Rod Stafford; Feb 17th, 2013 at 08:37:28 PM.

  8. #8
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    Grab a bite on the way home. Sansa hid a tiny smile. He reeked of the vitality of life; his words and clothes were vibrant in a way that only Rod could accomplish - even if the latter were much more normal than she remembered.

    "I'm not pulling for one or the other. Whoever the underdogs are, I suppose." Sansa pulled her hair over one shoulder, running her fingers through it for a moment. The urge to sigh dramatically was rising. "How did you find me? Not that you were looking, I guess."

    She did sigh then, studiously looking down at the court and not at Rod.

  9. #9
    Rod Stafford
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    "I was looking, and it was no easy feat, let me tell you. Of course, I searched via all the conventional methods in the beginning, but once those resources were depleted, I sought out the unconventional, whereupon I discovered you'd be found at this exact place at this exact time - which is why I'm presently dual-wielding hotdogs."

    The teams were warming up, hopping and gyrating on the sand, while spectators clapped to a steadily accelerating beat. It all seemed rather absurd to a layman like Rod. His face creased with scrutiny. The Austrians were large and bronze whereas their Italian opponents were small, stringy, and desperately in need of a shave. He favoured the Austrians to win, which meant, by definition, they were obliged to support the Italians. Although one glance at Sansa suggested that she had even less invested interest than him. He gave her a grin.

    "Since you're about to ask 'Why?' Well, why not?"

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    "I'm not the girl you remember, Rod." She turned to look at him, her face smooth and controlled. "Whatever you're looking for, you aren't likely to find it here."

    The match started, but she didn't watch, instead keeping her gaze on the human next to her.

  11. #11
    Rod Stafford
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    "Sansa, it's been a very long time. If you were the same girl from all those years ago then you'd be guilty of having an extraordinarily dull life, and, from my fleeting experience, I know that is simply not true."

    She was like a statue; a captivating and timeless beauty, imprisoned in a cold hard shell. It was astonishing that she managed to blend in at all, the wolf amongst the lambs. Then again, he considered, it was with good reason his kind referred to them as Sleepers. He was undaunted, and shrugged off her discouraging words.

    "Perhaps I was just looking for some company and, for better or worse, you are it. Congratulations."

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    A number of things ran through her mind. Gabriel had taught her to indulge herself, as long as it did not contradict his desires, and Rod's pulse was strong. She stared at his neck for a moment, and then looked out over the volleyball match. Someone was scoring a point. The amount of high fives and butt pats in this sport was ridiculous.

    Why did Rod show up? Was he going to kill her? Not right now, of course, but later. He didn't like vampires. Whatever had been between them previously surely meant nothing under the shadow of her current vampirism.

    Sansa looked sideways at him, and he grinned at her, mouth full of hotdog as he chewed and swallowed. He didn't seem to be contemplating assassination. The cheers and riotous crowd surrounding them brought back memories of their first meeting. It was hard to pin down the memories. They were murky, as if her entire mortal life was covered in a thick layer of fog. What was the use anyway? She couldn't go back to being a mortal, and now her immortality was worse than death.

    Still... she wasn't going to kill herself tonight. Or maybe she would. What was the alternative? Hours of violin playing, which brought no joy only frustration. The Dunsirn cousins had their own agenda for her, she was sure, though what use she could be still eluded her.

    Sansa put on a smile and looked back at Rod. "Do you keep in touch with Thaddeus?"

  13. #13
    Rod Stafford
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    That was an amusing thought, and it showed in the curling corners of his mouth. Rod was quick to compose himself, however, rather than risk giving a vampire the impression she'd just become the butt of a private joke.

    "Thaddeus isn't exactly the pen-pal type. Small talk and trivia are anathema to him. He deals in puzzles and mysteries and intellectual frontiers; to draw him into a frenzied debate is child's play, but one word about the weather or the latest music and the man turns to stone. Keeping him abreast of the myriad non-adventures of Rod Stafford would be an excercise in futility, I'm afraid."

