#jocelyn wellson

[jocelyn-wellson]

NEW YEAR’S EVE (34 ADP)

The couple sat on the steps to the cathedral, watching as an elaborate fireworks display fired overhead. Melody leaned into Joci’s shoulder, nuzzled her neck, and whispered. Joci blushed. She pat her inamorata’s thigh, eyes never leaving the skyline. It’d been a tough holiday season for her, spent between a trip to her brother’s Estate, a jaunt to Ironforge, and hours upon hours in the Stormwind Cemetery. Thankfully, her brother had stayed buried. Her mind played over the spat and — what she had thought to be — productive conversation with the Director. She’d hoped it’d make a difference, even —

“Where are you, Joci?” asked Melody, concerned.

Joci took a deep breath. “Jus’ finkin’...”

“Is this about that goblin in Ironforge? The one who asked if you wanted to taste his smoked meat log?” Melody chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood. It garnered a lop-sided smirk. Better than nothing, she thought.

“Ain’ nevah bin wit’ a goblin. Too ‘spensive for ‘em.”

Melody laughed. She believed her about the first part, though had no idea about the second. “What’s going on?”

She shook her head. “Nah. I donnae wanna ruin th’ night.” She felt Melody squeeze her hand. “‘sides, tha’ meat log be th’ funniest thing I hear’ in awhile.” She, too, started to laugh — tentatively. After a moment, fireworks blasting in the sky, she turned to Melody. “Ya know why I brough’ ya ‘ere? Ta this spot, this stair?”

“Hmm...” Melody met her gaze. “Holy ground to escape the meat log and still see the fireworks?” She winked.

Joci chuckled. It was faint, but there. “Nah. Elunara tol’ me a story ‘bou’ me bruv. ‘Bou’ ‘ow ‘e an’ tha’ ... tha’ woman, th’ one ‘e loved ... ‘ow they sat ‘ere. Somethin’ ‘bou’ him goin’ on an’ on, tha’ ‘e was sure she was th’ one fer ‘im, col’ ‘earted bitch.” She shook her head, eyes returning to the sky. “Somethin’ ‘bou’ ‘is bes’ frien’ ... an’ ‘ow she died no’ e’en a week latah, killt savin’ th’ group they was in... an’ ‘im. ‘ow devasta’ed ‘e was, an’ ‘ow ‘e blamed hisself. Ne’er was righ’ aftah tha’, she tol’ me. Start’d down a dark path.”

Melody squeezed Joci’s hand tighter. “So you’re trying to experience what he experienced? Connect like that?”

She sighed. “No, no’ so much.” Her hand began to sweat in Melody’s. She was nervous. The booming didn’t help. “I go’ ta finkin’ ‘bou’ ‘ow I need ta live me own life now. Et’s mine. I paid fer et wit’ blood an’ body an’ soul. I earnt me freedom, an’ I donnae evah wanna lose et again. I’d rathah die.”

“Joci...”

The crowd, thinner than years prior, spaced into tiny clumps of friends and family, began to count from fifteen.

“I’d do anythin’ fer th’ Director. I’d take a bullet fer her, poison, blade, wha’evah. Same goes fer all th’ ladies in th’ Unit — well mebbe no’ Fishke — tho’ ‘specially Director Hawke or Quinn or Nikki or Myz... each o’ ‘em ‘elpt me in some way.” She bit her lip. “An’ tha’s no’ e’en coun’in’ frien’s who be me family now — Zeehva an’ Missus Stanley.”

The bell tolled midnight.

“And me?” asked Melody.

“I’d pu’ me own life intah th’ Nethah, th’ shat’ered sky, anythin’ fer ya ta live on, yea?”

Melody turned Joci’s face toward her, locking eyes. “I’d do the same for you — you know that, right?”

“Mel—”

“Right?” she repeated, more assertive — a skill she’d gained from Elunara during her stay in House Au’llon’s Elwynn manor. She clutched at the locket round her neck matching Joci’s charm bracelet. “You’re too important. You ... you have too much to do. I know it. Your Director knows it. You should know it, too.”

