Christopher: "This is my last resort"
8/16/00 3:36 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Christopher had watched Angel crawl into her bed. He'd reached out a hand to help her, but a shy smile had her shaking her head and turning down the assistance. He pursed his lips and watched her a long moment. Unmoving, unsure. He'd swallowed many things Neil had handed him with his job, but this was perhaps the hardest. The way he'd found out wasn't the most businesslike, nor had it been appreciated. And if it weren't for the severity of Dimitri's death, he probably would have never swayed from salvation to captor.
He threw the boltlock with impunity. Not double checking or signing his name to the job, though he wouldn't have left had he not known the door was secure.
Even if he knew she'd never check the knob.
Next, something rare happened.
He ran into Neil in the hallway. The black haired devil of a man stood half way down the hall, staring at him. His black asphyxiated arms were crossed over the ridges and lines of his silver-slick abdomen. And of course, Neil was never found unless he was in leather. Both the sleek black coat he wore and his pants were made of the softest, and darkest calf-leather. He stood there, just watching Christopher. His eyes just drinking in the Manager.
"Hello, Neil."
There was a moment of silence, before the singer/Leader smiled and purred his "Why, hello, Christopher." He tilted his head, this gesture off-balanced his wild black haircut. "You smell like Stephen and your brothers, have you changed sides?"
Christopher's frown reared up like a panicked horse. His features darkened immediately. "I don't think so, Neil."
"Anyway." Neil was prowling towards the manager. "How is she? What did you buy her?"
"She didn't want anything, Neil."
Neil stared hard at Chris, approaching him with locked eye-contact before he passed him and was half way to Angel's door, sliding into a poisonous aloofness. Then he stopped, and Chris just waited.
"Take her to the fking ball, Christopher. And if you lose her, I'll kill you."
The manager started to walk away. It wasn't disrespectful, acknowledging the request was pointless. Neil knew he heard him, and thus it was as good as done.
"And Christopher..." The manager turned to face Neil who at some point had turned to face him. "Jonathan's tearing down the block. I want you to have him ready for us in the next few months. I want you to do it."
Chris nodded. He wasn't sure what his own reactions were. He'd known it all along, and yet he had also hoped it wouldn't be him. Moments later Neil slunk into Angel's room. He'd stopped to look at the bolt before turning it with his pale hands.
Chris descended the club steps under the cacophonous symphony of pounding bed legs on the wood floor. He was sure he could hear the sounds of whimpering and hissing.
**Title by Ozzy
The Sacrifice Club
Moderators: Millicent Grim, Hunter White, Olivia Diogenes
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Millicent Grim
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- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
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Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Christopher and Jonathan: "alone for so long"
8/17/00 10:48 AM Eastern Daylight Time
"Damn, woman. You have quite a mouth on you. And to think I thought it was such a pretty thing." Jonathan was shaking his head at her language. He didn't request a cave-woman, but he didn't mind being cornered into a three course meal. That was fine with him. He still had the record label's credit cards. Hooray for petty larceny.
Jonathan was backing up towards the door as they were approaching. He was shouldering on his trench and pulling it closed around his middle. He smoothed his arms down as he spoke. It looked strange, that slick black trench and that thin silk tie.
"I don't thi-"
"-nk Jonathan knows the first thing about being 'not-gay', do y'a Jon?" Christopher's hand clamped down on the newly leathered shoulder. The Manager had appeared just within the doorframe. Just within the dark. The larger hand shook the boy (nearly out of his boots).
Christopher was quite a vision. He was maybe 2 inches shorter than Jonathan, but he was a little thicker. Not a bad-thick, but a figure that said he might be the only person with a healthy metabolism. He had prominent cheek bones and a bit of a more square-shaped face. But the hardness that wasn't there in Jonathan's more puppy-dog/bedroom eyes was sitting right there on the tip of Christopher's sloping nose and deep-set, serious stare. Ah, and Christopher always decked himself in a little colour. His chinlength dreads (that spoke of a rich brown natural colour) were tinged with a very pure-green tint. The tint bled into some lightened pieces and some of the natural chestnut. (Professionally done, of course.)
It was just a hint of rebellion. Just like the fact that whenever he smiled, it was a nefarious thing. Something dreadfully cocky and sly sat in him, but the veil that made it all mysterious was this thin sheen of- of melancholy. Like a rich pain sat a few inches beneath his skin, and had seeped into every aspect of him. It wanted to claw its way out, more often then not, and this was a face that had long been trying to train itself not to blurt out its deep obsessions and desires. But it was a face that said he was capable of forming both obsessions and desires, in the most alluring, dangerous ways. His hole-filled shirt was a rolled and rip cashmere that was produced in such a way to look like loose fishnet. It was far too soft to the touch, and tangled with his fingers from the long sleeves, it was a deep blue-grey. His pants were a synthetic black material, somehow metallic. They were very, very tight.
"So she's the artist you had Margot tell me about, huh?" Pressed into Jonathan's shoulder as the fingers there were used to boyishly shove the assistant manager away from him. Christopher extended his hand to Danielle. "Don't listen to anything this a--hole says. I'm Christopher. I'm the manager of this lovely place."
Jonathan was catching his balance and rolling his eyes. Chris had caught it and let his smile become even more of a smirk. "I'm the only straight thing in here. Save Nick and Dominic, of course." Jonathan stared at him, so Chris pretended to be submissive. (Which, thank god, he was Not.) "Oh alright...alright...and Gabriel too."
...."...I think."
The band was a business. It was these two's job to keep tabs on them. Chris knew too much.
"Come inside, this sunlight is killing me." No, really, it was. Even if it was late dusk by now. G-dbless late meetings.
**Title by Stabbing Westward
8/17/00 10:48 AM Eastern Daylight Time
"Damn, woman. You have quite a mouth on you. And to think I thought it was such a pretty thing." Jonathan was shaking his head at her language. He didn't request a cave-woman, but he didn't mind being cornered into a three course meal. That was fine with him. He still had the record label's credit cards. Hooray for petty larceny.
Jonathan was backing up towards the door as they were approaching. He was shouldering on his trench and pulling it closed around his middle. He smoothed his arms down as he spoke. It looked strange, that slick black trench and that thin silk tie.
"I don't thi-"
"-nk Jonathan knows the first thing about being 'not-gay', do y'a Jon?" Christopher's hand clamped down on the newly leathered shoulder. The Manager had appeared just within the doorframe. Just within the dark. The larger hand shook the boy (nearly out of his boots).
Christopher was quite a vision. He was maybe 2 inches shorter than Jonathan, but he was a little thicker. Not a bad-thick, but a figure that said he might be the only person with a healthy metabolism. He had prominent cheek bones and a bit of a more square-shaped face. But the hardness that wasn't there in Jonathan's more puppy-dog/bedroom eyes was sitting right there on the tip of Christopher's sloping nose and deep-set, serious stare. Ah, and Christopher always decked himself in a little colour. His chinlength dreads (that spoke of a rich brown natural colour) were tinged with a very pure-green tint. The tint bled into some lightened pieces and some of the natural chestnut. (Professionally done, of course.)
It was just a hint of rebellion. Just like the fact that whenever he smiled, it was a nefarious thing. Something dreadfully cocky and sly sat in him, but the veil that made it all mysterious was this thin sheen of- of melancholy. Like a rich pain sat a few inches beneath his skin, and had seeped into every aspect of him. It wanted to claw its way out, more often then not, and this was a face that had long been trying to train itself not to blurt out its deep obsessions and desires. But it was a face that said he was capable of forming both obsessions and desires, in the most alluring, dangerous ways. His hole-filled shirt was a rolled and rip cashmere that was produced in such a way to look like loose fishnet. It was far too soft to the touch, and tangled with his fingers from the long sleeves, it was a deep blue-grey. His pants were a synthetic black material, somehow metallic. They were very, very tight.
"So she's the artist you had Margot tell me about, huh?" Pressed into Jonathan's shoulder as the fingers there were used to boyishly shove the assistant manager away from him. Christopher extended his hand to Danielle. "Don't listen to anything this a--hole says. I'm Christopher. I'm the manager of this lovely place."
Jonathan was catching his balance and rolling his eyes. Chris had caught it and let his smile become even more of a smirk. "I'm the only straight thing in here. Save Nick and Dominic, of course." Jonathan stared at him, so Chris pretended to be submissive. (Which, thank god, he was Not.) "Oh alright...alright...and Gabriel too."
...."...I think."
The band was a business. It was these two's job to keep tabs on them. Chris knew too much.
"Come inside, this sunlight is killing me." No, really, it was. Even if it was late dusk by now. G-dbless late meetings.
**Title by Stabbing Westward
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Millicent Grim
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- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
The Sacrifice Club: "you're late for your next parade"
8/18/00 1:58 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"Oh Jesus. If anything came out of this boy's mouth, " Chris slapped Jonathan's back rather...hard. "..there's no way in hell it was 'good'."
Christopher's handshake was firm. It was neither too rough, nor too light. (Just like him- in bed. Hee.) He held eye contact for just a little longer than usual, but it was an anamoly that would probably be played off as intriguing rather than accosting.
Both the men let Danielle slide in first. Christopher did it because somewhere, he had manners, but Jonathan did it because he was dashing back to the car to get the artwork he should have had to begin with (since it had been under his coat). Chris clocked him gently on the back of the head when Jonathan finally slid into the Club. "That's for being retarded. And this " he did it again. "Is to remind you to keep your tongue in your mouth, for chrissakes."
Jonathan caught up with Danielle laughing. Christopher was doing much of the same, though he was more subdued. The Club Manager raised his chin in that oh-so-boy nod to the tender that was slowly being revealed to them as they walked into the very dark, very stainless-steel-and-velvet club. (They passed a dancer's cage on the way in.) "Nick, get me three snake-bite and black-berries." The reddish haired bear of a tender nodded with a pleasant grin. He tipped his head to Danielle. Immediately the impression should have been brute strength, but also a quaint intelligence and a good natured smile. Nick added a murmur to the fray.
"Bloody Brits." he said, with the most subtle hint of a Scottish accent in the brevity of his commentary. He winked at Danni as Chris laughed. Jonathan, however, as he was laying the art on the very, very clean bartop, climbed up and leaned way over to nearly yap in Nick's ear.
"Make mine strong, g-ddamnit."
"Fer what, boyo?" Nick looked undaunted. But that's what happens when you have about 150 pounds on someone. "That nice clean scratch on yer face? It's not even the even' time, Jonathan. Who's beatin� on you? Especially in yer nice clean suit thair."
Christopher piped in. "I assume it has something to do with why he wasn't in here 'sooner'. As the young lady pointed out."
"Ahh, young ladies are always the downfall of a man's secret. Aren't they lass?" Nick gave Danni a smile that thinned his lips. He was one of those fire-man types. Big, strong, oh so masculine and well h- er, built. "Oh dear, especially the artsy types." Who else was Observant? This was gleaned by one look at the things Jonathan was spacing out.
"Look, I don't want to talk about it right now." Said Jonathan as he leaned back over the papers. He gave Danni a stare and a knowing, conspiratorial grin. "Anyway, here. Look. Chris AaM's new album cover..and Look.. " He held up something else. "Something for this years fliers."
Nick was chuckling as he was pouring the drinks. Beer, vodka, a red fruit juice. What any self respecting clubber in London would drink. Soon, he'd add to the other two pairs of eyes on Danielle.
Jonathan was pleading for silence, Christopher wasn't going to let the 'lateness' slide, and Nick, somewhere deep in the thick cavern of his chest, was laughing his Scottish buns off.
**Title by Tori
8/18/00 1:58 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"Oh Jesus. If anything came out of this boy's mouth, " Chris slapped Jonathan's back rather...hard. "..there's no way in hell it was 'good'."
Christopher's handshake was firm. It was neither too rough, nor too light. (Just like him- in bed. Hee.) He held eye contact for just a little longer than usual, but it was an anamoly that would probably be played off as intriguing rather than accosting.
Both the men let Danielle slide in first. Christopher did it because somewhere, he had manners, but Jonathan did it because he was dashing back to the car to get the artwork he should have had to begin with (since it had been under his coat). Chris clocked him gently on the back of the head when Jonathan finally slid into the Club. "That's for being retarded. And this " he did it again. "Is to remind you to keep your tongue in your mouth, for chrissakes."
Jonathan caught up with Danielle laughing. Christopher was doing much of the same, though he was more subdued. The Club Manager raised his chin in that oh-so-boy nod to the tender that was slowly being revealed to them as they walked into the very dark, very stainless-steel-and-velvet club. (They passed a dancer's cage on the way in.) "Nick, get me three snake-bite and black-berries." The reddish haired bear of a tender nodded with a pleasant grin. He tipped his head to Danielle. Immediately the impression should have been brute strength, but also a quaint intelligence and a good natured smile. Nick added a murmur to the fray.
"Bloody Brits." he said, with the most subtle hint of a Scottish accent in the brevity of his commentary. He winked at Danni as Chris laughed. Jonathan, however, as he was laying the art on the very, very clean bartop, climbed up and leaned way over to nearly yap in Nick's ear.
"Make mine strong, g-ddamnit."
"Fer what, boyo?" Nick looked undaunted. But that's what happens when you have about 150 pounds on someone. "That nice clean scratch on yer face? It's not even the even' time, Jonathan. Who's beatin� on you? Especially in yer nice clean suit thair."
Christopher piped in. "I assume it has something to do with why he wasn't in here 'sooner'. As the young lady pointed out."
"Ahh, young ladies are always the downfall of a man's secret. Aren't they lass?" Nick gave Danni a smile that thinned his lips. He was one of those fire-man types. Big, strong, oh so masculine and well h- er, built. "Oh dear, especially the artsy types." Who else was Observant? This was gleaned by one look at the things Jonathan was spacing out.
"Look, I don't want to talk about it right now." Said Jonathan as he leaned back over the papers. He gave Danni a stare and a knowing, conspiratorial grin. "Anyway, here. Look. Chris AaM's new album cover..and Look.. " He held up something else. "Something for this years fliers."
