Beck Dean

Keeping pace proves harder than expected. She moves through the shipyard with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of it, cutting between narrow walkways and sharp turns without slowing once. Dorian catches more than one rusted corner straight through the torso in his effort not to lose sight of her, his body phasing through metal instead of colliding with it. The sensation is wrong every single time, cold and hollow in a way he cannot describe, but it at least spares him from falling behind.

“And what exactly are you doing here?” he asks after the third turn, his voice carrying far louder than her cautious near-whisper. “You’re clearly not security.”

By the time they reach the small building, Dorian’s patience for skulking around has nearly worn out. He only ducks slightly beside her near the window, more to see inside than out of any concern for being spotted. His attention settles on the guard slumped in the chair, then shifts immediately toward the door she indicates.

“Finally,” he says, straightening without hesitation and heading for the entrance outright, seeing no reason whatsoever not to walk directly inside. There's rarely been a time in his life when throwing his weight around did not get him what he wanted.

His hand closes around the door handle—and passes straight through it. Dorian stops, irritation flashing sharply across his features before immediately trying again to yank it open. His fingers slip uselessly through cold metal a second time.

A tense silence follows.

Then he turns toward her with visible displeasure already settling back into place. “Open the door.”

Still, she can't help the wince that pulls at her face when his voice suddenly cuts through the quiet. "Keep your voice down." She hisses, finally glancing back over her shoulder. Even hushed, the irritation in her tone is clear.

"I'm not security, but I do work here. Which means I have every right to be here - unlike you." Her words are an obvious contradiction to them sneaking around in the dark, but she doesn't care to elaborate on her late night escapades. "Just concentrate on keeping up."

Finally, they reach their target.

Beck drops to a crouch beneath the window, eyes fixed on the security guard inside as she studies his movements carefully, the rise and fall of his chest. Ronald still looked asleep, thankfully, slumped in his chair beneath the dull glow of the office light.

She notices a second too late that Dorian has straightened to full height beside her with no regard for his visibility, already making his way toward the door. Beck's stomach lurches.

She's about to grab him. They were both trespassing, and if Ronald woke to the sound of them barging in, they were both screwed - but it quickly becomes apparent that intervention isn't necessary after all.

To her credit, Beck does try to suppress the amusement that flashes across her face as Dorian's hand slips uselessly through the doorknob. But the tension in his expression, combined with the increasingly frustrated way he fumbles for the handle again, eventually forces a smug smirk onto her lips.

For a moment, she lets the silence stretch deliberately between them, satisfaction written plainly across her face. Then she pushes herself upright and steps closer.

Even now, even in this situation, he's barking orders at her like she’s a dog. A thought that gets her back up. Beck's jaw tightens, a sharp breath escapes through her nose as she nears him, voice low and firm.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but here, you listen to me." Her eyes lock onto his. "If that guy wakes up, we are both fucked - I'm out of a job, you're out of your answers, we're both arrested. Got it?"

Her next words earned her no more than a short, disbelieving scoff. “Help?” he echoed, flat and dismissive. “You’ve done nothing but waste my time.” His gaze swept over her again, slower now that she’d closed the distance, reassessing. She looked older than he’d first thought. Not unattractive—but not his type. Too rough around the edges, not enough refinement. He preferred people who were already someone. “And if anyone here is lacking manners,” he added, irritation sharpening, “it’s not me. You might want to reconsider how you’re speaking to me before I forget myself.”

He exhaled through his nose, tension coiling tighter rather than easing, gaze flicking past her again toward the containers like he could force the answer out of them if he looked long enough. “There was someone else here,” he said, more firmly now, frustration threading through every word. “He didn’t just vanish.” His hands flexed at his sides, the motion abrupt, controlled only by habit. “So unless you suddenly remember something useful, the only way you’re helping me is by staying out of my way."

“Because whatever you think I should be worried about,” he added, quieter but edged, “it can’t be worse than—” He cut himself off. His hand had come up mid-gesture—and didn’t stop. For a second, it passed straight through his own torso, phasing clean through like there was nothing there at all. Dorian froze. A vein stood out at his temple as he jerked his hand back on instinct, staring at it like it had betrayed him before his gaze snapped back to her, composure strained thin enough to show the cracks. “—this.”

Her attention snaps back as he launches into another tirade, a disbelieving laugh slipping out before she can stop it. "I don't know who you think you are, or where exactly you've come from, but I think a bit of respect should be higher on your priority list to learn than manners." The words come out through gritted teeth, irritation no longer disguised.

