Her heart dropped and, for a moment, she couldn't speak. Hands still connected, she stared at him, eyes moving over his rotted features slowly. Despite the ghoulification that had ravaged his face and left him a patchwork of skin and muscle, he still had a strong jaw, a charismatic smile that made him look deliciously devious. She knew that smile, had seen it dozens of times. It was a smile that charmed people without care, one that drew people in without becoming attached.

It was manipulative. It was hers.

"I take it by that look you know who I am, partner?" Oh yes, he looked absolutely pleased with himself. There was a sense of pride that filled his shoulders and, until then, she hadn't realized he was nearly five inches taller than her, putting him close to six-foot-one.

"I-." Two languages under her belt and she still couldn't find the words to express herself. Dean Domino. He was the Dean Domino, the King of Swing, in the…mostly flesh. "Like your music."

His grin widened and he chuckled. Withdrawing his hand, he gave a casual wave. "I'm not surprised. It wasn't like I was famous for no reason like the rest of those hacks. I had talent." Giving a wistful sigh, he adjusted his sunglasses and looked at her.

He wasn't quite sure what he thought of her just yet. She was a pawn of his to use in this twisted game, of course, a means to an end, but there was something almost endearing about the way she looked at him. There was no mistaking that look, and it was one he hadn't seen in two hundred years. It was admiration, pure and concentrated. He had her attention and was more than happy to let her indulge his ego.

"Had? You act like you don't sing anymore."

"Oh I don't, not so much. The Ghost People," he glanced to the hole once more, "they're drawn to the noise and they are not the sort of crowd I enjoy preforming for. Their standing ovations tend to turn…murderous."

Shrugging the backpack on to her shoulders once more, she took a moment to gather her hair, running her hands through it to keep it out of her face. "That's a damned shame if I've ever heard it. The radio don't got many of your songs, but man the ones they do." She whistled, low and smooth, filling the space that no words could truly express. Grabbing up her spear once more, she winced as she turned her head, the collar cutting deeper in to her neck.

Taking the lead, she opened the door to head back down the stairs and stopped. Just beyond the threshold, the Cloud bubbled and boiled in the air, so thick she couldn't even see the bottom of the stairwell. It had moved in while they were busy. Hesitating, she looked back to Dean.

"Well, what are you waiting for, partner, the Madre isn't getting any younger."

She didn't want to step in to the toxin. It had ravaged her lungs already and she had been coughing up red colored phlegm as her body rejected the Cloud. Already, it was burning her eyes, making tears well up in them. The Cloud was growing, crawling up towards them.

Beatrice shut the door and turned away. He lifted a brow, looking at her curiously. It wasn't the Cloud that worried her, not nearly as much as what she knew was in it. The Cloud was never empty and the clicking of gas masks told her that.

Heading to the hole, she gripped the side and stepped on the edge. Glancing back at Dean, she winked and jumped forward. Leaping on to the tiled roof to the side, she landed in a crouch, cracking the old stone as her hand brushed the roof. She was spry and had clearly done this before.

Dean rolled his eyes. Of course she would prefer taking the roofs. He had lived there long enough to know how to deal with the Cloud, knew how to help her as well, yet he hadn't offered. Well, he wasn't going to complain, it was better than facing those denizens. Making sure his cigarettes and lighter were secure in the pocket of his suit coat, he followed after her. He landed lighter, quieter. He had survived two hundred years in this place, and though he wouldn't admit it, this wasn't his first time crawling across roofs. Ugh, to think he had been diminished to this. How demeaning.

If Sinclair could see him now, he was sure he'd be laughing. That bastard.

He watched her move across the center ridge, following her with his own long stride. She was different than the others. She wasn't as quiet and unprepared as Christine had been, yet she wasn't as reckless as he knew Dog to be. She was a mixture, a creature he couldn't quite get a reading on. Though her smile told everyone she was at ease, he knew what that calculated look of warmth in her eyes was. She had long hair, wild and thick with feminine curls, but her posture was nothing but raw strength.

He hadn't left the Madre since the Cloud settled in, since his skin sloughed off in agonizing chunks and his hair fell out in his very hands. It was strange. He was still accustomed to the old world, to the smooth women with curves in all the right places, to the smell of their perfume and their lips against his. He was still used to their painted faces and coiffed hair, used to them being so pliable under his hands and silky evening dresses that came off so easily.

But it seemed women like that had died out after the War. This place, the place wherever she came from, it had a way of making everything tougher than nails.

He scoffed at the thought, absently reaching up to scratch his nose only to find it wasn't there. That still bothered him. He glanced at her as she stopped and looked around, catching the profile of her face. She had a strong jaw and high cheekbones that were covered in a constellation of freckles from sun damage, dark skin that looked oddly soft. She had a nose.

Absently, as they moved forward, Dean wondered if anyone else looked like him. He wanted to know if he was alone in this…whatever it was. She hadn't reacted harshly when she saw him, but then again she could have just been nutty for all he knew, he couldn't quite tell yet. He'd never admit it, but his appearance bothered him. He hated mirrors, had gone to extreme lengths to break everyone he came upon because the face that stared back at him was not his own. The face that stared back at him was one of a monster.

