It's Mailtime (Open)

[Ada Wong]

The little town of Carrefore isn’t so bad. If she were under the purplish cover of night with a few sprigs of fog added here and there, PM might appear to be some sort of ghoulish, tattered figure haunting the sands that spill in between the loosely-strewn assortment of houses and shops.

The middle lane is terribly dry and cracked underfoot, but to be fair the houses alongside it have been treated no better by the harsh elements. Splintered wood and loosened shingles wheeze faint exhaust down onto the street below in heavy, parched pants. Dust— so much dust, clinging to pots and pans and the finest silver tucked into the sturdiest kitchen cabinets, is to be found everywhere. The dying rattle of tattered curtains against shutters is akin to a rattlesnake’s warning.

Peregrine Mendicant stares all around, almond-shaped eyes wide and curious. She has yet to stop and greet anyone, although there is no apparent lack of persons to reach out to. At some point during her stroll, Peregrine had worked the letter out of her satchel so that she could uncertainly knead it between her claws as she walked. She tells herself that it is to brush off the dried bits of dirt and not a much-needed distraction from the low-brimmed hats and tied waistcoats that stream around her, intermittently underscored by the occasional glint of mercurial silver.

Hot air congests over the ramshackle buildings; bits of gritty dirt crunch in the joints of her carapace with each sweltering gust of wind. A faint, indistinct pang of hunger travels through her inner chassis, but the mail lady has withstood longer spans of time without a morsel to spare. Unluckily— and it is just appalling for her to feel this way— unluckily, she is alone in her suffering in this particular instance.

Her feet rap loudly against the rickety steps of what appears to be the busiest joint in town, but the carapacian does not seek to peruse the shop’s wares. She rests in the shade for a moment, peering curiously around the establishment’s threshold as other patrons bustle out of its doors. On more than one occasion, she finds herself having to dodge a stray elbow or slung firearm. Raucous laughter and cheers roll out to tussle in the dust.

PM enjoys herself for a few minutes more in doing largely nothing but observe those who are coming and going from the building, the periwinkle blue-painted doors swinging wide and flapping about with the breeze. All at once, a shopkeeper bursts through the doorway and shoos her off of their front step with a broom brandished in the air. They shout horrid things about freeloaders and folks without a goshdarn dime and a head full of empty, to boot. After they are satisfied their verbal assault, they stoop down to sweep a bit of trash off of their porch, give it a cursory glance, and then tuck it into the front pocket of their apron.

The carapace’s coal black eyes blink wateringly. She looks slowly down at her empty claws, blinks once again, and then after the retreating back of the shopkeeper.

Oh. She does not appear to be in possession of the letter any longer.

Creak. Once again mounting the steps and moving to stand beside the swaying doorway, PM peers cautiously inside. The shopkeeper does not appear to be watching the door. Now would be the perfect opportunity to enter all clandestine-like.

Gathering her wrappings and courage together in a noiseless feat of sheer determination, the Peregrine Mendicant squares her shoulders and strides purposefully into the store. Cool air immediately swamps around her, a welcome relief from the arid desert. As she approaches the wooden countertop, she notes that all sorts of wares sit upon the table, including an unlit candle. The shopkeeper’s eyes flick up to meet hers with apparent distaste. They are polishing a dewy glass with a pretty grubby old rag.

Look, PM says, holding her claws out in an apparent display of humble deference. She can even see how reasonable she is being in the dancing reflections of a row of glasses sitting atop the counter's shelf. I suppose that we didn’t get off on the right foot, you and me, but I really must have that letter back. It is very concerning to someone, and I have yet to find out who that person is.

The shopkeeper curls his hairy lip at her, skin of the same consistency as sandy burlap. PM is slightly offended. Her claws itch for her Regisword, but now is not the time for petty disagreements.

“What’re you, some kind of letter-deliverer?”

PM nods eagerly, a wave of relief relaxing her posture. Yes, exactly. Now, the letter, my good man—

“The way I see it,” the shopkeeper very rudely cuts her off. The carapacian bristles. “Is that people around these parts can deliver their own darn letters. That ain’t honest work, what you’re doing. You’re just doing something everyone else can get done just as easily. Like, like— like microwaves, or something.”

Oh. Ah. Ahem, It is apparently time to bring out the big guns. Well, isn’t there a… an emergency shopkeeper summit in town, a few buildings away, for shop keeping shopkeepers who like to keep shop?

The shopkeeper raises a single brow, smirking. “Isn’t there a crab convention on Crab Island for crabby crabs who like to pinch stuff and spew foam and bubbles outta their crab mouths?”

Damn. That burn was so sick it lit the candle. Literally, the unlit candle just plumed up with a swift fwoosh of spluttering red and yellow flame.

