[ When the Countess rolled into Vegas, it was in a Rolls Royce, packed with a stack of luggage bags and trunks. Natural immunity to disease and living on a Hellmouth make one especially apt to survive an apocalypse in style. And, in fact, she would have been happy enough to stay in LA, but the issue was rapidly becoming a severe shortage of food.
Vegas seemed promising, when she caught wind of the fact that people were congregating there. Sure, it sounded like it was in an effort to follow a new messiah or whatever, but gullible blood went down as smooth as any other.
It meant, of course, scouting the ~messiah~, deciding that he could be... well, if not trusted, then certainly frank with. She'd spent a day or two skulking around Vegas, as much as she was capable of, listening to people talk with both fear and admiration about the guy. Granted, it was hard to catch more than a few whispers before someone would inevitably spot the new woman and try to help her find her way around or ask her questions about herself (which was the last thing she wanted to talk about with strangers).
But information came just the same. They called him "The Big Man" and "The Walkin' Dude", and while Countess can appreciate a sobriquet more than most, it takes a few patient conversations before she can weasel the name Randall Flagg out of someone.
He's not here, she's told. Don't know where he is, ain't like we can call him and ask. He'll be back soon, though.
So she waits the few days until the whole settlement seems to fill with crackling, nervous energy. A terribly familiar feeling. It fills her and comfortably envelopes her brain, and she grins when someone finally tracks her down and tells her Flagg would like to meet with you upstairs.
Their voice is quiet, strained, and they won't directly meet her eyes. The Countess smiles benevolently anyway, thanks them as the elevator doors silently close in front of her so that she can be ferried up to the top floor. Another familiar feeling.
She exits the elevator with a grace that shouldn't belong to a newcomer, to someone facing the Almighty of this new neon world. There is no shake in her hand when she offers it to him, no sharp swallow before she speaks. Her eyes lock on his without hesitation. ]
Mr. Flagg, I'm honored to make your acquaintance. I am The Countess.
[ His room had nearly nothing in it. There's a bar with all the trimmings, and some unused kitchen appliances, but other than that it's a vast empty penthouse suite overlooking the city. Some would say he has no possessions. The clever ones would gather that he has possessions on a grander scale than chairs and tables; he has buildings and bodies and souls.
He regards her quietly, and smiles. ]
Oh, I know you. You're a hard one to miss. [ He does, sincerely, mean that as a compliment. And he knows her real name, too, but he'll call her The Countess if that's what she wants. You can be anyone in Vegas, baby, as long as it's not a traitor.
He takes her hand in his own and, instead of shaking it, kisses her right above the knuckles. She seems like the type to appreciate that type of old-fashioned formality that it was getting harder and harder to find nowadays. He's a little too warm, both his hands and his lips, but he's not sweaty or flushed with fever. Just the opposite: he's kind of pale. ] Just Flagg's fine. Or Randall, if you'd prefer.
[ Some people here called him 'Mr. Flagg' but they were too low on the totem pole to get any personal attention so he let it be. This one was special, somehow, in a way that was only half-clear to him, but he intended to tease the rest out. ]
Los Angeles to Las Vegas, huh? Not a long journey, but a hot and dry one. You must be parched.
[ He could use some neon wall art, something extra cheeky and ironic. She can envision a "GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS" sign within eyeline of the front door. But even without fun novelty decor, she can feel a sense of ownership within the room -- ownership of the city rather than the hotel. Ownership of everything within the settlement.
He touches her and she feels her nerves light up, tingle at his warmth. She's the opposite, cold like marble, and she lets her fingers linger before she takes her hand back. There's a savoriness in her voice when she echoes his name. ]
Randall. You can't possibly imagine how thirsty I am. That's why I've come to Vegas. Well, that and to search for better company.
[ Her need to be away from those fucking ghosts cannot be overstated. It figures she wouldn't seriously need an exorcist until they're all dead.
Despite the fact that she came here with a clear agenda, her nature takes over and she reaches up to touch his face; he towers over her by more than a foot, and she does have to truly stretch her arm. ] You could cut diamonds with that jawline.
