"This is my friend from Chicago I toldja about."

[hazlogs]

It is currently Fri May 23 2003. Night.

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.

Rina laughs a little. "No!" she yells over her shoulder, leading the way in and heading for the coat check. The girl behind the half-door looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book--if he'd written cartoon erotica about punk schoolgirls. The music is hardcore industrial; at the moment it's a wild-sounding track from the Matrix sequel.

"Gonna ditch the coat," Rina says over her shoulder, and she begins stripping it off.

With the jacket closed up for riding, it wasn't obvious that she'd changed--but evidently she did. The back that's revealed when she slides the jacket from her shoulders is covered by a double layer of black mesh, semi-transparent enough to show some of the myriad scars beneath.

If the kinswoman were to take a good look at the Fianna, she'd see the skepticism written all over Charlie's face. A half-sigh, with a brief pause to take in a few of the other sights in the club, she follows along behind Rina.

A sea of black, with a splash of something else here and there: a goth wearing full Victorian regalia, a crewcut boss in a Russian military uniform, a petite and stunning Asian beauty in a skintight long red latex dress. There's something for everyone, apparently--and the only people turned away at the door are the fratboys in jeans and t-shirts.

Rina flirts a little with the coat check girl, but not long enough to be rude to her guest; she turns to look over her shoulder to Charlie. "You want to leave anything?" she yells.

A familiar figure lurks near the bar with a drink -- largely untouched -- at his elbow. Jack Salem's attire, the usual black-on-black, is appropriate for the Matrix soundtrack, though he lacks the dark glasses or the impractically long coat to look _completely_ the part. Face masked in an expression of aloof neutrality, the Walker watches the Temple crowd.

Charlie looks at Rina curiously. Then breaks into a wicked grin. "Like what? Boots? Bra? Oh, you mean /this/..." she touches her somewhat-trademark messenger bag thoughtfully. "Oh. I suppose. God knows its been stranger places. And away from me for stranger reasons."

Rina tips her head, regarding the woman slyly. "Well, if there's anything y'might /need/ in there..."

Charlie lowers her gaze somewhat, then lifts her chin, "Such as.....?"

Rina lifts a shoulder. "Y'never know... what's gonna come in handy." She holds out a hand, but adds, "Hang on to it if you want... but if you're gonna dance, I'd leave it here."

Charlie smirks, "In that case, I should hold onto it, huh?....'

Rina pouts at her, and leaves the window, tucking the ticket into a pocket. "Damn."

Charlie blinks, looking shocked. "Not even gonna /try/ to convince me? No cajoling? Pleading? Bribing? Threatening, even?"

A visual opposition of sorts, Charlie is both a charmingly attractive young lady and a slightly dangerous looking punk. She stands perhaps five-foot-five, and has a lean, somewhat tomboyish build. Denim blue eyes sparkle with fire and humour in a face that could be described as both delicate and strong. Clean lines accentuate high cheekbones, a determined jawline, and perfectly arched eyebrows. An ever-so-charming smile shows off dazzlingly white teeth. But then, there's the attitude, and the clothes. And the boots.

Sandy brown hair, streaked platinum in the front, is worn loose, the paler strands softly framing her face. A pair of skin-tight black PVC slacks cling to her thighs, the waist-band riding low enough to show off the steel barbell pierced through her navel. The legs flare just slightly, or rather, continue straight-leg enough to end crisply at the ankles, just high enough to show off the stylish black boots, which have a decidedly masculine square toe, but a rather feminine four-inch heel. What is presumably a black athletic bra is entirely visible through a sleeveless fine-mesh top, which clears a good five inches or more of midriff for viewing. Her arms are bare, save for the narrow arm-band tattoo of a barbed-wire/Celtic design. A battalion of earrings has taken up residence along her left ear. A wide black leather band embossed with steel skulls and spikes is on her right wrist, offsetting a heavy looking black-leather-and-steel watch on her left. A black messenger bag is slung over her left shoulder, the strap scattered with buttons and pins, and the bag itself tattooed with patches upon patches.

Rina touches the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. "Sure," she says amiably, grinning. "If y'don't dasnce with me, you'll be /real/ sorry."

Charlie folds her arms loosely across her chest. "And how sorry is /real/ sorry?"

Rina narrows her eyes. "Sorry." She steps closer, and slides a hand under the strap of the messenger bag. One of her heels is keeping the beat, and her hand transmits that thudding pulse to Charlie's shoulder.

Charlie doesn't budge an inch. Yet, anyway. "Sorry as in pain sorry, or sorry as in regret sorry?" She's pushing here, but she's obviously enjoying the little game.

"Regret, stupid," Rina answers back. She lifts one shoulder again, affecting indifference. "But it's your party. Y'not interested, I'm sure I can find /someone/ to dance with..."

And now that some more cards are revealed, the Fianna's eyes practically shine with mischief. "I'm certain. As could I. The question isn't /my/ interest. Its /yours/....."

While the two women banter and joust, the Temple continues to throb around them; the crowd and dim lighting keep the Walker Elder from spotting Rina and her friend. Most of his attention is, in fact, on the dance floor itself, where bodies jump and writhe.

