Dr. Pamela Isley (poisonisley) wrote in gotham_lights,
Dr. Pamela Isley
poisonisley
gotham_lights

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Pamela's flat - Late afternoon - November 29th

A cacophony of colour litters the floor of Pamela Isley's smallish bedroom. Every once in a while a bright blur of green or red will come flying backward out of the closet, having not met the requirements. She now exits the small alcove, hands on her hips, brow pinched in indecision. A glance to the clock -- three thirty-three. If she were a superstitious woman (she isn't) Pamela would think that the coincidental alignment of digits actually meant something. But a scientific mind has no room for folklore or mythology, so she takes the time at face value: she had approximately twenty-seven minutes to find a suitable outfit for her dinner date, or else she wasn't going.

Well, that might be too hasty.

She glances back at her closet, hangers cast to and fro, various boxes tumbling over one another like bricks in a yard. Only one garment has escaped her desultory examination: a knee-length hunter-green cocktail dress that she'd bought to wear to the examination of her doctoral thesis. It was modest only in length, making up for it in the v-neck swoop that was showcase enough. She'd worn it to dinner with Jason after she'd been granted her PhD., and the memory tugs on something primal. Forget it, Pam. She strides over to the closet and tugs the dress off of the hanger, the green silk cool between her fingers. She wasn't sure if it was entirely appropriate for the motorcycle ride, but couldn't you sit sidesaddle on those things anyway?

She steps into the dress and zips it up, arms strained at the sockets from the effort. Her hair and make-up were already accounted for: a natural dashing of rouge and mascara (she was never one for gaudy appearances.) She examines her reflection in the vanity mirror. Frowns. Something's missing. An epiphany seizes her and she roots around in the junk drawer of her bureau, drawing out a velvet box. Inside is a delicate brooch done to look like a thicket of ivy leaves, garnet stones interwoven with the gold filigree. She pins the bauble to the shoulder of her dress and aims another glance in the mirror.

Perfect.

She has a few moments to spare, so she darts into the makeshift laboratory off the bedroom and checks on her samples. The tissue from Woodrue's body is still running that infernal scan, but she's made progress. By the morning she'd be able to isolate the sequence caps and figure out just what was the concoction Woodrue'd lauded her with. And to carry on where he failed, she thinks with a small smirk. The window of the laboratory, muffled with thick crepe, nevertheless broadcasts a singular headlight. She peels back the tape and looks down into the street, spying an idling motorcycle amongst the foot traffic. She smiles.

Grabbing the small clutch from the table she locks the door and palms her keys, descending the twisting flight of stairs to the street below.

(Open to grayson_redbird)
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