"Ask his BG. RoP?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:16 Pacific Time on Sun Dec 28 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (36% full).

Weather: Cloudy, mid-20s F.

Whispering Pines - Jeremy's Apt

This apartment gives a look of high expense, not in the building itself, but
      it's contents. The walls and ceiling are painted pure black, and the 
      carpet matches the darkness, save for some off color fuzz, being that 
      it's a pretty new carpet. Across from the door in the living area is a 
      large black entertainment center consisting of a not suprisingly black 
      42" TV, a large fully digital stereo system with CD and tape players, 
      AM/FM stereo, a setting for the TV, and a useless setting called 'phono'. 
      There are various gaming systems tucked into the entertainment center as 
      well, baring names like Dreamcast, Playstation and Playstation 2, various 
      systems with the word 'Nintendo' upon them... 3D0, NeoGeo, and finally 
      something called a 'colecovision'. This system is complemented nicely by 
      a high quality Bose surround sound speaker system. Two black leather 
      couches are on the left and right of the living area, angled at the 
      entertainment center. A large chest rests on the ground between the 
      couches and the entertainment center, working as a foot rest. The only 
      sources of light are the LEDs on the stereo, the TV, and a small 
      blacklight bulb in the fan in the center of the apartment. A door to the 
      right of the apartment leads to Roger's bedroom(+view) and the small 
      kitchen is visable on the right side of the apartment, almost a part of 
      the living room. The kitchen is lit up by a hallogen lamp, resting next 
      to the front door, pointed towards it.

Making his way through the living room, Jeremy glances over to Anthony,
      offering up a quick grin. "Hey." He says, rolling his shoulder a bit. 
      "Salem will be over here in a few minutes. He's out in the hall on a 
      phone call." A look of amusement passes over his features for a moment, 
      before he opens up the fridge. "Want anything to drink?" Soon after he 
      speaks the last word, there is a sharp, three strike rap against the door.

Anthony pulls a lumpy plastic bag out of the suitcase's liner. He gives it a
      light shake or two testingly, and sighs. "There it is," he says to nobody 
      in particular, before turning to Jeremy. "Just some water, I think." Upon 
      hearing the knock on the door, he kicks the clothes into the suitcase a 
      bit haphazardly, deciding to neaten up his mess.

Outside Jeremy's door, Salem passes a hand over his stubbled scalp and exhales
      a breath, waiting for the kin to open up. He's in a dour mood -- but, 
      then, when _isn't_ he in a dour mood?

Hurrying over to the door, Jeremy tosses a bottled water, chilled from the
      fridge, over to Anthony. Jerking the door open, he gives a quick smile to 
      Salem, then waves his hand over towards the new Garou.

Salem smiles thinly to the gothkin as he enters, then turns his attention on
      Anthony; he looks the newcomer up and down.

About five-foot-six and a touch on the stocky side, Anthony appears to be in
      his late teens. He has deep brown eyes framed by bushy eyebrows and high 
      cheekbones, and his curly umber hair is close-cropped, a pair of thick 
      sideburns running from above his ears down the sides of his jaw.
He wears a heavy red down coat over a loose black-and-gray checked shirt, a
      pair of formerly dark blue jeans that ride a bit low, and thick-soled 
      hiking boots. A plain gold chain glints a little on the back of his neck. 
      On his head is a faded blue baseball hat with an ornate "NY" embroidered 
      on it in white.

Anthony reaches for the tossed bottle. It bounces out of his hand and skitters
      away across the carpet. He jerks sideways to try to recover the fumble, 
      and ends up rolling off the edge of the sofa.

Jeremy looks straight faced at the antics of Anthony, then heads over to his
      computer desk, flopping down into the leather swivel seat. "Anthony. This 
      is Salem.. or to the Garou, known as Scar. He is a Half Moon for the 
      Glass Walkers, and the Don of St. Claire's."

Salem arches an eyebrow at Anthony, and his lips thin. He gives the stocky
      teenager a moment to recover himself before going over to shake his hand.

