Rusty couldn't quite remember everything Nemsemet did in sequence, but he remembered the raspy chanting and the feel of the energy gathering in the air around the ancient sorcerer, and the damage it did when it was over. It was only the healing factor of a werewolf and the fact that he'd decided, early on in this adventure, to let the Knights and other official members of the Court lead the way. He was a mercenary, and what sounded good when he was drinking and doing a little bit of drugs turned out to be a terrible idea dead sober. Still, he'd given his word and brought the packmates he had in the area to the party, a bunch of growling, hairy, smelly leather-clad thugs looking for a fight. They were paid muscle, but they were getting paid and pickings were lean since the glory days.

Maybe it was because Nemsemet was standing there, glowing eyes in a metal mask and moth-eaten regalia, in a posture of supreme confidence as thirty or so beings, some of them extremely powerful, and others just hanger-ons but good for numbers, came to confront him. Count de Lacy was at the head, wielding some sort of talisman; bronze, somewhat dinky, especially in the face of Nemsemet, who was exuding some sort of anti-glow that sucked the light from the room when he started his movements and chanting. Rusty's instincts kicked in, it's why he stayed human, why he watched what was going on, and why he suddenly felt a spike of cold fear through his wollygots. He'd learned a while ago to pay attention to those instincts. In 1968, the instinct said, "Bite your buddy." Now it said, "Oh shit."

So when the energy started lancing out, he he dove for cover behind some hieroglyphic column. He felt his packmates die, suddenly and violently, without even a chance to fight back. He felt the sensation through the way they were linked, through pheremonal signal, through the immense bond they had.

Then and there, he decided that he wasn't being paid enough to die and left the Count's cronies to their most gory and glorious demise. After all, de Lacy was a bit of a prick, even if he did offer Rusty some incentives to come along. Nemsemet was a monster; Caradoc might as well have asked him sink an aircraft carrier single-handedly.

The place was a museum, which meant the exhibits were all around in a mouse-maze of hallways, frustrating dead ends and lots of exhibits of Egyptian artifacts for the current display. It felt like a miracle when he kicked open a gray-painted door stenciled "employees only" that led to a straight hall, and, miraculously, an exit. Some jowly security guy with a belly that strained his tan-khaki shirt tried to say, authoritatively, "Hole-on a minute there, boy..." and got bowled over by a big, hairy biker with his adrenaline churning.

Somehow, instinct perhaps, he managed to navigate out through the lobby, where he only paused long enough to turn the "OPEN" signs to "CLOSED" in a momentary fit of conscientiousness. his way to the parking space where he left his bike and got on that thing; he looked back and saw the lightning play in the windows. He thought he could hear the dusty rasp of sandpaper and realized that was the fucking mummy's laugh.

He got on the bike and blew lights all the way to the city limits...and then found himself forced to stop. He wanted to go. No, he didn't want to go. HE COULDN'T GO.

He spent thirty minutes trying to find a way to concentrate on hitting the gas on the side of I-81, otherwise known as The Fuck Outta Here (toward Jersey). He watched everyone else manage to toot in and out of the area in their vehicles, oblivious, before he gave up and headed in, leaving a trail of glittery exhaust in his wake as he dipped down and then up on grass and over to the lane of traffic heading back into New Camden...

---

Of course, the first place he thought of was his favorite customer, a guy that seemed to know everyone. Parael was still buying plenty of weed but that was a slowdown from a decade where he easily did a million in sales of party drugs to the guy. Rusty had a tolerance for drugs that was pretty iron-clad, but that was for obvious reasons; werewolf stamina. He had no idea how Parael didn't OD in the 1970's. Of course, the supernatural world had a bit of a code of honor about delving into people's business, reinforced by violence if people poked around one's secrets too much. So he didn't ask, "So, what the fuck are you, anyway?" Dangerous question in this community.

He pounded on the door and hit the doorbell and pounded on the door. It was not Rusty-like to be quite this frantic, but he'd just watch the evil old bastard maul an entire court's worth of supernaturals with the same effort he used to blow dust out to clear a sinus. He also was trapped in fucking New Camden with that thing, and he needed a sorcerer's advice...

Disco was not dead. Disco was eternal. Like a monster given life and form by Herr Doktor Frankenstein, it pulsed with a rhythm and life both unnatural and imperial. It commanded your ears' attention and demanded your hips' loyalty. So, of course, when you hear the pounding of a fist the size of a whole ham on your front door, you do not break the trance of the disco deities. The doorbell broke the spell momentarily, the three ring buzz mucking up the bass of Earth, Wind and Fire, and Parry had to roll his eyes, blow several wisps of blond hair out of his face, and sashay his way to the front door.

He didn't bother to shut off the stereo when he waltzed past it, and he let the disco ball spin and throw lights across the playroom because what the hell, he loved the way it made the walls shift like he was on a mild LSD trip.

The front door was locked and dead-bolted despite the fact it'd do nothing against a persistent intruder- and nothing at all against a werewolf in human form. That was what the Wards were for. Whoever was at the front door would be screaming in pain if they had murder on their mind, but that meant nothing if they were an IRS agent. Or worse, a Jehovah's Witness.

Either way, Parry was still mildly buzzed after a night of Vodka, primo Afghan Kush, and a quick tumble with a fairy- a literal one; Thomas was out of town in New York for the week and Milione was free for a couple hours- so he didn't bother to pretty himself up when he slid the door open and raised an eyebrow at the frantic Rusty.

Silk shirt/blouse, momma jeans, and a mess of blonde hair was all he let Rusty get a flash of before simply saying, "Yes, I have heard your 'Good News' before and I'm not interested. But I will take three boxes of thin mints, and one box of Tagalongs. I've got a mad case of the munchies. I'll have the cash for you at 8am."

Then he shut the door.

"Par--FUCK!"

The door slamming was not intended as disrespect. It was Parael being Parael, too high to process and thinking Rusty was just there to get him more drugs. Rusty, muttering cusswords, knocked a few more times to no answer from the man, who appeared baked out of his skull. That wasn't precisely unexpected and it wasn't like he could go all Merle Haggard on the man after nearly two decades of doing all the drugs himself.

But he didn't have time to screw around on this. He knew damn well that the door had a real chance of being warded, but he also was in a desperate situation.

He was in the drug business, with people that didn't write checks and he'd had to do collections before. It was never fun, and supernaturals tended to have precautions. He gave the door a good looking over; it was solid wood and a heavy lock, but he'd done this before.

So he raised a booted leg up and gave it a good kick, right under the knob. One hard kick and it buckled some. Two and it started to splinter. Third, aimed slightly higher, kicked the lock mechanism right out.

Surprisingly, it didn't electrocute him, singe him or otherwise do harm. He was expecting that, but he couldn't know that Parael's wards were designed to go after someone that wanted to do the man harm. His intent was the opposite, "YO! PARAEL! WE NEED TO TALK NOW!" he bellowed down the hallway. No sense braving further traps if he didn't have to.