Nick was chuckling as he was pouring the drinks. Beer, vodka, a red fruit juice. What any self respecting clubber in London would drink. Soon, he'd add to the other two pairs of eyes on Danielle.
Jonathan was pleading for silence, Christopher wasn't going to let the 'lateness' slide, and Nick, somewhere deep in the thick cavern of his chest, was laughing his Scottish buns off.
**Title by Tori
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Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Sick Boys: "hey, bitch! This is what you are: "
3/4/01 5:01 PM Eastern Standard Time
So they thought it was funny. She'd dashed down the alley with white biting hair slicing at neck and shoulders. She'd eventually slowed down, and her run became a canter that she did while looking back behind her. She'd thought she'd heard footsteps. At least just a pair.
Alleys were places for creeps and gutter trash. And that's exactly why she shrieked when arms pulled her off her feet. Her scream was muffled by a wide, flat hand over her mouth. In an instant she flew into a panic that pummeled someone's rib cage with her elbows, and rammed at someone's shins with her heals.
"Jesus F-ckin' CHRIST Millicent! Stoppit!!"
The voice's familiarity didn't stop her from squirming. She hadn't placed the intonation, but it wasn't anything close to comfortable. She was still inhaling to scream -- until Logan pushed her up against a dumpster. He'd reversed his hold and locked his hands around her jaw-- so natural, he must have done this a thousand times before.
"Millicent!" he hissed.
"Christ, Logan. Shut that bitch up." Millicent suddenly became aware of four other looming figures in the alley. A grin under a mohawk, indifference and a knife, red hair and hands in pockets, ...and one she couldn't quite see-- blonde. The mohawk spoke again, " F-cking bollocks, you saw she was being followed!" The accent was horribly thick. Scottish.
Millicent started to shake her head violently at the boy holding her. Jonathan's friend-- no, Jonathan's friends.
"Get away from that girl!" Belted the voice that had followed her half the way here. She thought she'd done better at losing him.
Too fast, everything just moved way too fast. And as the flash of silver lightening slid through the air, Millicent, against Logan's hand, was screaming "noooo!".
They tore him apart like a pack of hounds. And then, in a silence that could hear a pin drop-- "Ay, Logan..." Something about the tone had him turn. A smooth, British voice. Like a hot knife through the scene. Soft but sharp.
Logan swiveled his icy eyes to the pale boy who was cleaning his blade. "Good job, boy-o, it's a peeler" The tip top of a street-lamp lit the tips of black spikes. The boys had the same features, but the punk looking kid had more blue in him. Logan's had frozen over and been chipped out.
Logan snarled, "What the f-ck is a peeler?"
"A cop," said Millicent softly, as she slunk half way down the wall.
The boy pointed at Millicent with his knife. His voice had too much casual energy in it,"Yea-Lo, she's got it. A bloody pig." And he was smiling, as though this were simply a game of football and she'd impressed him simply because she was a she.
"A 'bloody pig'! Aww, Vic, that was 'ilarious!" There was guffaws coming from the mohawk. The accent's were clashing, Millicent could barely make out the words in the cacophony of dialects. British, Scottish, British.
A figure leaning over the moaning form shot up.
"Holy f-ck, a cop. Shytshytshyt." A pause. "Shyt!" Wild eyes were staring down at the ground. He was remembering the sound of bones cracking under metal. Fingers were running through short, cropped snowy coloured hair. "I can't deal with k-k-k-."
"Shuttup! shuttup." Said the red head as he pulled the brass knuckles from his fingers. His nostrils flared before his chin-length auburn hair swung back in to shade his face. It was like curtain's on a stage. "Dude, we just.. hey, wait, why was he chasing you?" The red head had eyes that looked auburn too. Millicent shook her head at him.
The blonde, who's features she never saw, said "Well, one thing to do..."
Logan was all action. "Jordan, Sick. Just get rid of the body. Take his wallet and his cuffs, leave the gun." Lo gave a piercing glare at the boy with the brown mohawk. "You fvckin' heard me Ian, you leave that gun."
"Aw, christ. Me and Vish'll finish the job then." Black spikes and the mohawk went in for the kill. The pack worked horribly well. The rest happened in silence, as swift as wind.
"Well than, pretty." Logan turned to Millicent, catching her chin in his hands. "Looks like you're coming with us."
"Logan, this was stupid, this is..I.." She hadn't even processed what had happened. She wasn't sure if she'd lead her saviors to her pursuer, or the pray to the pack. The truth was somewhere between. "I have to go home....Logan..."
he just sat there watching when they took her by the arms. just sat their smiling as though he was imagining himself in their place. she saw him through the chainlinks as the chord snapped from around her throat. she'd never forget the first time they'd....
The scene went purple, and ended.
**Title by gary numan
Sick Boys: "here in my car, I feel safest of all"
3/4/01 7:24 PM Eastern Standard Time
Bryce: Bleached blonde hair, long enough to curl, not enough to cover. Dark-eyed and red-lined to identify the habitual toker. He'd lost all his sense that way. Put a switchblade in his hand, and you'd have a clever little killer. Has a penchant for metal and band t-shirts.
Jordan: Chin length red hair. 6'0" The red has bled into his brown eyes, making them almost auburn. Soft spoken, but very smart. Smoked a little too much in his day. Used to play soccer till his longues quit out. Disillusioned, will smile when confused.
Christian: Called "Vic", pronounced "Vish" for Vicious. 6'2" He's a little prettier than Sid, but that's where the spikey black hair and extremely blue eyes came from. Always plays with a knife. Always has at least 3 or 10 on him. Played in a punk band till something happened to the singer after he shagged his girlfriend. Has a love/hate relationship with Ian. Pretty accent. Almost friendly, once you talk to him.
Ian: Brown hair, never dyes it. 6'1" Shaved high on the sides, but it works as a mohawk as well as a pretty veil of hair that looks almost like its all there when it hangs straight. Doesn't wear as much leather and plaid as Christian, but has a horribly thick Scottish accent which makes him an odd duck nonetheless. Doesn't like anybody, but he's got a code of ethics like the Navy.
Luke: "Sick". Cropped and spikey white hair. 5'11" Very thin, very pale, very gaunt. Eyes are somewhat violet, but they sometimes look grey. He's the guy you never see, but always notice. Everything he wears is streamlined, even the occasional tweed pants he'll sport. No-one knows how he finds Armani. Talkative, but sly. Buried behind walls. Friends with Evan, Neil's drummer. He knows more than he can handle.
Logan: Jonathan's friend. Black medium length hair- dreaded. Some were midnight blue. Incredibly blue eyes, but they're cold. Very pretty, moving like a cat. (Dances like a fiend.) He only wears black, and silver studded belts. He's probably Jonathan's best friend. But no-one knows why. He'd do it for fun, he'd do it for money. He had a girlfriend. She was a bartender. Leader of the Pack.
In a car. Jordan's driving. Sick's in the front. Bryce is riding in the trunk. Lo, Milli, Ian and Vic are in the back.
Vic: "Ey, looky at the little girl. She's all squinched up like she's neckin' the cheekie." Good hearted laughter.
Sick: "Jesus christ, Vic, I never know what the fvck you're saying! Gah!" Sick was a tweaker.
Ian: "That's all right, Sick. You wouldn't get it anyway."
Sick: "Dah!"
Jordan: "You know, I'm getting really fed up with your high-and-mighty European crap. Sometimes I just want to--"
Sick: "COP!" The car swerves, everybody groans.
Jordan: "Shyt shyt shyt where!?!" Logan is growling. Millicent is still passed out on the two punks. The only ones with morals-- well, relatively.
Sick: "No no! We we..k-k-k-" Jordan swats Sick upside the head.
Jordan: "You fvcking moron! You goddamn sonova--, you could have kille..JESUS."
Ian: "actually, no mate. you're the one driving, you'da been tha one ta kill us." And with that Jordan gives a glance in the rear view and cuts himself off from the conversation. For a moment there's silence. Except for a mumble coming through the back seats from the trunk.
Bryce: (Muffled) "whoooaaaaa heeyyyyy. I'm in the trunk guys..that swerving sucked."
Ian: (under his breath) "blooming hyppie"
Vic: "easy their, killer." And for fun, Vic was sawing off a good 3 inches of Millicent's white hair.
Logan: "What the fvck are you doing over there? Can you put the knives away for once?" Vic puts the hair and the blade in his pocket.
Vic: Leaning over to get a look at Logan. "Are you busting your cool, man? Need a fag?" Silence, fuming silence from Logan. "Oooohhhh I think he does. I think he does."
Ian: "Actually, dear. I think he's pissed we nailed a bobbie."
Sick: "BOBBIE?! I didn't want to know his name! GOD!!"
The majority of the car: "Shuttup Sick!" Millicent groaned at the sound.
Ian: Nudging Vic "I think she likes your lap, bloke. Slide her head a little to the--"
Logan: "fvck off, Ian. We're going to her place, leave her alone."
Ian: "a'few minutes ago you had her pinned by her throat, and now you don't even want her to make ole Vic hear unconsciously happy?"
Logan: "Look, This situation has gotten way out of hand."
Bryce: (muffled) "THAT"S AN UNDERSTATEMENT!"
Logan: Between gritting teeth "--I just need some place to think this out."
Jordan: After his time out "Look, worse comes to worst, Lo. We go to the Club."
Vic: "Yeah, welp, we got rid of everything aahhllright." Pause. "Aw, shyt. 'ello darlin'"
Millicent: "What the fu--"
Logan: "27th street, right Milli?"
Millicent: Looking over the car, she finally lands her eyes on Logan. "i..yeah...yes." At least they were taking her home.
Sick Boys: "Fool is on the road again, so danger isn't far"
3/4/01 11:08 PM Eastern Standard Time
An Hour Later-- After some Munchies
and some mail-box bowling.
Sick: "I feel better now."
Ian: "You feel better after shoving your face full of carbs and preservatives?"
Sick: "Full of..what?!"
Jordan: "Funyins and 5 hot dogs!" Jordan panted, taking a time out from baby sitting Sick after he's done five lines of Aderol and taken 50mgs of dex. Ian was leaning back in the seat.
Ian: "You know, she's cute and all, but my leg's falling asleep."
Vic: "Give her to me."
Sick: "Put her in the trunk!"
Bryce: (muffled) "NO!"
Vic: "Oh c'mon Bryce, you might actually get laid. Even if she's unconscious." There was contemplative silence for a good long while.
Sick: "Sick! He's thinking about it!" Vic and Ian split Millicent's weight between them evenly. All 3 pounds of it.
Millicent: "You know, that'd be funny if I wasn't awake to hear it."
Logan: "Aww, c'mon doll. They just saved your life." Millicent turned her head and stared daggers at Logan. She did this quite artfully, considering Ian had placed himself between them. He finally distracted her.
Millicent: "Do you have to redo the spikes every time you get in and out of a car?"
Ian: Pausing, gawking. "Ey, Lady. Why'd you have to go and bring that up for?"
Vic: Laughing, "'E's too primped and pretty to be riding with us."
Ian: "What are you talking about you fvckin' poofer?! You look like a 13 year old gurl I boffed the other day. " And under his breath "dandy"
Vic: He tilted his head. "Y'know, she's right, if I read that stare correct-like. We didn't have to off that bobbie. It's always act first, ask later with yew guys."
Jordan: "Look who's fvckin' talking."
Ian: "That was mighty witty Jor."
Sick: "Stop Fighting!"
Ian: "Who's fightin' you --"
Sick: "you WHAT?!?! WHAT Are you going to...AGH!"
Vic: "Can we just get out of this bloody car, I'm starving."
Ian: "What, not enough junk in your system? Running low on brown sugah?" He taunted. For the first time, Vic looked unamused.
Vic: "I'll kill your highlander ass if you don't shut it."
Millicent: "Stop It! Stop it! Christ, you passed my place."
Vic: "Ah, "christ" that's the other thing they call me."
Ian: "You think you're so damn witty. Well, there's no more of your blokes 'round here to call you 'the Son", Son."
Vic: Snickering, he added. "Sure there are" And he swatted Ian's spikes. The two began to wrestle with Millicent in the middle of them. She tried to move out of the way, but then it became a match of pin and tickle. Everyone left with bruises. Save Logan, who elbowed Ian so hard the game was stopped soon after.
Millicent: "Agh, here...here."
Sick: "Good! I have to piss!"
Jor: "..what the hell is--"
Sick: "DAH!"
3/4/01 5:01 PM Eastern Standard Time
So they thought it was funny. She'd dashed down the alley with white biting hair slicing at neck and shoulders. She'd eventually slowed down, and her run became a canter that she did while looking back behind her. She'd thought she'd heard footsteps. At least just a pair.
Alleys were places for creeps and gutter trash. And that's exactly why she shrieked when arms pulled her off her feet. Her scream was muffled by a wide, flat hand over her mouth. In an instant she flew into a panic that pummeled someone's rib cage with her elbows, and rammed at someone's shins with her heals.
"Jesus F-ckin' CHRIST Millicent! Stoppit!!"
The voice's familiarity didn't stop her from squirming. She hadn't placed the intonation, but it wasn't anything close to comfortable. She was still inhaling to scream -- until Logan pushed her up against a dumpster. He'd reversed his hold and locked his hands around her jaw-- so natural, he must have done this a thousand times before.
"Millicent!" he hissed.
"Christ, Logan. Shut that bitch up." Millicent suddenly became aware of four other looming figures in the alley. A grin under a mohawk, indifference and a knife, red hair and hands in pockets, ...and one she couldn't quite see-- blonde. The mohawk spoke again, " F-cking bollocks, you saw she was being followed!" The accent was horribly thick. Scottish.
Millicent started to shake her head violently at the boy holding her. Jonathan's friend-- no, Jonathan's friends.
"Get away from that girl!" Belted the voice that had followed her half the way here. She thought she'd done better at losing him.
Too fast, everything just moved way too fast. And as the flash of silver lightening slid through the air, Millicent, against Logan's hand, was screaming "noooo!".
They tore him apart like a pack of hounds. And then, in a silence that could hear a pin drop-- "Ay, Logan..." Something about the tone had him turn. A smooth, British voice. Like a hot knife through the scene. Soft but sharp.
