1963-11-14 - Snippet: Road to Hell
Summary: A snapshot scene showing the state of Hilde's demise.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: Sleigh Bells - Road to Hell
rogue brunnhilde 


If it was possible for Hilde to lose weight — and it certainly didn't seem possible, she was already all lanky bones and skin — she has in the last few days. It's just been that kind of week. Or month, really. But she had a debt to be repaid, even if Scarlett wouldn't agree. A backpack to return and some money. So, she's sought out places to drink where she might be able to find the bohemian woman and the bartender of this place seemed to know her. So, she's waited her. Waited and gone into her second night of far too heavy drinking. Two vodkas in and Hilde's already leaning slightly too deep against the bar. The woman's back pack is at her feet, her stringy hair down free around her sunken face. She's sipping vodka and OJ number three.

*

Autumn is kind to its children. Scarlett is one of them, a redhead crowned in elaborate braids of an Asgardian design, and a look that could murder the less fortunate. Found in Greenwich Village — and certainly they know her there — then all it takes is a little patience for the bohemian to emerge. In an era of pastel polyester and ugly patterned cottons, wearing leather pants, which they do indeed make, and a motorcycle jacket with actual leather, laced-up combat boots that probably give the heterosexual population in the room a headache due to lack of proper circulation. A little secret pastime, she can make a Triumph behave her like a purring beast, and the behemoth in question is outside.

"Buzz off," she tells one of the inebriated frat boys near the foyer. "I'm taken." The sauntering walk eats up the ground, going with the attitude and the glory she has to project. Thorns and poppies decorate her hair, a nightmare and a dream wound into one being. It takes a little work to find Hilde propped up against the bar, but she heads that way, hands jammed into the back pockets of her pants. It can't possibly have front pockets. "You know, if I steal some alcohol that's out of this world, would that make you feel any better?"

*

While the pale blonde isn't one normally to drink quite so heavily, or almost at all, it means she really isn't able to hold her booze and keep aware of anything around her. She misses the bohemian coming in the first time, but certainly doesn't miss that soothing, lull of a voice beside her as the beautiful woman mentions other booze. Hilde blinks drowsily, turning her head and bloodshot, ice blue eyes over towards Rogue with a half smile, "…'ey…was…Lookin' for you. Got your bag… and some money. Ain't much but…somethin' to… repay you for helpin' me… and that asshole… you shouldn'tof. I dun want your booze… can't…pay for it. Drinking this shit. It's enough. It helps."

*

The young woman is a knife in the dark, another presence melting into the grim frivolity promised by the Cat's cheap drinks and its plentiful distractions. Some are human, some are not, some decidedly objectifying and some objective. She inclines her head when Hilde gives her the time of night, for day is a long, long reach away from this particular shore of everlasting night. In the gloom, Scarlett damn near glows, at least where her cream skin separates itself from the flash of leather and the swish of vinyl or cheap satin. "I don't need money." Her palm rises, facing outwards, a momentary escape from her pocket. "The bag, thank you. I take it someone didn't care so much for your bedside manner? You can tell me to screw off rather than asking questions. No offense taken."

*

Just managing to remain on her barstool, Hilde leans over enough to grab the back pack off of the floor and hand it in Rogue's direction. She's hidden a fiver in the front pocket anyway, but doesn't say anything about it. Maybe she's forgotten. She almost teeters off of the barstool, but tipsily catches herself on the edge of the bar. She's managing. Sure. Once the bag is handed over, she sighs and scoops up her screwdriver again. She even has druk and stupid white girl tastes in booze. "No… he… he got worse… I had to get help, couldn't…save him. He was gonna die… I knew it. I had to get help… couldn't let him die… he… He lost his head. Freaked the fuck out… Told you, I couldn't bring no one back there." Hilde now looks very much like a kicked dog about it all, though.

*

Scarlett slips the backpack over her shoulders, arms managing not to be overly entangled in the long straps for too long. The fact her coat is fairly close fitting and not bulky helps in the task she sets for herself, but not overly much. "Easy, I would feel terrible had I to carry you out of here. Do you have a place to stay?" she asks, ever cautious, her voice low. It matters to the graduate of Columbia, the intelligent girl conceptually bound to the dangers of the city in a very real fashion.

"He may come around. If not now then in the next lifetime, since you gave him a much longer one, by the sounds of it." She glances at the bartender, and holds up two fingers. "Scotch. Not that grill liquid you call alcohol. The one with the yellow label." A point indicates something higher than bottom shelf, which matters.

*

A small cheersing motion is made with her half empty glass, especially as the woman tells her to take it easy. Hilde wasn't ever good at really taking it easy. She takes another long sip of the drink and puts it down after, waving off the worries about having a place to stay. "I…I gotta small place, kinda… gave it to someone else, but… I can crash on the couch. I don't really…sleep anyway. Ain't good at it. Hard to shut your eyes, yanno… things back there… Behind your eyes." She admits quietly, probably sounding all the more crazy for it, but she seems like she honestly believes her words. The life of an insomniac.

The the comment about him coming around. That gives Hilde a moment to allow a cold, quiet, tired laugh from her lips. She shakes her head quietly, "I dunno… he… He was real pissed. I ain't ever seen him that pissed. Called me stupid. It… it was bad. I just wanted to save his life. God…I couldn't let him die." From the sounds of it, maybe Hilde is better off without him.

*

Madness might be regretted for the rest of her days, but she might be talking to the one person who understands at terrible levels. The Norns do not hate Hilde so much as might seem on the surface. They delivered someone with equally many voices trapped in her skull, voices that will not fall silent with a nice request or behave according to laws of sanity.

Scarlett reaches out to take the tumbler from the bartender, and she puts the rim to her lips, letting the other woman fill out her pain and suffering. The drink is emptied, the second on its way, before she even remotely considers her response. Hilde can probably do a table dance and recite the purpose of the Electoral College by the time the bohemian decides to speak in a measured fashion, soft and compassionate, though not full of brimstone or saccharine consideration. She's wrapped in leather and heartache, why would she? "You chose life. Life is sacred, and he can hate you for it. The choice was not his. You decided according to your own beliefs, for good or ill."

*

A slight shake comes to Hilde's head, slow at first, but it gets more firm as she goes. "No..life… It's not… sacred. It's not my belief, not at all, actually. I'm the one that brings them to *death*… that's my duty…" Those words spill out of Hilde's mouth almost too distantly, something blurred and silver about her eyes, not all blue. Like she could be on the edge of a trance, but it's most likely just the way the booze is hitting her hard. Who knew how long she'd been sitting there. And her words aren't wrong. The first time they met, Hilde was sitting with the dead one. Not the living. That is who she seems to guard. "But…him. I couldn't let it happen to him. The… fucker." And that last word makes her throat crack, the pain of losing him worst than any of her anger. Hilde really is heart sick, for multiple reasons.

*

*

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