Peace and dancing would have to wait, it seemed. By the time Parry got back to the playroom and the dancing lights of the Disco ball, the knocks had stopped and the booming kicks of a biker werewolf who really, really wanted to talk began. Fine, he'd make time for the biker. Parry crossed beneath the Heart Crystal hanging in the hallway, expelled a small cloud of smoke, and looked at the guests in his living room- he wasn't sure if they were all real or imagined quite yet. By the time the buzz cleared his system, he'd have much clearer vision.

"Ladies and gentlemen, party's over. I have an urgent visitor. Please make your way out of my mind and into the kitchen."

Spinning on his heel, Parry met Rusty halfway through the hall and gave his best smile.

"Well hello, big bad wolf! I think I'm done huffing and puffing for the night, but I will be happy to buy from you later today. If you could give de Lacy a message for me on your way back, though- he asked for an amulet against undead. I neglected to let him know the one I gave him was for use against Peruvian mummies. I don't think it matters, but I figure the thing was for peace of mind. de Lacy is more paranoid than smart.

"But anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Yeah, well it definitely doesn't work on whatever this guy is. Nemsemet just wiped out Caradoc de Lacy and most of his posse single-handed, along with some of the hanger-ons. I barely got my ass out of there intact. I -was- riding out of town, but something fucking stopped me in the middle of the road. I need a sorcerer to look at it and figure out just what the hell that is. Then I want to unwrap that fucking mummy! He killed some of my pack!"

Rusty, blowing town? It usually didn't work like that, Rusty was a lot of things, but he didn't generally run away from a fight. The man tended to go where he would and courted trouble.

"You got a phone?" He couldn't get out, but maybe he could bring the boys in. Some of the chapters were at Lake Talbot, in the Appalachians for the yearly club retreat. They sat around a lake, got high, fucked with bikes and sold drugs to hikers and college students. It wasn't as good as it was in the late 60's and early-to-mid 70's, but it was a club tradition. He only came down to New Camden because de Lacy called him in with a few guys, not wanting an entire club to come in and wreak havoc on his town. Rusty obliged, because he smelled a good deal and desperation.

Now he was the desperate one. Breathing heavily, holding himself in check, chest heaving.

"Well, it wasn't meant to be something that would kill a Peruvian Mummy anyway, just negate some bad-"

Nemsemet. Ancient Egypt. Powerful Sorcerer. Or Demigod. Or god. Depending on which hieroglyph you read at the time. Helped Mentuhotep II overthrow the First Dynasty of the Pharoahs and leave nothing but gloating statues all over the place for a good century. Egypt was nothing better than one giant squall of radioactive Magic for paranormals until his death and mummification. Parry was perfectly happy to wander up to Crete and ride out the storm. Came back for the funeral though. Not a lot of people were sad to see him bite it, and nobody could agree how it happened. Cause, you know, nobody wanted to accidentally incur the wrath of the dead all-powerful-could-be-magician-could-be-a-god thing.

"Ah. A, uh, Mummy. A true blue Egyptian mummy. Up and about." Parry blinked, mentally taking stock of how long it would take to load up his Persian silks and Japanese Yukata into his bag, then stuff the whole safe into the bag and hail a cab.

"Walking. How about that. And you... can't... leave... Phone's in the kitchen. Feel free to make a call, for, you know, as long as you want."

Parry froze, looking at the open door and the twilit sky framed by bright street lights on the street. That would need to be taken care of, STAT.

"If anyone in the kitchen is not, I repeat, NOT a drug induced hallucination, I would very much appreciate it if you did something about my front door! Locked and bolted please. And put the bookcase in front of it as well."

Parry left Rusty in the hallway, marching through the living room and pausing just long enough to unplug the stereo. The disco ball he left spinning. May the disco gods never die. Without skipping a beat, he headed straight into the kitchen, produced a key from beneath his silk blouse shirt, and unlocked the basement door.

"I'll be downstairs, need to, uh, grab a few things. You know. For necessity's sake. Also, do me a favor and call the number on page 243 of the cookbook by the fridge. If it connects to someone named Murael, say you're from a Chinese takeout place and say wrong number, then hang up and DO NOT answer it if the phone rings. If it doesn't go through... we're genuinely fucked."

This last was punctuated by the door creaking shut (though not with the tell-tale click of a lock), a brief quiet of feet descending stairs, and finally a shrieking "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

"--UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

Stella snorted heavily, jolted, then burst into a coughing fit. Squinting heavily, as her world was a bright and blurry mess, Stella slowly sat up, groping around at anything and everything she could.

Cold... cold cold... plastic.. beads? As things finally began to come into focus, two things were immediately obvious to Stella-- this was not her bathroom and that noise was not a bird. What was that anyway? As she scratched her head, foggy memories of the night before attempted to get in. Stella looked at the bathroom mats covering herself, wondered why they were there, then decided to begin the painful process of getting out of the tub. Had those mats been her blankets for the night? As the world swam slightly, Stealla figured she was still tipsy, and definitely concluded the bath mats had been her blankets. Ew? Who knew what sort of gross had been on them and-- good grief she had even managed to pry the fuzzy toilet lid cover off too.

As she stared down at the bathroom mats in the tub, Stella scratched her ass, and wondered what time it was. With a glance at the mirror, Stella spotted a small bump on her head, the fact her hair was a killer mess, and shrugged at it-- for now at least. She was in a state, after all, right? This was probably expected. While she normally didn't drink to blackout, there had likely been one last night, at least that's what the evidence pointed to and, oh shit, who's house was this, even? Shaking her head, Stella opened the bathroom door, then walked into the hallway-- ah. From here she could see a kitchen full of people and, yep, this looked to be Par-Para-Parea-- P's place.

As Stella walked down the hall toward the kitchen, she realized her pants were missing, then immediately did not care. In silence, without a single word of greeting, Stella pantslessly began scouring the kitchen for some sort of Vodka and a glass, not giving a single shit about who saw her pink lacy underwear or her non-glamorous state. They should be grateful she was still wearing a shirt-- or maybe ungrateful, depending on their state of perversion.

"Hair of the dog," Stella mumbled, opening cupboards, taking a box of frosted flakes, then promptly shoving her hand in them. No, this didn't stop the search for liquor but, the snack made the search a little more comfortable, so she kept the box with her.

Parael was talking so fast that Rusty could only track half of that, but he got the page number at the least as he made for the kitchen. Lots of people, varying stages of wastedness, and little bowls and bottles half full. For a daycare owner, he really did have a lot of shit going around, it really was a 'back to the 70's' party with all the trimmings, including a sugar jar, lift the top and sniff -- yep. Cocaine. The crazy thing was that it was all in kid-safe plastic, and bright colors.

Some stoned motherfucker had drunk like a milk crate's worth of juice boxes, whose crumpled remains were littered about the place. Someone had fingerpainted while stoned. Usually, he'd appreciate the ambience, particularly if he'd participated and went whatever direction the trip took him.

Usually, he'd be tempted by all the candy, but not today. Instead, he grabbed one, just one, of the yellows, pentobarbital, and dry-swallowed it. He needed calm, but he didn't need conked out. He waited for it, waited for it...then he stopped waiting and just went for the phone, trusting the capsule to melt in his acid-pit of a stomach quickly and bring him down to a mellower place.