Anthony gulps and climbs up to his feet, face beet red now. He furtively glares
      at Jeremy for a second or two before clearing his throat and shaking 
      Salem's hand. "... hello, sir," he says temerously, trying not to make 
      the first impression any worse than it already is.

Jeremy tilts his head to the side slightly, then clears his throat. "The Don,
      will want to know your full name, rank and serial number." He says 
      calmly, leaning back into his chair, fingers steepling before his chest.

Salem refrains from squeezing painfully down on Anthony's hand, though his grip
      is firm enough to indicate that he could cause quite a bit of discomfort 
      if he chose to. He smiles a thin-lipped smile, and his mismatched gaze 
      never leaves Anthony's face.

"Oh. Oh, uh, right. My name is Anthony Bonavitacola; to my former sept I was
      known as Shakes-the-Earth; I am, uh, a New Moon," he recites carefully. 
      He digs his hands into his pants pockets uncomfortably, his gaze focused 
      on a point somewhere past Salem's head.

Pausing for a moment after a slight round of typing on the keyboard in front of
      him, Jeremy clears his throat, then continues. "The Don also wishes to 
      know why you have came to St. Claire's, and what your plans here in this 
      Sept will be."

Salem releases Anthony's hand once the introduction is given and jerks his head
      in a curt nod. He gives Jeremy a glance and another thin smile, then 
      shrugs out of his coat and takes a seat facing the Ragabash.

Anthony looks back at Jeremy, and then back to somewhere-behind-Salem. "The
      elders of my former sept had recommended that I come to your, you know, 
      uh, area to, um, train, because, you saw, I kind of have this problem 
      with, uh, my coordination but they thought I could help out here, and, 
      well, I plan to lend my assistance to the caern in ... whatever manner is 
      necessary, since, well, I don't really know what you need help with, so I 
      guess I really don't know what my plans are here, but this is all my 
      elders' idea, really," he rambles.

Salem folds his arms across his chest, nose wrinkling. So far, he seems
      unimpressed.

Holding up a hand for a moment to pause Anthony after his last word, Jeremy
      pauses for a moment, then offers a slight smile towards the other, his 
      features otherwise stony. "The Don wishes to know what kind of skills you 
      can bring to the family." He says that last word with a bit of an edge to 
      it, despite looking like a morbid, gothy rag doll from his perch on the 
      chair, staring at the Garou. "He also wishes to know what you will bring 
      to the Sept, in offering for Chiminage, so that you can be named one of 
      the great Hidden Walk."

Anthony pulls his hands out of his pockets to wipe them on his shirt. "I ...
      well ..." He's extremely flustered, now.

Salem exhales a soft, sighing, mildly exasperated breath.

"Take your time Mister Bonavitacola. Its not a question that may be answerable
      on the spot." Jeremy says flat toned as he lets his fingers fall back 
      upon the keyboard, tapping away a bit. "The Don is a patient Garou." He 
      says with a moment's pause. "For the most part."

Anthony inhales, exhales, and inhales again. He decides to take a seat, mulling
      over his thoughts and remaining quiet for now.

Jeremy swivels himself back around to face the computer, tapping away at it for
      a but until Anthony decides to talk again.

Salem shakes his head. He takes out a PDA, writes on it with the stylus for a
      moment, then shows it to Jeremy.

Jeremy tilts his head and glances over to the PDA, quirking up a brow.

Long distance to Jeremy: Salem | "Ask his BG. RoP?"

Jeremy looking towards the PDA is like the trigger of a mine, a sudden
      explosion of movement and light shinning from the laptop screen onto 
      Jeremy's face like old black and white movies from a projector. A small 
      alarm sound, faint but definatly noticable accompanies the sound. In 
      addition the television screen comes on and displays three different 
      scenes at once in a three way 'pie' split screen. Two different angles of 
      the same scene upon the roof, one at the front door of the building.

Jeremy clears his throat and glances over to Anthony once more. "The Don wishes
      to know about you, where you are from. Your life as a Garou in New York. 
      How you came about your Rite of Passage and ...." He pauses for a moment, 
      then stops, glancing to the television. He is out of his seat in a 
      moment, heading straight for the wide screen tube.

