Darling Lydia
Posted: Mon Apr 02, 2018 6:57 pm
With a sleepy groan, Fran groped blindly for the phone beeping on the nightstand. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she mumbled, staring disbelievingly at the screen. “It hasn’t even been eight hours. Us regular folks still gotta sleep, you know.”
Throwing back the covers, she grabbed her glasses and read the message from her boss. “Good morning my minion! Time to wake up and smell the coffee. I need you to go pick up the new member of Team Ghost and bring her to the shop. Details attached. Use the platinum card, and keep the receipts!”
Fran clicked on the attachment link with a yawn. “An address and a name? That’s what she calls details? And what kind of made-up name is Lydia Darling, anyway,” she grumped out loud. She heroically resisted the urge to throw the extremely expensive and customized phone at the nearest wall, and tapped out a nauseatingly chirpy acknowledgement of the assignment. “Wherever this Lydia chick is, she can wait another hour while I get coffee and a shower,” she muttered as she staggered toward the kitchen.
Slightly more than an hour later, Fran was sitting in her car frowning at the tiny police station that Google Maps claimed was her destination. Heaving a sigh and mentally cursing her boss’s “quirky” sense of humor, she stowed her gun, her backup gun, her hideaway and her knives in the trunk along with the Kevlar vest and utility belt. Finally, devoid of anything that might set off the security sensors, she headed into the cop shop.
“Darling Lydia,” the clerk smirked. “You’re here to post bail for our charming guest, then?”
Fran schooled her features to hide her surprise, and AGAIN mentally cursed her boss’s sense of humor. With a curt nod, she pulled out the platinum card and handed it to the clerk. “I’ll need two copies of the receipt, please.”
With a mental sigh, Fran steeled herself for a lengthy bureaucratic wait. From the other side of the bulletproof glass, she could faintly hear an angry female voice approaching the front desk. Impressive vocabulary. . . and diaphragm control worthy of an opera singer, she thought, both amused and amazed. The flood of invective grew louder as the unseen female approached the desk, and the amusement became a slow sinking feeling.
“Yep, that’s YOUR darling,” the clerk said, handing Fran a stack of papers with a commiserating smile. “And welcome you are to her. She can keep going like that for a good five minutes or more, and I still haven’t heard her repeat herself.”
“Just out of curiosity, what’s she in for,” Fran asked.
“Technically, public intoxication, indecent exposure, vandalism of public property, vandalism of private property, misdemeanor theft and animal cruelty.”
“Say what, now?” Fran gave the clerk a blank look.
“She got blotto and tried to sacrifice a goat in the village square at midnight.”
“Tha’ goat was bought and paid for, you officious hag,” the slender teen in an orange jumpsuit snarled as she stalked through the door, trailed closely by a uniformed officer. “And it's not my fault your pissant little village chose to put a feckin' statue on the convergence of two major ley lines. I’ll be havin’ me belongings returned to me, if you please.”
The clerk heaved a put-upon sigh and rolled her eyes before she headed deeper into the building, presumably to fetch said belongings. While she waited, Fran took the opportunity to study her new “assignment”. The girl in the orange jumpsuit looked not a day over 20, and her snarled and straggly hair sported a tacky black dye job. The remnants of liberally applied makeup—heavy on the dark eyeshadow and black lipstick—were still smeared on her face. “So I’m bein’ collected by the Men in Black, eh?” Lydia asked her, as she inspected Fran in turn.
“I’m from the government and I’m here to help,” Fran lied, deadpan.
Further conversation was cut short by the return of the clerk carrying a box and a clipboard. “Sign here, please.” She handed the clipboard to Lydia expectantly.
The former prisoner rooted through the box, ignoring the clipboard. “Where’s the rest o’ me stuff?”
“The book, the stick and the knife are evidence. Fill out form 3374-K after the trial if you want them returned to you.”
