I own nothing.
A/N: Thank you, those who took time to review my story! Updates will definitely come in some manner of frequency, since I not only worked out the plot in advance, but have no classes this summer. Cheers!
Chapter 3:
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"Meg, wait!" Christine fed the seat belt strap back into its slot, then firmly closed the door.
"Hurry up!"
"I'm trying! Why are we running?"
"They could be sold out!"
"Of what?" Clutching her purse, Christine finally drew alongside her friend as they hurried across the crowded parking lot before the sprawling mall.
"The stuff you need for your new place!"
"A bookshelf, a lamp, and a rug?" Somehow she doubted that any store would run out of such common items. Meg gave her a wounded glance.
They breached the doors to TJ Maxx at a run, flying beneath the banners declaring a sale. "You go that way; I'll go this way," Meg ordered. "If anyone tries to take something you need, whack 'em in the shin." She dashed into the isle of ugly, fake plants.
Christine turned around slowly, spotted what looked to be a section of furniture, and headed in that direction. Her old bookcase was worn, and, more importantly, was pink and covered on one side by a unicorn and a fairy tale castle.
Just because Seth had seen it didn't mean he should have to live with it.
She chewed the inside of her lower lip as she examined the selections. This wasn't Sears; there was quite a limited array to choose from, even if it was on sale. And there were no bookcases. Christine turned away to look for the next item on her list.
Behind a large lamp shaped like a pair of gigantic yellow swans, a rack of rugs hung folded in half with their copies in cases below. Christine browsed through them, idly wondering whether Seth would like a large image of Sponge Bob on his living room floor. He'd promised to buy the groceries since she was taking care of last-minute additions, a strategy she would have preferred done together but for Meg's insistence that the sales would not wait. Currently, she wondered how he was, and whether he'd found himself adequately prepared for his exam.
She checked her watch. Right about now, Seth would be morosely checking to see how many questions there were, and then how many he would need to pass in order to get an acceptable grade.
Smiling to herself, Christine heaved a tan-and-black checkered rug up and into her arms, glanced around, and went to grab a cart. She was examining the lamps when Meg returned with a cart of her own.
"Hey! What'd you find?"
Christine motioned at the rug,
"That's it?" Meg looked somewhat disappointed, and by glancing at the other woman's discoveries, Christine could see why. In the span of nearly ten minutes, Meg had acquired a wide variety of items encompassing everything from a wall clock to a vase with plastic flowers. The ensuing negotiations, and Christine's forfeit, were traditional.
"Right!" Meg clapped her hands together as they piled the stuff into the back of her Kia. "On to Sears, lunch, and JC Penny!"
"JC Penny?"
"Outfit for moving day!"
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They arrived at the new apartment late that afternoon, the back of the car full of various things one or the other had decided to buy. The designated parking space was empty; Seth had canceled meeting them for an unexpected dental rescheduelation. Meg helped Christine carry the bags into the living room, and took a deep breath.
"I hate new-apartment smell. You can't tell what the occupants are like." She was of the firm belief that the smell of someone's apartment indicated a good deal of that person's character. Christine agreed, but only to the point of such smells as cat piss, garbage, sour milk, or pot.
How could one determine someone's character if they smelled of, say, potpourri? Both her mother and Mrs. Kemple owned houses laced with this fragrance, although there were few other similarities between the society lady and the friendly, neo-hippie.
Christine blew a stray curl out of her face as she put away the new plastic table setting. Memories of a house and its stark, modernists' style came shuffling forward; she imagined a pair of disapproving eyes examining her purchases. Plastic? Plastic? Oh, Christine, what did your father do to you?
Scowling, she defiantly stacked the matching cups and shut the cabinet.
"Hey! Where do you want your gift?"
She started at Meg's voice. "What?"
"Your gift!"
Christine headed back into the living room, where Meg unfurled a small, tinfoil-wrapped box and an untrustworthy grin.
"What is it?"
"A housewarming present. You can't open it until the day you actually move in."
"Thank you." Christine took it, then marveled at the meager weight of the package. What could it be? Tissues? She placed it carefully on the table.
A sudden smile overtook the moment of thought. "I can't believe this is going to be ours in two days." She twirled, arms outstretched, the future unfolding in a glaze of warm possibilities.
"Yep. All you've got left is the boxes in your old room, and that's it!"
"Yeah." She clapped her hands. "Let's go get the boxes!"
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Erik felt to assure himself that the mask and wig were both in place. He did not own a traditional mirror; adjustments to his appearance had to be made on the basis of touch or, failing that, a trip to the lower room with a flashlight. The way he dressed was highly important in preventing arrest or further exclusion-- both potential problems due to the unfortunate nature of his birth. If a second glance at his loathsome form assured people that he had plenty of money, they would be less likely to assume that he was a threat to their own.
The suit had be an uncomfortable acquisition. It was necessary, yes, but if not for the matter of presentation he would have simply chosen one from a rack and had done with it. As it was, he imagined the fact that he could not remember the fitting indicated a willingness to forget the experience. Probably the tailor would have wished to, as well.
Into the left pocket went a couple of heavily-stoppered, plated vials, the likes of which could not be broken accidentally by casual impact. A pair of small, self-alterations in his right shirtsleeve held two more of a different substance, and the one on his left a thin knife.
Erik picked up the shoes he had left to dry on a pad of newspaper, giving them one last examination for wet polish or areas that he had accidentally missed. Seeing neither, he slipped them on and quickly did up the laces.
Because he was only going to have a look at the development of the current site, Erik gladly chose to forego the use of his 'social' mask. He disliked it most; it was the one with the symbol of the Red Cross and a brief statement in small letters which marked him as a former patient of a local burn ward. Incorrect, yes, but that was hardly the point.
His telephone rang just as he reached for the doorknob.
Pausing, Erik contemplated simply abandoning the inopportune caller to an empty house, although curiosity vied for attention. His grip on the knob tightened. It was more than likely that whoever waited at the other end of the line could easily go on waiting until he returned.
Across the room on the far wall, the black machine picked up.
"We are unavailable to take your call. Please leave a message at the beep. At the tone, please state your message. To leave a callback number--"
"Allo?"
He had never been one to subdue curiosity.