I know. [ He could cut anything with any part of himself, really, and if she thought his jawline was sharp, his toothy grin is even more so. ] You're in the right place, darlin'. All the good company in the world'll be here eventually.
[ Because anyone who went to Boulder is, as far as he's concerned, dull as dirt, and he's going to wipe them off the face of the Earth anyway. If people want to stay in their hometown or in little roving bands or decide they'd rather have a beach view - sure, whatever. They can miss the party if they want. But joining that old woman's peace-love-and-understanding commune was unforgivable. ]
Plenty to drink around here, too, in moderation. [ It's not that Flagg disapproves of random murder. If they'd met before now he would've gotten a kick out of it, really. But the population's too small now and if the people thought there was an unchecked killer running around it'd make him look weak. There are always traitors and rule-breakers with plenty of blood to spill, though, and he'll find a way to get 'donations' when those are in short supply. ]
You a fan of wine? [ He strolls over to the bar area and grabs an empty glass, facing away from the Countess. ] I've got a rare vintage here. Red. Over a thousand years old, they say, but that might just be a marketing scheme. [ The stench of blood fills the room - and whatever scent it may take to her, it's strong. If someone were bleeding out on the floor right now, a few drops of Flagg's blood would overpower it completely.
He turns around and the glass is nearly full of blood, a little darker than a regular person's. Wherever it came from, he doesn't have any visible cuts. ] Fancy a taste?
Sounds like a ball. The people, anyway. The other thing... well, needs must. [ Moderation is not her friend, but she's a survivor.
He heads to the bar and she guides herself to a seat, barely in time to save herself from swooning right to the floor as the scent of vetiver floods the room. No, not pure vetiver -- there's something foul on the tail end, terrible but alluring all the same, like gasoline or insect poison. The scent seems to whirl around her head and she is stricken with the realization that she has not fed in several weeks.
When he turns back around, she has the veneer of someone composed, but the details quickly give her away; her knuckles are white around the edge of her seat, she's bit her lip, and her pupils are blown out almost enough to eclipse her irises. Is this how Rudy and Natacha had felt? She can't imagine three months of this pain, let alone eighty years. The Countess is no longer even looking at Flagg's face, not while he holds that glass. ]
You've already done your part by coming here. Let me look after you.
[ That's not the same as wanting nothing in exchange; every extra person in Vegas is something he has to his name. Something he won't let go of.
He puts the glass on the counter and slides it over. ]
But I could use some good company, I have to admit. Most of the people here are...young. [ Even the older ones are young compared to him. The Countess is young in comparison, too, but immortals tended to look at time with a different mindset anyway. ]
[ The Countess has been the proverbial devil in enough deals to read the meaning. She too demands loyalty when she decides to share her particular gifts, and she understands the risk.
But she also understands that he's the one with all the cards. Unless she wants to go back home and doom herself to a truly eternal existence, complete with all the people who've given her the most grief in life.
This would have been easier, she thinks as she takes hold of the glass, that this would have been easier if he had taken up residence in LA. Fucking neon wasteland, Vegas.
The drink she takes is long and slow, and as much as she wants to literally bathe in this blood, she refuses to drop her aplomb. The most reaction she gives is her eyes closing while she takes a deep breath through her nose.
It's like drinking the most delicious acid she can think of. Something that she knows is deadly, can sense it in a base human way, but it's so sweet and she always does what she shouldn't. So she smiles when she lowers the glass again. ]
I suppose there's a reason they always list the elderly as most susceptible to the flu. You should know that I always stay in the penthouse when I travel, Randall.
Most of the elderly are young by my standards. You understand, don't you?
[ God, he'd like to zip off to Boulder with The Countess for a while just to inform Mother Abagail that she is not, in fact, the oldest woman in the world, so suck it. Old mortal humans aren't that impressive. ]
I'm not giving up the Penthouse, I'm afraid, but if you're a fan of my company you're welcome to stick around.