“Tha’ be me GRIMOIRE, me WAND an’ me ATHAME, ya goat-tuppin’ cheese weasel, and if you don’t give ‘em back this instant, ye’ll be shittin’ snails for the next six months,” the teen’s voice grew suddenly more resonant, with a pronounced archaic accent.
Suddenly wishing she HADN’T left all her gear in the trunk, Fran stepped between Lydia and the clerk. “You’ll get your shit back,” she whispered looking into the teen’s blue eyes, leaning in so only Lydia could hear her. “Let it go. Even the Templars know, you can’t fight City Hall.”
Lydia looked back at Fran with eyes that faded slowly back to brown. With a surly grunt, she reached around, grabbed the clipboard and scrawled a signature then traded the clipboard for her belongings. “You don’t get to keep the scrubs,” the clerk chirped, unimpressed by the former prisoner’s foul-tempered display. “Changing room is over there,” she pointed.
Shooting the clerk a rude gesture, Lydia turned and headed for the restroom. Moments later, she exited wearing a fishnet top, leather short-shorts and black boots with a four inch platform heel. Fran facepalmed. “Oh my god, Wednesday Addams is turning tricks now,” she muttered to herself.
“I’ll take the scrubs back,” she clerk piped up.
“I flushed ‘em down the john,” Lydia shot back with a satisfied smile. “Oh, and you might want to call a plumber. Looks like things are startin’ to get a wee bit backed up.”
While the clerk and the police officer hustled over to the restroom to deal with the looming plumbing crisis, Fran grabbed Lydia by the arm and started dragging her to the door. “Let’s get out of here before you get us BOTH arrested.”
As they headed to the car at a brisk “nothing to see here” saunter, Lydia called out, “I don’t know where in the nine hells you’re takin’ me, but there better be a liquor store on the way. I’ve got a hangover tha’ won’t quit and some hair o’ the dog is just the ticket.”
“You know, that’s the first thing you’ve said all day that I can agree with,” Fran replied. “I’ve got an expense account with your name on it, so let’s go shopping.” With thoughts of a platinum card and a case of Patron dancing through her head, she wondered, where the fiddling fuck does she FIND these people?
Throwing back the covers, she grabbed her glasses and read the message from her boss. “Good morning my minion! Time to wake up and smell the coffee. I need you to go pick up the new member of Team Ghost and bring her to the shop. Details attached. Use the platinum card, and keep the receipts!”
Fran clicked on the attachment link with a yawn. “An address and a name? That’s what she calls details? And what kind of made-up name is Lydia Darling, anyway,” she grumped out loud. She heroically resisted the urge to throw the extremely expensive and customized phone at the nearest wall, and tapped out a nauseatingly chirpy acknowledgement of the assignment. “Wherever this Lydia chick is, she can wait another hour while I get coffee and a shower,” she muttered as she staggered toward the kitchen.
Slightly more than an hour later, Fran was sitting in her car frowning at the tiny police station that Google Maps claimed was her destination. Heaving a sigh and mentally cursing her boss’s “quirky” sense of humor, she stowed her gun, her backup gun, her hideaway and her knives in the trunk along with the Kevlar vest and utility belt. Finally, devoid of anything that might set off the security sensors, she headed into the cop shop.
“Darling Lydia,” the clerk smirked. “You’re here to post bail for our charming guest, then?”
Fran schooled her features to hide her surprise, and AGAIN mentally cursed her boss’s sense of humor. With a curt nod, she pulled out the platinum card and handed it to the clerk. “I’ll need two copies of the receipt, please.”
With a mental sigh, Fran steeled herself for a lengthy bureaucratic wait. From the other side of the bulletproof glass, she could faintly hear an angry female voice approaching the front desk. Impressive vocabulary. . . and diaphragm control worthy of an opera singer, she thought, both amused and amazed. The flood of invective grew louder as the unseen female approached the desk, and the amusement became a slow sinking feeling.