“Bu’—”

“This is non-negotiable...” she said, before changing the wording slightly: “No compromises.”

Joci set her jaw. “Fine,” she said. “Tho’ I donnae wot I got’a do.”

Melody shrugged. She leaned in. She could feel Joci’s breath on her lips, anticipate the taste of the champagne they’d been drinking. “That’s ok,” she said. She could smell the perfume and the leather, the cedar from the chest she had bought her as a Winter Veil gift, the soap and the cleanliness. Her heart beat faster. “Just go with it.”

( the living: @kat-hawke @quinn-varden @nikkithorpe @myzariel @zeehva // the dead: @brian-wellson @justinegrotius )

[brian-wellson]

Will your muse be happy about were they end up in the Shadowlands or will it be unexpected?

Hey there! I never check this account anymore, so I apologize for the wait. To answer your question, I was thinking about this last night — where Wellson would end up. He had been instrumental in recovering Eluna en’Shard — the sheathe of what would become Duredrassil — as had everyone else on that mission. Every person at the final RP session for that short campaign was both whispered to — and branded in some fashion, i.e.: blessed — by Elune. This leads to an interesting RP question: what happen to those who decided in a group setting that they all experienced the same thing, and that same thing may influence their outcome in death.

I’ll repost this to my main blog, of course. It’s much more at home there!

Thanks, fam!

( @penvenomstarkstar )

[jocelyn-wellson]

The day was splendid — fall foliage spilling to the ground, casting the sun through burnt tones and sanguineous hues. The wind was gentle; the air, still a touch warm; the rooks calling to each other. This was the month of the feast, after all. Still. The birds were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of gore splashed across algae-laced cobblestones. Some of the older corvids above the Stockades remembered the same display dated a long time before. And, as crows and ravens, rooks and magpies are wont to do, stories were told. The younger ones thought it was nonsense — too many bodies to eat? — while the elder corvidae bobbed their heads, cawing from time-to-time to interrupt a misrepresentation or lie. Those same elders kept the flocks together, stripping still screaming corpses to their very bones in a matter of seconds.

Joci took a deep breath as she walked into the cemetery. She could see those Argent people out in force, some people in all red. There were mourners, clergy people, soldiers, medics. She drew closer to her brother’s grave. The honour guard who had been there during the burial was keeping vigil, just in case. She got even closer. Lady Elunara of House Au’llon, the elf woman to whom Wellson had left the Estate, was there, too.

“Miss Jocelyn,” she said upon the addressee’s approach. She was wearing a dark black mourning dress and matching veil.

“Lady... uh...”

“Elunara.”

“Righ’...”

“How are you?”

Jocelyn was a little taken aback. She was the one who should have been asking that question. “In one piece, hey.” She pointed toward the gravesite. “Goo’ ‘ere?”

“No disturbances,” said Elunara. She picked up a leather pack from the ground. “This was his,” she said, reaching into it. She produced a well-used & big, black leather book. “He called it the Codex.”

“Wot?”

Elunara studied her guest’s face. “He was a teacher, a professor. A specialist in the Scourge war. Pass this along to someone who can use it if you cannot.”

“Aye...” responded Joci. She took the book and opened it, running her fingers along her brother’s writing. She recognized several names, but: “...I donnae half these wor’s.”

“If there’s no one at SI:7 who can help, I have someone to whom I’d recommend you speak.”

“Why don’ ya jus’..?”

“Once you hear his name, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” said Elunara. She gripped an engraved dagger. It had a symbol of Elune on it. “See if you can find someone else to read it,” she said, inching toward Wellson’s headstone. She placed her hand on it and said a short prayer. Her other hand let go of the dagger. “But if you can’t... I can help, ok?”

Joci nodded. She gestured toward the headstone. “‘as ‘e...?”

“No. We’re keeping watch just in case.”

“If he does?” she asked.

“Where are you staying?”

“An ol’ wine cellah,” said Joci. “Use’ ta be a frien’ o’ ‘is.”