Anthony looks up at Salem and Jeremy's conversation, scratching his head. He
      starts to say something, but the sudden burst of activity silences him.

These scenes depict non-distinct people, four in both groups, wearing all gray
      SpecOps gear, night vision goggles and full belt holsters containing no 
      less than six different devices... with the obvious gun and close combat 
      knife among other non-descript items. The ones at the front door do not 
      have night vision, but are in the building too quick for the camera to 
      get a good look at their faces.

Salem is on his feet as the laptop and television change; he makes the PDA
      vanish. His upper lip wrinkles away from his teeth in a silent snarl, and 
      he cuts his gaze to Jeremy.

Jeremy pauses for a moment as he stares at the screens, his eyes narrowing
      some. With a flip of his coat, he crosses his way to the front door, 
      slapping on the dead bolt, then another, another, another, and another. 
      Click, Clack. Thunk. Latch. Flicking his hand, he kills the lights as 
      only the glow of his television and laptop can be faintly seen in the 
      background. Fluidly, he makes his way for the closet, reaching for the 
      knob and jerks it open, shuffling around inside. "The Don says he will 
      take a semi automatic high powered rifle. What do you prefer Anthony. Are 
      you the handgun fourty-five with silencer type, or do you prefer 
      something with a bit more hardware?"

"I ... I'll take ... the handgun?" Anthony stands up and says, a bit
      quizzically. He didn't expect to be invited along, but an opportunity is 
      an opportunity.

The image that was the front door now shows the elevator on Jeremy's floor
      opening, four well dressed gentlemen carrying briefcases step out and 
      start heading down the long walkway to Jeremy's door... camera panning 
      with their movements. The men on the rooftop are setting up repeling 
      ropes, securing them to the sidelip of the roofing. One of the men on 
      both teams carries what appears to be a nexttel style phone.

"The Don" indeed _will_ take a semi-automatic high-powered rifle, it seems,
      though it's not as classy as the Mosin-Nagant. More powerful, more 
      badass, yes. Just not as classy. Salem doesn't remain still; he prowls 
      the apartment and makes a circuit toward Jer... and he seems more 
      irritated than anything.

"I don't know what is going on." Jeremy says softly as he slips out of his
      trench coat, throwing on a Kevlar vest, strapping it up swiftly with 
      practiced movements that would make Roger proud. Slipping the trench coat 
      back over his body, he tosses the hand gun over towards Anthony, then the 
      high powered rifle is soon gaven to Salem. "Got a full magazine, safety 
      is off." He explains quickly. "Got two more mags in here. You need 'em?" 
      Out comes a Tec-10 in the kin's hands, which is obvious his weapon of 
      choice.

Salem shrugs, nods, and holds his hand out for the extra ammo. Better safe than
      sorry?

Jeremy shoves the two mags into his hand, then slaps in one swiftly into the
      Tec, stepping out of the way of the closet. With a shift of his foot, he 
      snaps the door closed. Shifting his gaze towards the television's, he 
      softly murmurs. "Only two ways into my room. I got bars on the window 
      near the fire escape. Only way they can really come in is through the 
      front door. Its big enough for one person at a time to sneak through. We 
      can snake 'em like fish in a barrel, one at a time. Short round bursts." 
      He rambles quickly to the pair as he starts heading for the couch.

Anthony wishes Jeremy would stop tossing things at him. He manages to catch it
      this time, however, and he gives the gun a cursory inspection. He studies 
      the movement on the television quietly while carefully following Jeremy.

Salem glances toward the window as Jeremy mentions it, then eyeballs the door.
      The scarred halfmoon shakes his head irritably and moves himself to a 
      spot where he'll have a good shot at the latter and a decent one at the 
      former -- again, better safe than sorry -- and gets down on a knee.

