Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-05-29 01:39 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-05-29 01:39 pm
Showing Clay Around
The door opens into a bustling TV news station. Nobody seems to even notice that Wilford has stepped out of the conference room with someone who doesn't belong. There's a heated argument about frogs taking place somewhere across the room, and just a general sense of chaos.
"You packing?" Wilford asks as he quickly checks his phone for the time.
Not that it matters. In the light, his black eye is more than obvious, and he won't be going in front of a camera until it clears up enough to cover with makeup.
"You packing?" Wilford asks as he quickly checks his phone for the time.
Not that it matters. In the light, his black eye is more than obvious, and he won't be going in front of a camera until it clears up enough to cover with makeup.
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He keeps from touching anyone in the bustling news station and does his best to be invisible. He doesn't want to end up on TV.
"No, I don't need a weapon." he's seen enough action movies to understand the term.
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Wilford looks at him dubiously and leads the way to his desk, inside a large, shared cubicle. At the other desk, another man with bright blue hair is playing some game on his computer, and 100% not working.
Luckily, he is also wearing headphones, so he doesn't hear them come in.
Wilford opens his desk and pulls out a 9mm pistol, just in case Clay changes his mind. He checks to make sure it's loaded, and then it immediately disappears into his inventory.
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Clay follows the man. Watches him claim the new weapon and put it away.
Raised eyebrow but not a word.
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"Car's down in the garage," he says, leading Clay away from the chaos. He takes them through a sideways route to avoid having to explain to reception who Clay is and where he came from. In the garage, it's much quieter than it was outside. There's a row of news vans parked near the door.
A few spaces down is a green Ford that is not in the best shape. It's also buzzing.
"Stay away from the front, unless you want to get stung," Wilford says.
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"Stung by what?" and he adds, "I'll drive." Clay is used to driving.
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Sure enough, there is a bee's nest of some variety in the right front wheel well.
"You don't want to drive."
Wilford can't afford repairs on his car, and traffic might be a bit more than Clay is expecting, judging by Jim's reactions the last few times.
He opens the back door and climbs over the driver's seat to open the front door. "Passenger door doesn't open."
He doesn't even sound sorry about it.
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Clay is tempted to just rip the door off, Already frustrated, but doesn't.
He opens the backseat door behind the passenger side door. Then climbs over to the passenger side seat.
"Do you need help repairing your car?"
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"What do you charge?" he asks.
He can take some of his money from the bar, but that has to last him a while. At least until he can get his boss fired.
Wilford starts up the car without issue (because at least the damn thing runs), and pulls out of the space. When he gets to the road, he tries to inch out, but people are too busy running the red light to actually let him onto the road.
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Clay braces himself, preferring to be in control.
When he see's people not paying attention to traffic laws he thinks he might not hate this world. They never made sense to him.
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Even he has to admit that his car is a heap of garbage.
Eventually, he gets sick of waiting for people who are ignoring him, and slams on his horn.
"Hold on," he says as he swings into traffic, cutting off a Mustang, which swerves into the next lane and barely avoids smashing into a Hummer.
"Fucking morons," Wilford mutters once he's actually on the road. He hates lunch time traffic.
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Clay agrees, most people are morons.
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In fact, most of the cars on the road have some amount of body damage to them. Scratches, missing panels, front ends that resemble accordions more than cars. The way one car jumps the centre median to catch a left-hand turn they missed probably explains why. Wilford barely seems to notice it, when it happens just in front of them.
"What are you in the mood for? We're a good distance from a lot right now."
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Suddenly he wonders, "Will my worlds money work here?" because he isn't in the habit of letting others pay for his food.
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"Let me see it," Wilford says.
If Clay's not going to be picky, then Wilford's going to go somewhere he knows he likes, so he takes a quick turn toward China Town.
"Wilford, by the way. What do I call you?"
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He digs into his pocket and shows Wilford a 20 dollar bill from his world.
he likes Chinese food.
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Wilford tries to get a good look at it without running them off the road. "Looks kind of off, but we'll see. I've passed worse off before."
He's not overly concerned about getting busted for counterfeit. If it looks decent enough, people tend to take it anyway.
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"What do you do here?"
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"I'm a reporter," Wilford says. "Trying to get away from all the damn kitten adoption days and shit like that."
All the boring filler stuff they make the junior reporters do.
"There any money in being a werewolf where you're from?"
There might be here. Wilford hasn't looked too much into it.
Sent from my iPhone
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"No, we get jobs like anyone else. In my world we keep humans from knowing that we exist." as a for instance, "I am a guest professor at a University this semester."
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"That's how I got bit."
Nobody here knows that though. It won't happen for another 12 years, but Wilford isn't exactly one for following other people's rules.
About six police cars zip past them with their sirens blaring, but Wilford doesn't seem to care. He just turns at the next light as if nothing were wrong.
"I guess it's easier to hide it if you're not being torn apart from the inside every full moon."
That tends to be how people here get noticed. It's a fairly predictable cycle.
Sent from my iPhone
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"We still need to Change. And control varies but the moon has nothing to do with our cycle."
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Wilford shakes his head. "You're small change," he says. It's not meant as an insult, but a simple statement of fact. Nobody will care about Clay one way or the other.
He pulls into a parking lot in front of an small building. None of the signage nearby is in English, but Wilford climbs out of his car awkwardly and makes sure his side is all locked up before heading toward something that looks like a restaurant.
"Nobody cares if you are or aren't. If you head out to the woods or go to one of the overnight clinics to run around in a cage, you're not going to bother anybody. It's the assholes that hang around the cities and start eating people's kids that get shot in the face."
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He can smell the food
"I would like to hunt and rogue Mutts would fit the bill." he offers.
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Clay is just all full of helpful offers. Wilford almost laughs. "That just might get you on the news," he says. "Might also get you shot."
It's not a no. If anything, Wilford would like to see it. It would probably be entertaining.
He heads into the restaurant and ignores the bi-lingual 'wait to be seated' sign. He grabs two menus from behind the podium and finds an empty table nearby.
"I'm sure there's no end of stupid fuckers thinking they can roam the suburbs and be fine. You'd probably have your work cut out for you."
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"Why would it get me shot?"
Clay takes a seat across from Wilfred.
"If it was easy anyone could do it." Perhaps he will head to the suburbs later.
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