Elunara’s eyes widened but she didn’t say a word else-wise. “Henry knows where you are, then.” She watched Joci tuck the book back in its oilcloth wrapping. “That book could be a lifesaver. Got it?”

Joci nodded.

“You’re the last Wellson. You call on us, and the entire House of Au’llon will rally. Do you understand?”

“Aye...” Joci was taken aback at the gravity of the exchange. She turned on her heel. “An’ if’fn I kin help, please lemme know.”

“You always have a place. It’s your Estate, too, as far as we’re concerned.”

Jocelyn dipped her head. “Ya be takin’ care now.” She left before she could hear a response.

( referenced/relevant: @kat-hawke @nikkithorpe @thalsianiii // @brian-wellson ))

[jocelyn-wellson]

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NOW

“J...?” eked Melody from behind the stone slab covering the wine cellar’s entrance. “That you??”

“Aye,” said the older woman. She rolled the slab away. “Check th’ groun’s fer grain sacks.”

“So it’s true?”

“Wot's that, luv?

“They’re back. The scourge. It’s Lordæron all over ag—”

“I donnae... bu’ I need yer ‘elp,” said Joci, tossing a piece of rat loin encased in solid crystal onto the table. “Ya know rats. An’ I do too, bu’ this is... differen’...” She dug around through her sling pack, retrieving an antiquated magnifying glass. “...meat’s too lean fir Boralus or port city.”

Melody inched toward the encased meat. “How did you get this?”

“Tol’ ‘em I’d eat et.”

Melody looked repulsed. “Told them... so you...”

“Fuck no. I donnae get paid enough.” Joci laughed.

“But why...?”

“E’ery team needs th’ one who’ll ge’ th’ evidence where et needs ta go.”

“And you... you came to me. With a rat.”

“Aye. Ya tol’ me ‘ow ya grew up. None o’ those goodies cares where th’ damned thing came from. They donnae care. Arthas this, scourge tha’. Shit happened 15 years past or somethin’. But this rat —”

“— can tell you the root of today’s corruption.” Melody understood: a fresh lead. She took the magnifying lens and held it up close to the solid glass-encased rat loin slice. “Lean, didn't dine on flesh.”

“‘ow can ya tell?”

“See these striations here, along the muscle?” She pointed with her personal dagger. “Well-marbled. These are wild, more or less. Farm rats. And, based on the skin...” Melody leaned back. “This is local. Elwynn, maybe Westfall river.”

“Can ya do me a favour?”

“You need me to write it?”

“Nay,” said Joci. She pulled out a blank sheet of paper. “Tell me wha’ ta write.”

“And the rat loin?”

“Fiske likes papahwork so much, I’mma give her a weight for et.”

“Wait...” Melody blinked. And then she laughed. “That old bitch I met?”

“Aye. Puked in ‘er desk, too.” She paused, thinking about it. “That was nice.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side...”

“Like ya evah coul’.”

THE NEXT DAY

Thea Fiske was, of course, the first person at work. She found a large square piece of rat flesh inside an inert and magically sealed cube of glass. Beneath it was a simple piece of paper; ‘Director Hawke’ was the addressee. And, opening the letter, Joci’s broken writing:

“Director.

Sample analyzed. Based on muscle striation, it was not of the city, nor of Northern Provinces. It’s local to Westfall river, Elwynn. It doesn’t seem to have eaten meats — it eats grains, exclusive.

— JW

P.S.: I hope Fiske likes her paperweight. I almost feel like shit about puking in her desk.

P.P.S.: I didn’t eat the rat. I’m not an idiot.

P.P.P.S.: Laps around SI:7? Really? I can fuck my way around an ‘obstacle’ course. Fiske should do us both a favour and tell you the whole damned obstacle story.

You know how to find me.”

“Can we please fire her yet?” demanded Fiske, tossing the paperweight and Joci’s report on Kat’s desk.

“Are you insane?” asked Kat.

“Are you sure she’s not?”

“She went on and on about eating the fucking rat. And yet she was the only person who actually studied it. You think that’s a wise firing?”

“She puked in my desk!”

