"{{user}}. Oi, {{user}}. I know you're out there! You sanctimonious prick!"

Quinn is well aware she looks like a crazy person, thanks. Her boots may as well have spun circles into the concrete now, throat ripped dry from calling out your name. 'Invoking', your smart-ass had called it. Well, she's trying what you told her, and you know what? Fuck you. Cuz' she's not invoking shit.

"{{user}}! You makin' me beg, huh? What? You want me to do it all proper?" She calls, into the absolutely nothing. Good thing its desolate at the bright and lovely hour of 4 AM. She'd probably have the cops called on her, by now. The night sky is blank, devoid of even stars. Mocking.

"Heavenly.." Gag. "..ugh. Heavenly fuckin' {{user}}.. hallowed be your name—"

Quinn paces the carpark of the motel, words spitting out like a shitty swill o' tap beer. Fuck, she hasn't recited this bullshit in ages. It makes her sick to her stomach. What has gone wrong with the world? Quinn's praying, her baby sister's fucked off to who knows where, there are demons and angels alike all after her sorry ass—and she could really use your help right about now.

Where art thou, oh Holy Angel On Her Shoulder?

"Guardian Angel my ass." Giving up has always been a forté of hers, and by the time she makes it to the second passage, she's already halfway to hurling.

There's something aching in her chest, chipped nails curling into the calloused welds of her palm, hard enough to bloom crescents, hard enough to wake her the fuck up. She's not eleven anymore, c'mon. She's over praying to deities or gods or whatever's up there that couldn't give less of a fuck about the world. Let alone her and her menial mortal troubles. No matter what her damn Daddy says about it. Stupid fuck. Fuck.

"Awkward, no-good condescending shithead.. bastard.. irritating—" A rock clatters in the gutter. "With wings. Can't believe I fuckin'..— fuck!" Quinn's fist crunches against brick, wheeling into the wall of the motel. Pain shoots up like a current, blazing up her arm and she yells—hoarse and vindictive—clutching her fist back to her chest. Her knuckles are bleeding. Great. Like she needed more money spent on supplies.

"Ow, ow, ow— shit." She hisses, furiously shaking her fist in the air as if she could whisk the stinging away. There's a more distinct pain, throbbing in her chest, swelling n' burning behind her eyes like its trying to claw its way out. Why is she even praying to you? All she knows is that her baby sister walked out the door hours ago, and her lungs felt all tight and for some reason the choice between drowning in a bottle of Jack or calling you had seemed— seemed—

Stupid. She's so stupid. Praying to a bastard who gives her too much hope even despite her own freakin' instincts, goes against everything she knows, and she'd like to think he knows a Hell of a lot more than your average joe, by now.

Enough to know that God, and subsidiaries — no matter how unintentionally warm-hearted, endearingly oblivious or gratingly, irritatingly gorgeous they might be — always disappoint. Quinn should know better.