He himself is a bit more noticable, if only due to the scars and the fact that, unlike most, he actually has some breathing space around him; people tend not to get close.

Rina laughs, and takes a step closer--hip to hip, with her hand still under the shoulder strap. "Oh, I get it. Should I be more clear about it?" Sliding her free arm around Charlie's waist, she looks at the Fianna rather directly. "Would the lady like to dance?"

Charlie winks. "Watch who yer calling a 'Lady'...." she chuckles, finally relinquishing the messenger bag.

With a triumphant smile, Rina turns on a heel and carries her prize to the coat check girl. When she returns there is a bounce in her step. "Want a drink or anything?" she asks.

Charlie shakes her head, then seems to reconsider. "That might depend on how seriously you want me t'dance. Its not exactly my forte, y'know."

Rina flashes a grin. "What, my whiskey wasn't enough?" She leads the way toward the bar. "You need to loosen up--" That's about when she sees him. A strange expression crosses her face, and then she speeds up, heading in Salem's direction with a subtle course change.

Charlie starts to reply, but apparently has more common sense than would appear. Pointedly shutting up, she can't help but notice the, well, tall, dark, and apparently brooding fellow at the bar. Especially since it seems she's heading towards him as well, by virtue of trying to stick close to Rina.

Salem spots Rina as she approaches and shifts his weight, straightening up from his lean against the bar and giving the kinswoman a faint, crooked little smile. His gaze shifts toward Charlie, then flicks back to Rina, and one eyebrow rises.

Rina grins, throwing herself against him in a brief embrace and the half-turning to gesture to Charlie. "This is my friend from Chicago I toldja about," she says, voice raised to be clear above the pounding.

Salem grunts, accepting the hug with an air of dignified indulgence and turns the mismatched eyes back to Charlie. "I see," he says, his own voice raised. "Welcome to St. Claire." His gaze on the newcomer is direct; he seems to be sizing her up.

Charlie, not one to be all that easily intimidated, steps close enough to Salem to be heard, herself. "Charlie," she offers, simply enough. Her chin lifts slightly, but her gaze shifts slyly between Salem and Rina, as if trying to make her own measurements of the pair.

"This's Salem," Rina says. "My right hand man, bodyguard, and pretty much family." She sets herself evenly between them, a facilitator.

Salem's body language is a mixture of tension and calm, a snarling monster under ice. He nods once. "Pleasure," he says to Charlie, then glances at Rina. "I _thought_ you might be dancing tonight." One side of his mouth twitches upward.

Charlie doesn't project near the aura of danger that Salem does. But, as the Walker and the kinswoman talk, she takes notice of the bar itself. Particularly the clean-shaven cranial-tattooed man seated next to her. Her gaze narrows slightly as she picks up his stare. "Not on your team, pal," she says, voice loud enough for him to hear, but not so loud as to disturb Rina and Salem. He starts to argue, but there's something about the look she gives him that causes him to back away without a word. That part of her personal space taken care of for now, she turns half an ear back to the Walker folk.

Rina's smile is bemused, when she looks over to Salem. "Tonight? Why? It was kindofa last minute weird thing..."

"Instinct," is Salem's answer, plain and simple.

Rina rolls her eyes, and slips in to stand next to Charlie at the bar. "What's your poison, babe?"

Charlie starts to answer, then smiles, suddenly, "Surprise me, eh?"

Rina grins dangerously, and leans over to murmur something to the bartender--well, yell at slightly lesser volume, really. Shortly thereafter, the man slides a highball glass to Charlie, full of something appallingly tropical in color, with a cherry and an umbrella.

Charlie's eyebrow quirks, "Th'fuck is this?"

Rina laughs. "Try it," she half-shouts. "Trust me."

Salem, looking amused, lifts his own glass -- vodka on the rocks -- and takes a swallow.

Charlie looks highly skeptical. "S'fuckin' Cancun in a glass." She eyes it, then eyes Rina. "If some fuckin' pool boy named Carlos shows up after I drink it, I'll be /extremely/ pissed off."

Rina giggles again, and shoots Salem a bright-eyed glance before returning her attention to the Fianna. "Drink!"

"I have a feelin' yer gonna /owe/ me," the Fianna shouts, before plucking the tiny umbrella out, tossing it to the side, and taking a gulp.

Salem continues to smirk faintly, amused at the Fianna's situation and Rina's impish demeanor. Especially since her sense of humor isn't directed at _him_.

"Hey," Rina asks, "can you do that thing with the cherry stem?" She is having way too much fun.

Charlie gives a snort, eyeballing the glass. "Wouldn't you like t'know?" she responds, glancing over at Salem for a moment, before muttering, well, actually speaking at normal volume, something about, "Mixed.... fuckin' wasted.... ruin.... good alcohol."

Salem says dryly, and too low to hear properly, "I bet she _would_."

Charlie rolls her shoulders, not unlike a boxer before a fight, letting the alcohol seep settle into her like so much comfortable cocoa. She makes a point of picking up the cherry and eating it, merely twirling the stem in her fingers for the moment.

Rina and Charlie dance for a bit after that, with Salem watching. Then he leaves them to it.