entrancelogs | You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack;

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You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack;

Who: Angel and YOU!
Where: Around the mansion as he gets his bearings and ~~lurks in hallways~~ looks around.
When: Evening, 9/29.
Rating: PG for now!
Summary: Angel arrives in Wonderland and is pretty sure that it's yet another cracked-out hell dimension.
The Story:

Angel’s first thought upon waking had been ‘hell dimension.’ The change of scenery had been sudden, the last thing he remembered being just about every monster imaginable crawling their way up through the that hellgate and preparing to let loose on Los Angeles. Their numbers had been thinned considerably. Gunn had been wounded, bleeding out but still standing, still ready to fight. Spike and Illyria were there, prepared to fight alongside him as they went forward to face impossible odds. Lorne was gone. Wesley hadn’t made it. It had only been the four them. Four against the forces of Hell and all that the pit had to offer.

It hadn’t mattered that they wouldn’t win. They were going to go down fighting. That was what people like them did. They were supposed to be champions. If nothing else, they would die like champions, throwing off Wolfram & Hart’s yolk that they had so willingly put on just a year earlier. That whole year had been wrong in so many ways. They had been able to fool themselves into thinking they were using this opportunity to do good, but Cordelia had seen right through it. Hell, even Spike saw through it. Trying to defeat an enemy from within the belly of the beast meant you had been swallowed.

So they’d decided to claw their way out. Hell or high water, they would brace themselves for the counter attack and go down fighting – but it would be one hell of a fight.

“Personally, I kind of want to slay the dragon.”

He couldn't remember anything after that. Climbing up on the beasts back, and then— and then what? This place? If he was dead, truly dead, this was one hell of an afterlife. He’d been killed in a back alley, buried in the earth only to rise again. He’d been impaled and sent to hell for some untold number of years, tormented mercilessly until some power had seen fit to bring him back. Death wasn’t exactly new for him, but this place was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

Hence ‘hell dimension.’ Had someone opened a portal, meant to take him and his allies out of the fight? If that was the case, it would have taken one heck of a bump to the head to knock him unconscious for the duration – either that or a doozy of a spell. He’d been to some pretty strange places in his long life, but this one was singular. Walls all but lined with mirrors that held no reflection – no change there, he surmised – with a décor that was strongly reminiscent of a funhouse. Or maybe Lorne’s place.

He grunted softly, rubbing at the back of his head as he began the slow and awkward shuffle down the corridor he’d found himself in. The countless doors reminded him of the hotel, except—

Except these rooms weren’t empty. Not all of them, at least. He could smell people beyond them, some human, some otherworldly, but all of them alive, breathing. He could hear their beating hearts from a distance, and it was distracting. He was injured, his clothes tattered and bloodstained, soaked through from the storm that had been raging when the battle began. He would heal quickly enough, but he would feel a whole lot better a lot faster if he found something to eat. The smell of blood and the faint but tempting thud of so many heartbeats would ebb away once he had. Something told him he wouldn’t be lucky enough to find a friendly butcher or a stray pig anywhere nearby, though. That presented a bit of a problem. And what about the allies he’d left behind? Were they here, too, scattered?

Damn it. He hated portals. Nothing good ever came from portal jumping.

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He watches her closely as she circles him, taking care to turn with her and refusing to give her his back. He's never been one to make things easy for a potential enemy, and though he's known plenty of demons who weren't particularly evil, it was a hell of a lot safer to assume that they were until proven otherwise.

It hurt a lot of feelings and stepped on a lot of toes, but that was the price you paid for playing defense sometimes.

The look he gives her use of the word 'monster' is fairly unimpressed, and he folds his arms over his chest as he watches her expectantly. Werewolf? As if he looks like the kind of guy who has a problem with rampant body hair.

"Not my style. Try again."

Good thing her feelings are made of steel...and kind of not there, anyway. She looks amused as he follows her path, and she'll just continue to circle around him, seeing how long she can keep him doing it.

"No? Too bad. I get the feeling we've got about a baker's dozen in this place." Maybe not quite that many, but enough for her to sense it. She doesn't care much about werewolves, anyway. "Then my next guess is gonna be vampire. Tell me, do you find yourself sparkling in the sunlight?"

Oh yeah, he got a Twilight joke. That's probably going to be par for the course for Angel's stay here in Wonderland.

"Less sparkling. More bursting into flames."

At least he can be blunt about it when confronted. One side of his mouth quirks upwards into a humorless smirk. She was right on the money, as far as the fangs went. Not hard to guess if you had any experience with vampires. You learned to pick up the signs -- and he's guessing she can sense that he's different, just like he can sense her.

"Never really been one for flash." Glitter's not a good look on him. "I like to keep it a little more subdued."

"Ouch. Nothing like spontaneous combustion to really make you hot."

She doesn't run into many vampires, mostly ignoring their presence for the most part. Demons, in their own way, can feel superior to other monsters and disregard them without a second thought. Benny has been a slight exception, if only because the ratio of monsters to humans/angels is very skewed and not in her favor.

Also, she might get a kick out of him or something. Not that she would admit that out loud.

"You sound like a wet blanket to me. Why not have a little fun with it? Unless you're the kind of vampire that's allergic to fun."

