It is currently 22:53 Pacific Time on Thu Jan 9 2003.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 35
degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.01 and steady, and the relative humidity
is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (46% full).
An old church, no longer used for its original purpose, looms over the
northern corner of Regan and Tenth. From about eleven o'clock onward, the
clubbing crowd trickles in, with some of the leather-clad youngsters
hanging around in the church parking lot. Lights flash behind the stained
glass windows, and the thudding beat of the music can be heard from
outside.
Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face.
Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from
generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just
long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut
tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a
velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned,
her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a
shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup;
save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite
painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful
face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a
certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an
element of tension as well.
Utilitarian black cloaks the girl's body: loose black fatigues,
lightweight army boots, and a long-sleeved knit shirt that hugs the
muscles of her upper body.
She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. On her right hand is band
with three inset stones: a larger diamond framed by two smaller ones, set
flush with the surface of the band. On the left is a simple band decorated
with letters and scrollwork.
Rina leans in a doorway near the parking lot, watching the evening's
action. She does not wear her telltale leather jacket, tonight, but a
slightly oversized leather blazer that almost reaches her knees, thick and
baggy enough to hide weapons.
The typical night's current of leather and chrome flows into the parking
lot and then into the Temple itself, leaving behind only a few stray
eddies, knots of two or three, St. Claire's nightlife defiant against the
winter chill; the cool ones don't even deign to shiver. Rina gets a few
looks, naturally. More than a few. More than once, someone -- male,
female, deliciously androgynous -- makes an attempt to entice her inside.
Rina shrugs off the approaches, though now and then someone she knows gets
a kiss on the cheek and a moment's chat. Suli gets a little more attention
than that, but Rina still does not come in; instead she heads over to one
of the knots her head bowed.
Of the trio that Rina approaches, it's the woman who notices her first --
mid-twenties, pale and freckled, calm blue eyes over a thin, straight nose
and a full mouth. She's dressed more colorfully than most, and certainly
moreso than her two companions, both of whom look like they're ready to
step onto the set of _The Crow_. She's dressed in dark purples and goldes;
her hair -- obviously a wig -- shines a metallic rainbow. It's no one
Rina's ever seen before, though the two boy-men are familiar enough.
The woman nudges the youth closest to her, and conversation stills.
"Got what I'm lookin' for?" she murmurs, slanting a dark-eyed look to the
woman.
The woman tips her head to one side, looking Rina up and down, openly
assessing her. A touch of a smile comes to her lips, vaguely condescending
underneath its warmth. "Maybe," she drawls in a soft Southern lilt.
"Depends on what y'lookin' for."
"Something in candy-apple red, beautiful," Rina murmurs. Her smile quirks
up at one corner.
The woman's eyebrows lift. Close-up, the Walker kinswoman notices that
they're pencilled in. "Ooh. Y'wantin' somethin' _special_, then." She
grins crookedly, then turns, rising on her toes slightly to give the
taller of her two friends a kiss on the cheek. "Why don' you 'n Rex go in
an' have some fun. I join y'all inna few." She watches them go, still
smiling, and after a moment turns back to Rina. Again comes that
calculating gaze.
"So special, that I don't have any." Her smile's cooller now; one gloved
hand comes up to brush at the metallic strands falling over her forehead.
"If y'lookin' for the special _lettered_ red pills, they only give those
out at special parties. 'Least, far as _I_ hear."
Rina nods, lifting a shoulder and glancing away. "No worries." She looks
back over to the woman, her eyes dark and lazy. "Just casing. Lookin' to
make the night a little better..." She shrugs again, blowing air up into
her bangs. "I'll find some E or somethin', I guess."
"E, I got," says the stranger, pushing her hands into the pockets of her
purple-and-gold mock-camo pants. She rocks on the heels of eighteen-hole
Docs. "Coupl'a nice lil' pills, make the night all sparkly."
Rina faces off with her, a hand sliding into one pocket. "How much?"
The dealer names a price, a little higher than average, but not excessive.
Her shoulders roll into a shrug, unrepentant. "Good quality, a'course.
Keep y'flyin' all night."
Rina flashes a smile, and folds a crisp bill into her hand, in the
concealment of the jacket pocket. "You got a name, babe?"
The dealer slips a hand into her jacket. "It's Lara, sugar," she drawls,
with a hint of some private amusement. "How many y'want?"
"Two will do," Rina answers. She makes the trade with an expert
hand--making it look like nothing more than a friendly caress. "Nice
t'meet ya. Sugar."
"Likewise." Lara's made the cash disappear with all the deft
sleight-of-hand of a stage magician or a pickpocket. Her lips remain
curved in a crooked smile, freckled nose slightly wrinkled. "Have fun now,
angel." She turns and starts to walk off, toward the Temple, but veering
away from the entrance.