    The Austrians scored another point, and MC Hammer's U Can't Touch This was blasted from the speakers, its throbbing badonkadonk beat filled the parade and bounced irreverently from the Old Admiralty Building. Powerless to resist, Rod bobbed in time with the music - relatively in time. Every play was punctuated by this particular brand of loud in-your-face music. Every single play. And then there was the eternally euphoric commentator, who shrieked and hollered like a hyperactive hog, and was the party solely responsible for the interminable onslaught of Mexican waves. When he settled back into his seat for the umpteenth time, Rod sensed his arm-waving enthusiasm was beginning to sag. He tossed Sansa a bemused look.

    "Beach volleyball, Sansa? Really?"

  14. #14
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    Sansa gave him a half smile. "It was Gabe's idea." The smile disappeared. "He liked the spectacle."

    She looked out blindly at the crowd, her emotions held tightly in check. Then she focused on Liam, who was leaning in on the girl sitting next to him, his wolfish charm probably in full effect. He turned his head slightly and their eyes met until she let hers drift off toward the sand.

  15. #15
    Rod Stafford
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    "Spectacle," Rod repeated, surveying the scene, "That's the right word for it."

    "Let me here you, Italy!" crowed the commentator, one half of the stadium responded, and he continued: "Let me hear you, Austria!"

    The other half of the stadium errupted into cheer, and, presumably encouraged by the enthusiasm, he proceeded to milk it for every drop.

    "... Italy! ... Austria! ... Italy! ... Austria! ... Italy! Austria! Italy! Austria!"

    On and on it went until the roars of support diminished into a chorus of disingenuous yawns. Rod stirred restlessly in his seat. There was a time when he would've been positively buoyant in the face of such patriotic frippery. His insides knotted at the thought of it. There was nothing wrong with good old-fashioned cheer, he considered, but this was noise for the sake of noise. Maybe he was turning into the true understudy of Thaddeus Petalas at last.

    "And what is it you like these days? You don't strike me as the football lout sort... anymore."

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    "Then you'd be wrong," she snapped. "I didn't turn into a totally different person, Rod. I could say how I hate that Berbatov left for Fulham but -! It just doesn't matter."

    She got to her feet and squeezed past the people next to her, making her way as quickly as she could to the stairs and any sort of exit.

  17. #17
    Rod Stafford
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    Rod watched with curiosity as Sansa made her escape. The crowd gave a deflated groan, and the following cacophony of horns and whistles provided Rod with his cue to leave. Wearily, he gave chase, sidling past his neighbour, to whom he presented the second, untouched hotdog. He jerked a thumb at the retreating vampire, and explained:

    "Onion allergies."

    After a long awkward apologetic shuffle to the stairs, Rod bounded after Sansa, catching her at the security checkpoint. He filed into line behind her in anticipation of the inevitable bout of prodding and probing to follow.

    "You're really mad about that Berbatov thing, aren't you?"

  18. #18
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    Sansa was ready to tell him off for following her, but instead snorted with laughter at his comment. "No, no... It's just..." She dissolved into uncontrollable giggles and made her way forward with difficulty, trying to hold herself together. On the other side of the security checkpoint she was still laughing, her response vastly over stating the actual humor of Rod's comment, until there were tears running down her cheeks and she was collapsing onto a bench sobbing.

  19. #19
    Rod Stafford
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    "Sansa, I'm-"

    Sorry? Embarrassed? Confused? Certainly about as much as the bystanders who lingered to watch, with morbid curiosity, the breakdown unfolding before their very eyes. Rod wasn't entirely sure what had happened or what he could say or do to make it right, if indeed the onus was on him to make it right in the first place, but he took a stab at it with a few fumbled words:

    "I'm sorry if I... offended you in anyway. Are you-"

    Drunk? Dangerous? On day release? It was a striking departure from the hard-faced apathy that greeted him in the stands; in fact, weeping shamelessly into her hands, Sansa made for a pitiful sight. Crouched eye-level, he rested a hand upon her shoulder.

    "Sansa, what's wrong?"

  20. #20
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    She leaned against his hand for a moment, a part of her desperate for contact, but just as quickly she pulled away. A few gulped breaths later she was straightening up and dabbing at her eyes, trying to dry the flood of tears without spreading her mascara all over her face. "It's Gabriel. He's... he's..."

    Sansa sniffed, wiping at her nose. "Dead. He's dead." She looked at Rod, her eyes still wet and her mouth taking a decidedly downward turn. "Sorry, sorry... I'm a mess. I just... don't know how to live without him anymore."

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