“You’re the one who just had to discipline her like that. What did you think was going to happen? For fuck’s sake, Thea,” barked Kat. “At least she gave you a fucking gift.”

( @kat-hawke // reassurance to: @nikkithorpe @myzariel ))

[jocelyn-wellson]

LAST NIGHT

Joci watched Nikki close the tent. Not bad for a fallback, she thought. Even still, the struggle to get there had been intense. From the initial confusion at the gate, to the leap over the barricade — the sight of that demon or whatever it had been bearing down on Nikki crept into her mind. Hearing the young woman’s gun click on an empty magazine and that ... thing’s growl had sent Joci into a fit of rage, punching a hole through the entity’s decaying head from behind like it was nothing. She had handed Nikki her sidearm just in case, though no further resistance was met. Nikki had given Joci her gun back and it stayed strapped to the latter’s thigh. Damn girl reminds me of what I wanted to be... she thought, settling in for first watch. Why else would I trust her with Brian’s Codex.

She shook her head, pulling her shemagh tight. The fallback was cold, windy. She scooted behind a boulder to get out of the wind. As the night wound on and the second watch started, Joci was not yet tired. She’d promised the girl a hot brekkie, and she was determined to provide just that. She found a low shrub, looked under it — an exercise she repeated ten or so times until she found what she was looking for: a quail’s nest.

The bird inside the nest looked up at her inquisitively.

“Sor’y...” Joci whispered, plucking four of the seven eggs from the nest. The quail shooed her away, pecking and screeching. Once evaded, she looked toward the horizon. Astronomical dusk. Running short on time, she thought. She started to break down other shrubs, crafting a makeshift blind. And she waited.

Memories of that scampering — ghoul? ghost? stalker? evil? — entity intruded on her peaceful night. What the fuck was it? Is that what happens when we die? She had no idea and no real desire to find out. She shivered, neither from the cold nor the wind, but from the thought of the entity’s cracking bones as it chased Nikki down. If it had been Joci at 20, she would have acted exactly the same: panicked, scared, certain death was next. Two decades do a lot to people. But who was that entity? she kept wondering. Who had she once been? A mother? Sister? Priest? She’d never know. It brought tears to her eyes: she didn’t want to die like that, but she didn’t want to live a life of undeath like that crazed being either. She resisted the urge to sniffle: any noise might frighten something away. There, a family of six boar. Five little ones and a mama. They passed her improvised blind.

The last boar, a yearling, was moving past her. She reached out, grabbed the squealing boar. She twisted its neck. The vertebræ crushed. It died instantly. The mother became enraged, searching for her lost baby; Joci didn’t move. The mother smelled the undeath still attached to Joci and ran away. Better to lose one than lose them all, Joci remembered Kasyade once telling her. She waited another 20 long minutes before emerging from her blind. She walked back to camp, quail eggs in one hand and a small boar over her shoulder. She quartered the animal, stripping the back fat, ribs, and shanks.

After an hour had passed and the sun had broken horizon, breakfast was ready. She set some on a plate and whispered to Nikki through the thin fabric of the tent:

“I go’ th’ coffees on,” she said, sliding the plate beneath Nikki’s tent flap.

She stepped away, yawning. She found herself absently playing with the charm bracelet, wondering if its matching locket — and, more especially, its wearer — were still safe. Tired, she took a plate of meats and eggs to a bigger communal tent, wolfed down her brekkie, and decided to try and sleep.

I miss the ocean, she thought. She could swear she was on a ship, rocking back and forth, though she knew it wasn’t possible. I miss her, she thought before she passed out, exhausted.

( @nikkithorpe / @kat-hawke )

[jocelyn-wellson]

A FEW NIGHTS AGO

Joci was hiding in a pile of crates. Watching the Lamb. Waiting. For what, she didn’t know, but she was curious if all the stories were true. So she lurked in the crates’ shadows. As the gas lamps lit the well area, the shadows flickered, licking at the flames. Joci tucked herself tightly and moved quietly behind the crates, eyes on the bar where far more people seemed to enter than leave. She thought that was curious.  She approached the shrubbery. She moved quick to the first, waited several minutes, and scurried across the path. Her boot struck a pebble. She narrowly missed being caught by some noble-type or another; his movements were frenetic and his voice more by desperation. 