Cookbook, page 240 something...one...two...three, phone number surrounded by inappropriate stick figure drawings done in some sort of mockery of the kama sutra.

He picked up the phone and got ready to stick his finger in the rotary dial and found that, as he tried to put his dirty, oily digit in that clean hole, he couldn't do it. He tried every finger he had. He tried the other hand, he got a pen and tried to stick that in, but he couldn't force himself to dial.

Then he tried the number to the place the guys were staying at on Lake Talbot. Same thing; big hairy-scary biker dude trying to make his finger go into the phone dial, while the dial tone went to the beeping that it gave when the phone was left off the hook too long without dialing. That went on for minutes, as the sweat beaded on his forehead and he stared at that thing like he was trying to will it to dial with his mind.

In a normal state, he would have yelled out "FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKERFUCKINGFUCK!" But he'd taken the Mexican yellow a few minutes ago. He would have slammed the phone down, but thanks to the wonders of modern (well, 1950's) chemistry, he replaced it in the cradle with a mellow sigh.

"...fuck..."

"FuckFuckFuck," Parry grumbled, rounding the wall at the bottom of the stairwell, tripping slightly on the body of something-someone? Something. Maybe. Didn't matter. The Celestial reached up one handed, snapped a finger to the beat of Lucy in the Sky, and took in the mess of his basement as the lights popped on.

He would gladly admit that he was a materialistic bastard. A lot of classic clothing, some banal weapons that he absolutely could not be parted with, but for all the fantastic, there was a lot more useless junk- records, magazines, VHS tapes of foreign films and all the Super Bowls, and then the engine to a 1971 Ford Mustang. Still had to find the body and tires that went with it.

Either way, he had to make sure that the place was locked up and get ready to go. Nemsemet kind of wiped whole dynasties off the historical and metaphysical map for a few centuries. So yeah, Camden was going to be a shitty place to be. Maybe Los Angeles would be better. Or Tokyo.

Silk shirt was traded for a wife-beater and jean jacket, the one with the lovely pink triangle Jason had left him a few months ago. The Gucci diaper bag was where he'd left it last night- on the hook by the Beatles collection. Grabbed that. He paused briefly and twitched his nose.

The daycare was his Sanctum, and by all the gods there was a measure of control he could exercise over it. The sugar, flour, and candy canisters would be swapped out into the party safe beneath the stairs for the more, er, proper contents.

Call me a fool, call me a slut, call me a hundred different things. But don't ever call me negligent around children.

It felt like he was down there plowing through piles of clothes and boxes of junk for years- probably ten minutes- before he realized something very, very important.

"Rusty," Parry said, "I don't hear you claiming to be a Chinese restaurant up there... You are dialing, right?" That number was not usually something he thought about, but the direct line to Murael's secretary in Verona was definitely a nuclear option. If it didn't work, they were well and truly isolated. There would only be two ways out of the city- one of which involved a bullet to the brain and answering to his superiors about all that unauthorized vacation time.

Option two was even less pleasant, and required he find some items he hadn't needed for a very very long time. But the vacation could continue.

So of course he toppled over an entire pallet of Pampers diapers in a search for his own holy grail, misplaced so many years and blunts ago. And when it wasn't under that one, he started throwing the Huggies onto the Mustang engine.

"So, uh, Rusty? Who's left alive out there? Has the mummy, like, put a Pharaoh hat on and everything? Also, if anyone needs to sober up- Stella, I'm looking at you- the green baby bottles in the fridge have my Saturday Morning Cure in them. And yeah, the nipples are clean.

"Feel free to raid my upstairs wardrobe for clothes. We burned your pants in the fire pit out back last night. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

“H-hey, wait for—”

Red tail lights zipped down the street like will-o’-wisps, leaving C.C. in a cloud of glittering exhaust from the motorcycle.

“—me...”

He dropped his outstretched hand and hung his head. Tonight was shaping up to be a pretty bad night. First of all, he had to bail on a party to go to work. Not that he didn’t enjoy going to work (he loved it, working was great, working meant he was useful, working meant he didn’t get sucked up into some magical trinket), but it was the first time he had been invited to one of Parry’s parties. Anybody’s party, actually, and C.C. wasn’t sure if Parry had actually meant to invite him or one of the other bogeymen, and it would’ve been way too awkward to ask. That aside, his boss had asked him, “What are you doing here?” when C.C. had shown up to the museum hours after delivering Parry’s purse and amulet earlier, and it hadn’t been in the high-pitched, hands-up-in-the-air-going-in-for-a-hug kind of way. It was more in the way the clients always said it when C.C. showed up on their doorstep. Or in their living room. Or in their cabinet. Clearly, he had made a mistake somewhere.

And then, and then, the cherry on top, just the ultimate night wrecker, an ultra scary mummy just shows up and, zap, there goes the boss. Dead! Like, dead dead, not vampire dead, or zombie dead, or ghost dead, or teenage “I wish I was” dead, but gone. Meanwhile, there wasn’t a damn thing C.C. could do but starting running. It wasn’t his proudest moment, zipping after Rusty like a bat out of hell and maybe, maybe not crying like a baby, but that murderous mummy was sucking in all of the shadows, and when you’re made of shadows that’s kind of a bad thing to be around. Well, he assumed that to be the case anyway; he had never seen anything quite like it.

The shadows stood on the end of C.C.’s neck as more crackling sounds of energy filled the air behind him. Okay, right, perhaps it was time to—more reality-tearing noises, okay, go, go, go, move, move, move. C.C. melted into the shadow of a nearby building and zipped across the street, moving as fast as he could go.

Of course, he couldn’t just run, could he? Well, he could, it seemed like a great idea and so far it was going well in regards to keeping him alive, but he couldn’t actually live with himself if he did. He had to warn the others, right? Call the office, spread the word, stir up a crowd, go back there with torches and pitchforks and kick that naughty mummy right in his papery tuchas. Call the office. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.

He jammed himself into a phonebooth. It was late enough and the lights on the street were low, so if any regular guy or gal just walked by he imagined he’d look like one of those dapper detectives from all those old films he used to watch instead of some weirdo shadow monster. Of course, given the decade, he would look like a weirdo anyway, but hey, he wouldn’t be breaking any of the rules or regulations. Also, tonight’s events certainly warranted an exception. He punched in the number for the office: nothing.

Oh, right, payphone. He reached into his pocket: once again, nothing. They said he didn’t really need money, because he didn’t really need to buy anything. He’d be sure to bring this night up during his next review. Call collect then. Surely they’d pick up if the operator told them it was Schwarzman. The ghouls who worked the office phones during the night shift would love to actually have someone to talk to. A gloved digit hit the zero as he shifted the receiver towards his noise hole. Nothing. He pushed it again. It didn’t even move. Okay. Weird. He must’ve been doing it wrong. He didn’t really use phones that often (he didn’t have anyone to call). Was there a lever or a switch or...he prodded at the machine, gave it a shake, blew into the receiver. No, nope, nada.