[ She is both surprised and very much unsurprised. It stands to reason that there was an equal chance that he really was magical in some way, and that someone so magical might be able to foresee her or read her mind or something. She doesn't like it, but it has made this whole transaction easier. ]
[ Which isn’t entirely true, but it’s true enough. If he cared to prod, he could find out mostly anything he wanted to know. Emphasis on mostly. ]
Good. It’s awful lonely here, with just little old me in this nice big penthouse. Will you tell me about your hotel? I promise not to peek at the ending. [ At the end of the day, hearing stories told by the people who’ve experienced them is more satisfying than just ripping information out of minds. ]
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Vegas seemed promising, when she caught wind of the fact that people were congregating there. Sure, it sounded like it was in an effort to follow a new messiah or whatever, but gullible blood went down as smooth as any other.
It meant, of course, scouting the ~messiah~, deciding that he could be... well, if not trusted, then certainly frank with. She'd spent a day or two skulking around Vegas, as much as she was capable of, listening to people talk with both fear and admiration about the guy. Granted, it was hard to catch more than a few whispers before someone would inevitably spot the new woman and try to help her find her way around or ask her questions about herself (which was the last thing she wanted to talk about with strangers).
But information came just the same. They called him "The Big Man" and "The Walkin' Dude", and while Countess can appreciate a sobriquet more than most, it takes a few patient conversations before she can weasel the name Randall Flagg out of someone.
He's not here, she's told. Don't know where he is, ain't like we can call him and ask. He'll be back soon, though.
So she waits the few days until the whole settlement seems to fill with crackling, nervous energy. A terribly familiar feeling. It fills her and comfortably envelopes her brain, and she grins when someone finally tracks her down and tells her Flagg would like to meet with you upstairs.
Their voice is quiet, strained, and they won't directly meet her eyes. The Countess smiles benevolently anyway, thanks them as the elevator doors silently close in front of her so that she can be ferried up to the top floor. Another familiar feeling.
She exits the elevator with a grace that shouldn't belong to a newcomer, to someone facing the Almighty of this new neon world. There is no shake in her hand when she offers it to him, no sharp swallow before she speaks. Her eyes lock on his without hesitation. ]
Mr. Flagg, I'm honored to make your acquaintance. I am The Countess.
no subject
He regards her quietly, and smiles. ]
Oh, I know you. You're a hard one to miss. [ He does, sincerely, mean that as a compliment. And he knows her real name, too, but he'll call her The Countess if that's what she wants. You can be anyone in Vegas, baby, as long as it's not a traitor.
He takes her hand in his own and, instead of shaking it, kisses her right above the knuckles. She seems like the type to appreciate that type of old-fashioned formality that it was getting harder and harder to find nowadays. He's a little too warm, both his hands and his lips, but he's not sweaty or flushed with fever. Just the opposite: he's kind of pale. ] Just Flagg's fine. Or Randall, if you'd prefer.
[ Some people here called him 'Mr. Flagg' but they were too low on the totem pole to get any personal attention so he let it be. This one was special, somehow, in a way that was only half-clear to him, but he intended to tease the rest out. ]
Los Angeles to Las Vegas, huh? Not a long journey, but a hot and dry one. You must be parched.
no subject
He touches her and she feels her nerves light up, tingle at his warmth. She's the opposite, cold like marble, and she lets her fingers linger before she takes her hand back. There's a savoriness in her voice when she echoes his name. ]
Randall. You can't possibly imagine how thirsty I am. That's why I've come to Vegas. Well, that and to search for better company.
[ Her need to be away from those fucking ghosts cannot be overstated. It figures she wouldn't seriously need an exorcist until they're all dead.
