#hellstrung

ANITA WASNT BUILT FOR UNDERCOVER. she lacked the tact, the patience required to stick out a long convoluted lie. not to mention that her  its not that she couldnt do what was needed to get the job done but she just wasnt good at it. honesty was easier. using it correctly, she could see the cracks in peoples masks, the uncomfortable way they fidgeted under her unwavering expectation. but it was hard to discern a house full of people when the hunter felt completely out of her own skin. instead of her usual jeans, boots and leather jacket, she wore a flower patterned pastel sundress, heels with a red sweater to cover up the scars on her left arm. the one on her collarbone was still visible, light pink skin blooming in what used to be obvious tears. at a ‘neighborhood’ party like this, it was the first thing every suburbanite saw. well, besides her cleavage. the tight knit community was right out of stepford wives. even when people were mysteriously turning up dead, outsiders were not welcome. there was no investigation if they were being watched the moment they stepped foot into town—unless they played ‘hot newly weds’ who just bought a house nearby. a change of clothes, some hair gel, make up and a fake smile later, two armed hunters became mr. and mrs. clark. it was like throwing bait into a pool of piranhas. every middle aged house wife was looking at dean like he was on the menu.   " do you know how hard it is to be tough when you're holding a pink cupcake holder in your hand? " “ youre wearing khakis, ” she mumbled, placing the bottle of wine down with the many others. “ you lost ‘tough’ long before cupcake holder. ”  for a town thats had six people show up dead, the small neighborhood country club seemed to be unaffected. drinks were being poured, children played out in the grass, laughing at offices stories, gossiping about an affair, giggling over baby photos—it was overwhelmingly mundane. she took the cupcake holder from his hands, placing it with the other assortment of baked goods and charcuterie boards.   “ i hope they have something stronger than wine.”

❝if you think you're going to weasel your way into this town...❞ derek utters in a gruff, warning tone. gaze flickers, sharpens. ❝might want to think twice on that.❞ a promise derek would make good of.

       ❛  whoa  there,  those  tabloids  are  big  deals.  ❜  of  course,  he’s  being  sarcastic.  he  doesn’t  think  tabloids  are  anything  important.  they  don’t  involve  him  after  all!  and  he  doubts  many  people  believe  them  anymore.  ❛  we  wouldn’t  want  you  being  overdramatic  about  something  so  serious.  ❜

"Look, ya got a towel or somethin'?"

❛  really?  ❜       there  are  some  logical  flaws  in  his  line  of  argument,  as  evidenced  as  follows:        ❛  let’s  see:  if  it  looks  like  a  human  and  talks  like  a  human  ...  ❜        she  raises  her  eyebrows,  purposefully  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished  to  see  if  it  clicks.  she’s  referring  to  herself,  clearly  not  being  human  despite  the  external  circumstances.

 he's  gotta  admit,  the  little  porcelain  faces  staring  out  from  behind  glass  are  definitely  top  tier  creep  factor  --  but  there's  still  a  point  where  he's  gotta  draw  the  line.  ( which  gives  peter  another  internal  conflict  of  itself,  but  we  won't  dive  into  that  just  now  --  because  if  he's  not  willing  to  accept  the  idea  that  dolls  can  just  come  to  life  and  murder  people  but  he  is  willing  to  accept  that  a  man  can  transform  himself  into  a  giant  lizard,  just  where  is  the  suspension  of  belief? )  ahem.  “ i  mean,  yeah  they're  creepy,  but... ”    he  shrugs,    raising  a  brow  over  at  the  other  before  looking  back  to  study  the  cased  figurines. museums  are  basically  just  a  storage  facility  for  the  world's  creepiest  relics.    “ are  you  implying  coming  to  life  in  a  toy  story  kind  of  way  or  just  like. . .  telekinetic,  mind-murder?  because  either  way... ”     he  cuts  himself  off  with  the  self-realization  of  implicit  overthinking. “ they're  locked  up  for  good  measure  then,  right?  we  should  probably...keep  going. and  avoid  eye  contact.  good  plan. ”