The camera shows the people on the roof kneeling at the edge and curling over
      onto the side of the building, not repeling just yet. Meanwhile, the ones 
      in the halfway have arrived at Jeremy's door. They don't appear to be 
      about to knock, as they all open their suitcases, and dropping them in 
      the hallway suddenly have what appears to be 9mm silenced pistols in 
      their hands. The one in front opens a metallic vial and pours something 
      into the crack of the door where the locks are. From the smell of slight 
      burning, and the appearance of the wood being eaten away it is a strong 
      acid... though there isn't enough time to consider this. The two front 
      men attack the door now, kicking harsh and fierce kicks. The third ones 
      do it, and the door crashes open, followed instantly by the sounds of... 
      well, kind of like the sound of a paintball gun firing as a small hail of 
      bullets flys into the room.

The first volley of bullets all but misses everyone, except for Mr. Lucky
      himself. Salem takes a bullet that grazes his shoulder, and grazes it 
      good, a large gout of blood sprays along the continued path of the bullet 
      which thunks into the wall behind Salem. No one else is injured.

Having crouched down behind the side of the couch and off to the side in the
      darkness, Jeremy narrows his eyes and taps the laser site on his gun, 
      then takes aim, moving the red beam forward and sends off a quick spray 
      at the men, gritting his teeth together.

Salem bares his teeth, choking back an exclamation of pain, and brings his
      weapon to bear on the intruders, focusing his will as he aims and fires 
      -- going for quality, not quantity.

Anthony crouches uncomfortably by the sofa near Jeremy, refraining from firing
      into the melee at the moment. Something grabs his attention, and he spins 
      to face the barred window, gun raised.

Visible through the front door are the attackers, but only long enough to get
      one shot in before they are all curling back around to hide on both sides 
      of the open door, apparently seeing the people inside, ready and firing 
      for and at them.

Jeremy watches Anthony move his sight and takes in a deep breath. He glances to
      the television for a moment, an eye twitch at most, then shifts his 
      weight again, ducking down beneath the couch, the muzzle of the gun 
      pointing out, knee high at the doorway.

Anthony bites his lip, glances at Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, and
      fires two shots into the middle of the window, one after the other.

Salem spares the window a glance as Anthony fires in that direction.

None of the shots the Walkers take at the door meet a target, but it does serve
      to keep them hiding for a moment of precious time apparently waiting for 
      something.

However Anthony's shots do a good deal better, shattering the window with a
      loud report. Despite one glancing off of, and blowing away, one of the 
      metal bars that had been partially eaten through by acid, both bullets 
      end up in the face of a man who is wearing now-broken nightvision 
      goggles. Said person now dangles limply from his repelling rope. This is 
      followed by a second repeller firing silenced rounds into the apartment, 
      one of which hits Anthony's hand that is not holding the gun, splitting 
      open the flesh between his middle and index finger accompanied by a 
      cracking of bone as the bullet lodges between some of the smaller bones 
      found there.

Salem answers fire with fire; he swings the rifle around toward the window long
      enough to aim and shoot -- repelling the repeller, one might say.

Continuing to hold his position behind the couch, Jeremy keeps the gun trained
      at the front door, crouched the floor and at the ready. His finger is 
      held on the trigger, ready to release a stream of hell at whatever comes 
      through.

Anthony barely has a chance to congratulate himself for his good shot when the
      bullet lodges itself into his hand. Falling back and cradling his left 
      hand in his lap, he chokes back a cry of pain while doing his best to 
      keep the gun in his right hand trained on the window, though only 
      shooting once.

And a second repeller is disabled, though from the loud cursing... in a foreign
      language... is apparently not dead. As two of the people at the front 
      door dare to go for another shot in as firing is heard towards the 
      window, they are greeted by a short *BERRRAPT!* and a clean grouping of 
      bullets that downs one, despite the obvious kevlar under his shirt that 
      can be seen now. One is heard to yell into his walkietalkie something in 
      another language, and suddenly they are off and running from the front 
      door, towards the stairwell.

Jamethon pages: You recgonize the language. Yes, it is Russian. The curse was
      akin to 'fuck' and the guy at the door was yelling 'Abort! They fucking 
      knew we were coming! Abort and regroup!'
Long distance to Jamethon: Salem doesn't speak Russian, but does recognize it
      -- and knows cusswords anyway. :>
Jamethon pages: Ah. Thats right, Serbian?
You paged Jamethon with 'Yep.'.
Jamethon pages: Well, you got the curse word, and perhaps a little of what the
      guy at the door said.

