*the angles were all wrong, open

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She’d suggested it innocently enough – which, for Sela, was a bit of an oxymoron. The suggestion of a drink, which had obviously gone over well, as many found it to be a welcome diversion from the day-to-day woes. The vixen herself had only been to the speakeasy once, and she needless to say hadn’t taken a sip since she’d set foot in the dome. There was something disturbing about the thought of making herself so vulnerable in such a dangerous place.

Of course, it could be the paranoia talking, but you never could be too careful. Either way, she wasn’t too worried. Before her arrival Sela had built up a decent tolerance, though she had no way of realizing that it wasn’t the case anymore. She had other plans, bigger plans than simply getting drunk. She had no intentions of that, as enticing as it was; she needed to be lucid for the task at hand.

The huntress quickened her pace, hoping others had gotten the memo and that the word had spread well enough. It made it less obvious if – heck, who was she kidding? In the end, she had to admit to herself that while she was making the trip she might as well take her time. She reached into the folds of her jacket and retrieved a stick of old chalk, a dusty white stick that had seen many a blackboard in its day. Even with conservation it was half gone.

Sela popped the rest in her mouth, relishing the crunch and the tidy taste it brought.

---------

This sure as hell better be worth it, Sela thought eons later. The walk had taken longer than intended, and by the time she arrived at the speakeasy her limbs were shot.

Metaphorically speaking, anyway.

The redhead pushed open the wooden door and crept inside, morphing rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Human, fox, then human again; Sela shifted back to her original form and made a beeline for the bar. By the time others were arriving she’d pocketed three bottles of jake. Never mind the fact that they looked about a century old – she wouldn’t be drinking these, after all.

Whether or not the rest (‘her’ others) arrived she wasn’t quite sure, nor did she care. And despite her earlier resolutions, Sela inevitably found herself with a half-empty bottle of liquor in her hand. As good as chalk or pottery, and just as addicting. Having the business side of things done, she kept this last receptacle for consuming. The huntress walked towards the back of the speakeasy and sat down, fidgeting. Just one sip, then she’d set it down.

Two sips, then she’d leave. No, three.