Despite the fact that she came here with a clear agenda, her nature takes over and she reaches up to touch his face; he towers over her by more than a foot, and she does have to truly stretch her arm. ] You could cut diamonds with that jawline.
no subject
[ Because anyone who went to Boulder is, as far as he's concerned, dull as dirt, and he's going to wipe them off the face of the Earth anyway. If people want to stay in their hometown or in little roving bands or decide they'd rather have a beach view - sure, whatever. They can miss the party if they want. But joining that old woman's peace-love-and-understanding commune was unforgivable. ]
Plenty to drink around here, too, in moderation. [ It's not that Flagg disapproves of random murder. If they'd met before now he would've gotten a kick out of it, really. But the population's too small now and if the people thought there was an unchecked killer running around it'd make him look weak. There are always traitors and rule-breakers with plenty of blood to spill, though, and he'll find a way to get 'donations' when those are in short supply. ]
You a fan of wine? [ He strolls over to the bar area and grabs an empty glass, facing away from the Countess. ] I've got a rare vintage here. Red. Over a thousand years old, they say, but that might just be a marketing scheme. [ The stench of blood fills the room - and whatever scent it may take to her, it's strong. If someone were bleeding out on the floor right now, a few drops of Flagg's blood would overpower it completely.
He turns around and the glass is nearly full of blood, a little darker than a regular person's. Wherever it came from, he doesn't have any visible cuts. ] Fancy a taste?
no subject
He heads to the bar and she guides herself to a seat, barely in time to save herself from swooning right to the floor as the scent of vetiver floods the room. No, not pure vetiver -- there's something foul on the tail end, terrible but alluring all the same, like gasoline or insect poison. The scent seems to whirl around her head and she is stricken with the realization that she has not fed in several weeks.
When he turns back around, she has the veneer of someone composed, but the details quickly give her away; her knuckles are white around the edge of her seat, she's bit her lip, and her pupils are blown out almost enough to eclipse her irises. Is this how Rudy and Natacha had felt? She can't imagine three months of this pain, let alone eighty years. The Countess is no longer even looking at Flagg's face, not while he holds that glass. ]
What do you want in exchange?
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[ That's not the same as wanting nothing in exchange; every extra person in Vegas is something he has to his name. Something he won't let go of.
He puts the glass on the counter and slides it over. ]
But I could use some good company, I have to admit. Most of the people here are...young. [ Even the older ones are young compared to him. The Countess is young in comparison, too, but immortals tended to look at time with a different mindset anyway. ]
no subject
But she also understands that he's the one with all the cards. Unless she wants to go back home and doom herself to a truly eternal existence, complete with all the people who've given her the most grief in life.
This would have been easier, she thinks as she takes hold of the glass, that this would have been easier if he had taken up residence in LA. Fucking neon wasteland, Vegas.
The drink she takes is long and slow, and as much as she wants to literally bathe in this blood, she refuses to drop her aplomb. The most reaction she gives is her eyes closing while she takes a deep breath through her nose.
It's like drinking the most delicious acid she can think of. Something that she knows is deadly, can sense it in a base human way, but it's so sweet and she always does what she shouldn't. So she smiles when she lowers the glass again. ]
I suppose there's a reason they always list the elderly as most susceptible to the flu. You should know that I always stay in the penthouse when I travel, Randall.
no subject
[ God, he'd like to zip off to Boulder with The Countess for a while just to inform Mother Abagail that she is not, in fact, the oldest woman in the world, so suck it. Old mortal humans aren't that impressive. ]
I'm not giving up the Penthouse, I'm afraid, but if you're a fan of my company you're welcome to stick around.
no subject
[ She is both surprised and very much unsurprised. It stands to reason that there was an equal chance that he really was magical in some way, and that someone so magical might be able to foresee her or read her mind or something. She doesn't like it, but it has made this whole transaction easier. ]
Yes, I think I will. It's a lovely view.
no subject
[ Which isn’t entirely true, but it’s true enough. If he cared to prod, he could find out mostly anything he wanted to know. Emphasis on mostly. ]
Good. It’s awful lonely here, with just little old me in this nice big penthouse. Will you tell me about your hotel? I promise not to peek at the ending. [ At the end of the day, hearing stories told by the people who’ve experienced them is more satisfying than just ripping information out of minds. ]