Salem straightens up, teeth bared -- and that's _another_ white t-shirt that's
      gotten bloodstained courtesy of a bullet to the shoulder. Nostrils flare 
      as he listens to the invaders retreat.

Suddenly as the ones in the hall are running away, three gun shots can be
      heard, followed by another loud scream, one feminine and somewhat 
      familiar.

"Is the rear covered?" Jeremy asks as he shifts his weight some, then slowly
      moves away from the couch, keeping himself low, inching for the door of 
      his apartment. He holds the Tec-9 tightly in his hands, moving his way up 
      to the wall, then slowly, scoots to the opening.

The TV screen shows three men downed by a woman hiding behind a potted plant a
      bit further off, all their kneecaps blowing out in a airy spray of blood. 
      The rooftop shows two people fleeing, carrying two people over their 
      shoulders as they run, not seeming too troubled by the weight.

Salem, tense, follows Jeremy toward the door, the barrel of the rifle pointed
      upwards and his finger resting on the guard.

"It's me," Rina calls out, stretching out prone behind the cover of the potted
      tree. She keeps the .45 oriented on the three prone assailants. "Careful, 
      I just kneecapped 'em."

Jeremy lets out a breath and steps out into the hallway. "Anthony, keep your
      eyes on the back window.. please." He says, glancing down at the downed 
      man at the doorway. Slowly, he kneels down and checks for his pulse. 
      "Rina, you OK?"

Anthony hangs back near the sofa, keeping an eye on the window as he's asked.

The three in the hall are clutching at their knees for the moment, and one may
      notice that the one Jeremy shot is still breathing, though breathing 
      shallow. Jeremy's walls are soundproofed, though the shots fired by Rina 
      out in the hallway were probably heard easily by neighbors.

Salem glances out the door, then follows Jeremy, grim and silent and weapon at
      the ready. If looks could maim, the three downed men would have worse to 
      worry about than shattered kneecaps.

Jeremy glances down at the one in the doorway and clears his throat. "Good
      evening Mister Anderson. You forgot to take the red pill." He taps the 
      man in the forehead, then kicks his gun off to the side into the room. 
      "Please tell me who you are and why you came busting into my house, 
      before I start cutting off each of your fingers, one by one for each 
      question missed, and then, making you swallow them whole."

"I'm good. Whatcha wanna do about these goons?" Rina calls out.

Jeremy would notice that while the person in the doorway is breathing, on
      closer inspection, he is unconscious and probably has a cracked rib or 
      two... mayhaps some internal bleeding. The peoples in the hallway start 
      for their guns, but when they find themselves surrounded by armed men and 
      women, and Jeremy's threatening questioning, they lay there... simply 
      clutching at suffering knees.

Salem lets the two kinfolk do the talking while he stalks around the trio of
      Russians and glowers.

LIfting up once more, Jeremy heads down the hallway, making his way towards the
      trio with broken knee caps. His trench coat swishes about his body, Tec-9 
      at the ready as he aims for the. "Alright. Since he doesn't seem to be in 
      the mood to talk. How 'bout ya'll? Who are you guys, why are you here? 
      Same rules apply.. you fuck around, I take fingers."

Rina rises from behind the ficus tree, the .45 still trained on the enemy.
      "Let's get 'em inside, yeah? We got cleanin' up to do."

Despite their injuries, they appear to be in no mood to talk or
      cooperate in any way currently... though from two of them, blank yet 
      fierce expressions may indicate they just don't understand what you are 
      saying.

Salem glances over at Rina, then aims a none-too-gentle kick at the nearest
      'fierce warrior'.

Jeremy glances over to the apartment, then calls in. "Hey Tony. You OK in
      there? Hey, everything is cool.. I think we're ganna have to drag these 
      guys back in."

With the caution born of experience, Rina kicks their guns out of reach. "We're
      gonna need someone to translate, maybe," she says darkly. "Fuckin' 
      Russians." Glaring down at them, she prods one to get his attention. 
      "Russki... da?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Anthony calls back, grabbing a shirt from his suitcase and
      wrapping it around his hand. "I'll be there in a second."