By the time he reached his tenth payphone, C.C. began to think that maybe something was up with the phones. Not a problem; he’d just do this the old fashion way and go door-to-door as if he was the ghost of Paul Revere. Just...it would take forever, and he was too soft-spoken to go shouting through the streets that the mummies were coming. He needed someone with connections who could spread the word fast; you know, a loudmouth. And who was the biggest loudmouth in New Camden? C.C. knew just the guy: Nemsemet had turned the Count into a puff of bloody confetti less than an hour ago.

Okay. The second biggest loudmouth, then. He started heading to Parry’s.

 
...Which is why Abigail sprinted in through the open doorway to Parael’s daycare, half-human, half-changeling, eyes jet black and claws already piercing the ends of her sneakers. She basically ignored Rusty and Stella in the kitchen and made a beeline towards a pair of dress shoes poking out of the ball pit in the corner of the playroom. Victor was sprawled out across the entirety of the pit, his torso submerged in brightly coloured plastic spheres. In his left hand an almost burnt-out cigarette smoldered lazily in the gloom; his right hand’s fingertips brushed the sippy cup of what appeared to be whiskey and his head was tilted back, mouth open, snoring lightly. Abigail shook his shoulder. Hard.
 
It took a solid few shakes for Victor to finally awaken from his stupor, absolutely oblivious to the yelling and banging caused by Rusty and co from before. Slowly fluttering his heavy eyelids open, Victor stared at Abigail with a stare of someone who has no idea what’s going on. Eyes barely open, waiting to hear Abigail speak before making his move, unsure if he’s in trouble or not.
 
“The museum just let loose a massive blast of dark energy. There’s lightning coming out the windows. Some hairy guy took off on a bike shortly afterwards and he’s in the fucking kitchen.” Abigail spoke quickly and urgently, with little to no traces of fear in her voice. It was slightly raspy as the panic sent her into full changeling form, absolutely ruining her sneakers with wide holes in the leather for those talons. She looked around quickly and went “I didn’t want to go home. Didn’t you feel it? It was still out there when I went in but I think the wards are blocking it.”

Victor continued to stare at her in his sleepy state. After what felt like a solid minute Victor moaned a “Mhm…” at her, nodding slowly trying to convey his understanding. “Five minutes.” was all he could muster before closing his eyes and leaning his head back onto the edge of the ball pit he had spent the last few hours in.
 
“We don’t HAVE five minutes,” snarled Abigail as she gripped his shoulder a little too tightly and shook even harder so his head banged off the edge of the ball pit a few times. “Everything’s gone from fine to fucked and I’m pretty sure that guy on the bike had something to do with it and instead of reacting you’re just lying there like a motherfucking potato because you’re too drunk to even process what I’m FUCKING saying to you.” She spat out every word in rapid succession and then grabbed the sippy cup and took a massive swig, glaring down at her carer.
 
Victor let out a groan before wafting a hand in the direction of Abigail. “Alright-.. Argh! Alright! Geez. Help me up.” he’d mutter, eyes still closed as he holds the same hand out for her to help him out of what now felt like a booby-trap. Abigail grumpily complied. Once up on his feet, Victor took his time, his surroundings slowly settling in as he arched and twisted his back awake. With a pat and scratch on Abigails head, he casually strutted towards the main hall “Go uh… go find Parry.” he’d nod her off before making his way to the kitchen to stare at Rusty attempt to use a rotary phone, “You uh… you need help there big guy?”
 
Abigail was somewhat placated by the head-scratches but muttered “You’re not taking this seriously” as Victor tottered past her towards the kitchen. She didn’t need to look for Parael. If he wasn’t there soaking up the party vibes, he was down in the basement with a needle in his forearm. She didn’t need to run anymore now Victor was (somewhat) dealing with It, whatever It happened to be.
 
Parael was flinging nappies onto an old car engine in his frantic bid to find...something. Mummy? What mummy? Was that what happened? “...Uncle Parry?” Abigail called out tentatively as she approached the celestial. No point changing back into a human, too much effort and probably not safe by now, so she stood over him as a pale monster-girl-hybrid with the expression of a scared child seeping onto her features now that the initial rage was subsiding. “What’s going on?”

He called down to Parael, who called up to him moments earlier, "I can't dial for some reason. I just tried your number and the Club! I've been staring at this thing for five minutes trying to make my finger go in." The barbiturate he'd taken mellowed him out so he was actually matter of fact while some girl blew in all out of sorts, which seemed to be the effect of the news getting around. Doing surprisingly agile calculations based on prior consumption history, Rusty reckoned that he had another forty five minutes of mellow before he'd need to a) take another Mexican Yellow or b) come down and cope.

He was a big dude wearing a vest that had the embroidered letters, "WILD HUNT MC" with "LA MESA" beneath it, but heavy lidded eyes, once the pills kicked in and he stopped freaking as much. There were some other patches on the vest: "1%" "PRESIDENT." Meanwhile, everyone seemed to be coming to from the party, possibly awoken by the way the door got kicked down and the way Parael screamed.

"What, you mean dialing the phone? Sure, here, take it if you need it. I was trying to dial out because some mummy just awoke from his slumber and offed most of the court without even even getting his bandages singed, but it just isn't letting me call." usually he would be growling, but the yellow had that calming effect of keeping what would be a snappish response down to a resigned sigh. There was a girl in her underwear and a t-shirt rooting around the cabinets, this guy and whoever else was around.

He just shuffled over to the sink with a sippy cup and drank some of that wholesome New Camden water and waited for Parael. Rusty wasn't a sorcerer; it was hard to say what that was and what was going on, but he sort of was hoping that Parael would have the answer. Of course, Parael just told him point blank that he gave the wrong charm to de Lacy and seemed to be taking this all very badly. And if he weren't buzzing off a potent anti-anxiety medication, he'd probably be worrying more about that, except he was in a state of 'fuckit' and that seemed like a good way to be for the moment.

"What's going on? What's going..." Parry had to freeze for a minute. Upending a plastic container didn't produce what he was looking for, just an old Prussian Pickelhaube. Pretty, but ultimately worthless. Like his panic. He was behaving like an animal trapped in a cage, not a proper Celestial. Then again, he hadn't behaved like a proper Celestial in thousands of years. So there was that to take into account too.

Finally, he had to collapse into the pallet of nappies, like King Lear facing his end in the third act (Or was that one the fifth act? He'd look it up in the Encyclopedia later) before the one person who trusted him implicitly. Parry would openly admit he never considered any child he watched over his own- they were his responsibility, sure. But not his own.

Abby came damn close to breaking that line.

Finally, he roused himself enough to say "Hey, Abby. Why don't you, uh, take a seat on the... throne of Pampers. I seem to have the Crown of Huggies on my head."

The Celestial had to pick his words carefully, but eventually, he had to say something too. Abby was scared. But Abby was also an adult now. Her bullshit detector was fully armed and operational, and she'd catch him on a lie without even trying. Hell, she was the only one who knew Parry was an honest-to-goddess Celestial (now that de Lacy was dead) because he couldn't keep that from her. The Fae blood and the adolescence helped with that one.