Logan swiveled his icy eyes to the pale boy who was cleaning his blade. "Good job, boy-o, it's a peeler" The tip top of a street-lamp lit the tips of black spikes. The boys had the same features, but the punk looking kid had more blue in him. Logan's had frozen over and been chipped out.
Logan snarled, "What the f-ck is a peeler?"
"A cop," said Millicent softly, as she slunk half way down the wall.
The boy pointed at Millicent with his knife. His voice had too much casual energy in it,"Yea-Lo, she's got it. A bloody pig." And he was smiling, as though this were simply a game of football and she'd impressed him simply because she was a she.
"A 'bloody pig'! Aww, Vic, that was 'ilarious!" There was guffaws coming from the mohawk. The accent's were clashing, Millicent could barely make out the words in the cacophony of dialects. British, Scottish, British.
A figure leaning over the moaning form shot up.
"Holy f-ck, a cop. Shytshytshyt." A pause. "Shyt!" Wild eyes were staring down at the ground. He was remembering the sound of bones cracking under metal. Fingers were running through short, cropped snowy coloured hair. "I can't deal with k-k-k-."
"Shuttup! shuttup." Said the red head as he pulled the brass knuckles from his fingers. His nostrils flared before his chin-length auburn hair swung back in to shade his face. It was like curtain's on a stage. "Dude, we just.. hey, wait, why was he chasing you?" The red head had eyes that looked auburn too. Millicent shook her head at him.
The blonde, who's features she never saw, said "Well, one thing to do..."
Logan was all action. "Jordan, Sick. Just get rid of the body. Take his wallet and his cuffs, leave the gun." Lo gave a piercing glare at the boy with the brown mohawk. "You fvckin' heard me Ian, you leave that gun."
"Aw, christ. Me and Vish'll finish the job then." Black spikes and the mohawk went in for the kill. The pack worked horribly well. The rest happened in silence, as swift as wind.
"Well than, pretty." Logan turned to Millicent, catching her chin in his hands. "Looks like you're coming with us."
"Logan, this was stupid, this is..I.." She hadn't even processed what had happened. She wasn't sure if she'd lead her saviors to her pursuer, or the pray to the pack. The truth was somewhere between. "I have to go home....Logan..."
he just sat there watching when they took her by the arms. just sat their smiling as though he was imagining himself in their place. she saw him through the chainlinks as the chord snapped from around her throat. she'd never forget the first time they'd....
The scene went purple, and ended.
**Title by gary numan
Sick Boys: "here in my car, I feel safest of all"
3/4/01 7:24 PM Eastern Standard Time
Bryce: Bleached blonde hair, long enough to curl, not enough to cover. Dark-eyed and red-lined to identify the habitual toker. He'd lost all his sense that way. Put a switchblade in his hand, and you'd have a clever little killer. Has a penchant for metal and band t-shirts.
Jordan: Chin length red hair. 6'0" The red has bled into his brown eyes, making them almost auburn. Soft spoken, but very smart. Smoked a little too much in his day. Used to play soccer till his longues quit out. Disillusioned, will smile when confused.
Christian: Called "Vic", pronounced "Vish" for Vicious. 6'2" He's a little prettier than Sid, but that's where the spikey black hair and extremely blue eyes came from. Always plays with a knife. Always has at least 3 or 10 on him. Played in a punk band till something happened to the singer after he shagged his girlfriend. Has a love/hate relationship with Ian. Pretty accent. Almost friendly, once you talk to him.
Ian: Brown hair, never dyes it. 6'1" Shaved high on the sides, but it works as a mohawk as well as a pretty veil of hair that looks almost like its all there when it hangs straight. Doesn't wear as much leather and plaid as Christian, but has a horribly thick Scottish accent which makes him an odd duck nonetheless. Doesn't like anybody, but he's got a code of ethics like the Navy.
Luke: "Sick". Cropped and spikey white hair. 5'11" Very thin, very pale, very gaunt. Eyes are somewhat violet, but they sometimes look grey. He's the guy you never see, but always notice. Everything he wears is streamlined, even the occasional tweed pants he'll sport. No-one knows how he finds Armani. Talkative, but sly. Buried behind walls. Friends with Evan, Neil's drummer. He knows more than he can handle.
Logan: Jonathan's friend. Black medium length hair- dreaded. Some were midnight blue. Incredibly blue eyes, but they're cold. Very pretty, moving like a cat. (Dances like a fiend.) He only wears black, and silver studded belts. He's probably Jonathan's best friend. But no-one knows why. He'd do it for fun, he'd do it for money. He had a girlfriend. She was a bartender. Leader of the Pack.
In a car. Jordan's driving. Sick's in the front. Bryce is riding in the trunk. Lo, Milli, Ian and Vic are in the back.
Vic: "Ey, looky at the little girl. She's all squinched up like she's neckin' the cheekie." Good hearted laughter.
Sick: "Jesus christ, Vic, I never know what the fvck you're saying! Gah!" Sick was a tweaker.
Ian: "That's all right, Sick. You wouldn't get it anyway."
Sick: "Dah!"
Jordan: "You know, I'm getting really fed up with your high-and-mighty European crap. Sometimes I just want to--"
Sick: "COP!" The car swerves, everybody groans.
Jordan: "Shyt shyt shyt where!?!" Logan is growling. Millicent is still passed out on the two punks. The only ones with morals-- well, relatively.
Sick: "No no! We we..k-k-k-" Jordan swats Sick upside the head.
Jordan: "You fvcking moron! You goddamn sonova--, you could have kille..JESUS."
Ian: "actually, no mate. you're the one driving, you'da been tha one ta kill us." And with that Jordan gives a glance in the rear view and cuts himself off from the conversation. For a moment there's silence. Except for a mumble coming through the back seats from the trunk.
Bryce: (Muffled) "whoooaaaaa heeyyyyy. I'm in the trunk guys..that swerving sucked."
Ian: (under his breath) "blooming hyppie"
Vic: "easy their, killer." And for fun, Vic was sawing off a good 3 inches of Millicent's white hair.
Logan: "What the fvck are you doing over there? Can you put the knives away for once?" Vic puts the hair and the blade in his pocket.
Vic: Leaning over to get a look at Logan. "Are you busting your cool, man? Need a fag?" Silence, fuming silence from Logan. "Oooohhhh I think he does. I think he does."
Ian: "Actually, dear. I think he's pissed we nailed a bobbie."
Sick: "BOBBIE?! I didn't want to know his name! GOD!!"
The majority of the car: "Shuttup Sick!" Millicent groaned at the sound.
Ian: Nudging Vic "I think she likes your lap, bloke. Slide her head a little to the--"
Logan: "fvck off, Ian. We're going to her place, leave her alone."
Ian: "a'few minutes ago you had her pinned by her throat, and now you don't even want her to make ole Vic hear unconsciously happy?"
Logan: "Look, This situation has gotten way out of hand."
Bryce: (muffled) "THAT"S AN UNDERSTATEMENT!"
Logan: Between gritting teeth "--I just need some place to think this out."
Jordan: After his time out "Look, worse comes to worst, Lo. We go to the Club."
Vic: "Yeah, welp, we got rid of everything aahhllright." Pause. "Aw, shyt. 'ello darlin'"
Millicent: "What the fu--"
Logan: "27th street, right Milli?"
Millicent: Looking over the car, she finally lands her eyes on Logan. "i..yeah...yes." At least they were taking her home.
Sick Boys: "Fool is on the road again, so danger isn't far"
3/4/01 11:08 PM Eastern Standard Time
An Hour Later-- After some Munchies
and some mail-box bowling.
Sick: "I feel better now."
Ian: "You feel better after shoving your face full of carbs and preservatives?"
Sick: "Full of..what?!"
Jordan: "Funyins and 5 hot dogs!" Jordan panted, taking a time out from baby sitting Sick after he's done five lines of Aderol and taken 50mgs of dex. Ian was leaning back in the seat.
Ian: "You know, she's cute and all, but my leg's falling asleep."
Vic: "Give her to me."
Sick: "Put her in the trunk!"
Bryce: (muffled) "NO!"
Vic: "Oh c'mon Bryce, you might actually get laid. Even if she's unconscious." There was contemplative silence for a good long while.
Sick: "Sick! He's thinking about it!" Vic and Ian split Millicent's weight between them evenly. All 3 pounds of it.
Millicent: "You know, that'd be funny if I wasn't awake to hear it."
Logan: "Aww, c'mon doll. They just saved your life." Millicent turned her head and stared daggers at Logan. She did this quite artfully, considering Ian had placed himself between them. He finally distracted her.
Millicent: "Do you have to redo the spikes every time you get in and out of a car?"
Ian: Pausing, gawking. "Ey, Lady. Why'd you have to go and bring that up for?"
Vic: Laughing, "'E's too primped and pretty to be riding with us."
Ian: "What are you talking about you fvckin' poofer?! You look like a 13 year old gurl I boffed the other day. " And under his breath "dandy"
Vic: He tilted his head. "Y'know, she's right, if I read that stare correct-like. We didn't have to off that bobbie. It's always act first, ask later with yew guys."
Jordan: "Look who's fvckin' talking."
Ian: "That was mighty witty Jor."
Sick: "Stop Fighting!"
Ian: "Who's fightin' you --"
Sick: "you WHAT?!?! WHAT Are you going to...AGH!"
Vic: "Can we just get out of this bloody car, I'm starving."
Ian: "What, not enough junk in your system? Running low on brown sugah?" He taunted. For the first time, Vic looked unamused.
Vic: "I'll kill your highlander ass if you don't shut it."
Millicent: "Stop It! Stop it! Christ, you passed my place."
Vic: "Ah, "christ" that's the other thing they call me."
Ian: "You think you're so damn witty. Well, there's no more of your blokes 'round here to call you 'the Son", Son."
Vic: Snickering, he added. "Sure there are" And he swatted Ian's spikes. The two began to wrestle with Millicent in the middle of them. She tried to move out of the way, but then it became a match of pin and tickle. Everyone left with bruises. Save Logan, who elbowed Ian so hard the game was stopped soon after.
Millicent: "Agh, here...here."
Sick: "Good! I have to piss!"
Jor: "..what the hell is--"
Sick: "DAH!"
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Jonathan: "Johnny, Angry Johnny. This is..."
3/6/01 5:07 PM Eastern Standard Time
"What do you MEAN you haven't found it yet? What good are you fvckin people?!" Jonathan was staring at Christopher and gesticulating wildly.
"Hey, hey. Easy there." Christopher frowned and pushed aside a sickly green dread. Thin and kept. The club's lights flew through them wildly, littering him with colour. "Look, Neil even had Laurent do some work on it. What can I say? You can't ask more than that."
"Laurent?! Laurent, he's a...Jesus. Nothing's going to happen. My baby's probably inside 12 other cars by now. You know how much that new transmission cost me?! Did you hear her run after I worked on her? Didja?!"
"I'm not into cars, man. I don't have any length problems to deal with." Chris has a cocky smile, but it was always good natured.
"Yeah, sure, always thinking about my cock." Jonathan scoffed. Hitting below the belt more than literally.
Chris turned to walk away. Jonathan spun him on his shoulder, making an axis of his heals. Chris was actually shocked. He grinned. "Why don't you call Laurent, John."
Jonathan finally took a breath and removed his hands from Christopher's shoulder. "All right. All right. But I'm not going to like it."
"That's probably the point." Chris scratched his chin, where hair hadn't grown for years. "And I need to talk to you tonight."
"Wha-for?"
"You know what for."
---V---
"Laurent?"
"Yes, that would be the number you dialed." Unamusement.
"Yeah, well, this is Jon. Look, I was wondering about my car."
"I'm entertaining a guest, Jonathan. This will have to wait." Laurent's voice faded as he talked to someone else. 'No, no problem at all. I'll be done in a moment.' A pause. 'Oui, c'est vrai, mas.....Non. Maintenant!' The voice came back with a growl.
"Laurent, look. Just call me back. I'm being retarded, I just want my fvckin' car."
He could hear the smile through the wires. "Ah, Jonathan, do not worry about such things. Maile and I shall find it. Or... I shall buy you 5 just like her. Cinq voitures belle pour que vous appr�ciiez." Laurent laughed.
"Uh, yeah, sure...whatever."
"I shall come to you after Christopher is done with you ce soir."
"I.." Confusion. "Look, I don't know how you...hey, i don't speak French." "Christ," muttered.
"Bon, bon." he was obviously distracted. "Tonight, I shall find you tonight." And Laurent was hanging up the phone to the tune of his sardonic laughter and a hissed "Maile, non. Mechant!"
(I forgot how to spell that last one. Woops)
**Title by Poe.
3/6/01 5:07 PM Eastern Standard Time
"What do you MEAN you haven't found it yet? What good are you fvckin people?!" Jonathan was staring at Christopher and gesticulating wildly.
"Hey, hey. Easy there." Christopher frowned and pushed aside a sickly green dread. Thin and kept. The club's lights flew through them wildly, littering him with colour. "Look, Neil even had Laurent do some work on it. What can I say? You can't ask more than that."
"Laurent?! Laurent, he's a...Jesus. Nothing's going to happen. My baby's probably inside 12 other cars by now. You know how much that new transmission cost me?! Did you hear her run after I worked on her? Didja?!"
"I'm not into cars, man. I don't have any length problems to deal with." Chris has a cocky smile, but it was always good natured.
"Yeah, sure, always thinking about my cock." Jonathan scoffed. Hitting below the belt more than literally.
Chris turned to walk away. Jonathan spun him on his shoulder, making an axis of his heals. Chris was actually shocked. He grinned. "Why don't you call Laurent, John."
Jonathan finally took a breath and removed his hands from Christopher's shoulder. "All right. All right. But I'm not going to like it."
"That's probably the point." Chris scratched his chin, where hair hadn't grown for years. "And I need to talk to you tonight."
"Wha-for?"
"You know what for."
---V---
"Laurent?"
"Yes, that would be the number you dialed." Unamusement.
"Yeah, well, this is Jon. Look, I was wondering about my car."
