[Location: Speares; Westen House] (locked to Michael)

[just-axe-me.livejournal.com]

To tell the truth, it was him who started doing all of the preparations for walking into a trap. Not going into this unarmed, Mike, he'd said, and Michael had agreed: they'd passed a petrol station two blocks down that had an open shed. If both of them were right they could've just ambled in and nobody would've cared what they'd taken out, but they fell to form and Mike distracted the petrol attendant while Sam scrounged for weapons. No guns on hand, but you could do a hell of a lot with boxcutters and some wrenches. You just couldn't do what you might do with a Beretta, was all.

So it was wrenches with the tips stuck up into their belts, unseen but uncomfortable, and with a big bucket of trepidation they also boarded what looked to be a tram -- a big shiny gliding thing, not a clattery downtown pile of bolts on a sparking wire, and were asked by a smiling conductor for their destination. They'd puzzled over the line map: the one closest to their dot was marked Metior. "Speares district," he'd said, and stood with Mike amongst a crowd of people in beat-up jackets and plastic purses and scuffed shoes like you'd get on any tram in the history of ever. For some reason, that was the creepy part.

They didn't talk much, didn't feel like talking. The smiling conductor let them off at the stop two streets away from their coordinates, and they walked together underneath the warmth of a thin late-season sun that you'd swear to God was real.

The architecture was messed-up -- you'd get a couple of the old-tile 1914 ticky-tacky houses like you'd found in small-town Pennsylvania, then a flat 1970s rose-coloured adobe place. Then a condo. Then a London brownstone complete with ancient chimney. It was all counterintuitive as hell, disorienting as a police riot dazzler. When they got closer to their flashing dot they started looking around intuitively -- getting off the street as much as they could, checking for surveillance, wound-up toy tense.

And it was Mike who saw it first, but he saw it second. A Miami two-storey with broad doorstep stairs, cream-coloured stucco, big windows, red terracotta tiles. There were leggy ferns planted out front, side-by-side with lilac bushes. He'd helped the lady of the house plant the things himself back when he'd been in the doghouse for blowing up the sunroom -- the sunroom out front that he'd helped build, in the windows the curtains Strickler had sent that were gaudy as gaudy got, the chocolate-coloured front door --

"Jesus, it's your mom's," said Sam. It was a stupid thing to say, but it was the only thing that was coming out his mouth. Then he looked at Mike and Mike's thousand-yard-stare, and said, "Maddie -- "

It was a sprint after that.

[ooc: currently locked to michael westen, but this could be subject to change!]

006 ━ [ location: castle summers ] / [ visual ].

[virtued.livejournal.com]

"...a little excessive."

Stefan stood in a room of the Summers Sisters' castle, surrounded by weapons; from swords to daggers, crossbows to axes, and a variety of other things he'd only ever seen in movies. And surprisingly, nothing he recognized from Alaric's arsenal. Which was odd, considering these 'Slayers' sounded like female versions of Alaric. (Though, 'Alaric the Vampire Slayer' sounded far too campy to take seriously.)

There was a pile of wooden crosses in one corner, stakes in another. Only one of those two presented any sort of threat to the secret vampire, and judging from the way he picked up the crucifix without hassle, the crosses weren't it.

With a snicker of laughter and shake of his head, Stefan tossed it back on the pile. "This is ridiculous. Really? Even Laurell K. Hamilton had the sense to tone it down some."

[2] location: castle summers; visual

[wildflowerstill.livejournal.com]

Who knows how long Lexi's been camped out on the porch of Casa de Summers? For those who care, it's been a while, a couple hours at least. To a mere passerby, she looks like a normal resident of the castle coming out for some fresh air. In truth, Lexi's playing security guard. With Katherine in Taxon and on the loose, Elena isn't safe. She's still a baby vampire, no different than her friend Caroline at home. Whoever--or whatever--that's the cause for turning Elena is still out there too. Stefan isn't strong enough to protect Elena by himself, not against Katherine who still seems to have a goddamn hold on him after all these years. Damon is Damon and Lexi wouldn't trust him to piss on somebody that was on fire if it didn't have anything in it for him.

Scratch that. Nobody is safe.

Lexi scrunches her nose as a stiff wind blows by, carrying a few stray snowflakes across her face. The coat, in all honesty, is just for decoration. That much is obvious by the fact Lexi isn't wearing much more than that in the way of winter gear. So are the smoke rings or maybe it's just boredom from having to stay in one place longer than five minutes.

The cigarette's sucked down until the filter and then tossed into the growing pile of butts around her feet. There are remnants of at least two packs down there and another pack of cigarettes is produced from her coat pocket and tapped until a stick slips halfway out only to be picked out with her teeth and lit with practiced smoothness that comes from years of formerly dropped bad habits being revived.

If she was alive, really really alive, her lungs would be screaming for mercy. Right now, only her belly is screaming for a meal in a bottle while her baser instinct is screaming for one particular neck to be snapped. Oh, and some entertainment too.

[ visual | location: central ] they called up interpol the finnish police to facilitate

[allthefunever.livejournal.com]

Damon Salvatore doesn't go on walks. Useless hippies go on walks. Stefan goes on walks. In nature, where he admires all the goodness of this green earth then rips something fluffy into a bloody mess and then cries a single, perfect tear over the waste while MCR whines about something atonally in the background. Maybe that stupid Sarah McLachlan song plays instead, Damon doesn't pretend to understand his brother's life choices.

No, Damon-- when he's not lounging-- drives. In his Camaro. Which is now resting comfortably in his garage, while his keys are with Lexi.

Bitch.

So, for the moment, Damon Salvatore does walk. Into the edge of the woods around Old Fell's Church before he hesitates, footsteps slowing to a halt; Katherine's here, lurking somewhere at the edges of everyone's vision like the supernatural stalker she is. No point in torturing himself with memories and ghosts when he'll get the real thing, sooner or later.

Heading back into Taxon proper is like heading into some Hollywood ideal of Christmas on crack, and the Blanks are apparently moving on from simply walking with purpose to disgustingly effusive holiday cheer. "If you didn't taste like cardboard soaked in sour milk, I would eat you," he informs one, and her smile stays wide and plastic as she wishes him Seasons Greetings yet again.

He kicks over an empty donation barrel and then knocks over the Santa sitting behind it for good measure, the childish glee he feels at the destruction curdling when the Santa simply picks himself up with a jolly 'ho ho ho' and immediately sits on his festive decorated stool again, ringing a bell over and over. Damon kicks the barrel further away, his tablet falling out of his pocket with a loud crack and turning on. He picks it up, hoping-- but no. The goddamn thing turns on, but doesn't have the decency to break.

"I hate this fucking place." That-- and the thunderous expression on Damon's face-- is all the tablet catches before he slams his hand down on the effective 'end call' button with more force than strictly necessary.

[ ooc | SO OKAY this is. largely for mistletoe shenanigans if anyone wants them-- come one, come all, idc i love horrors-- but also for tablet, or non-mistletoey location shenanigans. post-santa abuse, please! ]