νεκρός || Annabeth Chase x Fem!OC

Vol. 4-3: Square one?

ANNABETH

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In my dream, I was in New Orleans. I knew because it wasn't the first time I'd been here. I was horrified at the prospect that it wouldn't be the last.

I could tell it was the 1920s. People wore outdated clothes and carried briefcases. The street was horribly lit and the road was absolutely atrocious. Still, the night life was beautiful. Restaurants were crowded with people laughing and cheering. I could hear live jazz music coming from an alley, and I followed it.

I found a small door with a bouncer outside it. A young couple ran up, dressed in nice coats, and said a few words in a language I didn't know before being let in. I followed them, finding that the dim lighting fit the mood. I walked down a dark hallway and gasped as I broke into the open air. The ceiling was still low, but I recognized the stench of alcohol. I heard the music louder than ever and saw a live band playing on a tiny stage. They all wore ratty suits, clearly old and put-together with scraps, but it was still nice. I saw men dancing, bright smiles on their face, accompanied by pretty women in flapper dresses. All of the girls had fairly short hair and clean makeup, and they all sparkled under the lighting as they smiled brightly and twirled around.

I realized I was in a speakeasy during the Prohibition. I walked over to the bar, and realized all of the alcohol was being kept below it, in small cabinets. Likely so it wasn't so obvious. Everyone was discreet about their drinks. There were a few guards dotted from place to place. Everyone kept one eye over their shoulder the whole time- at least, the sober ones did. I was just about to look around more when I saw someone familiar in the corner.

She looked how she did back then, of course. Her hair was black-and-white, very shaggy, and it went to her shoulders. Her skin was sallow and grey, her bloodred eyes harsh and narrow, her lips chapped and nose crooked at the top of the bridge. It looked like it had been broken before and not properly dealt with. She was horribly skinny and her skin seemed nearly translucent. I could see her veins far too easily, light little purple webbing across the surface. Her fingers were much longer than they are now, her nails chewed down to nothing. Her arms also seemed disproportionately long and she had strange scars on her body- almost like cigarette paper.

She muttered something, using one of her hands to cover her mouth. She wore baggy brown trousers and a baggy, long-sleeved off-white shirt with leather shoes that were literally falling apart at the seams. She just looked poor. The bartender walked over to her and nodded, and I slowly heard more of the conversation as I got closer.

"I know, I know. Just wait, my dear."

"I don't want to wait!" Her accent was thick. She doesn't have one anymore. Her voice was also hoarse. In every vision I've had, her voice is uncomfortably hoarse, like she's always sick with bronchitis or something. "I got to get it and I got to get it now."

"Just wait. I can make you some food in the meantime," the bartender offered, trying to be as respectful as possible.

"I'm not hungry..." Tempest suddenly hesitated, looking down. It was obvious enough she wasn't eating very well. "Actually, thank you."

A bright smile crossed the man's face and he nodded, letting out a kindly, "Of course!"

Tempest sat down on one of the bar stools. Her hand shook so bad, it tapped against the table every now and then. The bartender served her something in a small white glass- not quite a shot glass, but not much bigger- and she stared at the brown liquid.