"I'm entertaining a guest, Jonathan. This will have to wait." Laurent's voice faded as he talked to someone else. 'No, no problem at all. I'll be done in a moment.' A pause. 'Oui, c'est vrai, mas.....Non. Maintenant!' The voice came back with a growl.
"Laurent, look. Just call me back. I'm being retarded, I just want my fvckin' car."
He could hear the smile through the wires. "Ah, Jonathan, do not worry about such things. Maile and I shall find it. Or... I shall buy you 5 just like her. Cinq voitures belle pour que vous appr�ciiez." Laurent laughed.
"Uh, yeah, sure...whatever."
"I shall come to you after Christopher is done with you ce soir."
"I.." Confusion. "Look, I don't know how you...hey, i don't speak French." "Christ," muttered.
"Bon, bon." he was obviously distracted. "Tonight, I shall find you tonight." And Laurent was hanging up the phone to the tune of his sardonic laughter and a hissed "Maile, non. Mechant!"
(I forgot how to spell that last one. Woops)
**Title by Poe.
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Maile & Neil: "oh the shark, babe, has such teeth. and he shows them, pearly white"
3/6/01 8:25 PM Eastern Standard Time
"I've heard that business is ... slowing down," she said, recrossing her legs as she lit a cigarette. She looked toward the lighter a second after his eyes turned to her.
Neil's eyes didn't turn as much as they slid, half closed, from the silver pen he was rolling between his finger tips. "Really." Not believing enough to make it a question, and barely interested enough to respond at all.
"Mmm." Something to fill the space while she filled her mouth with smoke and replaced the lighter into her small purse. "Rumors, I'm sure." She lifted her chin as she spoke, a polite habit.
"I'm sure." He only smiled half of a smile, a slant of his mouth like a knife. He went back to rolling the cold metal pen. His placement of attention was deceptive. She hadn't heard a damn thing, and he wasn't playing into her games of Chinese Whispers. Across the room, Maile shrugged. Neil's slouch was liquid, never looking like the coiled spring, or the hammer of a gun.
"Some are wondering, Neil. What with you and Laurent always hiding behind who knows what doors..." The cigarette paper sizzled as it burnt briefly, and she leaned forward to tap it in the ashtray. Laying out her first card, unintentional, of course. The severing of any conversation he had been willing to have with her.
Neil laughed, shortly and sharply, sitting up for a moment as he curled the pen into his palm. The few buttons of his slick shirt fell into place, hiding away the glimpses of skin she had had.
"Is that what this is about?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Are you sniffing around for Lauarent, Maile? Did he not leave a note on the dresser before leaving?" He smilled fully, finally, which was not necessarily a portent of friendliness.
"Neil..." She almost pouted. There was a silent "That wasn't nice" in her mouth. He waved it away before she could say it.
"Try the Lounge�
(Title by bobby Darin.)
Maile & Laurent: "The one who left you broken down and paralyzed"
3/14/01 3:56 PM Eastern Standard Time
"Severin? What do I know about Severin?" Maile tilted her head, shifting the light, caramel features of her face counter clockwise. "Why would you ask me that, Laurent?"
"Pourquoi, ma chere? Parce que �you know many things. After all, that is why they sent you, n'est-ce pas?" Laurent lifted his chin, breathing in the scent of the fine cordial they were drinking. He would have told her the age of the elixir in the crystal pair of snifters, but Laurent only flaunted ethereal things.
"He is from the old country. He is good at what he does. At least, so says the prince of Rome." And Maile smiled, just a change in the angles of her lips as they surrounded the cigarette she was smoking. Laurent enjoyed watching her lips.
"So, Maile," Laurent began. "Why would he come here, if he is loved by the prince of Rome? It seems to be�counter intuitive, don't you think?" Laurent had this way of fanning and gesticulating with his fingers when he spoke. Fingers that had been playing a piano for at least three hundred years, she estimated. Fingers that may not even be fingers at all, but what he allowed to be perceived as fingers.
"Severin is not like your former Demitri. Severin has a code of honor-"
Laurent laughed. "I know no-one who keeps such a thing. It is myth."
"Perhaps amongst your people, Laurie. But not Neil's."
Laurent sat forward in his chair, his trim slacks sliding whispers as his ankles slid together. "Maile, ma chere, you offend me."
"With the truth?"
Laurent's laugh was different then. Deeper, coming from the center of him. The center that new fire and ash, and books that held nothing but shadows. "No, with how much you do not understand." One of his silken silver brows rose on his features. He leaned back, sipping his drink. "When we are done, I shall drive you to your hotel, Maile."
"But Laurent," she said, before she'd even formed her rebuttal.
"I am flattered that you've come all this way hoping to find some other reason for me to have left Paris and Prague for what you most likely think is a rag-tag group-"
"Oh no, I understand that quite well. Neil is quite a conquest."
Laurent's eyes half closed, the dove-grey irises picked pin holes into Maile's skin, "If anything, dear Maile, I am not the victor. I'm sorry you have come to find the one person who could do what you could not." Laurent's thin lips lengthened.
"That, and the matter of your living blood line." Maile spoke like a serpent as she tapped out the end of her nearly finished cigarette. "That is why you are here." A snake for a snake. Laurent merely watched her, and he did it slowly, and with much interest. Maile began to rise.
"Sit down, Maile." Laurent hissed.
And Maile returned to her seat.
**Title by '\PC
3/6/01 8:25 PM Eastern Standard Time
"I've heard that business is ... slowing down," she said, recrossing her legs as she lit a cigarette. She looked toward the lighter a second after his eyes turned to her.
Neil's eyes didn't turn as much as they slid, half closed, from the silver pen he was rolling between his finger tips. "Really." Not believing enough to make it a question, and barely interested enough to respond at all.
"Mmm." Something to fill the space while she filled her mouth with smoke and replaced the lighter into her small purse. "Rumors, I'm sure." She lifted her chin as she spoke, a polite habit.
"I'm sure." He only smiled half of a smile, a slant of his mouth like a knife. He went back to rolling the cold metal pen. His placement of attention was deceptive. She hadn't heard a damn thing, and he wasn't playing into her games of Chinese Whispers. Across the room, Maile shrugged. Neil's slouch was liquid, never looking like the coiled spring, or the hammer of a gun.
"Some are wondering, Neil. What with you and Laurent always hiding behind who knows what doors..." The cigarette paper sizzled as it burnt briefly, and she leaned forward to tap it in the ashtray. Laying out her first card, unintentional, of course. The severing of any conversation he had been willing to have with her.
Neil laughed, shortly and sharply, sitting up for a moment as he curled the pen into his palm. The few buttons of his slick shirt fell into place, hiding away the glimpses of skin she had had.
"Is that what this is about?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Are you sniffing around for Lauarent, Maile? Did he not leave a note on the dresser before leaving?" He smilled fully, finally, which was not necessarily a portent of friendliness.
"Neil..." She almost pouted. There was a silent "That wasn't nice" in her mouth. He waved it away before she could say it.
"Try the Lounge�
(Title by bobby Darin.)
Maile & Laurent: "The one who left you broken down and paralyzed"
3/14/01 3:56 PM Eastern Standard Time
"Severin? What do I know about Severin?" Maile tilted her head, shifting the light, caramel features of her face counter clockwise. "Why would you ask me that, Laurent?"
"Pourquoi, ma chere? Parce que �you know many things. After all, that is why they sent you, n'est-ce pas?" Laurent lifted his chin, breathing in the scent of the fine cordial they were drinking. He would have told her the age of the elixir in the crystal pair of snifters, but Laurent only flaunted ethereal things.
"He is from the old country. He is good at what he does. At least, so says the prince of Rome." And Maile smiled, just a change in the angles of her lips as they surrounded the cigarette she was smoking. Laurent enjoyed watching her lips.
"So, Maile," Laurent began. "Why would he come here, if he is loved by the prince of Rome? It seems to be�counter intuitive, don't you think?" Laurent had this way of fanning and gesticulating with his fingers when he spoke. Fingers that had been playing a piano for at least three hundred years, she estimated. Fingers that may not even be fingers at all, but what he allowed to be perceived as fingers.
"Severin is not like your former Demitri. Severin has a code of honor-"
Laurent laughed. "I know no-one who keeps such a thing. It is myth."
"Perhaps amongst your people, Laurie. But not Neil's."
Laurent sat forward in his chair, his trim slacks sliding whispers as his ankles slid together. "Maile, ma chere, you offend me."
"With the truth?"
Laurent's laugh was different then. Deeper, coming from the center of him. The center that new fire and ash, and books that held nothing but shadows. "No, with how much you do not understand." One of his silken silver brows rose on his features. He leaned back, sipping his drink. "When we are done, I shall drive you to your hotel, Maile."
"But Laurent," she said, before she'd even formed her rebuttal.
"I am flattered that you've come all this way hoping to find some other reason for me to have left Paris and Prague for what you most likely think is a rag-tag group-"
"Oh no, I understand that quite well. Neil is quite a conquest."
Laurent's eyes half closed, the dove-grey irises picked pin holes into Maile's skin, "If anything, dear Maile, I am not the victor. I'm sorry you have come to find the one person who could do what you could not." Laurent's thin lips lengthened.
"That, and the matter of your living blood line." Maile spoke like a serpent as she tapped out the end of her nearly finished cigarette. "That is why you are here." A snake for a snake. Laurent merely watched her, and he did it slowly, and with much interest. Maile began to rise.
"Sit down, Maile." Laurent hissed.
And Maile returned to her seat.
**Title by '\PC
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Severin, Mickey, Tommy & Ewen: "I'm big into war, big into war"
3/14/01 4:09 PM Eastern Standard Time
"So what're ya doin' up dere in tha rafters, lad. Sniffin da glue an'aesbestos?"
Severin turned his chin down towards the floor. He'd actually dug up a ladder to extend his already enormous form up into the highest points of the main walk of the Sacrifice. He pushed his fingers through his stylish black hair.
"Mickey, it amazes me that you come from the place where they made english, and yet you butcher it past nearly all recognition." Severin grinned a huge, white toothed grin and continued what he was doing.
"'Ey now, s'not like i's cockney or saum such ting, ah mean-- ah fahk." Mickey dodged the light bulb that Severin had conveniently launched at his head. Mickey immediately went to bobbing on his toes. Fists up, hopping like a boxer. "Brin't on, mahn. I'show ya 'ow ta do't."
"Aw, Mickey. Leave the 'ole Italian stallion to his work. He's 'working for the better of the pack'. Or some such trash that Nick said."
"'E threw a bulb at me 'ead, Tommy."
"Should I fear for your life?"
Mickey stopped, cocking his head to the side. His body movements slowed and stopped. Then he shrugged. "Ey, tru nough, Tommy." Severin began to chuckle up into the rafters.
"'Ey!" Mickey made a lurch towards the body guard. Tommy grabbed him up by the collar and tapped his chest with his finger.
"Neil needs you to pick up Lorne Bastard's back and probably has Lars with 'im."
"Jesus, Tommy. Ya'caint leave me inna car w'dem two lads. If dair lads a'tall. Dey'll end up whipin' me out and puttin' da rest of me in da boot of dere ca'."
Tommy and Mickey exchanged a look. Mickey tossed his head sharply, getting the short brown strands of hair out of his eyes. A moment later and Mickey was gone.
Severin intruded upon Tommy's thoughts, "Mio dio, everyone says that boy is not as crazy as he sounds. But I'm never so sure."
"Yeah, well, everybody says you're tougher than you look, but I don't think so." Severin just laughed.
"Is it true, what I hear about what happened to Neil's last body guard?"
"What did you hear?"
"Beat him to a pulp, strung him up in all sorts of sharp wire, and then slit his throat.. apparently they drank him dry, because there was none left on the ground." A pause. "That's what I hear at least."
Severin nodded. "Yes."
"Does that bother you?"
Severin began to descend the ladder. "Why? Demitri Romanov was a moron. Neil should have known this."
Tommy laughed. It was a friendly laugh. "All right, Sev. I'll have to agree with that. I met him once in Paris. And I hated 'is fvckin' guts." Tommy tossed his hands in to his pockets. "I think it was his laugh. He sounded like an animal. I always figured that a man should always attempt to look like more of a man, rather than less of one."
Severin rose one of his pitch black brows, but he turned his face away from Tommy as he looked up at his handy work. "All of us have a little something that keeps us going forward rather than running about chaotic-like." He jerked a thumb back at Tommy, "You, you have Mickey. Mickey's got his sisters. Nick has his wife and daughter."
"So what do you have Sev?" Tommy finally saw what Severin had been doing, there was a new surveillance system lining the hall. Tommy smiled, but discontinued this effort when he made eyecontact with Severin again.
"Don't worry about me. If I were worried about anyone, it would be Laurent. I don't like that kid."
"Kid?"
"Anyone I can put down with one swing is a 'kid'" Severin grinned at Tommy.
"Mickey shoulda popped you one in the teeth."
Severin gave a good natured, but questioning look at the Brit. "Why?"
"Cause I sure as 'ell ain't gonna do it. Mickey's the crazy one."
Both men grinned.
"EYYYYYY" Both of their heads turned towards the sound. They were met by Ewen Scorn's big grin and his strange tendency to sway back and forth on either of his feet. An odd looking show when one considered his shocks of spikey hair that didn't know which way to go either. Tommy took to watching Ewen by synchronizing a similar back-and-forth tilting motion of his head. Severin dubbed them all as being 'characters'.
"Ewen?"
"Where's Mickey, Tommy? I got a new toy to show him. That boy Sick is a damn Genius."
Severin crossed his thick arms over his chest. Ewen looked over at the man, instantly he was all teeth and a shy, forceful laugh. "Heeee" One shoulder went up and he went oddly coy. Tommy frowned, but Severin just laughed.
"Does that last camera work now, Ewen?" Severin had a tolerance for Ewen's quirks. At least, Tommy thought it was tolerance.
"Oh! Yeah, that's why I came over here. Everything's a-o-k."
"Great, lets get a goddamn drink."
\Sick: "when there's no-one else in sight"
03/15/2001 2:40 AM Eastern Standard Time
Sick was leaving the surveillance room with little-to-nothing else to do. He'd been beating his head over numbers and tags all night. Even Ewen had long since gone to bed, or whatever they liked to call it.