Now, you see here, my good sir, the carapacian insists, rapping her claws agitatedly upon the countertop. That letter is destined for some poor soul who has no idea of its existence yet, and it is my sworn duty to deliver it at once. If you do not desist in these shenanigans and return that letter immediately, I might just be forced to take drastic measures to recover it.

The infuriating store owner standing behind the counter turns away, utterly unconcerned, placing the marginally clean glass upon a tray before turning back to face her with a new glass in hand. Their other eyebrow raises. PM wants to tear it off. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

PM stamps her foot upon the ground with a sharp clack, eyes wrathful. There is movement in her peripheral vision, colorful and liquid, but she doesn’t bother to check and see how the other customers are reacting to her fit of frustration. She points an accusing claw at the shopkeeper. I challenge you… to a duel!

The rest of the patrons in the shop gasp, the abrupt sound swallowing up the previous quiet. The carapacian’s stance changes into one more fit for brawling, her knees bent and feet spread apart from one another, eyes alight with resolve.

“Uh…” the shopkeeper says, eyes sliding nervously around. He chuckles, haltingly.

PM promptly puffs up with pride at her ability to sufficiently intimidate her opponent.

“I was just joking, man,” the man says, looking suitably abashed before placing the envelope on the counter and sliding it carefully across, as if expecting her to unexpectedly detonate any minute now like some kind of a bloodthirsty murderhobo.

The carapacian’s proud posture deflates. Well, darn. She was sort of hoping this whole duel business would play out in her favor.

The shopkeeper apparently takes pity on her, for he reluctantly cants his head in the general direction of a back room. “Hey, look. That was my fault, pal, and I’d like to make it up to you. No hard feelings. Want a free coffee, or something?”

Peregrine brightens up considerably at this offer. A few minutes later sees her settled comfortably upon a storage crate with a warm, vanilla-scented cappuccino cupped between her palms, the rude shopkeeper from earlier sitting across from her. She thanks him profusely for the warm drink.

He scrubs sheepishly at the back of his neck, mainly because the weird creature seated across from him has yet to actually pull down her head-wrappings to drink the coffee, and then shrugs. “So, this letter. You say it doesn’t have a recipient or anything?”

PM bobs her head in a nod. There was no recipient's name or address to be found. She taps at the side of the coffee with her porcelain claws and watches the sugary milk burble delightfully to the surface in languidly-twisting swirls.

“Yeah, about that,” the shopkeeper says, staring at her quizzically. PM gives him her full attention, head tilted to the side. “It has one. I saw it when I picked it up off of the ground. It’s like one of those… whatchamacallits. Those things that you can wave around and the movement shifts the image or something. Try it, yeah?”

Setting her drink aside with a little clink, PM takes the letter out of her satchel. Sure enough, as she twists it in the light, the words on the paper gradually shift into something…. Almost recognizable as more words.

Demeaning Molly us….. Dem….. Demetri Malius! That’s it! That is whom this letter is destined for! Oh, thank you so much! The carapacian declares gleefully, the navy blue mailperson’s cap atop her head nearly falling off as she gestures wildly with her hands in a series of clicks and taps.

“Yeah, uh… you’re welcome. Hey, and there’s something I need you to do for me. Like, as a mail-deliverer person.” He seems nervous about something, a sheen of clear sweat having appeared upon his brow. The shopkeeper stands and moves over to the other side of the room, rooting around in a few boxes until he finds what he is looking for. Once he does, he returns to standing in front of her, something wrapped in torn cloth laid out in his hands.

“Some flash bastard in a fancy suit and sunglasses stopped by with this. Said it was for a guy named Dean Winchester,” the cloth falls loose a ways, revealing the ornate etching along a rather timeworn handgun’s barrel. Peregrine peers closely at it, the inscription along the side reflecting murkily in her black eyes. “If you could get this to him, which would be real swell of you, I won’t say anything to the troopers about how you almost made a scene in my store.”

Peregrine looks at him, her eyes crinkled at the corners. Deal. Thank you.

The shopkeeper shrugs. “Hey, whatever. I just want that thing outta my hair, it gives me the creeps.”

Gently taking the gun from his hands and wrapping the cloth more securely around it, PM tucks it into her satchel along with Demetri Malius’ letter. Hopefully she will have these two items delivered soon!

I really must be off, she tells the shopkeeper, swinging her satchel over her shoulder and righting her cap from where it has almost tumbled right off from her head. He sees her out to the entryway, glancing quickly back into the shop every few moments, the now-lukewarm cappuccino gripped in his hand. There are parcels to deliver, after all!

“Yeah. Right. Goodbye, then. Safe travels and what-have-you.”

With those last words of farewell, PM exits the small shop. Now, where to go next? Where would a person named Dean Winchester go, in hard times such as these?