"Abby, remember when you were seven and I took you into Faerie? The Seelie took one of your friends off the playground and Victor and I didn't want to take you with us to get her back. You threw fits, you changed my shampoo with hair dye, and then you traded all of the balls in the ball pit with rocks. Never figured out how you managed the last one. But Victor said I wasn't supposed to take you to Faerie- and I finally told Victor to fuck off, we were going. I told you then- as I tell you now- that nothing in Faerie is set in stone. Your friend could've been perfectly fine, playing with Nixies and Pixies. Or we could've found her in the court's garbage, her bones picked clean of meat. I didn't know then what we'd find, but I was willing to take you, and tell you the rules of Faerie.

"Things went wrong, things went right, but we came back in one piece. So I'll tell you the rules for dealing with mummies and we will hope that we'll make it out the other side."

Parry leaned back into his pallet, drumming his fingers on a package of disposable infants' underwear like a king on his throne.

"Mummies... do not see themselves as undead. They wake up, and like a child after a short nap, are cranky as hell, and then they remember 'Oh yeah, I'm a god-king. These people should be glad I'm awake. Time to get the worshiping on!' And when a bigger fish shows up, a lot of the smaller fish swim around him to fawn and beg for favors.

"So we're probably going to get a phone call. Or a visit. But the mummy will ask for fealty. Normally that'd be enough, he'll run things for a little while, run out of juice in a year or two, and go back to sleep and we get on with our lives. Problem is, this is Nemsemet. I never met him. I stayed clear of him. Because he left Egypt a magically radioactive wasteland after running the show there for a century- and then went back to sleep. But we have a bit of time. He'll need to learn English, figure out where he is, unscramble his own brain.

"One thing I do know about him. He's flashy and self-centered. He's not gonna take it well when the first person stands up to him. He'll turn them to ash... and then he'll turn a city block to ash to show he can. Or he'll... or he'll lock us all in the city... with him..."

So that's what was up. Someone in the court had probably refused to pledge to the mummy when he started demanding people scrape and bow. So he'd locked the doors to let everyone know he was now the biggest, baddest rat in the cage. Rusty had wolf ears, so he'd undoubtedly heard everything Parry was saying. But they still had a Unicorn, a sorcerer and half a dozen others milling around in the kitchen.

"When they come for us... I want you to understand something, Abby. It will absolutely be the safest thing in the world for you to go and swear you'll be a good servant to Nemsemet. He'll nod, he'll wave, and it'll be like the courts. Just... he won't have any qualms about taking your life if you break his rules. I wouldn't judge you for going. Victor probably won't. And if anybody does, they'll have to plow through me first to get at you. If you stay... things will get bad. Very, very bad.

"But I will ask you one favor before you decide... did you ever hide a sword about yea long, made of black iron and sheathed, tended to turn into a fire inferno if you unsheathed it? Cause I can't find the damn thing and I have a feeling we may need it. Also, I do remember how you hid my copy of Batman Number One in Underhill even though I never gave the combination of my safe to anybody."

Though Stella heard P tell her to find the bottles in the fridge and sober up, she had mumbled a low, "I don't wanna," and continued her search for booze. Much to her disdain, she hadn't located a single bottle but, then again, this was a Day Care and P had probably relocated the liquor by now. What a shame, that. She knew very well that a good ol' hangover was headed her way. Finally she turned then set her gaze upon Rusty, who was drinking tap water out of a sippy cup-- gross. Wait, that was his name, right? Stella had been half-listening half-gorging upon the box of frosted flakes. There had been a lot of yelling and a lot of cursing, from what she could tell, and someone else had walked in as well. While she stared in Rusty in silence, Stella considered the fact that there was just a lot going on-- more than was usual perhaps-- so now seemed to be as good a time as any.

"Hi," Stella said to Rusty, through a mouthful of frosted flakes, "I'm Stella. I'm the last unicorn. I'm going to go find pants now." Without waiting for response or reply, because in her honest-unicorn-opinion, Rusty looked both high as a cloud and a pile of hairy shit all in one-- a septic tank explosion even-- and she didn't expect him to reply in a proper manner, Stella began walking toward P's room. She had to tell a lot of people that she was the last Unicorn because, as the "face" of World Region 45-6 on TUU's division scheme, Stella was the forerunner for the "last unicorn" myth while the others were hidden in the background, blending in, and generally having a good low-key time. Stella hated having been chosen this time around but, it only seemed to happen every couple hundred years for her. Eventually she would shift her appearance, disappear, move to another region, and a new "last unicorn" would be selected for their area. As it stood, she was currently one of a "few" on the North American continent and no-- she didn't exactly know how many "lasts" there were at the moment. No one knew. Not because of "security" purposes but, because it was raffled out precisely like bingo, chosen over a game of blind darts, or selected via TUU "recreational" events-- her own culture was both so complex and silly that it made her head hurt sometimes.

But anyway.

Now that her mind was unfuzzing from the apparently pants-torchingly amazing night, Stella recalled how much fun the others had doing their drugs and whatnot-- trippin' and such. Part of her was tempted to try one of the pills herself, but Stella knew damn well better than that. Unicorn physiology processed things differently than most of the other strangelings-- "That's not a word..." she whispered to herself, finally reaching P's room. Right-- anyway, the point of that train of thought was that a Unicorn on drugs was Not A Good Thing™ and Stella had done that once. Opium was once a big damn deal in China, around the time she was a Shenjiying, after all, and it was solely responsible for the dreaded Rainbow Rifle incident-- a tale told at TUU meetings for a good laugh. How else would that gunpowder have gotten mixed in with the ground pepper? It made cooking... a bang.

And also resulted in a minor extremely damaging avalanche.
And slight cannibalism.

But to be fair, Wanda and Bruno already hated each other anyway, so it was only natural they'd end up biting out eachother's throats in a drug induced fury, right? Too bad they both survived because it made every TUU dinner with them two present into one long stand up comedy session-- they would never live that down. Snickering stupidly to herself, as she completely demolished P's wardrobe, Stella was so off into her own little world that she didn't hear anything else for a while. Well. That was until she found the sequin one piece pants suit. Stella's box of frosted flakes fell to the floor and she gasped upon seeing it. Bright red, with a gradient to gold at the bottom of the legs, and sparkling? Clearly this was meant for her. Stella held it up to herself and began mentally calculating the size... She would cast a spell to make herself fit if she had to. This piece of clothing? Her's now.

Celest let out a groan as she opened her eyes and slowly began to take in her surroundings. She was in an unfamiliar room. Had she fallen asleep there? Celest couldn't think straight: Her head was pounding and there was this insane nausea that was steadily getting worse. Her head was pounding, as though something had hit her really hard on her head. She put her hand on the spot that was pounding and felt a small lump which ascertained her suspicions.

What just happened?

Celest slowly got up only to realise that she had been lying on some sort of makeshift stage, with the remains of a wild party gone horribly wrong around her. There were people slumped about, probably drunk, drugged, or both. A quick glance into the next room showed a woman, who Celest vaguely remembered as Stella, in her underwear, and a largely rough and hairy man trying to make a phone call. Celest was still slightly dazed as a teenage girl ran into the house, towards a corner of the room. The teenage girl jumped into a frantic conversation with a man who had been lying in the corner.