The walk through Club Sacrifice was lonely. He could hear his footsteps reverberating throughout the entire belly of the club. There were cleaners around here somewhere, but his thin soled shoes weren't going to scuff up any work they'd done. In fact, the flat bottoms slipped and slid and probably polished the floor even better than it had been polished previously.
In fact, Sick took it upon himself to take a little running leap and slide a few feet down the dance floor to the bar. He almost tripped over a mop that had been left there. He made a face at it as he picked it up. "Ey there, looks like you're the only one who's caught me... caught me..." And suddenly the most brilliant idea came over him. He looked up at himself in the mirror on the wall. He stood there, neatly ironed pants, lanky body,holding the mop loosly...no...professionally in one hand.
He lifted his chin into the handle and muttered.. "If i had the chance I'd...ask the...." And so it begain.
"...world to dance and I'll be dancin' with myself woah oh!" His thin souls were a-tapping "Dancin with myself whoa oh!" Hips were a twisting and he wasn't sure if he was Billy Idol or Elvis Presley. He took the broom on quite a ride, his smooth bottomed shoes sliding over the floor in a series of hip-tosses and cock-eyed turns. "Oh dancin with myself whoa oh! "
His hands smoothed up the broom handle and he even gave her a dip. He spun the two of them around and tapped his feet a few times. "Oh dancin with myself Whoa oh! well there's nothing to lose and there's nothing to prove I'll be dancin with myself whoa oh!" Some pelvic thrusts at the bottom of that dive of octaves. "Well I looked all over tha wo-orld!, and there's every type of gi-irl" He tossed his head back and forth.
"But your em-pa-ty eyes seem ta pass me a-by...." A pause as he stared longingly at the mop. "...Leave me dancin' with myself whoa oh!" He proceeded to rock out, tossing his shoulders until he just had to spin himself around right into-- a towel into his face.
There was laughter. Sick pulled the towel off his head as he ran his hand through his cropped white hair. (He could have sworn a minute ago it was an inch or two longer, spikier and flaxen. He was good, damnit.)
"If you get going now I wont tell a soul."
"Ah-ah..all right!" And he peeled out of the club before he even remembered the bar tender's name.
The mop clattered to the floor. That was the most fun it ever had.
**Title and song by Billy Idol
3/14/01 4:09 PM Eastern Standard Time
"So what're ya doin' up dere in tha rafters, lad. Sniffin da glue an'aesbestos?"
Severin turned his chin down towards the floor. He'd actually dug up a ladder to extend his already enormous form up into the highest points of the main walk of the Sacrifice. He pushed his fingers through his stylish black hair.
"Mickey, it amazes me that you come from the place where they made english, and yet you butcher it past nearly all recognition." Severin grinned a huge, white toothed grin and continued what he was doing.
"'Ey now, s'not like i's cockney or saum such ting, ah mean-- ah fahk." Mickey dodged the light bulb that Severin had conveniently launched at his head. Mickey immediately went to bobbing on his toes. Fists up, hopping like a boxer. "Brin't on, mahn. I'show ya 'ow ta do't."
"Aw, Mickey. Leave the 'ole Italian stallion to his work. He's 'working for the better of the pack'. Or some such trash that Nick said."
"'E threw a bulb at me 'ead, Tommy."
"Should I fear for your life?"
Mickey stopped, cocking his head to the side. His body movements slowed and stopped. Then he shrugged. "Ey, tru nough, Tommy." Severin began to chuckle up into the rafters.
"'Ey!" Mickey made a lurch towards the body guard. Tommy grabbed him up by the collar and tapped his chest with his finger.
"Neil needs you to pick up Lorne Bastard's back and probably has Lars with 'im."
"Jesus, Tommy. Ya'caint leave me inna car w'dem two lads. If dair lads a'tall. Dey'll end up whipin' me out and puttin' da rest of me in da boot of dere ca'."
Tommy and Mickey exchanged a look. Mickey tossed his head sharply, getting the short brown strands of hair out of his eyes. A moment later and Mickey was gone.
Severin intruded upon Tommy's thoughts, "Mio dio, everyone says that boy is not as crazy as he sounds. But I'm never so sure."
"Yeah, well, everybody says you're tougher than you look, but I don't think so." Severin just laughed.
"Is it true, what I hear about what happened to Neil's last body guard?"
"What did you hear?"
"Beat him to a pulp, strung him up in all sorts of sharp wire, and then slit his throat.. apparently they drank him dry, because there was none left on the ground." A pause. "That's what I hear at least."
Severin nodded. "Yes."
"Does that bother you?"
Severin began to descend the ladder. "Why? Demitri Romanov was a moron. Neil should have known this."
Tommy laughed. It was a friendly laugh. "All right, Sev. I'll have to agree with that. I met him once in Paris. And I hated 'is fvckin' guts." Tommy tossed his hands in to his pockets. "I think it was his laugh. He sounded like an animal. I always figured that a man should always attempt to look like more of a man, rather than less of one."
Severin rose one of his pitch black brows, but he turned his face away from Tommy as he looked up at his handy work. "All of us have a little something that keeps us going forward rather than running about chaotic-like." He jerked a thumb back at Tommy, "You, you have Mickey. Mickey's got his sisters. Nick has his wife and daughter."
"So what do you have Sev?" Tommy finally saw what Severin had been doing, there was a new surveillance system lining the hall. Tommy smiled, but discontinued this effort when he made eyecontact with Severin again.
"Don't worry about me. If I were worried about anyone, it would be Laurent. I don't like that kid."
"Kid?"
"Anyone I can put down with one swing is a 'kid'" Severin grinned at Tommy.
"Mickey shoulda popped you one in the teeth."
Severin gave a good natured, but questioning look at the Brit. "Why?"
"Cause I sure as 'ell ain't gonna do it. Mickey's the crazy one."
Both men grinned.
"EYYYYYY" Both of their heads turned towards the sound. They were met by Ewen Scorn's big grin and his strange tendency to sway back and forth on either of his feet. An odd looking show when one considered his shocks of spikey hair that didn't know which way to go either. Tommy took to watching Ewen by synchronizing a similar back-and-forth tilting motion of his head. Severin dubbed them all as being 'characters'.
"Ewen?"
"Where's Mickey, Tommy? I got a new toy to show him. That boy Sick is a damn Genius."
Severin crossed his thick arms over his chest. Ewen looked over at the man, instantly he was all teeth and a shy, forceful laugh. "Heeee" One shoulder went up and he went oddly coy. Tommy frowned, but Severin just laughed.
"Does that last camera work now, Ewen?" Severin had a tolerance for Ewen's quirks. At least, Tommy thought it was tolerance.
"Oh! Yeah, that's why I came over here. Everything's a-o-k."
"Great, lets get a goddamn drink."
\Sick: "when there's no-one else in sight"
03/15/2001 2:40 AM Eastern Standard Time
Sick was leaving the surveillance room with little-to-nothing else to do. He'd been beating his head over numbers and tags all night. Even Ewen had long since gone to bed, or whatever they liked to call it.
The walk through Club Sacrifice was lonely. He could hear his footsteps reverberating throughout the entire belly of the club. There were cleaners around here somewhere, but his thin soled shoes weren't going to scuff up any work they'd done. In fact, the flat bottoms slipped and slid and probably polished the floor even better than it had been polished previously.
In fact, Sick took it upon himself to take a little running leap and slide a few feet down the dance floor to the bar. He almost tripped over a mop that had been left there. He made a face at it as he picked it up. "Ey there, looks like you're the only one who's caught me... caught me..." And suddenly the most brilliant idea came over him. He looked up at himself in the mirror on the wall. He stood there, neatly ironed pants, lanky body,holding the mop loosly...no...professionally in one hand.
He lifted his chin into the handle and muttered.. "If i had the chance I'd...ask the...." And so it begain.
"...world to dance and I'll be dancin' with myself woah oh!" His thin souls were a-tapping "Dancin with myself whoa oh!" Hips were a twisting and he wasn't sure if he was Billy Idol or Elvis Presley. He took the broom on quite a ride, his smooth bottomed shoes sliding over the floor in a series of hip-tosses and cock-eyed turns. "Oh dancin with myself whoa oh! "
His hands smoothed up the broom handle and he even gave her a dip. He spun the two of them around and tapped his feet a few times. "Oh dancin with myself Whoa oh! well there's nothing to lose and there's nothing to prove I'll be dancin with myself whoa oh!" Some pelvic thrusts at the bottom of that dive of octaves. "Well I looked all over tha wo-orld!, and there's every type of gi-irl" He tossed his head back and forth.
"But your em-pa-ty eyes seem ta pass me a-by...." A pause as he stared longingly at the mop. "...Leave me dancin' with myself whoa oh!" He proceeded to rock out, tossing his shoulders until he just had to spin himself around right into-- a towel into his face.
There was laughter. Sick pulled the towel off his head as he ran his hand through his cropped white hair. (He could have sworn a minute ago it was an inch or two longer, spikier and flaxen. He was good, damnit.)
"If you get going now I wont tell a soul."
"Ah-ah..all right!" And he peeled out of the club before he even remembered the bar tender's name.
The mop clattered to the floor. That was the most fun it ever had.
**Title and song by Billy Idol
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Lorne & Lars: "and I've never been wrong, and I'm lookin' so good "
3/14/01 4:15 PM Eastern Standard Time
It was a laugh that ran up and down several scales before it landed just as shallow in the throat as it had started. The type of laugh that ended in a sigh, and shattered any semblance of mirth in order to coat the sound in the agonizing knowledge that the entire effort was pity. Rightfully so, Lars was staring at Lorne-- the culprit who was making the horrid, egotistical noise.
"Shut up, Lorne."
"God, did you see that? What a waste of tits."
Lars pushed up his customary wrap-around shades. He did it with one, well aimed, calloused finger. "You're a rat bastard when it comes to other people, you know that?"
"I'm famous, they're not. If they're going to walk their ass all the way up to me just to make my acquaintance, they better have something to fvcking offer when they get here. And that chick was the equivalent of a horse with distemper. Jesus, as shallow as she was ugly." Lorne elbowed Lars, which off set his stream lined black leather coat. Lars pushed his arm away.
"What's your problem? Don't tell me you'd shag something like that?"
"That's not it, I may hate people in general, but you are such a prick sometimes. Your ego needs a trimming."
"Ohh, sure, Mr. Lars-High-and-Mighty. At least I don't lay them to eat them later." Lorne tossed his mane of black hair over his shoulder. He grabbed his belt and hiked up the chains to make sure they fell just right on his bones. It really was a lewd gesture. Those pants were too tight for it not to be.
"Whatever. I'm just not in the mood."
"Aww, poor Larsy-warsy left a great rack at the last city. Poor pretty isn't going to get laid by something that sexy for another hundred years. What happened to Lars' quick smirk and icy countenance and his quick wit? Did you leave it between those long, pale legs? Did you-" The rest of that sentence Lorne left wheezing over his collar bones as his head and shoulders were slammed into the airport wall.
"You push me too far, Lorne." Lars was hissing, that chip on his shoulder was glowing neon, and Lorne knew he'd be no fun for the rest of the ride home. Lorne rolled his eyes, and Lars dropped him. (Literally dropped him, he'd been picked up a good foot in the air.) Lars inhaled to add the rest of his diatribe when the horrible accent busted in on them.
"'ey yew pair a'dandies. Git in da ca before I show ya both 'ow ta rahlly fahkagurl."
The second Lorne deciphered the comment and looked displeased, Lars smiled to himself and slid into the front seat of the car. He pat Mickey on the back. "That's my boy."
Though Mickey had to add, "'ey, whatevah ya need."
Lorne stumbled into the car, grumbling. Neil's band was back together.
**Title by Bush
Lorne & Lars: "so sexy.... almost evil"
3/15/01 6:34 PM Eastern Standard Time
"That thing is a wolf, that's not a dog," said Lorne from Lars' black leather couch. He pointed at the dog Lars was petting furiously, its ears flopping around under his hands.
"Sure it is, this is a man's dog." Lars was grinning at the beast as its grey tongue slid out of its mouth and it wagged its tail�
"Stupidly�it's wagging and panting stupidly." Lorne lit up one of his Nat Sherman's with the stream lined zippo he'd picked up in Berlin.
"Lay off my dog, this dog is smarter than you are."
"Yeah, sure." Lorne gave a scoff that became the call for the dog to prop its two huge paws into his scrawny lap. The beast barked, deep and threatening, right near the bassist's zippo-flame. "Lars, ha..that's funny."
Lars shrugged and rose to his feet. He pushed his shades back up his nose and lifted his arms in a feline stretch.. "Ohhhh, I'm going to go and find something to eat" Said entirely through a yawn. "You tell me when you want to go practice."
"Lars, get your dog off of me." Lorne tried to move the flame closer to the beast, and it snapped its jaws closed around the zippo and pulled it from his hand. "My zippo, my zippo!!" The dog dropped it when Lorne gave up his cry. He could have sworn that Wintermute had eaten it. Lorne pulled back his lips and hissed at the beast, fang for fang, even Lorne's tossled black mane looked more animal than man. Wintermute didn't even move, she was used to this from the arrogant scrawny one. She gave a good, belly-deep growl.
And then Lorne tackled the animal. Lars sat by laughing as man and beast were a rolling ball of black on the floor. Lorne was laughing, and finally got the dog in a head lock. "That's what I'm saying bitch!"
Lars whistled and Winter twisted in such a fashion, that Lorne couldn't hold her right. The beast of a dog went bounding towards its master, and jumped up to place its paws upon his shoulders. Wintermute licked Lars from jawline to temple. His glasses consequently slipped to the side and almost fell off. He blinked his horrible light blue eyes at the dog. A moment of silence and his voice went from man to baby-talk "That's my Wintermute, Daddy's big girl." The dog panted and closed its eyes as Lars scratched its ears.
"Who took care of your dog while we were gone?" asked Lorne when he got himself up off the floor.
"Oh, nobody, she can take care of herself." Lars smiled as Lorne looked confused.
"She eats small children, there's tons of those around here." Lars grinned from ear to ear.
