![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hesitate, it's normal
You know what I hate worst in the mornings, when it's shower time? How it's shower time for everyone in the building, and the shower temp goes from: perfect to ICE COLD to BOILING HOT to ICE COLD, and you eventually have to settle on BOILING HOT or freeze.
So, really, I hate everyone else in the building for being assholes and not knowing that it's MY TURN to shower.
Who invented this eight-five crap, anyway? I'd like to meet them and slap them. Eight is too damned early to be awake enough to work.
I have no more to rant about, so I shall dump silly, post-apocalyptic fic, instead.
Grant was their escapologist. To put it simply: she'd never met a lock she couldn't open.
It wasn't a skill they needed often, but there were crypts, museums, private collections of supernatural artifacts: all of which amounted to a need for finesse that wasn't Harvelle's patented 'smash it with the butt of a shotgun until it opened'.
McDonagh was the odd one out. She frequently said, "The supernatural doesn't exist." Usually right before they made a raid, or she shot a demon in the head. Sometimes, she seemed to just say it for the form of things. She'd gotten her start as a military cop before the world ended. That dogged determination to uncover the truth was actually useful when researching half-understood bits of old spells.
Lupo was the weapons expert, and sometimes joked about dyeing her hair just to fit in. None of the others took her seriously on the latter, though the former? They trusted her judgment. If she said a rifle was crap, they used it as scrap. Or a club.
Harvelle was the one who'd found herself as the glue that held them together. Sarcastic and frequently annoyed when Grant would get them in trouble, she was nevertheless a dab hand with a shotgun and their best source of knowledge for all things supernatural.
Together, they made a nigh unbeatable team that was keeping back the tide of the storm. Sooner or later, one of them was going to fall. Sooner or later, the world would end in darkness.
But since it seemed to be taking its time...
So, really, I hate everyone else in the building for being assholes and not knowing that it's MY TURN to shower.
Who invented this eight-five crap, anyway? I'd like to meet them and slap them. Eight is too damned early to be awake enough to work.
I have no more to rant about, so I shall dump silly, post-apocalyptic fic, instead.
Grant was their escapologist. To put it simply: she'd never met a lock she couldn't open.
It wasn't a skill they needed often, but there were crypts, museums, private collections of supernatural artifacts: all of which amounted to a need for finesse that wasn't Harvelle's patented 'smash it with the butt of a shotgun until it opened'.
McDonagh was the odd one out. She frequently said, "The supernatural doesn't exist." Usually right before they made a raid, or she shot a demon in the head. Sometimes, she seemed to just say it for the form of things. She'd gotten her start as a military cop before the world ended. That dogged determination to uncover the truth was actually useful when researching half-understood bits of old spells.
Lupo was the weapons expert, and sometimes joked about dyeing her hair just to fit in. None of the others took her seriously on the latter, though the former? They trusted her judgment. If she said a rifle was crap, they used it as scrap. Or a club.
Harvelle was the one who'd found herself as the glue that held them together. Sarcastic and frequently annoyed when Grant would get them in trouble, she was nevertheless a dab hand with a shotgun and their best source of knowledge for all things supernatural.
Together, they made a nigh unbeatable team that was keeping back the tide of the storm. Sooner or later, one of them was going to fall. Sooner or later, the world would end in darkness.
But since it seemed to be taking its time...