"Once upon a time, I was the kind of vampire that lived for fun."

For fun, for mayhem, for pain and for slaughter, for every wicked deed he could possibly manage. That hadn't exactly worked out in his favor. Sure, one hundred and fifty years of madcap shenanigans and he'd always gotten off scott-free, but all it took was one little mis-step to turn that all around.

Now, he wouldn't have changed it for the world, but a century ago, he would have begged to have this soul yanked out of him.

"I hate the term 'wet blanket.' I prefer to consider myself responsible. Not easy being a vampire with a soul. I've got a million and one stereotypes to thwart."

And a million and two of them to live up to, if his outfit is any indication.

"Souls harsh on the fun. No wonder you're such a wet blanket."

Yeah, wet blankets tend to prefer words like responsible and mature or what the hell ever. If Meg ever had a choice, or was asked, she would say a big fat No to having her soul back. There's a number of reasons, the list starting at losing all this strength and invulnerability.

Somewhere on that list is the trauma she would have to deal with, an ugly side effect of being full of soul. Gross, no thanks, she'll stay just the way she is.

"I say embrace the stereotypes, then surprise them with something new." She's done circling him like a shark, and now she seems entirely relaxed, thumbs hooked through her belt loops. "Or you could go real crazy and dress up in colors. That'll throw them off."

"Keep being told I should wear a nice plaid," he counters, deadpan. Just one of a million similar tidbits of advice. Angel, you should lighten up. Angel, you should smile more. Angel, you should pay more attention to color theory.

Personally, he's plenty happy with the way he is right now. Well, no, not happy, since then he'd probably cease to be here in the first place, but marginally content. That seemed like a safe medium.

"I'm notorious for killing my own kind. For most vampires, that's shocking enough." As she can probably imagine, it means he's not all that popular in the supernatural underworld. "Tends to put people on edge."

She'll just shake her head at that 'plaid' suggestion. There's too much of that going on around this place, anyway, no need to add to it.

"If the broody thing works for you, it works." She wasn't too flashy herself, but she's partial to a certain way of dressing that makes her a little obvious sometimes when she's jumping bodies. What can she say, she has specific tastes.

"Bet you're invited to all the parties back home," she drawls, sarcastic. "Family reunions and all that. Vampires have those things, right? Big get togethers where they grab a few bites and have pissing contests with each other."

Not exclusive to vampires - demons are just as bad, if not worse.

"Mostly we have massacres," he counters with a wry smile, folding his arms. Hey, at least he had a sense of humor about it. Dark and brooding was definitely his M.O. a lot of the time, but you didn't get to be over two and a half centuries old without being able to laugh at yourself now and then -- or the fact that you leaned towards living the stereotype.

"Evil pissing contests are pretty much a constant." And there hadn't been a vampire yet who'd been able to match his reputation. Not something he was particularly proud of, but it was in the history books and everything.

"There's the word I was looking for. Has a nice ring to it."

She likes that his whole Dark and Broody™ thing isn't all there is. Kind of like Vincent, though this one isn't sporting a blood red cape and ridiculous shoes.

"Comes with the territory of being one of many monsters running around," she snarks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "You got a name, Tall, Dark and Broody, or should I just go with Dracula?"

"You know, for all the legends about him, I gotta tell you, Drac? Not all that impressive."

A lot of flash, a lot of parlor tricks, a neat house with all kinds of trapdoors, but as far as being actually terrifying? Please. Angel had to admit that even Spike had a leg up on that guy.

But he digresses.

"It's Angel."

"You don't say? Probably shouldn't be surprised, but you know what? I kind of am."

Not that she's ever wanted to personally meet Dracula, even if he might be pulling her leg. When he says his name, though, she takes a moment to blink at him, torn being being outright amused and a little stumped. Finally, she settles for a chuckle and a shake of her head.

"You're gonna have a real good time here, Angel." Especially with all those angels running around, but guess who isn't going to give him a heads up about that? She doesn't want to ruin the surprise. "You can call me Meg."

"Meg. Not what I'd expect from a demon," he remarks with a raised eyebrow. Then again, he wouldn't have expected 'Lorne,' 'Merle' or 'Skip' either. Especially not Skip.

"I guess time will tell just how good a time I'll have." Personally, he's not all that convinced, but the sarcasm isn't lost on him in the least. He's well-practiced in the art, and Cordelia's just about mastered it. He's used to it. "Safe to assume I'll be seeing you around?"

He's not sure whether that's a good thing or not just yet, given the wide variety of demons and their motives where he's from, but something about her has his hackles up. He'd like to keep an eye on her, at the very least.

"Call me whatever you want, handsome. 'Meg' is just one of my more recent aliases."

Stealing names is typical MO for this demon.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be running into each other a lot around this place, don't you worry." The smile she gives him is practically sugar. Yeah, she knows he won't be worrying. "Can't let you wander around this place without being a good neighbor, can I?"

And she'll brush past him, shoulder barely touching his arm as she gives him a good, long look.

"Enjoy your stay in Wonderland. Sure it'll be a blast." Meg wiggles her fingers over her shoulder at him as she leaves, not giving him a backwards glance as she finally turns a corner down the hallway and disappears.

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You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack;

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