“Night brings our troubles to the light, rather than banishes them.”

MASON: That was definitely true for Mason Haldis, more so than for most people. The gaping hole in her left hand opened itself within her flesh as soon as the last rays of sunlight sunk below the horizon. The wound bled, it throbbed, it stung. So she thrashed. By God with all her might. She screamed until the muscles in her throat grew raw and stretched. She kicked, she even cried. No good. It still hurt.

Damn.

Three hours of it. Three hours to look at it. Three hours for it to flare up. She could see the bone. She could see the veins dangling like living vines. They weren‘t red, that was saved for the blood, they were purple. Dead purple.

Three hours gone. It still hurt.

Damn.

So that’s why she was on her way to meet a man named John. John, ha. That was funny. She didn’t know what about it was funny but it was. Maybe the pain was affecting her head. John said he could make the pain go away with a pretty little white pill. Maybe it would taste like candy. Maybe her skin would melt away too. Oh, oh that would be nice.

A wad of cash in her right hand, a blood stained gauzed hand rested at her side, she paced on the corner. Lipstick smeared, eyeliner running. She was the nights bitch. It was clear by her tear stained face.

Thirty minutes had passed. It still hurt.

Damn.

JOHN: Timeliness and punctuality had never been his forté, and even with a screaming cursing girl practically spitting blood at him over the journals, John still found the time to saunter down the street at a leisurely pace, hands shoved in pockets and a Rottweiler trailing his heels. When he turned the corner of the intersection she'd given him, the twenty-five-year-old suddenly found himself face-to-face with a very upset, very hurting woman. And he grinned at her, cockiness brimming around the edge of a cigarette, fingertips trailing the edges of pill-bottles in his pockets.

"Mason?"

MASON: When she heard her name uttered from a dry voice, she turned. She didn't care that her face was a mess, she didn't care that it probably looked like she was in hell at the moment. No. What she cared about was that man named John was standing in front of her. In front of her with those magic pills. He was pale, his eyes were black, he had a dog. Well, you could only imagine what was going on in her head. She glanced to the dog. She glanced to him. She swallowed hard, "John." Her jaw flexed for a mere second.

Her right hand thrust out expectantly, holding the crumpled twenties between death clenching fingers. "Give them to me." There was a sizzle of desperation. Yes, John. Give them to her.

Crimson stained the tips of her bad hand crusting over like a disease that had no relief. "Give me the pills."

JOHN: He looked her over. It was tradition, really; you assessed the people you did business with, and it was in John's best interest to know who this chick was. Clyde, on the other hand, seemed like she couldn't care less, instead deciding to investigate the street with distinctly doggie-like interest. He took in the blood (looks like she really wasn't kidding), and that familiar edge of keening desperation in her eyes. She wasn't a druggie, no, but he knew the look of someone who wanted something to go away. Came close to it himself, too, when the pain in the leg hit down hard enough.

"First tell me what's fucking wrong with you," he answered, after a pause. There was the slightest inflection on his words, a weighing in his tone, that conveyed his persuasive ability. It only worked verbally. Might as well get some use out of it.

MASON: Fingers crushed down on the wad of cash. Ice blue eyes staring him down cold enough to burn. She grit her teeth. No. She wasn't a druggie but she was in pain. Pain that really shouldn't be experienced without some form of sedative, if you catch my drift. "Fine, fine. Fuck." She shoved the money into her pocket in fervored pace. She glanced to Clyde. Lucky bitch. It must be nice to not give a damn.

Her tongue rolled over her front teeth and her good hand unwound the gauze in a near violent manner. He wanted to know what was wrong? She'd show him what was wrong, dammit.

Mason lifted the bad hand. It was stained in blood, it was bruised and swelling, the veins were raised and right in the center of her palm was a gaping hole. Brittle bits of bone could be seen. Veins and tendons seemed to squirm within the wound. She tilted her head and waved it in front of her face. "Accident in my class. Luckily no one saw or they would have seen a chisel go straight down on my hand and it wouldn't have done a damn thing." Her lips became a purse of annoyance. The smell of copper mingling with iron was detectable now.

"I'm paying for it now. Is that what you needed to know or do you need paper work too?" Brow raise.

JOHN: "Nah, that's enough."

To his credit, John looked unflappable at the sight of the wound -- who knew if he'd seen anything worse, but odds were he might have -- likewise, however, he didn't look particularly concerned. No shows of sympathy, no tutting and clucking over her pain, no empathy whatsoever. The oozing blood and torn skin just elicited another nonchalant roll of the shoulders, and a brief kick of his boot to extinguish his dwindling cigarette, before he brought out the pills.