Fuck me sideways twice, thought Joci. She pressed herself flat against the low wall, just behind the shrubbery. She watched as he called about the square for an elf woman. Apparently, the outraged noble been pickpocketed. Joci held her breath. A guard asked if he was ok, but the man shoved him aside, stalking off toward the woman. She knew that all too well, that posture, that gait. She forced herself to breathe. She believed the elf could take him in a fight. Even still. What if that were Melody or Quinn...

Outside the bar stood a bouncer — female, black hair, maybe mid-twenties, armed to the fucking teeth. Joci reached for her weapon, only to rethink things. Better to leave knowing a bouncer’s face than not leaving at all.

NOW

“Be safe,” said Melody. She offered her fist and Joci punched it, something they’d been doing since their first sparring match. 

“Aye,” said Joci, starting down Melody’s flat’s stairs. “An’ lock th’ —” she smiled upon hearing the tumblers click: “— door.”

She stepped into the rain, wishing she had packed her sou’wester. No matter. She’d been far more saturated by storms larger than some sun shower. She picked her way across the cobblestones, still getting used to the soft-soled leather shoes Melody had suggested: 

“I bet they’ll make you even tougher. I can’t hear you,” she had said before dropping the candle she’d taken off the table, snuffing it out with her bare heel. She tiptoed around the apartment, trying to get the drop on Joci. 

As she walked in the rain, Joci envisioned Melody’s bathroom: it was immaculate — the opposite of hers. After Melody had stepped upon the candle, Joci knew she had to get out and in a hurry. Maybe, she had thought. She had felt herself grow cold, closed her eyes, and then — the bathroom. She slipped into the new shoes and turned the sink on, leaving the water to run. When Melody had opened the door, Joci slipped out behind her. She tapped her on the shoulder:

“Fuck me — you’re scary,” Melody had said, breath tight.  

“Ya ain’ too ba’ yerself, droppin’ th’ candle an’ snuffin’ et wit’ yer foot. Tha’s smar’.”

After considering their night in the dark, Joci became curious about her shoes. She stopped in a cobbler’s shop. “Oi, mate. Kin ya tell me ‘bou’ me shoes? They was a gift...”

The cobbler gestured for them. She took them off. The old man looked them over:

“Ya gonna kill me or rob me?”

“Wai’... I ... wot?”

“Everyone knows. Soft-soles?” He unconsciously lowered his voice. “They’re for the killers, the robbers, the ones atop the roof...”

Oh shit, she thought, removing her Unit 8 badge from her belt. She set it on the counter. “Sor’y, Mistah. Jus’ doin’ some... investiga’in...”

The shopkeep was visibly relived. “Next time? Ya might wanna show that first.”

“Go’ a lo’ o’ problems ‘ere?” she asked.

“Been a spike in petty crime, yeah...” the cobbler took the shoes over to his bench. He began to examine them, talking the whole time: “...just like after the Third war... now the Fourth... Hm.” After several minutes of studying, he took off his glasses. “...where’d ya say you get these...?”

“A gift.”

“Right...” he said, bringing them back over. He watched as she laced them up. “...yeah, no doubt. That’s one of Old Skelter’s, but us former apprentices under him just called him ‘Yeller’.” 

“Yellah?”

“He liked things done on time.”

Joci shrugged; she didn’t care either way. “Could you make a second pair. If I get the size for you?”

“I mean... if you can find the pattern, maybe? He’s the master.”

“When’s th’ las’ time ya saw Ol’ Yellah?”

“We got split up when Dalaran was over Karazhan...” Joci listened to the story, nodding like she had a damned clue like about this ‘Dalaran.’ Perhaps that’s where young Admiral Proudmoore had once lived, in a floating city. Or so she’d once heard. The man was wrapping up his story:  “...so me and Old Skelter went behind the shed, and that’s when it happened.” The cobbler’s face fell. “Yeller got bit by a fel beast... and he just...” The old man shrugged.