Celest took a step towards the kitchen, and then felt a huge wave of energy surge through her body. Her mind suddenly cleared up and she remembered the events of tonight: She was here as a guest singer for Parael's party, full of people of so many personalities and energies. She was singing, everyone was enjoying and into the party. Why and how did she fall unconscious? Celest remembered feeling a sudden tide of nausea and sickness spread throughout her body. She felt the energies of everyone and everything in the town darken as a wave of evil energy swept throughout the town. Even the energies present in the room now were considerably changed and darkened. Celest could feel a sludgy dirtiness permeating throughout every part of the room and town. Celest felt the nausea rise again and she had to take several deep breaths in order to clear her mind.

Parael came into the room and began a whole stream of sentences of which was mostly gibberish to Celest. Celest only managed to catch phrases of what Parael was saying: "Mummy... Nemsemet..." Something about a radioactive wasteland being left in Egypt. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her amidst the chaos. It seemed this Nemsemet was the source of the evil energy that had affected the entirety of New Camden.

Celest took a step, then two. Her mind had cleared up significantly. The sickness was still there, but was manageable, a side-effect of Celest's ability to feel the energies in the world around her. This evil energy was clearly something that had to be stopped, something to be dealt with. From the sickness that Celest felt, it was apparent that this Nemsemet mummy creature was corrupting the place. Celest wondered if everyone's energy had been disturbed and distorted by his appearance, causing everyone to behave so erratically and frantically.

Celest gathered her energy in her mouth like she had learned to and focused it all on the words she was about to say: "Everyone, please calm down!"

Abigail would never overtly admit it, but she was shit scared. She’d grown up giving this Celestial hell, throwing everything she can at him, and he was able to brush it off so easy. He ran a daycare of unruly and volatile supernatural children without even breaking a sweat. He has snorted, swallowed and injected more narcotics than Abigail thought was physically possible and always managed to sleep it off. In her mind, Parael was as close to invincible as Abigail was ever going to witness - and for the first time in her life her weird foster uncle was looking frightened. Defeated.
 
Naturally, it didn’t help with that horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. Upon Parael’s request, Abigail sat down gingerly on the pile of nappies next to him, nervously cupping her hands together on her lap in such a way that the long, jet-black claws would not stab into her palms. It was quite a jarring sight to see something so unnatural and monstrous seem so worried, but in New Camden it was more common than you’d think. Abigail took a seat and she did what she was known to do, what she had always done and perhaps forever will do - she stared. She kept quiet and observed and listened to every single word.
 
To be perfectly honest, Abigail’s little trip ‘back home’ was a confusing time to remember, because Faerie was a confusing place and there were so many layers of magic in play that it made her head hurt just recalling the memories. But Faerie held a special place in her heart that was an odd mixture of the most magnificent and dangerous thing she had ever accomplished, and she cracked a familiar sharp-toothed grin at Parael’s little anecdote. It had the desired effect. For a brief moment the mummy and the museum lightning storm didn’t exist. She was safe in this basement. And then, slowly, Parael brought her back to the present and made her come to terms with what was really going on.
 
He told her that the safest option would be to submit to this Nemsemet mummy. Abigail stared at him.

Then Parael asked a much simpler request - one that Abigail could easily answer as her face split into that shit-eating grin again. “You mean arguably THE most valuable item you own, second only to Batman Number One?” asked Abigail and, god, she had that little smug lilt in her voice even through the raspiness of her changeling vocal chords that only Victor and Parael would’ve been able to hear. The smile faultered. “To be honest if it were any other day I’d have you looking for weeks, but uh…” she looked around and sighed. With a spritely hop, Abigail was up on her feet and wandering off to one of the more nondescript corners of Parael’s expansive basement. She went over to a filing cabinet full of old paperwork and grunted as she pushed it aside a little with her shoulder; there was something wedged in between the cabinet and a large metal flat-pack shelf stacked high with questionable magazines displaying scantily clad people on the front covers. Abigail made little grunts of effort as she tried to dislodge this thing, which was well and truly jammed into the gap. There was a soft ‘woosh’ of metal on leather which was promptly followed by a gout of flame and Abigail immediately dropped the Flaming Sword onto the ground and looked up at Parael with the cheeriest, most wholesome look of pride on her face. “You might’ve gone for the porno magazines, but you’d never touch paperwork if you could help it. It was the perfect hiding spot.”

"You... you cheeky cun-niving child!"

Disregarding the facts that, A.) This sword had been hidden among his tax documents, B.) it could probably cut through most substances known to man- and some yet to be invented by him, and C.) it could make Smokey the Bear shit bricks, Parry had to admit that Abby had outdone him. He gingerly stepped across the basement, avoiding an overturned collection of vintage marbles along the way, and took the blade by the scabbard from her.

"Abby, I want you to know that I appreciate you being forthright about this." He couldn't help himself from giving the Change-child one quick little bear-hug, leaning close to her ear, and whispering, "The set of dolls you lost when you were 9? After you burned down the Ice Cream Parlor because I wouldn't buy you a two-scoop cone? I did in fact take them. They're in the Miami Greyhound Bus Station, locker 42. Combination 12-19-22."

Course, Parry didn't intend to stick around for the outburst that came next. After the dolls had gone missing, he owed Victor a new trailer. Their insurance didn't cover changeling tantrums, but hey- you gotta discipline children somehow! He disentangled himself from Abby and trotted (ran) up the stairs from the basement, sword in one hand and diaper bag over his shoulder, coming face to face with a lovely Celest @MancerNecro in his kitchen, trying to corral everyone into one place. Rusty was vegging out on one of Parry's mood stabilizers (hopefully not the horse tranquilizer, but with werewolf metabolism he was likely to burn off his buzz in no time at all). But Celest! Just the person he needed!

"Darling! You're awake!" Parry said, crossing the kitchen floor to give her a wake-up-hug. "And let me just congratulate you- you might not remember the rendition of Stairway to Heaven you did last night, but I most certainly will! I can't quite remember who played the guitar, but they did a passing job. What with being three bottles deep into Vodka.

"Now Celest, dearest, my most favorite sorceress that ever sorceressed, I need a small favor from you. I know you're pretty good at tracking energy movements and you've probably felt the... disturbance in the Force. I bought this building because it was built over a ley line. Do me a solid and ride the line as far as your consciousness will go. The Mummy threw a cage over the city but we need to know if we're just locked in downtown or the metro ares, or even out to the wildlife reserves. Also, I need... my clothes!"

Of course Stella @Utrax would go into his wardrobe to get her groove back. Of course she would enchant the thing to make it a form-fitting glitter bomb of gorgeous. And of course she would use his favorite suit, waltz down into the kitchen munching on frosted flakes, and strut her stuff like a rich busybody showing off her favorite new toy.

He had one true philosophy in life. One.

A Celestial's clothes were sacred. They were the Celestial's own. And no one- but no one, should touch Parry's clothes but Parry himself.

Especially not the frilly items in his underwear drawer. Victoria's Secret was damn expensive to have shipped from San Fran.