Lorne raised one of his fingers to pause the scene and inquire, but instead the phone rang and he sent fingers through his mane. Lars picked up the phone after Wintermute dropped to the floor with a loud >thud<. She crawled her way over to the supine Lorne and convinced him to pet her.
"Yeah? Mech? Ahhh, Laurent." There was a pause as Lars listened. "Yeah, sure, I'll be right there."
"What? What now?" Lorne tilted his head towards the ground, looking up at Lars from under one of Wintermute's huge paws. He'd given in and was petting the she-beast happily.
"Laurent says some breathers need some help. Fvckin' kids." Lars mumbled as he reached for his keys and pulled on his jacket. "I'll be back...." He paused and turned to look at Lorne from the doorway. "Meet me at the club, Ewen and Sev need Sick, and he's with 'em."
"Yeah yeah, I'll be there."
**Title by crazy town
3/14/01 4:15 PM Eastern Standard Time
It was a laugh that ran up and down several scales before it landed just as shallow in the throat as it had started. The type of laugh that ended in a sigh, and shattered any semblance of mirth in order to coat the sound in the agonizing knowledge that the entire effort was pity. Rightfully so, Lars was staring at Lorne-- the culprit who was making the horrid, egotistical noise.
"Shut up, Lorne."
"God, did you see that? What a waste of tits."
Lars pushed up his customary wrap-around shades. He did it with one, well aimed, calloused finger. "You're a rat bastard when it comes to other people, you know that?"
"I'm famous, they're not. If they're going to walk their ass all the way up to me just to make my acquaintance, they better have something to fvcking offer when they get here. And that chick was the equivalent of a horse with distemper. Jesus, as shallow as she was ugly." Lorne elbowed Lars, which off set his stream lined black leather coat. Lars pushed his arm away.
"What's your problem? Don't tell me you'd shag something like that?"
"That's not it, I may hate people in general, but you are such a prick sometimes. Your ego needs a trimming."
"Ohh, sure, Mr. Lars-High-and-Mighty. At least I don't lay them to eat them later." Lorne tossed his mane of black hair over his shoulder. He grabbed his belt and hiked up the chains to make sure they fell just right on his bones. It really was a lewd gesture. Those pants were too tight for it not to be.
"Whatever. I'm just not in the mood."
"Aww, poor Larsy-warsy left a great rack at the last city. Poor pretty isn't going to get laid by something that sexy for another hundred years. What happened to Lars' quick smirk and icy countenance and his quick wit? Did you leave it between those long, pale legs? Did you-" The rest of that sentence Lorne left wheezing over his collar bones as his head and shoulders were slammed into the airport wall.
"You push me too far, Lorne." Lars was hissing, that chip on his shoulder was glowing neon, and Lorne knew he'd be no fun for the rest of the ride home. Lorne rolled his eyes, and Lars dropped him. (Literally dropped him, he'd been picked up a good foot in the air.) Lars inhaled to add the rest of his diatribe when the horrible accent busted in on them.
"'ey yew pair a'dandies. Git in da ca before I show ya both 'ow ta rahlly fahkagurl."
The second Lorne deciphered the comment and looked displeased, Lars smiled to himself and slid into the front seat of the car. He pat Mickey on the back. "That's my boy."
Though Mickey had to add, "'ey, whatevah ya need."
Lorne stumbled into the car, grumbling. Neil's band was back together.
**Title by Bush
Lorne & Lars: "so sexy.... almost evil"
3/15/01 6:34 PM Eastern Standard Time
"That thing is a wolf, that's not a dog," said Lorne from Lars' black leather couch. He pointed at the dog Lars was petting furiously, its ears flopping around under his hands.
"Sure it is, this is a man's dog." Lars was grinning at the beast as its grey tongue slid out of its mouth and it wagged its tail�
"Stupidly�it's wagging and panting stupidly." Lorne lit up one of his Nat Sherman's with the stream lined zippo he'd picked up in Berlin.
"Lay off my dog, this dog is smarter than you are."
"Yeah, sure." Lorne gave a scoff that became the call for the dog to prop its two huge paws into his scrawny lap. The beast barked, deep and threatening, right near the bassist's zippo-flame. "Lars, ha..that's funny."
Lars shrugged and rose to his feet. He pushed his shades back up his nose and lifted his arms in a feline stretch.. "Ohhhh, I'm going to go and find something to eat" Said entirely through a yawn. "You tell me when you want to go practice."
"Lars, get your dog off of me." Lorne tried to move the flame closer to the beast, and it snapped its jaws closed around the zippo and pulled it from his hand. "My zippo, my zippo!!" The dog dropped it when Lorne gave up his cry. He could have sworn that Wintermute had eaten it. Lorne pulled back his lips and hissed at the beast, fang for fang, even Lorne's tossled black mane looked more animal than man. Wintermute didn't even move, she was used to this from the arrogant scrawny one. She gave a good, belly-deep growl.
And then Lorne tackled the animal. Lars sat by laughing as man and beast were a rolling ball of black on the floor. Lorne was laughing, and finally got the dog in a head lock. "That's what I'm saying bitch!"
Lars whistled and Winter twisted in such a fashion, that Lorne couldn't hold her right. The beast of a dog went bounding towards its master, and jumped up to place its paws upon his shoulders. Wintermute licked Lars from jawline to temple. His glasses consequently slipped to the side and almost fell off. He blinked his horrible light blue eyes at the dog. A moment of silence and his voice went from man to baby-talk "That's my Wintermute, Daddy's big girl." The dog panted and closed its eyes as Lars scratched its ears.
"Who took care of your dog while we were gone?" asked Lorne when he got himself up off the floor.
"Oh, nobody, she can take care of herself." Lars smiled as Lorne looked confused.
"She eats small children, there's tons of those around here." Lars grinned from ear to ear.
Lorne raised one of his fingers to pause the scene and inquire, but instead the phone rang and he sent fingers through his mane. Lars picked up the phone after Wintermute dropped to the floor with a loud >thud<. She crawled her way over to the supine Lorne and convinced him to pet her.
"Yeah? Mech? Ahhh, Laurent." There was a pause as Lars listened. "Yeah, sure, I'll be right there."
"What? What now?" Lorne tilted his head towards the ground, looking up at Lars from under one of Wintermute's huge paws. He'd given in and was petting the she-beast happily.
"Laurent says some breathers need some help. Fvckin' kids." Lars mumbled as he reached for his keys and pulled on his jacket. "I'll be back...." He paused and turned to look at Lorne from the doorway. "Meet me at the club, Ewen and Sev need Sick, and he's with 'em."
"Yeah yeah, I'll be there."
**Title by crazy town
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Aleister & Eskil: "you call me a traitor, but you are a snake"
4/15/01 4:19 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"He'll see you," murmured Severin. The hulk of a man nodded his chin at the two who waited at the steel and oak door.
Eskil: A navy suit, vest and vinyl tie.
Aleister: A mesh shirt, Prada belt buckle and pants that zippered up the backs of calves.
To be allowed entry...
The remote opened the door on silent, mechanical hinges.
The red stairwell of the Sacrifice Club hummed with a baseline from some distant song.
"you try to sneak behind my back
but trust can not be stolen
friendship must be earned and affection's not for sale
I know you want respect
but contempt is all you get from me
we are
forever unforgiven
an eye for an eye
and a tooth for a tooth
--Covenant
--v--
For a long while now Alec had been separating the artfully meshed styles of the oak overlay. The door was truly wonderful. To fuse such delicate, hand carved images to the utterly functional steel door was a gesture of taste and efficiency. There was irony, decadence and threat. He was sure he would, at the least, respect this...Neil.
Neil. Just Neil.
Eskil had named and dissected this gorgeous mimic of Rodin's Gate of Hell from the high Gothic architecture motif. He appreciated it as well, but he appreciated the symbolism of it. The beautiful, gaping maw of threat and precision. When he passed it, his pale finger stroked one of the thrice etched churchlines. He smiled into the blood red hall. Similarly fingering a Louis XIV.
--v--
"Aleister Crowley. Eskil Simonsson." Neil nodded, shaking each of their hands over his deep stained desk. He waved his hand, offering them their respected seats.
The men sat.
"Aleister, not the one and only?" Neil tilted his features.
"It depends which one." Aleister smiled. "And please, call me Alec, as we are to work together with some familiarity." The British accent was crisp and purring. But Neil caught something else, whatever had bled colour from his body in such a manner that matched his hair with his skin.
"The occultist."
"Perhaps." Alec smiled. Neil was bemused to see that the man couldn't smile as easily as he could smirk. Something to remember for times it was more important.
"I've no doubt that you know our visiting Maile, though. Do you not?"
"Indeed I do."
"And Eskil, I have heard of much of your work. I bid upon that job in Prague, actually," Neil lifted a carafe to each of them. To which each of them declined. "And after I'd heard what you had done, I had to admit I could have done no better myself."
"I was pleased with all that we completed. It surpassed my own requirements for success." The Norwegian accent was pleasant, adding a sharpness to his features and a peculiar keenness to his eyes. "However, you seem to have won yourself my best man."
"Laurent speaks quite highly of you, Eskil." Neil nodded and folded his hands into a steeple above his lap. "And so I hear it is matters of Laurent that has brought you all this way?"
"In a manner of speaking," answered Eskil.
"The matter is much farther reaching than simply one man." Alec smiled his slanted smile.
"In fact," added Eskil. "I'm quite sure that the matter has caught your attention as well. It seems that Chance is dabbling in Fate."
"Or, that 300 years is the limit of our imposed division," Alec commented.
"And the hands of fate are greedy, greedy bitches." Eskil's square shoulders and smoothed suit were sturdy foundations for the grin that reflected in his vinyl tie. Neil smiled.
"Ah, and that is my largest concern." Admitted Neil. "Please, continue."
The men remained in the office for many hours. During which Alec shed his threatening smile and laughed an amiable laugh many times. Neil finally persuaded the men to drink, and share of his hospitality. Eskil shed his jacket, revealing the sleek fashion of a vest that fit perfectly over his narrow hips and sculpted shoulders.
They learned much of each other. They learned much of Laurent. They learned much of Maile. All for the sake of those whom they kept.
Neil wondered how such people could keep so closely to old traditions. But he was not ignorant. And he marked the high-brow ego of the Norwegian, the poise that some would consider sexy, and others lethal. And Neil marked the jaded quality of the self-proclaimed Brit. But also his greed.
The three divided as business associates. Eskil traded a letter for a set of architectural designs. And Alec left to find Maile.
**Title by Covenant. I also, for the astute, borrowed their singer. And similarly, A.C. is a famous figure, though he's a cross with Andy of IoC.
Laurent & Aleister: "soothing my narcissism"
5/22/01 1:19 PM Eastern Daylight Time
It didn't really matter where exactly Laurent 'lived'. Not many people knew, and he rather preferred it that way. He wouldn't have called it being paranoid, he just didn't like the company of ... well, anyone. The fact that Maile could drop in on him whenever she damn well pleased, ...well, didn't make him the most content of the undead.
It was relatively early in the night and Laurent was sitting snugly on his divan reconstructing the bones of his hand into something like blades breaking through his knuckles. A neat little trick he'd picked up in Prague from some rogue Assamite who'd sucked a little too hard on one of Laurent's comrades. It had struck up a kinship between the two, and they had enjoyed using the trick on beggers and children who got too close or too loud when they went out at night.
Laurent was a pedigree of perfection, some would say it was to a fault, and this was why he was trying to undergo the transformation without making that damn cracking noise it did. It had always given the deceased a split second prior warning. Which to anyone would seem like an actual risk, but to Laurent it just ruined the expression upon their face when the bone-blades came up through the jaw and pierced the brain-meat of the optic chiasm. They always looked surprised in that "shyt I'm going to die" way, rather than the "shyt I'm already dead" way he much more preferred. It was a testimony to his skill and his speed. The last time he had gotten a true death-look of the latter was...
>Crack<
"Merde! Niche ta--!!"
>knock knock knock<
One of Laurent's silver brows rose with such an arrogant species of skepticism it would have corroded the very soul of any brother of the cloth who had happened by to witness it. That thought also made Laurent's crouching smirk tilt towards one of the Welsh tapestries he kept on his wall above his fireplace.
"Bah, coushez avec vo--" He was fond of speaking to it. Afterall, it had once been a Carthusian monk.
>Knock Knock<
Laurent hissed. Who dared?
"I didn't think you were this stupid, Aleister."
"Evening to you too, Laurent Tordu'destin." Alec pushed a royal purple satchel towards the silver snake of a man. Laurent had hissed. "My ever sibilant friend, I may come in, may I not?"
Laurent stepped back, and even proffered a clipped, cordial bow. The door closed behind Alec's form, and the bolt did the last bit of hissing for the evening.
"Atlantis must have resurfaced, my friend. For I can not think of a single other adequate reason for you to ever come within half a United States of me." Laurent's words were distinctly formed, and a parade of emphasis. His spindly fingers wrapped the neck of the bottle in the bag. He pulled it out. "At least you didn't bring trash to appease me with."
Though Laurent was quite a character, and had quite a sharp side, he was well aware of quality, and did understand the nature of business. However, it was, and it was Only, an old tryst that kept him from flinging his form against the white haired visitor and tearing out his larynx to make a lovely ward potion for those hot summer days when one may need to keep out a Blake family goon. Or at least to use it for some quite useful base for a preserving agent that would keep the man's eyes fresh for another use he'd mull over for a few hundred years. Because skewering Aleister Crowley wasn't something to be wasted on lesser experiments.
"You're little family," the word curdled on Alec's lips, "has fvcked up beyond belief, Laurent."
"Why come to me with this?" Laurent let Alec understand just what he thought of him by turning his back to the intruder while he picked out a pair of crystal snifters. "You know I have removed myself from their course of actions. What is it you want, to rub my nose in their ultimate destruction?" There was a delicate laugh. "To tell me pretty little secrets of the Black Hand? Or are you just looking for a very tired, very raw Maile in my apartments?"
Laurent amused himself with imagining he heard Alec's teeth grinding. Because he knew they were.
