It's Mailtime (Open)

[Ada Wong]

Something large and metal collides with Peregrine as she is wandering out into the street. She literally hits the dust, sliding part-of-the-way down onto the ground before she even realizes what is going on. Numbing, corpulent tremors from the impact ricochet throughout her carapace, and for a moment PM is caught simply staring at the front end of a vehicular contraption in nearly catatonic confusion.

The moment of rattled confusion passes. Her head shifts against the sand, a couple hundred loose grains scratching audibly against her shell and the cloth wrapped tightly around her face. Well, then. That was hardly pleasant. She attempts to stand, and finds that she is, thankfully, largely unhurt.

While she picks herself up from the ground, using the sleek black hood of the vehicular contraption to bolster her weight into a more or less standing position, a human with a gruff voice and a rather uneven temperament emerges from it and accosts her. She attempts to apologize, but he doesn’t seem to be having any of it.

As if this weren’t startling enough, his eyes shutter into a strange inky black as he growls at her, his irritation apparently spiking. She cannot find any words to respond with, and so she doesn't. When the man eventually smiles, speaking to her as if she were a particularly small child, it is almost akin to a Dersite’s in its malignancy.

”Name's Dean. Dean Winchest...”

Ah. A-ha! The Prospitian starts visibly, peering more closely at the man for barely a half second more before clasping her hands together in immense delight. She proceeds to break into celebratory maneuvers with a victory dance of epic proportions as Dean Winchester looks on, complete with a few choice kicks and joyful clicking of her fingers. Dust kicks up underneath her feet from her jubilant dance.

Calming down significantly, PM loosens her satchel from her shoulder and places it upon the ground so that she can more easily rummage through its contents. She tuts disapprovingly at Demetri Malius’ undelivered letter and curves her fingers so that they do not graze the wicked edge of her Regisword. Finally, the carapacian unearths what she is looking for— an antiquated gun of quality make, wrapped securely in a thin checker-patterned dishcloth.

With a note of jerky, clumsy glee to her movements at the idea of a quest almost fulfilled, the Peregrine Mendicant turns back towards Winchester so that she might complete her mission. However, something causes her to stop short— a game mechanic, ingrained in the minds of every one of her species since their initial replicating, buzzes through her mind with tittering urgency.

When PM looks at Dean Winchester for a second time, she sees. She sees so much anger, loss, sacrifice, death and resentment, all culminating into an odious black smoke that burgeons throughout his very soul like the tide of a choppy sea. Flickering from side to side in this sea like phytoplankton of a mystically bioluminescent variety, sparks of purple slowly coalesce into the shape of a scowling player’s mask. It foams at the surface of the amorphous black, threatening to spill over at any moment.

If she listens closely enough with a Queen’s ears, she can even hear discordant classic rock playing.

Prince of Rage, she hums to herself, and she must have said it quite audibly for the man— if he is, indeed, still that— starts to squint suspiciously at her.

The details of this man’s past may be largely unknown to her, but this title rings as clear and true as the Song of Skaia in her mind. There is a sad note to it, as well, as if this man were forbidden to ascend to the god-tiers in his current... contaminated state. Which he may very well be. As far as PM knows, the game is meant to be entertained only by children. No adults may survive after their entrance into the Medium... at least, not without exceptional help.

She feels immense pity for him instantly, but tries not to let it bleed into her behavior. With slow, measured steps, for Princes are volatile even when paired with less alarming aspects, PM approaches with the parcel laid out in her hands for Dean to see.

Greetings, Prince of Rage, she isn’t sure why she is suddenly using his title. It’s almost as if a switch has been flicked on in her head— she is the Prospitian Monarch now, the only Queen in existence, and she must do her best to aid the players of her session. No matter how doomed they may be, or from which moon they hail. I am the Peregrine Mendicant. I have been instructed to deliver this parcel to you.

“A package, huh?” the Prince of Rage asks, lips pursing and turning just slightly upwards. He takes the cloth-wrapped item from her a little rougher than she would like, but she refrains from making any complaint. “What the hell is it, then—“

He stops speaking abruptly as the cloth falls away. Not one for wasting a second of choice business time, PM takes this as an opportunity to sling her satchel over her shoulder again, re-affixing her grey wrappings and postman’s cap until they are to her liking. The Regisword settles heavily against the small of her back, and she spends a few moments shifting her weight from foot to foot until it leans more against her side.

When she glances back up again, Dean Winchester appears to be making a valiant effort to scowl at her, although it seems to be quite an uphill battle through his... could that be joy? “What the fuck? How did you find this? Wait, no— who gave it to you?”

PM does not have the time for these impertinent questions— she has a letter to deliver to one Demetri Malius! Still, she answers Dean Winchester without being especially resentful about it. A shopkeeper. It was brought to their hands by a nameless individual who I am not familiar with, a pause. PM glances pointedly at the vehicular contraption. That is a nice vehicle for traversing desert sands. Were you sincere in your offer? I have another parcel which must be delivered with the utmost haste to Demetri Malius. Do you know where I might find them? I do not believe they are in this settlement, but I could be wrong.

Dean frowns at the weird alien chick, still fiddling around with the Colt. PM stares placidly back at him, black eyes patient and kind, as if she could wait all day for his reply. It's kind of annoying.

This is really freaky— he doesn’t even want to know why she keeps referring to him as some kind of Prince of Rage or some whacky shit like that. Although, weirdly enough, he doesn’t think that it’s just that he doesn’t feel much like questioning it— it seems almost… right, somehow. Like he has just been spoken to correctly for the first time in his life.