“I though’ ya be sayin’ he be alive.”

“He probably is, yeah. Didn’t see his body there later. Maybe set up in a camp in the pass, maybe Westfall. But I’ll tell you this — if anyone has the pattern for those shoes?” The old man pointed at her with his glasses. “It’d be him.”

“An’ if’fn I bring ya this... his pat’ern?”

“I can try, yeah.”

She took her badge off the table. “Joci.” She extended her hand. “Er... Opera'ive Jocelyn Wellson.”

“Hoss,” he said, shaking it. “We're sticking with Joci.”

“Hoss, ya be seein’ me again. Soon™.”

The cobbler chuckled. “If you find Old Skelter... ya might have to...” He imitated firing a gun. “He’s prolly got the fel.”

“Thanks...” she said, walking back into the rain. Fel? Shadow’s bad enough — the fuck is fel? The door shut behind her. She wrapped her head with her shemagh. Stormwind rain is as oily as its humidity: it just makes you dirtier, she thought, chuckling.

She rounded the corner. There, the bar where Quinn worked. Time to keep her weekly drinking appointment. She stepped through the door into the crowded tavern. 7 bells exactly. Quinn looked over toward the door. Joci caught her eye for a moment before trudging upstairs. She turned the wrapped item she had made for Quinn over in her hand:

She was ready. They both were.

( @quinn-varden / @kat-hawke ... a @myzariel reference, too! )

[jocelyn-wellson]

A FORTNIGHT PAST

“And Wellson,” said Director Hawke, “yer heroics were appreciated on th’ way out o’ Stormwind. Just be … careful. Yer on yer own.” She extended her hand.

“Ain’ nothin’ keepin’ me from get’in’ back, if’fn tha’s wot ya mean,” said the Operative, taking the proferred hand. They shook on it. “Two weeks, I’ll do me par’ in Elwynn, fer me bruv’s Estate, and the surroundin’s. Nuffin’ stupit,” she agreed, letting go. She dipped her head respectfully.

“Dismissed.”

TWO HOURS AGO

She was worried when she entered the shop. Exotic leathers and pelts still graced the shelves; empty drying racks lined the upstairs. She heard a rustling in the back and drew her sidearm — the same sidearm, she’d been told by Elunara, once wielded by her brother’s best friend, Justine, for over thirty years. She would keep Myz’s in her slingpack, just in case. She brushed the curtain to the back room aside. The rustling stopped. Silence. She knocked thrice on the wall — noise seemed to attract them, these Scourge.

“Show yourself!” a familiar voice shouted. It was a terse command, one she also recognized from before.

“Et’s me… Joci!” she replied, unclipping her SI:7 — Unit 8 badge from her belt, sliding it toward the voice. She did the same with her new sidearm.

Hoss, the cobbler she’d met just before everything went to shit, was still alive. He was filthy, like he hadn’t been able to bathe for weeks. He placed his Dwarven shotgun on the ground.

“You… you made it?” he asked.

“Wouldn’ be standin’ ‘ere if’in I din’t, yea?”

The man, who had lost several pounds since last they met, rushed over and gave her a tight hug. “S-sorry, I just…”

Joci smiled as she was embraced by the man. “Aye. I ge’ et. Bein’ ‘lone durin’ all this?” She pat his back. “‘ere. I go’ somethin’ ta set ya a-right.”

Hoss let go and looked the woman up and down. “You got it, di—“

Joci presented the man with the soft-sole shoe design from Mister Yellah himself.

“How—?”

“Do ya wanna know?”

“Was he…?”

She shook her head. “Long gone. Bones. An ol’, forgot’en camp. Took a couple days searchin’, bu’,” she chuckled. “I go’ low, stay out’a sight…” She paused, picking up her items. “‘e go’ a propah burial, ‘e did.”

“How can I … this was the last of his… what can I do?”

“Well ya kin make th’ shoes fer one,” she said, cracking a smile. “Ya wanna walk ‘ome? Let ya ge’ clean?”

