Hell-raiser. Thrill-seeker. Morgana. That was her name. She didn't have a
surname. She didn't need one. Just Morgana.
It was raining. Did she even notice? Not really. Rain. Sweat. Blood. Tears. It was all the same to her. She was walking resolutely down the middle of the deserted street. Her black hair, that hovered an inch above her slightly hunched shoulders, was plastered to her pallid face. Her milky blue eyes glimmered with an almost insane purpose.
She was soaked by the time she reached the doorway of the Townsend Agency. Her double-breasted pinstriped suit, her white silk shirt, her black tie, all were sodden. No one had ever understood why she dressed so much like a man. No one, that is except one person. She turned the handle.
Locked. Oh well.
She reached into her breastpocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. Double ball rake, medium tension wrench. She slid both into the lock and moved them around for a few seconds. Right on the money. It was almost too easy. Charlie's Angels, and a kid with a paperclip could pick the lock if they tried.
She stepped into the lobby of the agency, dripping wet. She must have stood for half an hour, letting most of the water drip off of her and onto the mat inside the door. Her hair was starting to become less heavy. When she was dry enough, she cleaned off the bottom of her Victorian boots and walked into the office.
She sat down on a taupe sofa that faced the desk. She founded herself almost staring down the white speakerbox. "It's all your fault," she whispered, in a singsong tone. Then she smirked. Someone left their purse sitting on the coffee table. Morgana pulled out the billfold. The driver's license read Dylan Sanders.
Her upper lip curled, and she placed the checkbook back in the black bag. Her hand brushed something familiarly soft. She let her fingers curl around a clump of hair. Black hair. Short black hair. A wild look passed over her face as she brought it beneath her nose. It smelled warm, like vanilla and almonds. Like his hair oil. She threw the reminder back into the purse.
A fresh wave of loneliness and hopelessness washed over her. She shifted in her seat and leaned back so that she was laying on the couch, her ankles crossed on the opposite arm rest. She closed her eyes and lay silent for as long as it took her to start crying. Her sobs were hysterical and screeching. She was glad she hadn't worn mascara. Not that she needed it; her eyelashes were dark. So were her eyebrows, which she kept plucked into sharp diagonal points.
A clock on the fireplace chimed eight forty-five. They had to be opening sometime soon. She dried off her face and sat up again. The angels would come in. They would want to know why she was there. They would ask a thousand questions. And she would have answers.
She would be ready.
It was raining. Did she even notice? Not really. Rain. Sweat. Blood. Tears. It was all the same to her. She was walking resolutely down the middle of the deserted street. Her black hair, that hovered an inch above her slightly hunched shoulders, was plastered to her pallid face. Her milky blue eyes glimmered with an almost insane purpose.
She was soaked by the time she reached the doorway of the Townsend Agency. Her double-breasted pinstriped suit, her white silk shirt, her black tie, all were sodden. No one had ever understood why she dressed so much like a man. No one, that is except one person. She turned the handle.
Locked. Oh well.
She reached into her breastpocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. Double ball rake, medium tension wrench. She slid both into the lock and moved them around for a few seconds. Right on the money. It was almost too easy. Charlie's Angels, and a kid with a paperclip could pick the lock if they tried.
She stepped into the lobby of the agency, dripping wet. She must have stood for half an hour, letting most of the water drip off of her and onto the mat inside the door. Her hair was starting to become less heavy. When she was dry enough, she cleaned off the bottom of her Victorian boots and walked into the office.
She sat down on a taupe sofa that faced the desk. She founded herself almost staring down the white speakerbox. "It's all your fault," she whispered, in a singsong tone. Then she smirked. Someone left their purse sitting on the coffee table. Morgana pulled out the billfold. The driver's license read Dylan Sanders.
Her upper lip curled, and she placed the checkbook back in the black bag. Her hand brushed something familiarly soft. She let her fingers curl around a clump of hair. Black hair. Short black hair. A wild look passed over her face as she brought it beneath her nose. It smelled warm, like vanilla and almonds. Like his hair oil. She threw the reminder back into the purse.
A fresh wave of loneliness and hopelessness washed over her. She shifted in her seat and leaned back so that she was laying on the couch, her ankles crossed on the opposite arm rest. She closed her eyes and lay silent for as long as it took her to start crying. Her sobs were hysterical and screeching. She was glad she hadn't worn mascara. Not that she needed it; her eyelashes were dark. So were her eyebrows, which she kept plucked into sharp diagonal points.
A clock on the fireplace chimed eight forty-five. They had to be opening sometime soon. She dried off her face and sat up again. The angels would come in. They would want to know why she was there. They would ask a thousand questions. And she would have answers.
She would be ready.