He had been handsome in his youth, though that was more than a lifetime ago.

Dean let her compliment from earlier bounce around in his head. Doll-face. He couldn't quite decide if she had been mocking him or not. Either way, he decided not to dwell too long lest he start to hate the woman. It was paranoia that made him unsure.

He would ask, he decided. Though this was his territory, this was his home, he was sure she would have some sort of information to offer him, he just had to wait for the opportune moment to do so.

And when he heard her stomach rumble, he decided that his time had come.

"Partner." He said the word smoothly as though that were actually her name.

She was cleaning the green sludge off of her blade from where she had severed the head of a ghost person who now lay limp beside two of his companions. Moderate irritation had made her eye twitch as she realized Dean had done nothing to help her. Where Dog was overly aggressive, Dean had thought it was better to just wait it out on the sidelines, to watch her charge in with an aggressive cry that was almost like a roar.

"Que?" She responded without looking, checking the strength of her weapon once more.

He strolled forward, standing just behind her shoulder. "Perhaps we should take a break, hmm? I know I could use a smoke and you've more than earned it."

She looked at him, smile shattering for just a moment to show how exasperated she was. Right then, she wished she had Dog instead. Sure, she had to worry about him eating her or God coming out with righteous fury, but at least they helped.

"You didn't."

Pulling his gun from the inside of his coat, he showed her the pistol. "Did you really want me firing this with you in the fray? You've been shot once, today, I didn't think you needed to be shot again." His response was mostly a lit, but she seemed to buy it.

Biting her lip in contemplation, she tasted the tang of blood feeling her chapped lips split. Looking around, she prodded the small split with her tongue as she headed to a building.

"Let's get up higher, then. Get a vantage point away from the Cloud and those undead fuckers." As she headed in to a building, peering about in search of more of Dean's traps, she spoke again. "What's wrong with them anyway? Never seen anything like it."

He scoffed. "As if I would know. I'm more concerned about what turned me in to an immortal bastard than what's keeping them going. I figure it has something to do with this damned Cloud."

Beatrice took to the stairs first, staying closer to the wall where the wood would be less likely to break under her weight. "You mean you don't know?"

"Clearly not." The response was curt. The fact that she knew something he didn't just didn't sit right with him.

"Yer a Ghoul."

He stared at the back of her curly hair, eyes narrowing dangerously behind the dark sunglasses. "Excuse me?"

"That's what they're called." She reached the top before he did. When she peered back, she didn't have the malicious grin he thought she would, instead, she seemed almost sympathetic. Friendly.

His stomach churned in distaste. Still, he followed her up and out on to the balcony and up still until they were standing on one of the few flat roofs in the Sierra Madre residential district.

"A ghoul." He repeated the word, disliking the way it felt on his tongue. Dean pulled his package of cigarettes from his coat pocket. "So, there are others like me, then?"

"Oh doll-face, there ain't no one like you." She punctuated the sentence with a wink, head tilting in a rather flirty manner. Then, she turned away from him, surveying the area like a lone sentinel as she continued to speak. "But yeah, I've met dozens of 'em. Some of 'em are pretty new, changed in the last dozen years or so from the radiation, but a lot of 'em are pre-war."

He listened, mulled her words over as he tapped a cigarette out of the old cartridge. To his great surprise, the last one fell out. With a sigh, he carelessly tossed the empty package over his shoulder and cursed his luck. Damned place.

"And it's considered normal, then?" His words, still silky smooth and accented, were spoken behind the cigarette as he held it between his teeth, grizzled hands searching for his lighter.

"Maybe not normal, but shit, what is these days?" Knees bending, Beatrice crouched down and braced herself on her left arm, only to wince in pain. The sharp jolt made her drop to a sitting position much faster than she meant to. She rubbed the wound that had still not quite healed. "No one really looks twice at ghouls though, not that I've seen. Yeah, there are some assholes who hate 'em, call them shitty names, but no one really cares about those people. They got jobs, mechanics, entertainers, comedians…shit I even know a dominatrix and man is she great."

He almost dropped his cigarette, though out of shock or horror he wasn't quite sure. Clearing his throat, he sat beside her much more elegantly. His knees popped from the motion, crackling like a bag of chips, but neither of them paid it much attention. Dean appreciated that. Finally lighting his cigarette, he took in a deep breath and held it before blowing out the smoke in one smooth line.

God that felt good.

Legs crossed, her backpack leaned on her thighs as she wrestled with a can of pork'n'beans. Dean considered offering to open it for her with his knife, but decided he didn't care enough to help out. From her pocket she produced a switchblade. She held it underhanded as she cut the can open, a tactic that struck him as odd. There were so many things about this woman that was odd.

Dean glanced at her, at this strange woman who came bursting in to the Madre with more personality than he had ever seen. She was loud, vibrant, and the difference between her and everyone else who had wandered in was the fact that her spirit wasn't broken. If she was afraid, if she was hesitant, he couldn't see it.

"You've come quite a long way, haven't you?" He wanted to know about this place, wanted to know what had carved out a woman so strong and scarred.