"I want you to know, Stella, that if anything happens to that suit, you won't have to worry about the mummy because I will bury you. I bought that from a Bee Gees concert back in the day. And if you raided my underwear drawer too, we're gonna need to take this out back."

C.C. was worried. No, worried was what C.C. was when he was running late when trying to deliver a cup of coffee or whenever he engaged in a conversation with another intelligent creature. Worried was his balanced mood, his normal; if he was worried, then he was okay. Tonight he was beyond worried. He was wrecked. Shredded. Literally coming undone. He shifted in and out of shadows without even thinking, his form flipping and folding like the goo inside of a lava lamp. What if the mummy sent goons after him? Or scarabs? Or (shudder) cats, with their hissing and their razor-sharp claws and their refusal to let him pet them? What if he lead the bad guys straight towards Parry’s.

What if Parry was with the bad guys? He did drugs, after all, and C.C. had once been a fly on the wall during a laserdisc showing of the harmful effects of drugs in a middle school class when he was supposed to be observing one of the kids who was suspected of being an unregistered changeling. Regardless, after watching that film C.C. considered himself to be an expert on the effects of grass, and how it could lead one to descend into madness and become a heartless, soulless killing machine. Maybe the mummy had been on drugs, too. Why else would he want to harm the Count?

C.C. shook his head; no, no, no, that was impossible. Parry couldn’t have been a bad guy, because like C.C. he also helped to take care of children. Parry looked after them during the day, and C.C. made sure that they kept their noses clean during the night. Well, before the Count had told him to stop sneaking into the rooms of children, on account that he would be violating the edict if he did so. When C.C. had suggested that perhaps he just snuck into the rooms of supernatural children the idea was also poo-pooed, on account of it quote, just being creepy, end quote. Regardless, the point remained the same: Parry was a good guy, reefer madness aside.

Yet, the bogeyman still paused as if he was a vampire waiting to be invited in when he came to Parry’s slightly ajar, somewhat destroyed, definitely ominous door. For a solid minute he stood next to the entranceway, listening in and uncertain of how to take the next step. He heard voices, way too many voices for the late hour of the night. Or would it be the early hour of the day? Whatever. From what he could tell the voices weren’t chanting any ancient mumbo jumbo, and there was no red cloud of doom circling the daycare. Plus, Rusty’s bike was there, and if C.C. knew anything, he knew that Rusty was good at running from trouble whenever it arose. Case and point, earlier that night.

“Um, I’ll just show myself in. Please excuse me,” he said softly, pushing open the front door. A hinge creaked and then snapped, and C.C. shifted into the shadows on the wall as the top hinge came undone and the door leaned forward, the bottom two hinges keeping it from clattering to the ground. He decided that perhaps it would be for the best to pretend that the door had been that way when he found it and slipped further into Parry’s abode, following the sounds of voices as he stuck to the shadows.

He didn’t know why he kept himself hidden, Parry had invited him over earlier. Nerves, probably. Still, he had to make his presence known so he could find Parry and spread the word. Somebody was walking from the playroom towards the basement. This was his shot. After she passed he stuck his head out of the shadows and, quieter than a mouse, stammered out:

“H-h-h-hel—” And they were gone. “—lo.”

No worries. A pantless person had just come out of the kitchen. Time for round two.

“Ex-ex-excuse me,” he managed to stutter out before she had disappeared up the stairs. “No, it’s okay, you’re busy. Good talk.”

Okay, C.C., here came another one heading towards the kitchen. Time to get hyped. Let’s do this!

_{“...ah...um…”}

And not even the slightest turn of the head. Nailed it.

C.C. sunk deeper into the shadows until he was indistinguishable from the shag carpet. Parties were exhausting. But, he knew he couldn’t give up. These people needed to be warned. It was his duty. He had to be brave. Strong. He had to do this for the Count. Set things right. Get everybody worked up to go against Nemsemet. Only he could do it. Popping up out of the shadows, C.C. swelled up his chest and marched right into the kitchen and—oh goodness it was crowded in there. No sweat. He could do this. One. Two. Three—

“There’s a crazy mummy trying to kill everybody!”

Okay, job’s done. C.C. melted into shadows and zipped away.

“Tell them, Rusty,” came a nervous voice from behind the fridge. “Tell them that we gotta avenge the Count.”

Stella's eyes glazed over as Parry spoke to her. No, this wasn't because she was still a little tipsy, this was because she was thoroughly uninterested in what he had to say. So. What she heard went something like this-- "I-- blah blah blah-- bury you-- blah blah-- underwear-- bla..."

Was he threatening her? Stella blinked slowly at Parry in a profound couple of beats of awkward silence. Truth was, she expected a longer lecture than that but, Parry seemed kind of done talking. She rubbed her sequined chest and made a kissy face at Parry before telling him, "Be cool, man." Her tone implied there were more words coming after that phrase but, the shoving of a handful of frosted flakes into her mouth implied "nah". And then...

“There’s a crazy mummy trying to kill everybody!”

Stella shrugged at that and, without even giving that sentence time to settle in, she asked Parry, "Got milk? These flakes are kinda dry." Of course, she didn't wait for Parry to respond and definitely tuned out whoever's urging of Rusty to tell people about something-something-counting. The frosted flakes were drying her mouth out and she really needed her mouth more moist. For whatever reason, as she went to open the refrigerator, a shudder passed through Stella-- maybe it was the fact that one pale girl, what was her name? The one with the face and the eyes-- yeah, her. She was standing nearby, looking kind of junky, and kind of looked as if she were on the verge of either puking on everyone in the room or having an anxiety attack which, really, Stella couldn't tell the difference. Stella stared toward-- Cels-- Kahless? Sales! That was her name, sure, right. Whatever. Well Stella was now staring at her, part waiting-to-see-her-puke and part vaguely-concerned, but also sure that Sales wasn't the source of her sudden discomfort. No... someone else was here.

Stella's brows pinched together as she continued staring at Sales, completely not focused on her, but on who or what else could be in the house that was making Stella feel, well, a little itchy. The stare was unblinking, the stare was unwavering, and Stella did not stop staring.

^{@MancerNecro -- Celest = Sales}

Victor remained stood in the corner of the kitchen, sipping a cool glass of water as he slowly sobered himself up. There were people who seemed relatively calm present, people who were yelling at everyone to stay calm, and a rather timid fellow briefly recapping the events of the night before he’d already heard from Rusty and Abigail. Victor remained quiet and contemplative as everyone hurried their way, seemingly not having anything to add to their distorted, barely viable, conversations.
 
As Parael arrived into the kitchen, Victor decided it was time to put a move on as the situation seemed to become more and more real. He made his way past everyone without much word and went straight for the basement, voicing down to see if Abigail was still present.
 
Abigail came wandering out of the gloom. She was no longer a changeling, but her clothes were a bit stretched and her sneakers were royally fucked. She kept her voice low “Hey uh...we should probably get the fuck out of here. Parry gave me a bit of a background check on the mummy and I don’t think we want to be in town when he gets his bearings.”
 
“Yeah, it’s not better upstairs I feel like i’m in a badly written sitcom. Something's wrong with the phone though, I don’t know what.” Victor raised his brows, raising his chin towards the busted house door, indicating for Abigail to follow. Abigail was more than happy to, and whilst everyone congregated in the kitchen the pair of them slipped quietly out of the busted front door without so much as a goodbye.
 