The towering man looked down at the diminutive brawler, flabbergasted. “If you can take on the dead and live?” he chuckled. “Give me a sec. I’ll lock up.”

Joci beamed. She felt like she had done something right, not just through fighting, but by using her brain. She entered the back of the shop. It was fetid. He had hid amongst his own filth and the rotting remains of the Scourge to remain alive. She picked up the bodies and emptied his slop bucket into the sewer; the sound of the undead still skulking about explained why he hadn’t himself. She slid the heavy oak lid across it and weighed it with a few cinder blocks from behind which he’d been hiding. She entered from the back room.

“You didn’t have to,” said Hoss, mortified.

“I know,” she replied, softly. “Ya ready?”

The man nodded. And with that, the two entered a City transformed by carnage, war, death, fire.

“Where?” she asked, watching a raven pick at a bloated body in the Canal.

“Old Town,” he said.

“We’ll be there befir ya know et,” she said. She’d protect him just as she’d done for the Director and the young one, Nicole. Oh, she thought. Nikki. Gotta ‘member. Nikki.

NOW

“Where’ve ya been?” asked Kat.

“Yeah,” added Thea, drily. “Thought you died. Shame.”

Kat shot her a look. Joci did, too:

“‘elpin ou’, jus’ like I sai’.”

“Duskwind Patrol said they saw someone matchin’ yer description,” said Kat.

“I be five foo’ an’ one inch. Mebbe 105 poun’s. Plen’y o’ starvin’ people righ’ now…” she replied, thoughts drifting to Hoss, how he had changed. “Kingdom ain’ gonna ‘elp so, looks like I be a pop’lar person ta be now, don’ et??”

Thea crossed her arms indignantly. “You think you know so much, you little bit—”

“Thea!” shouted Kat so loud the rest of the Unit could hear. “Out. Now.”

The salty bureaucrat spun on her heel and stormed out. She slammed the door. Kat drummed her nails on the desk. “I’m going to ask you one time. Where were you.”

“Finding a dead man. Deadwind Pass.”

Kat rubbed her brow. “Jocelyn, I—”

“Direc’or,” she said the word popping out as it had before. She kicked herself for it. “I know a man. He can be o’ ‘elp ta us… isn’t tha’ wot we need? People we don’t pay bu’ barter wit’? I ‘eard ya talkin’ ‘bou’ et. Back in camp. I ownt a business —”

“A brothel,” she corrected Joci.

“Fine. I was a fuckin’ cum dumpstah pimp whore. Wha’eva.”

Kat rolled her eyes. “Yer point?”

“Ya cannae ‘spect goo’ things wit’ou’ get’in’ yer fists bloody.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Kat’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I don’t look for wealthy patrons every fucking day?”

“These ain’ th’ wealthy. These be th’ people ‘ho need jobs! ‘ho lost everythin’! Fuck th’ rich! They wan’ fer nothin’! Ya donnae see me asking me bruv’s estate for ‘andouts, do ya? Ya wanna protec’ Stormwind? Donnae le’ et become anothah Moonbeam, yanno… like Wes’fall!”

Kat perked an eyebrow. “Moonbrook.”

“So ya remembah et’s name. Ya wanna medal?”

“Wot’s got you so fired up, anyway?” asked Kat, more interested than annoyed. She’d seen a fiery streak in Jocelyn before, knew about her insubordination within the ranks of the Proudmoore Admiralty… “Is this wot ya do? Ya get too close to people?” The Director scoffed. “Seven hells, Wellson. Ya can’t save everyone!”

Jocelyn set her jaw. She reached for her badge and drew Myz’s 9mm sidearm from her slingpack. She set them on the desk. “I be out.”

The fine lines around Kat’s eyes twitched. “Take a minute, cool down…” she said.  

“Nah. I ain’ ‘eartless. Quinn, Nicole … er, Nikki … they be th’ only ones lef’ wit’ a warm ‘eart. Wit’ a conscience.”

“Ya think I don’t have a conscience? Ya think I’m heartless?”