Rina wets her lips, and pockets the drugs without looking at them. She
watches the woman out of the corner of her eye, as she returns to her
post--perhaps to get some idea where she might be headed. Down an alley,
or a street?
Lara heads down an alley, vanishing into the shadows past a scarred metal
dumpster. The last Rina sees of her is a glimmer as the wig briefly
catches the half-dim moonlight.
Rina purses her lips, and scans the traffic into the club. This is not a
time to take that E, but it seems to be trying to itch its way out of her
pocket and into her hand. She finds a shadowed doorway, and slouches there
to look for any other likely prospects.
Nothing looks particularly promising, and a few are downright unappealing
-- people she knows who deal in shit, sometimes life-threatening shit. The
pills Lara gave her, if she cares to examine them, are pale, with little
butterflies stamped onto them. But before she can succumb to temptation, a
familiar figure makes its way across her field of vision. As always,
Salem's easy to spot; he stalks along with hands in his coat pockets and
his hair tied back.
Rina's hand closes, and opens, and her brow furrows. She watches without
speaking, frowning slightly, waiting to see where he's headed.
Salem's headed for the Temple, it looks like, though he slows as he enters
the parking lot, taking his time to examine the details, to watch the
crowd moving toward the doors, the few who continue to brave the January
chill.
A breath, a moment's decision, and then she crosses toward the familiar
doors--giving him just enough distance to keep track of him.
Nearing the doors, Salem pauses and looks back over the parking lot. His
features are half-light sketches his face in patches of shadow, a grim and
dour mask, half-wrecked by keloid tissue.
She doesn't make any effort to hide from him--stifling that instinct, an
old habit from following John too many times. There is a touch of
nervousness, though; she wets her lips.
Salem stares at her for a moment, his expression unchanging, then makes
his way toward her. He's tense under the half moon, body language
twitching with a vague, undirected restlessness, but he greets her without
anger. "Evening, Rina."
"Hey..." She tips her head when she meets him, giving him a questioning
look. "Not somewhere I expected t'see you. W'sup?"
"Am I that predictable?" One side of his mouth twitches upward, and then
the half-smile vanishes. "Altering my usual patrol. Temporarily, anyway.
Keep an eye on things. You know."
Rina nods, a flicker of wryness in her half-smile. She is close enough
that she needs to tilt her head a little, to look up at him: too close.
"Somehow I din't think you were here t'get high and dance."
Salem snorts. "I don't dance." His eye shifts from the club to her face,
looking down at her. Yes, she _is_ close, and he shifts his weight subtly,
pushing his hands deeper into his pockets.
Rina wets her lips again, a touch of nervousness in the gesture. She gives
a little lift of her chin, a glance to the door. "You goin' in?"
"For a bit, I suppose," he murmurs. His frown deepens a notch as he eyes
her. "Something wrong?"
Rina shakes her head minutely, a wry smile coming to her lips. "Nah. Just
a little thrown." Turning on one heel, she walks with him to the doors.
The cover is light, this being Thursday; the ID she shows is not hers.
Salem makes a little 'hrmph' sound as he walks with her into the club.
"See anything interesting tonight?" he asks her once they're past the
bouncers.
Rina shakes her head, and flashes him an 'I've-been-bad' smile. "I'll tell
you later," she half-shouts over the pounding music.
Temple
This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly
raw acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and
tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which
has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet
overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass of
dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St.
Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash
clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium
downtown.
The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often
used for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times,
exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or
dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the
nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the CD
spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of the
club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as seating
areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the occasional
unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained velvet sofas
and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide conversation areas
somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, arranged in an arc
behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the Nachtskinder to play,
exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other vices.
The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the
street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually
can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.
In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor
galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch the
writhing below.
Salem shakes his head slightly after giving her a bit of the old hairy
eyeball and a lifted eyebrow. For a while, at least, he's content to
follow her through the club, though not onto the dance floor. Mayhap the
day _that_ happens is the same day that the Apocalypse comes. The tall
Garou scans the crowd with a casual facade, letting his gaze drift.
Rina tours around the area of the bar, and is almost enticed to join Suli
and her gathered court... but then, she isn't really dressed for it, and
so the lovely Asian woman waves her away after a mere kiss on the cheek.
After weaving her way through the crowd to check the night's clientele,
Rina makes her way around to the side aisle, to walk into the relative
quiet that exists behind the sacristy, in the gutted chapels. Some are
curtained, some screened, and some are mere open alcoves; most have some
semblance of furniture, leftovers pews and altars scattered here and
there. The clandestine business back here is occasionally more unsavory
than drug trade, at least unless one's tastes run toward the
unconventional.