Beatrice didn't look at him. Instead, she treated the can like a cup and took a swig of the contents, chewing the food with abandon. It was disgustingly past its expiration date, she could practically taste the radiation, but God it was so good she couldn't have stopped eating it if she tried. She had ignored her growing hunger again in preference of moving faster, but now that she indulged it, it hit her with vengeance.

"Hmm? Yeah, guess you could say that." She smiled, pausing in her consumption to look to the heavy and low hanging sky. Through the thinner portions of the smog, she could see glimmers of starlight. "I'm from the Mojave. Place is beautiful, harsh, violent, but it's home."

It was like she was describing herself, though Dean quickly banished that thought from his mind.

"Then why are you here?"

She wiped her lips with her thumb, licking the flavoring off of it to savor the taste as she considered her answer. "Curiosity. I grew up hearin' bout this place, a piece of the Old World that was frozen in time. My trib-," she caught herself, "family called it La Ciudad Muerta. The Dead City. My brother, Mark, always thought he'd be the one to find it, the one to bring back the treasure lost inside. So when I heard about it, I wanted to come." She had wanted to do what Mark never got to. "Of course," she continued, "I never meant for it to happen like this. I don't remember the trip here and let me tell you, as much as I like being married to you, Dean, this ring ain't too comfortable." A finger tapped the metal around her neck.

"How did you get here, then?"

"I was gassed. Somethin' dragged me here. I only remember waking up once before I hit my head against somethin' and I was out again."

He frowned, a dry, irritated chuckle coming from his throat as he let out another puff of smoke. "That beast is still at it, then. Always heavy handed."

That got her attention. He liked having her attention. "What do you mean?"

"You're saying you don't know? I suppose all girls are still terribly foolish." He chuckled, pressing his chapped lips around the cigarette as he lit it. "Have you met that monstrosity of a creature? Calls himself Dog? Or, perhaps it was God, ugh so much effort to keep up."

Her own eyes were trained on the King of Swing. "What 'bout him?"

"You're saying you can't put it together. These lovely bowties of ours, he's the one that put them there." He probably shouldn't have sounded so amused, but he liked that look of pained surprise on her face.

Suddenly, she stopped eating. Her stomach rejected the food and it soured in her mouth. Setting the half empty can aside, she reached up to try and adjust her collar. Blood dripped down to stain her jumpsuit. God had done this. God was the one who grabbed her, the one who dragged her to this forsaken place and snapped a bomb so tightly around her throat that it burned to even exist.

He did this.

It was strange how quickly her heart could become so bitter. She thought of the Nightkin, his hulking body, how he was so cold to her. They hadn't known one another long, hell she didn't know Dean long, but there was something about shared pain and struggle that bonded people together in the blink of an eye.

And Dean, he was the one making plans with her. They had agreed to team up against Elijah, to work together in order to best the old man. He wouldn't lie to her, not if he expected to keep her on his side.

He was talking, and the words drew her out of her thoughts.

"Ah I know what that look on your face is. You can hide a lot of things, but you can't hide betrayal, never all the way at least." He chuckled, humming warmly. "I take it you've met the beast, then?"

"Si." The answer slipped without thought and she looked away from him. "Er- yeah. Yeah I did."

"I wouldn't worry too much, partner. It happens to the best of us, he got me too after all." The words had a venomous kindness to them. She knew what game he was playing for it was the one she played as well. His tongue was slick, silver and serpentine.

Maybe she would have bantered with him another day, would have bounced words off of his own and countered his charisma with her own, but she found no desire to do so. God had caused this, or, maybe he hadn't caused it, but he was the one who had dragged her in to it. He was the reason she was in pain, the reason she wasn't home reading a comic or out dancing with Chip. It didn't matter if Elijah had been the one pulling the reigns from the beginning, she couldn't knock Elijah's teeth in, but she could do that to God. God made choices, he was the one who could stand up for himself.

The tentative trust and companionship that had been forming dissolved.

Slowly, Beatrice stood. The smile she gave Dean was too easy, crooked and careless. The look she gave him almost made him feel like he was human again. She offered him a hand and he took it, pulling himself up. He had shaken her confidence, and that appeased him. If he could break her trust in the others, that would leave only him for her to rely on, only he would get the treasure that Sinclair had locked away.

She sighed, hands lingering for just a moment before she withdrew hers. "Well, I suppose it could be worse, we could be fighting human-like creatures that don't die all while trying not to choke to death on smog." There was a dark glimmer in her eyes at her own joke and he barked a laugh.

"Right." He shook his head slightly, holding his cigarette between his two fingers. He motioned to the expanse below them with a certain theatrical nature. "Can you believe it? I used to open in Paris. Paris. And now…this."

And that's where she left it. She didn't know what Paris was, or if it was anything at all, but from the way he spoke it sounded magnificent. Like an old lover. Any other time and she would have asked, she would have fawned over him, but this time she didn't. Stepping off the edge of the roof, she dropped to the balcony below, catching herself on the edge with one hand before continuing her decent down to street level. The Cloud was still thick, clogging her nose and throat, but the pain in her lungs distracted her from the aching in her heart.