"I'm suggesting, to you, my old, old, respected, friend--"
"Enemy"
"Ehm-- Enemy" corrected. "... that you pull whatever silver strings you have upon your little line. Or things shall get very, very ugly."
>Crack<
Laurent pursed his lips, but was quite content in the scratch his body put in the side of the crystal glass. He nonchalantly licked a drop of blood from his skin, and then turned to walk the glass and amber Scotch to Alec.
"If Eskil speaks with me, I shall."
"Eskil agrees with what I'm telling you, Laurent."
"Mes amis, mon petit, ma chere," Laurent's tones were dripping. "do not pretend that he even knows you are here. You think I do not know you?" Alec took the glass and Laurent fanned his synth-playing fingers over his flat, silver ribbed chest. "Eskil does not leave chess games like this to his inferiors." Laurent smiled, and it carved its way through the distance between him and the 'Norwegian' in such a manner that made Alec roll back upon his heals. His nostrils flared.
Laurent loved Alec's inability to control the signs of his temper. He had respect for the man, true enough. But of course he thought himself the better. And not only for this one, rather large, difference. But several others.
Alec, on the other hand, despised the french'man' with a passion he could not even name. Aristotle's definition of 'hate', his theory of wanting to 'obliterate' the other wasn't even enough. Nor was the pitiless thought that 'anger' caused one to cause pain. No no, Aleister couldn't even explain what he wished upon those grey, grinning eyes.
"Then, very simply," oh he was mastering his breathing, Laurent could have twittered. "...I shall bring Eskil with me." Alec licked his lips. "But Laurent, I was doing this because you know, as well as I do, that this is not something to be done purely by the book. They will have all our heads for this."
"Oh no, no. They will have your head," a slender finger pointed towards the older looking man. "for this, to be sure." Laurent sipped his drink, and dipped his chin in testimony of Alec's good taste. "I, on the other hand, have immeasurable worth and information that they wouldn't dream of making an example of. Unlike yourself, dear Alec. They might even consider skewering Eskil for it, too. Imagine that."
Aleister laughed. "You're naivety is alarming. You undermine my status."
"Oh no, I don't, at all. But it was great fun to say that to your face."
**Title by TooL. "Reflection" is pure Laurent
4/15/01 4:19 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"He'll see you," murmured Severin. The hulk of a man nodded his chin at the two who waited at the steel and oak door.
Eskil: A navy suit, vest and vinyl tie.
Aleister: A mesh shirt, Prada belt buckle and pants that zippered up the backs of calves.
To be allowed entry...
The remote opened the door on silent, mechanical hinges.
The red stairwell of the Sacrifice Club hummed with a baseline from some distant song.
"you try to sneak behind my back
but trust can not be stolen
friendship must be earned and affection's not for sale
I know you want respect
but contempt is all you get from me
we are
forever unforgiven
an eye for an eye
and a tooth for a tooth
--Covenant
--v--
For a long while now Alec had been separating the artfully meshed styles of the oak overlay. The door was truly wonderful. To fuse such delicate, hand carved images to the utterly functional steel door was a gesture of taste and efficiency. There was irony, decadence and threat. He was sure he would, at the least, respect this...Neil.
Neil. Just Neil.
Eskil had named and dissected this gorgeous mimic of Rodin's Gate of Hell from the high Gothic architecture motif. He appreciated it as well, but he appreciated the symbolism of it. The beautiful, gaping maw of threat and precision. When he passed it, his pale finger stroked one of the thrice etched churchlines. He smiled into the blood red hall. Similarly fingering a Louis XIV.
--v--
"Aleister Crowley. Eskil Simonsson." Neil nodded, shaking each of their hands over his deep stained desk. He waved his hand, offering them their respected seats.
The men sat.
"Aleister, not the one and only?" Neil tilted his features.
"It depends which one." Aleister smiled. "And please, call me Alec, as we are to work together with some familiarity." The British accent was crisp and purring. But Neil caught something else, whatever had bled colour from his body in such a manner that matched his hair with his skin.
"The occultist."
"Perhaps." Alec smiled. Neil was bemused to see that the man couldn't smile as easily as he could smirk. Something to remember for times it was more important.
"I've no doubt that you know our visiting Maile, though. Do you not?"
"Indeed I do."
"And Eskil, I have heard of much of your work. I bid upon that job in Prague, actually," Neil lifted a carafe to each of them. To which each of them declined. "And after I'd heard what you had done, I had to admit I could have done no better myself."
"I was pleased with all that we completed. It surpassed my own requirements for success." The Norwegian accent was pleasant, adding a sharpness to his features and a peculiar keenness to his eyes. "However, you seem to have won yourself my best man."
"Laurent speaks quite highly of you, Eskil." Neil nodded and folded his hands into a steeple above his lap. "And so I hear it is matters of Laurent that has brought you all this way?"
"In a manner of speaking," answered Eskil.
"The matter is much farther reaching than simply one man." Alec smiled his slanted smile.
"In fact," added Eskil. "I'm quite sure that the matter has caught your attention as well. It seems that Chance is dabbling in Fate."
"Or, that 300 years is the limit of our imposed division," Alec commented.
"And the hands of fate are greedy, greedy bitches." Eskil's square shoulders and smoothed suit were sturdy foundations for the grin that reflected in his vinyl tie. Neil smiled.
"Ah, and that is my largest concern." Admitted Neil. "Please, continue."
The men remained in the office for many hours. During which Alec shed his threatening smile and laughed an amiable laugh many times. Neil finally persuaded the men to drink, and share of his hospitality. Eskil shed his jacket, revealing the sleek fashion of a vest that fit perfectly over his narrow hips and sculpted shoulders.
They learned much of each other. They learned much of Laurent. They learned much of Maile. All for the sake of those whom they kept.
Neil wondered how such people could keep so closely to old traditions. But he was not ignorant. And he marked the high-brow ego of the Norwegian, the poise that some would consider sexy, and others lethal. And Neil marked the jaded quality of the self-proclaimed Brit. But also his greed.
The three divided as business associates. Eskil traded a letter for a set of architectural designs. And Alec left to find Maile.
**Title by Covenant. I also, for the astute, borrowed their singer. And similarly, A.C. is a famous figure, though he's a cross with Andy of IoC.
Laurent & Aleister: "soothing my narcissism"
5/22/01 1:19 PM Eastern Daylight Time
It didn't really matter where exactly Laurent 'lived'. Not many people knew, and he rather preferred it that way. He wouldn't have called it being paranoid, he just didn't like the company of ... well, anyone. The fact that Maile could drop in on him whenever she damn well pleased, ...well, didn't make him the most content of the undead.
It was relatively early in the night and Laurent was sitting snugly on his divan reconstructing the bones of his hand into something like blades breaking through his knuckles. A neat little trick he'd picked up in Prague from some rogue Assamite who'd sucked a little too hard on one of Laurent's comrades. It had struck up a kinship between the two, and they had enjoyed using the trick on beggers and children who got too close or too loud when they went out at night.
Laurent was a pedigree of perfection, some would say it was to a fault, and this was why he was trying to undergo the transformation without making that damn cracking noise it did. It had always given the deceased a split second prior warning. Which to anyone would seem like an actual risk, but to Laurent it just ruined the expression upon their face when the bone-blades came up through the jaw and pierced the brain-meat of the optic chiasm. They always looked surprised in that "shyt I'm going to die" way, rather than the "shyt I'm already dead" way he much more preferred. It was a testimony to his skill and his speed. The last time he had gotten a true death-look of the latter was...
>Crack<
"Merde! Niche ta--!!"
>knock knock knock<
One of Laurent's silver brows rose with such an arrogant species of skepticism it would have corroded the very soul of any brother of the cloth who had happened by to witness it. That thought also made Laurent's crouching smirk tilt towards one of the Welsh tapestries he kept on his wall above his fireplace.
"Bah, coushez avec vo--" He was fond of speaking to it. Afterall, it had once been a Carthusian monk.
>Knock Knock<
Laurent hissed. Who dared?
"I didn't think you were this stupid, Aleister."
"Evening to you too, Laurent Tordu'destin." Alec pushed a royal purple satchel towards the silver snake of a man. Laurent had hissed. "My ever sibilant friend, I may come in, may I not?"
Laurent stepped back, and even proffered a clipped, cordial bow. The door closed behind Alec's form, and the bolt did the last bit of hissing for the evening.
"Atlantis must have resurfaced, my friend. For I can not think of a single other adequate reason for you to ever come within half a United States of me." Laurent's words were distinctly formed, and a parade of emphasis. His spindly fingers wrapped the neck of the bottle in the bag. He pulled it out. "At least you didn't bring trash to appease me with."
Though Laurent was quite a character, and had quite a sharp side, he was well aware of quality, and did understand the nature of business. However, it was, and it was Only, an old tryst that kept him from flinging his form against the white haired visitor and tearing out his larynx to make a lovely ward potion for those hot summer days when one may need to keep out a Blake family goon. Or at least to use it for some quite useful base for a preserving agent that would keep the man's eyes fresh for another use he'd mull over for a few hundred years. Because skewering Aleister Crowley wasn't something to be wasted on lesser experiments.
"You're little family," the word curdled on Alec's lips, "has fvcked up beyond belief, Laurent."
"Why come to me with this?" Laurent let Alec understand just what he thought of him by turning his back to the intruder while he picked out a pair of crystal snifters. "You know I have removed myself from their course of actions. What is it you want, to rub my nose in their ultimate destruction?" There was a delicate laugh. "To tell me pretty little secrets of the Black Hand? Or are you just looking for a very tired, very raw Maile in my apartments?"
Laurent amused himself with imagining he heard Alec's teeth grinding. Because he knew they were.
"I'm suggesting, to you, my old, old, respected, friend--"
"Enemy"
"Ehm-- Enemy" corrected. "... that you pull whatever silver strings you have upon your little line. Or things shall get very, very ugly."
>Crack<
Laurent pursed his lips, but was quite content in the scratch his body put in the side of the crystal glass. He nonchalantly licked a drop of blood from his skin, and then turned to walk the glass and amber Scotch to Alec.
"If Eskil speaks with me, I shall."
"Eskil agrees with what I'm telling you, Laurent."
"Mes amis, mon petit, ma chere," Laurent's tones were dripping. "do not pretend that he even knows you are here. You think I do not know you?" Alec took the glass and Laurent fanned his synth-playing fingers over his flat, silver ribbed chest. "Eskil does not leave chess games like this to his inferiors." Laurent smiled, and it carved its way through the distance between him and the 'Norwegian' in such a manner that made Alec roll back upon his heals. His nostrils flared.
Laurent loved Alec's inability to control the signs of his temper. He had respect for the man, true enough. But of course he thought himself the better. And not only for this one, rather large, difference. But several others.
Alec, on the other hand, despised the french'man' with a passion he could not even name. Aristotle's definition of 'hate', his theory of wanting to 'obliterate' the other wasn't even enough. Nor was the pitiless thought that 'anger' caused one to cause pain. No no, Aleister couldn't even explain what he wished upon those grey, grinning eyes.
"Then, very simply," oh he was mastering his breathing, Laurent could have twittered. "...I shall bring Eskil with me." Alec licked his lips. "But Laurent, I was doing this because you know, as well as I do, that this is not something to be done purely by the book. They will have all our heads for this."
"Oh no, no. They will have your head," a slender finger pointed towards the older looking man. "for this, to be sure." Laurent sipped his drink, and dipped his chin in testimony of Alec's good taste. "I, on the other hand, have immeasurable worth and information that they wouldn't dream of making an example of. Unlike yourself, dear Alec. They might even consider skewering Eskil for it, too. Imagine that."
Aleister laughed. "You're naivety is alarming. You undermine my status."
"Oh no, I don't, at all. But it was great fun to say that to your face."
**Title by TooL. "Reflection" is pure Laurent
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Jonathan & Sick Boys: "I used to be immortal, I was innocent"
4/15/01 4:53 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"You know what?! Fvck him!" Jonathan pointed. "And fvck the two of you!"
Ian lurched towards Jonathan, as Vic grabbed his shoulders. "Don't be stupid, mate. He's pissed."
"Pissed? You have no fvcking idea what I am! I don't even know if that's what this is! I've spent a week just feeling like I was fvcking Crazy. Do you know what that is?! Do you know?!" He panted. "I can't control what I'm feeling, it's like I'm some bleeding chick!"
Logan, the aforementioned, or rather, yelled, 'him', took a step towards the snapping tails of Jonathan's trench. "Jon, look. It's what you asked for." Jonathan turned like a cyclone.
"Somebody can't ask for something like this!! You have no idea what...*I* have no idea what... Christ Logan." Ian shook off his bonds and turned away from the group. He wandered several feet away to find himself a streetlight under which he could properly light his cheroot. Vic pushed his long, guitarist's fingers through his messy black hair.
"Look," Vic began. "I know you don't want to hear it, but what happened happened. And you can't fight them for it, and you can't be in opposition of it. You have to learn to be it, Jon."
"Who the fvck made you the guru of this shyt, Vic?!"
"I'm just calling it how it is, Jon."
"Jon," Logan had a soothing quality to his voice when he wanted something. Millicent also imagined him to salivate like a dog when he wanted something. "Look what they've done for us, and now they've let you in. Look what has opened up to you. Look who fvcking did it. This whole city is in the palm of your hand."
"I don't want this fvcking city. I want my stupid job, and my stupid girlfriend!"
"So go to your girlfriend, Jon." Was Sick's reply. Unnaturally (or rather, naturally?) lucid.
Jordan was about to comment as Jonathan snapped at Sick. "Shut the fvck up!"
Jordan took it wrong. "I didn't fvckin' say anything, Jon!"
"Then I wasn't Fvcking TALKING To you WAS I!?!"
The group was left to panting. Sick looked the most studious of them all.
"I'd kill 'em if they killed my girlfriend."
"I don't know if they killed her, Sick!"
"Bullocks," Chimed in Ian. "You bloody well do." Jonathan nearly lurched at him before Vic stood in his way. Jonathan couldn't control his momentum, and threw himself to his knees before the Brit.
His shoulders began to shake. And Logan turned away.
Sick spoke softly. "Who did it, Jon?"
"Christopher." A very, long pause. "But I thought I asked for it."