Yet, she takes a brief moment of pause to consider him. As aggravating as he was, he didn't seem drunk, as he'd stated before. She knew as well as anyone that stranger things can happen in this city than someone with a matching face making a disappearing act. Her jaw shifts slightly as she studies him, something more thoughtful creeping in beneath the annoyance.

Beck watches with interest as his hand threads through his torso as if passing through air, her gaze tracking the movement before lifting to meet his. This guy was an asshole of the highest order. But he was also completely out of his depth. A quiet breath escapes her, before she briskly turns.

"Follow me." Beck doesn't wait to see if he listens, turning and heading down the dimmer stretch of boardwalk, boots thudding softly against worn wood. The path is instinctive to her - turns and narrow walkways taken without thinking. Every few seconds she glances back, ensuring no one else was spotting them as they made their way through the shipyard.

"Despite all his coffee, Ronald is actually useless by this hour. Perhaps we can see who's right about this whole being alone on the dock thing." The words come out as barely above a whisper, only glancing briefly back to Dorian before she turns the last corner that gets them to the rickety building marked security.

Beck ducks, half crawling along the edge of the building's wall, until she's directly beneath the lip of the window sill. Only then does she rise, just enough to peer through the dirty glass. Ronald is exactly where he always is - slumped in a chair, head dipping forward and jerking back as he fights against sleep, and loses. There's a faint crackle of a radio that hums at his hip, but no other sign of anyone else inside.

Beck smiles faintly at the familiar sight, then tilts her head to indicate the door just beyond Ronald's outline. "The CCTV is just through there." The words are a whisper, glancing over to Dorian again. "Let's see if this mystery man of yours exists, shall we?"

Her attempt at humor earns her little more than a tight, unimpressed look. There’s a flicker of irritation there because yes, obviously this isn’t his only problem, and he doesn’t appreciate having it pointed out. He exhales through his nose, gaze already sliding past her as if she’s become incidental—because she has—attention drifting back to the rows of containers in search of his doppelgänger. “That’s not possible,” he mutters, more to himself than to her, though the volume carries, jaw tensing with barely concealed frustration. “He was right here.”

It’s her warning that draws him back in. He stills mid-step and abruptly turns back to her with a look that borders on incredulous. “Are you threatening me?” His gaze drags over her properly this time, assessing her in the dim light. “What are you, thirteen? Fifteen?” he adds, tone slipping into something faintly patronizing. “Are your parents around here somewhere? Should you be out this late at night?”

"Maybe you left your common sense somewhere with the forklift, too." She shoots back with an edged voice. "Along with your manners." She knows he's not entirely wrong with his assessment. That only makes it worse. There's no chance she'd give him the satisfaction of admitting to it, though - her response only a sharp eye roll instead.

When his attention drifts from her, something in her expression tightens. "I told you. There's no one else here but you and me." Her frown deepens, though a flicker of something almost amused tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Unless you count Ronald over at the security booth there. Seventy, smells like he's been marinating in instant coffee for a decade." A fake, dramatic gasp. "The two of you could be twins."

The smirk fades as quickly as it came. She exhales through her nose, reining herself in, forcing her words to be softer. Clearly this guy was going through a crisis, even if he was irritating. "There was no one else here."

As Dorian turns to leave, Beck watches him go, tension slacking from her shoulders. Not her problem anymore. She's already half turned back to the container when his voice breaks the quiet once more. Beck stills for a beat, before pivoting to meet him - slack jaw disbelief on her face.

"Excuse me?" She snaps, taking a few quick steps toward him, arms folded tight over her chest. "I'm not threatening you. I'm trying to help you - if you'd actually listen to me over the noise of your own ego. At least I'm old enough to know when to shut up."

"What could you be looking for over here too, my dear girl?" The woman looked vaguely familiar to Ayumu, but they could not quite place her. "The docks don't seem like a place for someone like you."

"The shipyard’s closed for the evening," she says, voice firm. "Being here counts as trespassing."

Her head tilts slightly as she studies them, though she can’t quite shake the awareness of being outnumbered - the dusk suddenly feeling less like cover, and more like exposure. She keeps her gaze deliberately away from the container she’d been inspecting, eyes narrowing just a fraction at their remark.