Salem makes no comment -- that that he could, much, over the sound level
inside the club. In truth, he actually seems calmer than usual, not
exactly at-home, but far less tense than he's been when circumstances have
previously drawn him here.
Nicodemus passes through the entrance to the temple, immediately catching
the brief attentions of the gothic old school regulars. He moves off to
speak with a small group of acquaintances.
Rina pauses, as they walk by one of the first chapels at the back
curve--well away from the dancing, though the music still thuds loud
against stone walls. She puts a hand to the iron grillework that screens
off the alcove, and looks into the empty space, expressionless for a
moment. There is no one here; a bargain of some sort seems to be going
down some distance away down the back arch, but this particular chapel is
deserted, hung with tattered curtains and holding only a forlorn-looking
altar.
As he and the kinswoman move away from the throbbing heart of the Temple,
Salem's attention diverts itself away from the Thursday crowd and more
toward the woman at his side. He lifts an eyebrow at her, a questioning
look on scarred features.
Rina doesn't look at him. Something twists across her face, and her hand
tightens on the bar; turning her face away, she says, "I shouldn't've come
here." Not loud enough, quite, to necessarily be heard above the echoing
music. With a fierceness that betrays anger, she turns and stalks back
toward the roiling dance floor. Her expression is as bleak as the
clientele.
Making her way into the temple is Alicia, bobbing along with the beat of
the music. She is dressed up for the occassion, opting for black instead
of her typical pop star attire. Her heavy boots thud upon the ground,
noise lost by the defeaning echo of the bass. She has on a pair of tight
leather pants and a half shirt tight to her chest. Chains are snapped to
her wallet, dangling knee length. Her eyes sweep through the crowds of
people, lips wettening a touch.
Nicodemus detaches from the goth groupies and moves over to the bar to
order a drink, eliciting a piercing shriek of horror from the female
bartender that carries over the music. The goth groupies laugh at the
outburst and Nicodemus waves at the onlookers with a skeletal left hand
before turning back to the unnerved and now perturbed bartender.
Salem frowns slightly. He hesitates a moment, peering into the chapel,
then shakes his head and moves after Rina, muttering to himself in Serbian
as he does so.
Reaching the edge of the dancefloor and the sacristy, Rina stops short for
a moment, staring at the snake-eyed priest; then she does a classic take,
blinking several times and giving a quick shake of her head. "Jesus Christ
on rollerblades," she mutters.
At a glance: Goth, male, early twenties, thin, and about 5'4"ish in
height--in about that order.
Nicodemus is currently wearing.... a formal Catholic priest tunic with
matching black loafers. He's not wearing his usual glasses. Instead, he's
got designer contacts with reptilian-shaped green eyes. His left hand,
barely protruding from the black sleeve, consists of nothing but white
bones--no flesh at all.
There's probably a special place in Hell reserved for him with a gold
nameplate already on the door.
Winding an weaving her way through the people, Alicia dances while she
looks around, spotting Nick easily enough. She has a good eye for that
one, and she is purosely seeking him out. Lifting up a hand, she waves for
his attention if possible, then strides over.
Salem catches sight of Nick's _interesting_ attire a moment after Rina
does, and he stiffens, his eyes widening. "Attention-getting, isn't it?"
He spots Alicia, too, once the Gaian's neared the hell-bent goth, and his
lips thin slightly.
Having reinforced his status in the local goth pecking order for at least
a month or three to come, Nicodemus pulls the skeletal hand off, lays it
on the bar, and uses his left hand (complete with flesh) to fish out a
wallet to pay for a drink. He leans against it as the beverage is prepared
and re-attaches the bone hand, noticing Alicia as she approaches and
offering her a faint nod in greeting. He seems more or less content to
fade into shadows after making his dramatic entry.
"Halloween isn't for another nine months." Alicia says jokingly as she
reaches Nick, peering up at him with a laugh behind her lips. Before she
can get anything else out, her attention diverts, catching Salem's voice.
"Hey bro." She says, eyes shifting towards the Walker's. "Wow.. small
world? Where's Rina? I know you don't come here on your own."
Turning to look over her shoulder, Rina tips her head up to speak to
Salem. Her face is bleak, terrible, her voice half-covered by the music.
Certainly not audible as far as the bar. "I might have a lead for you,"
she says.
Salem raises a hand toward Alicia, then holds up a finger in a 'one
moment' gesture. As for Rina, she's visible beside him, if somewhat
dwarfed. "Do tell," he replies, at the same volume, looking back down at
her. "Not here, though."
Nicodemus asides to Alicia, just loud enough to carry nearby, "Got some
info for you, but," he says, mirroring Salem, "not here, though. Private."