"Fifty milligrams, don't fuckin' overdose or I won't be happy. Pretty strong stuff though, ought to knock out the pain for a while. Probably make you pretty drowsy too. Here."

He cast another assessing glance over her. He waited.

MASON: Given his reaction, she didn't want to ask. To be completely honest, it was also a bit of relief. She didn't want empathy, freaking out or any of the above. It just made the situation worse and besides that, she didn't like it. So she wound the gauze back around that bleeding lump of flesh without any questions following.

When he brought out that bottle she reached for it taking it from his grasp. She was careful about it, too. No touching of any kind. Avoidant of skin contact to a fault. Which was a bit hard. The man had hands that belonged on a skeleton. Long, thin and papery. It almost looked like skin stretched tightly over bone and that was it. The container was delicately plucked from his hand and stuck into the back of her jean pockets and that very good hand was now fishing around for the money.

"I'm not going to overdose." Her eyes squinting at him in disgust, (well mostly because she couldn't see very well in this lighting) as her fingers dug around. "I plan on taking the damn pill and going comatose until sunrise, thanks." She sounded like a vampire and even winced herself at that line. Ah, the crumpled twenties were jerked from her pockets and she extended a hand.

"Here's your damn money, it's all there." A shrug of her shoulder. "Take it already."

JOHN: "Pleasure doing business with you, Vampire Jesus," John said, grinning toothily. He palmed the money quickly, the small wad of cash disappearing into his cavernous pockets as if it'd never been. Clyde stirred and came back to attention by his heel. Her owner, however, paused again. He had more things he wanted to know. Could be useful to know.

"So why sunrise? Why no ER? You said this was ability-related." His shoulders slouched. "How ability-related?"

MASON: Oh, the 'Vampire Jesus' got a definite look of disdain. She took a breath, once more glancing to the dog. Loyal thing. Huh, surprising, the guy didn't look like an animal lover.

"It will be gone." Her gaze fell back over his face, "It's how it works. I'm invulnerable during the day. Why the hell I'm telling you this, I don't know. Maybe it's the pain cutting off blood circulation to the brain. During the day my skin's like stone." A sigh, not of sadness but nonchalance. Even as she spoke it was careless and nearly bored.

"I can't feel, I can't get nicked, and at night it becomes hypersensitive. To the point at times my skin feels like it will crawl off my body." She held her hand up against her chest above her heart. Blood flow. You know the deal. "Also any accidents that may have occurred will appear during that lovely, but as soon as sun is up it's gone. No scar. No nothing. Not a trace." She bit down on her inner lip. "Keep this to yourself too, I swear to God."

"I don't want to even know yours." A flat stare.

JOHN: He may not look like an animal lover, and any claim that he was would be met with a blank-faced stare, considering John really did hate most animals, humans included. But fuck if he didn't love his own dog. He absentmindedly scratched the back of Clyde's head while he mulled over the new information Mason had suddenly imparted.

And when he spoke, his flippant tone matched Mason's careless speech almost perfectly.

"How invulnerable? Like if you get shot in the fuckin' chest, you live the night? Not that I'm gonna do it or anything, but shit, colour me curious."

MASON: It was still weird. He didn't like animals, huh? Humans included? Good. Humans were the worst kind of animal. Mason could agree on that much. She glanced up at him while keeping her injured hand close to her heart. "Depends on where I would be shot and how much I bled until sunrise." A vacant stare. The emotionless tone in his voice stirred her. Not in a good way, either. It was very unnerving. Her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. "Why the hell are you so curious about my condition anyway?" A raised brow and a roll of her tongue over her gums thoughtfully.

At least he wasn't touching her. Then there would be definite problems.

JOHN: He shrugged, and pulled up another cigarette from the recesses of his coat. Thin layers. Didn't really need the warmth in Las Vegas. "Not like I get to meet a lot of horrors. Most folk are normal. Not goddamn circus freaks like us." John grinned. He also extended a hand, offering one of his own cigarettes.

This, Mason, was a very large metaphorical laurel leaf from John. John never fucking shared. It was quite possible he was just trying to distract her so she wouldn't ask any inconvenient questions about his own inconvenient questions -- but oh well.

MASON: She watched his face for a long while, a very long while. He was hard to read. She didn't like the fact he was so hard to decipher. Mason reached out with her good hand and plucked a cigarette from the sleeve, "Thanks." Was mumbled and that was it before swiveling her body away from him she needed to get home and put herself in a painkiller induced coma. That would be nice.

There was no good bye, nothing else to say. So she didn't. It was strange enough meeting a man and his dog out on an intersection in the dead of night. So what did she do? She pretended that little exchange never happened.

Denial always worked.