He shifts his weight, irritation surfacing in the set of his shoulders, in the tightness of his mouth. “He walked out of this place called Absynthia in my body, which I’m aware sounds absurd, so do spare me that particular reaction.” His hand drags briefly over his face, more habit than necessity, and there’s a flicker where his fingers lose cohesion before snapping back into place. “And before you ask, no, I’m not drunk, delirious, or whatever else you’re about to suggest.” He is starving, though—has been for hours now—and the fact that he can’t seem to keep hold of anything long enough to eat it is rapidly becoming a problem. His expression tightens, impatience slipping through the polish. “So if you’ve seen him, now would be an excellent time to say so.”

Slowly, she makes her way out of her hiding place, arms folded and a faint scowl settling into place.

"Most people want to steal what's inside the container, actu-" The words falter. Something isn't right here. Beck's gaze sharpens, fixing on him properly now. There's a strange softness to the edges of him, like he's not quite holding his shape. The light catches on him wrong, slipping through in places it shouldn't. For a second, she can't make sense of it. Then it clicks, her expression stilling.

"The only person I've seen with your face is... uh, you." Her mind catches up to the question, the words coming out bluntly.

Beck watches in slack mouthed disbelief as Dorian reaches up to rub his face, the shifting of the particles of his finger tips as they make contact. Or, don't make contact. Her experience with spirits had been limited at best, but all the ones she'd encountered before had seemed controlled, steady. This wasn't that.

"I was going to suggest you may be high, actually." Beck points out with awkward humor, though she manages to make her voice a little softer than before. "But I'm thinking that may not be your only problem." There's a pause, Beck taking a breath to reign in the instinctive bite of sarcastic follow up at his tone, studying him instead.

"I've only seen you."

Beck shifts her weight, taking a few cautious steps closer, eyes tracing his outline. Whatever has happened here, he doesn't seem like he knows, either. A fact which makes the wolf feel uneasy.

"You should be careful who you go around telling that particular story to, by the way, not everyone will react well to... whatever this is." She glances briefly over her shoulder, ensuring the dock still lay empty behind them.

Curiosity got the best of the vampire because he found himself approaching the building at the agreed time. He did owe her a favour after all. At the time, the bet had seemed kind of silly and Beck clearly did not trust him so the fact that she was reaching out was intriguing to the vampire.

The sound of his name echoed like a hiss and his eyes quickly found Beck, hidden away in the darkness. He followed her eyes into the darkness and stopped a few feet away. "I did," he agreed, chuckling at her surprised tone. Maybe he should have been more concerned about the idea of meeting in shadows and hanging around demon buildings but he was more interested in finding out what kind of trouble she was up to.

"It still stands," he assured, holding his hands up in defense. "I'm a man of my word. Scouts honour." He was fairly confident that he could protect her from most kinds of trouble. He was built to be fairly indestructible so long as they weren't messing around with the sun or deities.

"Alright, then." It comes out quieter than she expects. She studies him for a beat, before looking away - out to the alley stretching out ahead. "Just... don't make me regret this, yeah? I'm choosing to trust you. Just this once." She doesn't look back to him as she says it, instead she moves forward - steps slow, deliberate as she guides them toward the target.

Even she can't help a small smile as his own grows, feeling adrenaline begin to hum beneath her skin. Beck isn't a criminal. Not really - her worst offenses had always been accidents. Snatching clothes off a line after a wolf shift gone wrong, shoving drunk men who got too close just a little too hard on a night close to the full moon. Messy and instinctive, nothing that was ever planned. Not like this.

"Of course I've done this before." She'd never been any good at lying, and it's clear in the set of her jaw, even if she keeps her head angled away from him. When she finally glances back, there's a faint smirk there, hands sliding into her pockets like she could tuck her nerves away with them. "You don't exactly strike me as the 'keep your mouth shut' type, Isko."

Still, she continues walking, her steps becoming softer as she nears the entry point she'd identified earlier. The door blends into the wall if you didn't know to look for it - old wood worn down within the structure of the building. Beck presses her palm to it, easing the hinge just enough to reveal the dark beyond. A passageway curls inward, unlit. Too easily found - though that thought doesn't land just yet.

“Rebecca Dean,” she repeated, as if the name alone were explanation enough. Of course she knew who she was. Of course she had hoped to avoid her. She took the offered hand, her grip steady. “Joanna Darling. Pleasure.”