Rina nods minutely, answering Salem without a sound. From somewhere, she
summons a tiny, not-quite-there smile; almost out of necessity, she asks,
"You gonna dance?" This time she raises her voice a little, enough for him
to hear clearly.
"Gotcha dude." Alicia says, clicking a steele ball against her teeth from
upon her tongue. She leans up against the bar next to Nick, turning her
gaze over to Rina, dipping her head slowly in a nod.
Salem pulls a bit of a grimace, eyeballing the dance floor with mingled
loathing and trepidation. "God, no. But don't let me stop you." He looks
down at her again. "Unless you'd rather tell me what you need to tell me
first."
Rina glances toward the bar, her expression still bleak. She answers
Alicia's nod, and then looks back to Salem. Another quick, pallid smile
comes to her lips, and she takes a step closer, tipping her head up again.
"You sure, Jack?"
Salem gives Rina a somewhat wary look, then quirks one side of his mouth
into a wry half-smile. "Completely."
She sets a hand on his chest, turning the invitation to an appeal--but the
effort is halfhearted, ruined by her fell, despairing eyes. Even that
unhappy half-smile has an edge to it, a darkness.
Alicia chuckles softly. "Hey Rina, I'll dance with ya." She says with a
grin upon her face.
Another bartender returns with Nicodemus' drink. Bloody Mary by the looks
of it. Go figure. The previous bartender is working the opposite side of
the bar now in some collaborative bartender trading scheme. "Thanks," Nick
says to the new guy.
The club is loud, full of chaos and music if not quite full of people.
Back by the sacristy, Salem has evidently turned Rina down. The Walker kin
ducks her head, and walks away from the dancing--into the darker aisle
that wraps around the back of the sanctuary, returning to her scanning of
the back chapels.
Salem casts a final look over the dance floor, then toward the bar. Then
he turns and follows Rina off to the back, mouth thinned.
Nicodemus takes a sip from his drink and asks, "Want one? We could pop
outside for a minute and take care of business."
Rina paces, restless, taking an inventory of any action in those back
chapels--a mental list of who is where, new faces, known quantites. When
she reaches the back again, the place directly behind the sacristy where
the music is a vague booming echo, she turns to look at Salem. "Why are
you here?"
Alicia nods her head and follows after the goth, trailing a gaze after
Salem for a moment, then furrows her brows. "Sure. I can snag a drink. You
buying?"
Nicodemus spares only a glance in Salem and Rina's general direction. Or
where they were, at least. "Like bloody mary's?" he says, offering his
hardly even touched drink as he stops leaning against the bar and stands
erect.
One of Salem's hands pats at his coat, near the inside pocket where he
keeps his cigarettes, but doesn't go for them. Instead, the Philodox folds
his arms across his chest, frowning. "Checking things out, as I said. No
particular reason other than that. Why?"
Alicia reaches out and takes it, drawing a sip off the rim. "I'll try
anything once." She says, licking her lips. With a dip of her head, she
starts for the front door. "C'mon, lets talk."
Rina swallows, shaking her head quickly. Her expression is dark, and he
catches the flash of tears in her eyes as she turns her face away. "I
shouldn't've come here," she says again, angrily. Hands are jammed into
the pockets of her jacket, abruptly.
Salem's brow furrows. He unfolds his arms, touches her shoulder lightly.
"Rina... What's wrong?" His face is full of confusion and concern; his
voice is utter patience.
Rina tenses, wrapping both arms around herself and staring hard at what
used to be the Mary chapel. The stone walls could not be less yielding.
"He's everywhere," she says tersely.
Salem grimaces. "He needs to be taken care of," the Walker mutters. "After
this fucking UL thing is finished with, I think."
Rina swallows thickly. "No," she answers, her voice hoarse. "Not him."
Salem arches an eyebrow. "Eh?"
Rina closes her eyes tightly, and the tension racks up another notch. The
word seems forced from her. "John."
Salem blinks once as understanding dawns. "Ah," is all he says for a
moment, and that quiet. He stares at the wall and away from her, his face
heavy.
Rina closes her eyes. "Will you-- can you--" She is numb, distant. "I'm
goin' home."
Salem nods mutely and offers her his arm, his expression unreadable.
She doesn't take it--just turns and walks slowly, her head bowed.
Salem's mouth thins for a moment, then settles back into that facade of
calm blankness. He falls into step with her, heeling like a well-trained
dog.
She doesn't even look at him, until they are outside; then there are only
glances, bleak and silent. When they reach her door, she touches him just
once, a hand to his arm as if to offer comfort somehow. There is none to
give. She turns, then, and goes inside.
Salem stands outside her building for a long several minutes, his
expression bleak. Then he turns away, heading home.
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