They crossed the front garden into the driveway where Victor’s precious 1969 mk1 mustang sat, parked there from the night before. “Victor gimme the keys, I’m driving,” called Abigail over her shoulder, barely missing a beat.
 
“You sure as shit are -not-.” Victor scowled at her, unsure if her statement was even serious for a moment.
 
“What the fuck.” Abigail was at the driver’s door already with her hand on the handle. “You’re way too drunk to drive! And even if you could make it down the street, I’m not dodging an ancient egyptian overlord only to get stopped by a cunt cop for a DUI.”
 
“Now you listen here, Abigail. This damn car is practically your entire college fund, I would -literally- rather die in a car crash then have you lay a finger on the steering wheel. Now get in, we’ve already dicked about too much.” Victor shot her glare as he remained with the car-keys in his hand, glowering down at her.
 
Abigail leant against the car door to physically block the handle with her body and gave Victor the well-known, well-practiced stubborn bitch stare. She folded her arms like a petulant child and waited for around half a minute, then spoke quietly. “This is our getaway car Victor. At least I’m capable of driving slowly AND in a straight line. Let me drive till, what, lunchtime when we stop at a gas station then you can take the wheel and I’ll never touch it again, but DON’T fuck up the car we’re using to escape by doing something as stupid as this.”
 
Victor closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath as the realisation of wasted time dawned upon him. Opening his eyes, and a pursed lip glare on Abigail, he reluctantly handed her over the keys before moving to the other side in silence. He opened the shotgun seat car door and paused, looking at Abigail as he tilted his head sideways with a clenched jaw, and raised a stiff finger to shakily waggle at her. “One scratch” he warned before swinging his feet and body into the shotgun seat.
 
“Thank you daddy~” retorted Abigail in the sickliest, sweetest and most childish voice she could ever muster as she eagerly launched herself into the driver’s seat. As she started up the engine and reversed out, she couldn’t help but add “‘One scratch’ my ass - we’re literally trying to escape a powerful dark magician and you’re shitting yourself over a damn car.” Knowing not to push her luck, Abigail suddenly accelerated and started making her way through the streets of New Camden.
 
Victor muttered a lowly “Jesus” every thirty seconds and “Christ” at every turn. Abigail wasn’t known for her safe and secure driving abilities and she was certainly in a hurry. A smear of orange light peeked over the horizon and illuminated the empty roads, accompanied by the screech of tyres and the roar of a 1969 mk1 mustang engine tearing ass through New Camden like there was no tomorrow.
 
Abigail slammed on the brakes just outside their house. She made a point of turning off the engine then stuffing the keys into her pocket before getting out of the car, unlocking the front door and disappearing inside. Then she popped her head out of the front door and stared at Victor, arching a brow. “Come in?”
 
Victor remained planted firmly in his seat, hand clutching onto the handle above the car window. After taking in a deep breath he finally stepped out, and shot Abigail another unimpressed scowl as he approached their front door. “Never again.”
 
“We still have to make it out onto the motorway though,” responded Abigail as she shot down the corridor and into her room. “There’s no way you’d be sober enough to drive until at least noon!” she hollered whilst she indiscriminately flung clothes into a large duffle bag.
 
“Just pack your crap, pack the stuff in the bathroom too, sit your ass in the passenger seat, and stop bein’ a brat for a damn second!” Victor voiced out at her, in an equal amount of hurry to stuff his belongings in a medium sized brown leather-suitcase. He was finished before Abigail, waiting impatiently by the door to their house: “Hurry!” he voiced out in the direction of her room.
 
Abigail came out with her duffle bag and a carrier bag full of bottles and tubes from the bathroom. Her lips were pressed into a thin grimace of fear and Victor’s restlessness had worked her up again. She handed Victor the keys without question and threw her bags into the back before getting into the passenger seat and swearing as the seatbelt continually jammed from her tugging at it too hard.
 
Victor seated himself before the driving wheel, taking in a deep breath and shooting Abigail a look, “It’s ok. We’re fine.” he’d speak, adding in a reassuring nod before starting up the engine and pulling out of their driveway, directed towards the town exit. They approached the main road and the car began to slow down gradually and then stop in the middle of the road. Victor narrowed his eyes and pressed down on the accelerator as hard as he could, but the car seemed to be stuck.
 
“What the fuck.” Abigail rolled down the window and coughed as the friction on the tyres made a plume of smoke. “Victor why aren’t we fucking moving?”
 
Victor immediately stopped the car, hands clutched onto the steering wheel as a desperate sigh escaped his lips. “I don’t know. But something tells me my guess wouldn’t be too far off.” he spoke as he began setting the Mustang in reverse, trotting back towards New Camden.
 
Abigail drew her knees to her chest and rolled up the window again.
 
Victor and Abigail didn’t say a word as they returned to their house and slowly began to unpack their things. The grey light of dawn filtered quietly through the windows and onto the striped loveseat in the living room, which Abigail collapsed into belly-first, her face pressed into the corner between the seat cushion and the arm rest.
 
Victor remained stood up, pacing thoughtfully around the living room before Abigail. One hand pinching and scratching his chin, and the other wrapped around his chest, Victor stared intently at the floor as he walked back and forth in the living room. “What did Parry tell you?” he eventually spoke out, looking down at Abigail as he paused his pacing.
 
Abigail turned her head a little so she could speak. “He explained that mummies don’t think they’re dead and believe they’re god-kings, but eventually run out of power over a couple of years. Nemsemet is the mummy that presumably woke up in the museum. He magically fucked over Egypt for a century then went back into dormancy. We’ve apparently got some time because mummies need to get their bearings first. Nemsemet likes to show off and thinks he’s the shit. He doesn’t care about people’s lives or collateral damage. He’ll kill hundreds of people just to show that he’s capable of it.” She rattled off the facts, almost verbatim, in a monotonous voice. Then she paused. “...He said that Nemsemet will ask everyone for loyalty, and the safest option would be to just do what he says, but…” Abigail pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked at Victor, her face creased with worry. “I dunno what to do Victor. What are we going to do?”
 
“Ugh jeeez. The fact that we’re stuck here is for sure. So why don’t we just… take five, grab something to eat, and mull it over on the road?” Victor let out an exasperated sigh, nodding to himself.
 
Abigail gigglesnorted. “Y-you...We’re trapped here with some big fuckoff monster and you want breakfast.” She sighed. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, grinning. “Yeah alright then, let’s go get breakfast. Can we avoid the diner though? I’m not up for anything greasy…”
 
“I’m with you there. Let’s.” With the initial panic out of the way, they both got into the car (with little to no argument this time - the look of Victor’s face was enough to make Abigail sulkily get into the passenger seat) and went back through the streets of New Camden at a much safer, more legal speed. Once they parked outside of Corvid Cronuts Abigail tentatively pushed on the door and was surprised to see that the shop was open at this time in the morning. Wordlessly, the two of them sat down at one of the little tables and started browsing the menu.