“Yep, that’s YOUR darling,” the clerk said, handing Fran a stack of papers with a commiserating smile. “And welcome you are to her. She can keep going like that for a good five minutes or more, and I still haven’t heard her repeat herself.”
“Just out of curiosity, what’s she in for,” Fran asked.
“Technically, public intoxication, indecent exposure, vandalism of public property, vandalism of private property, misdemeanor theft and animal cruelty.”
“Say what, now?” Fran gave the clerk a blank look.
“She got blotto and tried to sacrifice a goat in the village square at midnight.”
“Tha’ goat was bought and paid for, you officious hag,” the slender teen in an orange jumpsuit snarled as she stalked through the door, trailed closely by a uniformed officer. “And it's not my fault your pissant little village chose to put a feckin' statue on the convergence of two major ley lines. I’ll be havin’ me belongings returned to me, if you please.”
The clerk heaved a put-upon sigh and rolled her eyes before she headed deeper into the building, presumably to fetch said belongings. While she waited, Fran took the opportunity to study her new “assignment”. The girl in the orange jumpsuit looked not a day over 20, and her snarled and straggly hair sported a tacky black dye job. The remnants of liberally applied makeup—heavy on the dark eyeshadow and black lipstick—were still smeared on her face. “So I’m bein’ collected by the Men in Black, eh?” Lydia asked her, as she inspected Fran in turn.
“I’m from the government and I’m here to help,” Fran lied, deadpan.
Further conversation was cut short by the return of the clerk carrying a box and a clipboard. “Sign here, please.” She handed the clipboard to Lydia expectantly.
The former prisoner rooted through the box, ignoring the clipboard. “Where’s the rest o’ me stuff?”
“The book, the stick and the knife are evidence. Fill out form 3374-K after the trial if you want them returned to you.”
“Tha’ be me GRIMOIRE, me WAND an’ me ATHAME, ya goat-tuppin’ cheese weasel, and if you don’t give ‘em back this instant, ye’ll be shittin’ snails for the next six months,” the teen’s voice grew suddenly more resonant, with a pronounced archaic accent.
Suddenly wishing she HADN’T left all her gear in the trunk, Fran stepped between Lydia and the clerk. “You’ll get your shit back,” she whispered looking into the teen’s blue eyes, leaning in so only Lydia could hear her. “Let it go. Even the Templars know, you can’t fight City Hall.”
Lydia looked back at Fran with eyes that faded slowly back to brown. With a surly grunt, she reached around, grabbed the clipboard and scrawled a signature then traded the clipboard for her belongings. “You don’t get to keep the scrubs,” the clerk chirped, unimpressed by the former prisoner’s foul-tempered display. “Changing room is over there,” she pointed.
Shooting the clerk a rude gesture, Lydia turned and headed for the restroom. Moments later, she exited wearing a fishnet top, leather short-shorts and black boots with a four inch platform heel. Fran facepalmed. “Oh my god, Wednesday Addams is turning tricks now,” she muttered to herself.
“I’ll take the scrubs back,” she clerk piped up.
“I flushed ‘em down the john,” Lydia shot back with a satisfied smile. “Oh, and you might want to call a plumber. Looks like things are startin’ to get a wee bit backed up.”
While the clerk and the police officer hustled over to the restroom to deal with the looming plumbing crisis, Fran grabbed Lydia by the arm and started dragging her to the door. “Let’s get out of here before you get us BOTH arrested.”
As they headed to the car at a brisk “nothing to see here” saunter, Lydia called out, “I don’t know where in the nine hells you’re takin’ me, but there better be a liquor store on the way. I’ve got a hangover tha’ won’t quit and some hair o’ the dog is just the ticket.”
“You know, that’s the first thing you’ve said all day that I can agree with,” Fran replied. “I’ve got an expense account with your name on it, so let’s go shopping.” With thoughts of a platinum card and a case of Patron dancing through her head, she wondered, where the fiddling fuck does she FIND these people?