“I fink,” said Jocelyn, “Ya los’ touch wit’ life when ya was gone. Ya ain’ th’ woman I met in th’ Park.”

“You’ve no idea wot yer talkin’ about, Wellson.”

The two stared at each other for a long time. The badge and Myz’s 9mm sat between them. The clock ticked as clocks do, marking endless hopes and lives slipping away. Finally Jocelyn spoke:

“I know ya play fav’rites. I know ya lef’ Tris ta die.” She cleared her throat: “Over’eard tha’ lil’ gem in camp.”

Kat’s self-confidence faltered for the briefest of moments.

Joci continued. “I know we make mistakes, yea? Lords I know… ya came ta me a’ me lowes’, when I was nothin’ bu’ guttertrash. Abandont. No way home. Death waitin’ there anyway. Couldn’t read a’tall. Me bruv… watched ‘im die…” She inhaled deeply. She sat in the chair Thea had been using. She exhaled. “I met an ol’ man, back befir th’ Scourge attack. A leatherworkah. A mastah leatherworkah. Defent ‘is shop from th’ Scourge, ‘e did. Walkt ‘im ‘ome today. He be smar’, an’ ‘e be goo’. Bettah, he be cheapah than th’ Crown, askin’ only fer materials.”

“Really?” Kat drummed her fingers on her desk, suppressing a cynical laugh. “That’s it? Yer willing ta forsake yer job fer one man? A cobbler?”

“If’fn I cannae ‘elp people, why di’ ya bring me in?”

Kat looked over Joci’s face. The scar just across her nose. The braid in her hair. Lines of sorrow and years of seldom joy etched like the broken sky. Kat slid the gun and badge across the desk. “This.”

“W-wait… Wot?”

“I swear ta fuck yer unbreakable. Ya got a heart. Don’t know how, after everything ya went through, but ya do…,” she said, trailing off. “Ya do. Come on then.” Director Hawke stood, gesturing for Jocelyn to do the same. “Take me to the shops ya know, that have crafted for ya. Let’s at least see wot’s left.”

“Aye aye, Director,” said Operative Wellson, tucking Myz’s 9mm into her sling pack. She clipped the badge to the backside of her belt. “Aye aye.”

(( @kat-hawke @tristanasneak @myzariel @nikkithorpe @quinn-varden // @justinegrotius @brian-wellson ))

[jocelyn-wellson]

The Onslaught

Something had changed in the hours since she had left Melody behind. There were people — people who seemed themselves from a distance, only dead. And they were vicious. After clambering out of the Sewers, Joci took to the rooftops, running as fast as she could toward base. She was terrified, watching as people in the streets below were being chased down and devoured. A ceramic tile slipped from a roof and struck one of the ... dead people? the undead? She had no idea. The ceramic slipped, clattering to the ground. The undulating mass of the dead stopped what they were doing. They stared up at Joci. They started to roar. She took cover behind a wall’s crenelation. Her stomach turned. They continued to make noises, unnatural, less-than-earthly. After five or so minutes they left. Someone had ridden by on a horse ... and then the horse went down. She didn’t wait. She shoved one of her cams into a wall joint, tied off the red rope, and eyed the parapet across the Canal. If she was fast enough... she dropped down from the wall, quietly picking her way toward the underbridge. She rigged a quick traverse line and pulled herself over the water. On the other side, she tied off the second rope at the waterline and scurried up the tower, up to the parapet. She still had the red rope tied round her waist and attached to the side opposite her. She set a second cam and ran the rope through it. She drew the line taut, locking it off. Secured, she ran along the rooftops of Old Town, scrambling to get to SI:7. She rigged a final line to the roof of headquarters and climbed across. She dropped through the skylight:

“Direc’or Hawke,” she said, panting. “Yanno et takes m-more than laps ta make me p-puke,” she said, stumbling over toward Thea Fiske’s desk. She looked around for a trash can, and — finding none — opened the former acting director’s bottom desk drawer. “D-dead people for fuck’s...” And then the vomiting. Into Fiske’s desk drawer. “Wot... th’ fuck... are those thin’s?”

( @kat-hawke )