Her gaze flicked once toward the director, the assistants, the shifting lights, measuring how long this break might realistically last. “I have a few minutes before I’m needed back on set,” she said, tone cordial and contained. “Coffee sounds lovely.”

The smile curving at her mouth was warm enough to read well on camera, yet restrained enough not to promise anything beyond civility. Nothing in it suggested nerves, lack of sleep, or the fact that she still had no idea which ending they would be shooting an hour from now, or how much of a farce the entire production had been. “We’ve all been working very hard,” Joanna continued smoothly. “It’s been an ambitious project, and I think that shows. There’s a great deal of care going into it.”

Her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture relaxed, composed. Interview ready. “What would you like to know?”

"Ms Darling, it's an honour. I've been keeping up with your work for some time now. You've been making a big impact on set." In more ways than one, that's for sure, if the rumours around the actress are to be believed. Not the time to dive into that yet, though, the pleasant smile remaining afixed to Rebecca's features.

"Perfect! I know a coffee shop just across the street, we can walk and talk?" Rebecca had already set off at a brisk stride, notepad still in her hand as she moves towards the exit. She casts a brief look in Joanna's direction to ensure she's kept up, before she dives in.

"You can really feel the scale of the production." Rebecca meets Joanna's well trained line with her own civility, watching the actress with a faint look of curiosity. "A lot of moving parts, a lot of personalities. I imagine the dynamics can get... interesting, after a long day. Any creative differences?"

Rebecca allows a brief pause for the polished, media-trained answer Joanna was about to give, adding attentive nods in the right places. She even makes a show of writing down the bland response, knowing it won't be used. When Rebecca looks back up, though, there's something sharper in her eye - even if the smile is still perfectly composed.

"Speaking of creative differences," Rebecca spoke lightly, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, "there was talk on your last film about a disagreement with someone from the costume department. Jia Alexander, I believe. Very well regarded in her craft."

Her head tilted, watching closely - not confrontational, just patient enough to let silence do the work.

They observed her for a few moments, her hand extending to one of the more junior members of the crew, but when she made the suggestion for coffee, Caia knew that they had to step in.

Rebecca tilts her head, hugging her notepad against her chest. "I assume you've come to thank me? For the work I did on your last film project. I know you're all high and mighty about the value of cinematography. But you have to admit, my article did help win your piece some well needed publicity. Publicity that boosted viewers. You may not even be standing here now without me." That was perhaps pushing it, but you didn't get far in Hollywood without taking what you can get.

"Honey baby angel, let's do lunch, 'kay?" He smiled dodging the angry extra who had assumed their times with James meant that they were getting a better part. He could only do so much with a no name player that had a mild amount of talent. Not even he could cover that much. He patted people on the back, schmoozing with the cast and crew. He knew most of them- half of them intimately.

He knocked into someone, narrowly catching the drink that the other person was holding in their hand. "Careful there, dollface. Don't want you getting all wet over little old me." He sent them a wink, turning to face the next to him. "Well look who we have here? Good to see ya. How'd the movie go? Ready for it to be over yet? I've got some new projects in the works."

So, she'd made her slow way in his direction, propping herself against a wall to one side as she strained an ear to grasp the tail end of his conversation. At the last moment she shifts slightly, attempting to catch sight of exactly who he was blowing off - not realising just how close James himself had gotten to her until she bumps into him.

Rebecca manages to hide the internal eye roll at the nickname he chooses, instead covering the expression with a doe-eyed smile. "Oh, Mr Johnsen, I am so sorry, I did not see you there. Silly me." She gushes, shaking her head playfully. "Maybe you've gotten me mistaken. I'm Rebecca Dean, with The Hollywood Sentinel. I was actually hoping I'd bump into you. You've done a sensational job with the casting. Matthew Alexander as Victor was an inspired choice, I must say."

Her smile widens for a beat, holding up her note pad purposefully. "I've been assigned with interviewing some of the key players that have helped to make this movie the success it's becoming. I'd love it if you could spare me a few moments for an interview." Beck tilts her head, allowing an embarassed chuckle to escape after a brief moment of pause. "I know someone as important as you is very busy. But... perhaps we could chat over lunch? If you can find the time in your schedule."

Rei sat down next to her, taking the bottle from her hand to take a swig of his own. He wasn't nearly as drunk as her, so it would take a bit for him to catch up. "Oh, I can definitely keep up," he countered, taking another big drink before handing the bottle back. "Did you at least explore the rest of the festival before hiding away in your igloo palace?"