One gets a harsh kick in his side, ellicting a loud grunt and gasp of air from
      the pain, meanwhile another only offers a stony expression and voiceless 
      glare towards Rina in answer to her question, obviously something she 
      said changed his attitude sufficently.

"I'll keep 'em covered, you guys drag," Rina says curtly.

Jeremy reaches down and snags one of the guy's by the foot and starts to drag
      him backwards towards the door, letting out a breath. "Hey Tony, can you 
      grab the soon to be dead guy who's blocking the doorway?"

Salem nods to Rina, then shoulders his rifle and bends down to grab the nearest
      Russian by the ankles and drag him, ungently, toward the apartment.

Anthony pokes his head out of the door, glancing over the scene. "Sure," he
      says to Jeremy, gingerly pulling the man near the doorway in by a leg.

They don't appear to be too happy with the whole arrangement of being dragged
      away, but little resistance is given... while a whole lot of gutteral 
      curses are given. When the three men with their POWs are in the 
      apartment, the remaining fellow in the hallway suddenly rolls over and 
      with a lurching motion, reaches a gun. Raising it to fire at Rina...

There are two sharp spitting noises, from the hallway.

After a short scuffling in the hallway of some kind, the muffled sounds of two
      silenced gun shots are heard, then a thumping noise of an object hitting 
      the floor.

Salem, in the apartment, looks up sharply at the sound. He drops the legs of
      the man he was dragging and moves quickly back to the hallway.

Jeremy clutches his gun and makes his way back to the doorway after dropping
      the leg of the guy he just dragged inside. "Tony, keep a gun on them." He 
      says, poking his head around.

Rina looks toward Salem, her face grim. "He moved," she says quietly. "Get me a
      trash bag?"

Out in the hallway, Rina stands with gun pointing at angle towards the now dead
      Russian which rests on the ground with a gun clutched in a deathgrip in 
      his right hand, oozing blood from a bullethole in his forehead.

Anthony abandons the almost-corpse to start for the hallway, but he turns
      around at Jeremy's request. He aims the gun at the conscious Russian.

Jeremy lets out a breath of relief and turns himself back around once more,
      leaning against the wall. With a mutter, he says softly. "This is not a 
      good night... why the hell did they come to /my/ place for? Salem.. were 
      you followed or something?"

The Russians left behind seem about to mobilize till Anthony turns to keep
      watch on them, and with pained grunts just fall limp once more to the 
      ground.

Salem looks the scene over, nostrils flaring, his expression otherwise blank.
      He glances over at Jeremy and shakes his head sharply.

"I don't got any ties with Russian's... why would they come after -me- for
      then?" Jeremy says with another loud sigh, running his fingerless gloved 
      hands back through his hair. "We gotta get the blood cleaned up and these 
      guys questioned.. or just kill 'em. Shit... I dunno.. Rina.. You got more 
      experience in this making 'em talk shit, right?"

The red carpets in the hallway may have been picked for actual reasons and not
      just because of how tacky they were. Blood that gets in the carpet is 
      only distinguishable as 'wetspots'. However, there was some spray on the 
      walls that will need cleaning, nothing heavy, mostly from the kneecap 
      shots before.

Rina starts dragging the body into the apartment. Strength is not her strong
      point, and her size is a disadvantage when it comes to maneuvering a 
      200-plus-pound sack of bones.

"Jer, how well do you know your landlady?" Rina asks. "We're gonna need a
      vacuum cleaner."

Salem snorts at Jeremy's question and takes over corpse-dragging from Rina.
      Brute work, something he's much more suited for.

As the feet of the Dead Russian are dragged into the apartment, a door a few
      apartments down opens just enough for a curious single eye to peer out 
      into the hallway. After a second of inquisitive searching, the door 
      closes again gently enough.

Jeremy paces back and forth around the room for a moment, wringing his hands
      together. After a quick, deep breath, he heads into the kitchen and 
      starts gathering up cleaning supplies beneath the sink.

Long distance to the room: Salem goes to bed, and ICly plays thug guard dog.
      Woof woof.