[psl] 2015: Crawl 'til dawn, on our hands and knees

[firewatcher]

The end of the first night of the rest of her terrible garbage life saw Palmer in a situation she never imagined possible: in the first all-night diner she could find, sitting across the table from Vera Volkov, back from the dead.

Or—Liv Lazzari, now, wasn't it.

That was going to take some getting used to. That, and the fact that despite the drastic changes to her appearance, Vera—Liv—still didn't look a day older than when Palmer had seen her last, over twenty years ago. Not worth the price of admission, in Palmer's mind, but it felt a little unfair. Palmers tended to start showing age early, and she herself was no exception.

Palmer leaned on the slightly sticky table with one elbow, absentmindedly stirring her coffee with the other hand and biting back a yawn. "Is every night in hell this eventful?"

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[wolfatyourdoor]

Hell was apt enough; Vera hadn't actually considered the possibility that this shit life could get shittier. Served her right for underestimating Maria.

She sunk deep into the plastic-y fake leather of the booth cushion, her hand pressed over her eyes. Hard to say whether that was more about not looking at Maria or just hiding her face (too little too late). Maybe both. Both was good.

"Well, the execution is standard enough." Her voice came out a little hoarse, a little raw. Shame it'd been so close to sun-up; she felt like she had a lot more screaming left in her, and Buckley was just the tip of that iceberg. "The Psu'ho-wurv exploding himself into some kind of fucking demon ...and you... not so much."

She shifted her hand to peer at Maria through parted fingers, her expression somewhere between venomous and exhausted.

"So yeah. Welcome to the god-damned party." Her lip quirked very slightly at her own joke.