"Did you?" Jordan.
"Yes."
Jonathan wondered if he would ever know the answer to a question again.
**Title by Covenant
Jonathan: "the story he told me there, out in the smoky air"
4/30/01 7:47 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Jonathan was no longer sure if he was more here than there. He remembered a meeting had been arranged, and though he was sure that he was at least one of the parties to be brought together, with exactly whom he shall meet was up for guesses and calculations.
He walked down the slowly wetting street, dragging his boots and the hem of his long leather coat. He must have been a curious sight, for he looked like he was mourning. And if his mother called to tell him that someone in his family had passed away, he would have promptly told her that he'd at least have something to wear. (He even had the countenance down quite well.) But that was all the insight he had. It made him exhale a halfhearted laugh perhaps once every other square of sidewalk. It felt like an airy baseline for the walk he'd been taking for at least two hours now.
There was serenity to it-- that he was thankful for. But everyone needs someone to be there when songs like this were the music of their life.
Even rain felt different through these eyes. He wasn't much opposed to the difference, but he did understand that this was one of the few times in his life he would have begged for familiarity. Whether it was his girlfriend's attention, or a friend whom he could actually share his feelings with. Yet, at the same time he felt like he understood the city. The way it sprayed from the underbellies of tires as they slowly rolled by. The way it collected in the gutter-corners of the street. The way it loomed with glass and steel arms. The way it was lonely without anyone to share in it.
He sighed, and remembered who he was supposed to meet. It seemed as though his body had known long before him, he rounded the corner and saw the grey face of their loft looming above him. 27th street, he must have walked in a circle. Or maybe his new homing signals told him to stay around the Club, whether he liked it or not.
He didn't want to go in just yet. It wasn't quite that time-- in the settling sense of things. His body told him that it needed to endure the slow ache of the outside cold a little longer.
Creep in, creep in. Familiarity.
And he could hear and smell all he needed to see.
"Eva, I thought�Eva!!"
He had been sure they'd crushed bones in the processes. Or at least torn the cartilage right out of his neck. His body had gone stiff, clutching to the body that bled for him because it was the only thing he could think about. That and�
"Pick him up, Laurent."
**Title by de/vision
Jonathan: "I'm scared of mirrors in case it's me"
5/10/01 4:06 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"You smell like shit, who knocked you around?"
Jonathan had sat himself down, wrapping himself in wet leather arms. His knees were kissing his chin, like buttercups meant for sweet, tender children. Not finally-not-gawky boys who knew what bruises felt like when they reached the bone.
Eventually he shrugged, a testimony in delayed reaction. Sorry. Late. Yeah, well, so was he. Though, more profoundly, he was early.
"Chris, no, not in here! Chris I can't!"
Eva laughed, and he felt it rattling around in his ears. Hollow.
He clawed at the wood, clawed at the satin, clawed at his skin.
"Just kill me, I don't want it! Chris, Man! Brother!"
He sighed, and the city felt more comfortable in crying her dirty tears on his pallid skin. She smiled her iron and yellow-light teeth. They were gentle in the ways of cut-throats and thievery. He squinted at Gabriel's feet, trying to stop himself from leaping up. Unsure as to whether it would be away, or towards. Neither was a preferable option, so he left himself locked up tight on the ground.
He was quite sure that would be the rest of his story. Knotted up in such a way that nothing that came in or out was in any other form besides a red, viscous liquid that he refused to believe in. Hey, hey, hey, I've got nothin' to lose.
"You were right, man. You were right to be mad. I was going to ...to..." He waved his hand, the nails were longer. There was a dull hum of electricity in his eyes, the song of synapses re-wired in the muddy, puppy-brown of his irises. He wanted to laugh, it almost curled his lip. Irony was one of his closest friends, lately.
Logan could appreciate that.
"Please, please don't make me. G-d, please!"
The wood splintered, and it was his bloody fingers that were first reborn.
The dirt felt warm, like decay would have felt if it had been his natural end.
Chemical reactions kissed his fingers, like they could taste everything that had died here. all at once it felt like meat, and water, and roses, and iron. It felt like light licking his hand, and it made him sigh and cry even as he screamed with rage. The boards broke their sturdy backs, hemorrhaging the body of a boy gone mad. Mad.
if god has a heart he will find you
Jonathan pressed his lips together, even the taste of his wet hair at the corners of his lips tasted funny. Foreign. What hadn't they done? Was it funny, were they laughing? Was this what happened to all of them? Maybe he'd never known hate before. Maybe none of them had.
Maybe that wasn't even what he was feeling.
He felt the gumming bite of his fingers as they pressed their weight into his cheek and brow. The touch was disembodied, but no more comforting than any other touch he touched to himself. It made the storm inside him angry. And he wanted to be alone again, as much as he wanted to ask Gabriel to try and help him not be alone.
Maybe he needed to remove himself.
"Just don't touch me, ok? I don't know what I'm thinking anymore."
"I think they really killed me, Gabe. I think they really killed me."
and one, one perfect life
turned to stone.
cold mercy.
i kneel down by your grave
i kneel down torn and guilty
...i kneel down by your side
i kneel down scared and helpless
I'm torn and guilty
torn and guilty
torn and guilty
gary numan
**Title by gary numan. Perfect song for this scene is 'one perfect lie'.
Jonathan's got a new pair of shoes.
Jonathan: "confess what you crave, a life without pain"
5/10/01 11:48 PM Eastern Daylight Time
you'd kill for the taste,
but the hurt still remains
still they don't know who you are
ashamed by the threats
you pierce the embrace
afraid and alone
in a dark lonely place
did you always want to be
did they try to steal your soul
did they hurt you with deceit
can't you come in from the cold
--The Tea Party
"No, see. That's the thing..." His laugh, at himself, was just an exhale through tight teeth. "*I* don't even know me. So don't say pretty shit like that. I don't believe it anymore. Gave it up like a bad habit."
"Just like you getting your ass kicked by street-rodents."
you took my wife, my unborn son
[--wolfsheim]
"I envy you, you know that? I've finally thought about it for a little while, and I think I do." He fanned his fingers over his leg. "Don't worry, it's not really in a bad way, I just think you did a damn good job. You're a lucky bastard. And that's not me saying it was luck and not you, or you not deserving it, it's not that."
Jonathan shrugged.
"I'm not bitter about it, but I think psychology, and philosophy all have to say the same thing, that there's something in me that wants it too. Or at least will want to take it."
"So yeah, really. I almost did. Just 'cause I couldn't control myself." He tilted his head, he felt like a snake. Felt his scales stilling, his forward pointing eyes tilting. "You know what it's like not to control yourself?"
"Shit, who am I kidding. You're a raging psycho sometimes." He laughed at himself, again. They say that's a talent everyone should have. Jonathan disagreed.
He liked playing two bodies on the sidewalk. He liked Gabriel, he liked company. He really did. Even when he denied it adamantly.
"How the fvck can I tell somebody about this?" His voice was starting to raise. The rain on him glittered differently, like he was crystal and the sky was magnetized.
The first thing he did was cry.
In front of Laurent's grinning teeth and Neil's stoic gaze. Christopher
was there, but Jonathan knew it was only because he had to be.
The soil spilled down his wrists and knuckles as he kneaded his fingers, his bones, into the ground. He couldn't fold himself in half enough times to disappear.
He did look up at him when he was asked. A pitiable thing, with his hair caked to his pretty cheeks and his eyes downcast like misbegotten clouds after a storm. There were things racing away faster than the wind could push them.
"I'm not going to go anywhere, but I need a little time off, Gabe. I don't want to hurt you two."
"I almost did. I really almost did."
"Well done," said Neil.
And the patriarch nodded and turned on his heal. A wave of his hand and the evidence was destroyed. Jonathan stayed their for hours, watching the acid-trip of a sky turn liquid till he could breathe it in like food, like light. The first person he killed was a child who'd asked him what was wrong.
"e v e r y t h i n g," he whispered.
"Why do you do this shit to yourself, Gabe?"
**Title by The Tea Party first lines of quoted song
Jonathan: "draining patience, drain vitality / this paranoid, paralyzed vampire"
5/22/01 12:14 PM Eastern Daylight Time
silence has a tendency to atrophy any
sense of compassion
between supposed lovers/brothers.
TooL
"Still where? Jesus, you're being idealistic and just.. fuckin' naive." Jonathan shook his head like he was trying to shake sleep from it. He was shedding skin and it was sloughing in record time. He was almost held in curiosity rather than fear, in the realization that what could come out of the ashes would be a phoenix with armor that ate him and those around him like negative space.
He heard it cackling, forming, turning three faces upon the axis of its one neck, one body, one blood. He saw Neil's face and he was on his feet, startled and stumbling.
"Skrew luck, I'm... I'm just going to deal with my shit... That's what I need to do, and I'm going to do it."
He pushed sheets of rainwater off his leather shoulder and arm. "Don't give me anything. I have to earn it, or I'll take it." He had a laugh for himself, at his disposition, at his reflection in the watered down city.
"I know what you can't give me, that's great, lets illustrate shyt some more while we're at it." Sarcasm bared its teeth, Envy smiled.
Jonathan squinted down at the bloody boy. His irises thundered like zoom-lenses, the shutters snapping at the red on the white skin. Jonathan slammed his hands (no, fists) into his pockets.
"I'm not going anywhere," he lifted his chin and looked up into the raining sky. He wanted to see something, he thought he deserved a glimpse at something bigger than just a horizon line, now that he'd sacrificed himself like this. His nails bit into the new, black crescent mark on his palm. Neil... "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't, ok?"
The lowering of his eyes was as soft as a shroud. And as final as that descent as well. He looked at the guitarist a different way now. Something a little mad, in both senses of the word. His body seemed to bleed its dark dimensions into the road, and they wanted to slither up the guitarist's legs, and hide him away in a sheath of leather and dead skin.
you hate it don't you...
And then Jonathan turned to walk away.
"Bite her, I was going to bite her."
4/15/01 4:53 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"You know what?! Fvck him!" Jonathan pointed. "And fvck the two of you!"
Ian lurched towards Jonathan, as Vic grabbed his shoulders. "Don't be stupid, mate. He's pissed."
"Pissed? You have no fvcking idea what I am! I don't even know if that's what this is! I've spent a week just feeling like I was fvcking Crazy. Do you know what that is?! Do you know?!" He panted. "I can't control what I'm feeling, it's like I'm some bleeding chick!"
Logan, the aforementioned, or rather, yelled, 'him', took a step towards the snapping tails of Jonathan's trench. "Jon, look. It's what you asked for." Jonathan turned like a cyclone.
"Somebody can't ask for something like this!! You have no idea what...*I* have no idea what... Christ Logan." Ian shook off his bonds and turned away from the group. He wandered several feet away to find himself a streetlight under which he could properly light his cheroot. Vic pushed his long, guitarist's fingers through his messy black hair.
"Look," Vic began. "I know you don't want to hear it, but what happened happened. And you can't fight them for it, and you can't be in opposition of it. You have to learn to be it, Jon."
"Who the fvck made you the guru of this shyt, Vic?!"
"I'm just calling it how it is, Jon."
"Jon," Logan had a soothing quality to his voice when he wanted something. Millicent also imagined him to salivate like a dog when he wanted something. "Look what they've done for us, and now they've let you in. Look what has opened up to you. Look who fvcking did it. This whole city is in the palm of your hand."
"I don't want this fvcking city. I want my stupid job, and my stupid girlfriend!"
"So go to your girlfriend, Jon." Was Sick's reply. Unnaturally (or rather, naturally?) lucid.
Jordan was about to comment as Jonathan snapped at Sick. "Shut the fvck up!"
Jordan took it wrong. "I didn't fvckin' say anything, Jon!"
"Then I wasn't Fvcking TALKING To you WAS I!?!"
The group was left to panting. Sick looked the most studious of them all.
"I'd kill 'em if they killed my girlfriend."
"I don't know if they killed her, Sick!"
"Bullocks," Chimed in Ian. "You bloody well do." Jonathan nearly lurched at him before Vic stood in his way. Jonathan couldn't control his momentum, and threw himself to his knees before the Brit.
His shoulders began to shake. And Logan turned away.
Sick spoke softly. "Who did it, Jon?"
"Christopher." A very, long pause. "But I thought I asked for it."
"Did you?" Jordan.
"Yes."
Jonathan wondered if he would ever know the answer to a question again.
**Title by Covenant
Jonathan: "the story he told me there, out in the smoky air"
4/30/01 7:47 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Jonathan was no longer sure if he was more here than there. He remembered a meeting had been arranged, and though he was sure that he was at least one of the parties to be brought together, with exactly whom he shall meet was up for guesses and calculations.
He walked down the slowly wetting street, dragging his boots and the hem of his long leather coat. He must have been a curious sight, for he looked like he was mourning. And if his mother called to tell him that someone in his family had passed away, he would have promptly told her that he'd at least have something to wear. (He even had the countenance down quite well.) But that was all the insight he had. It made him exhale a halfhearted laugh perhaps once every other square of sidewalk. It felt like an airy baseline for the walk he'd been taking for at least two hours now.
There was serenity to it-- that he was thankful for. But everyone needs someone to be there when songs like this were the music of their life.
Even rain felt different through these eyes. He wasn't much opposed to the difference, but he did understand that this was one of the few times in his life he would have begged for familiarity. Whether it was his girlfriend's attention, or a friend whom he could actually share his feelings with. Yet, at the same time he felt like he understood the city. The way it sprayed from the underbellies of tires as they slowly rolled by. The way it collected in the gutter-corners of the street. The way it loomed with glass and steel arms. The way it was lonely without anyone to share in it.
He sighed, and remembered who he was supposed to meet. It seemed as though his body had known long before him, he rounded the corner and saw the grey face of their loft looming above him. 27th street, he must have walked in a circle. Or maybe his new homing signals told him to stay around the Club, whether he liked it or not.
He didn't want to go in just yet. It wasn't quite that time-- in the settling sense of things. His body told him that it needed to endure the slow ache of the outside cold a little longer.
Creep in, creep in. Familiarity.
And he could hear and smell all he needed to see.
"Eva, I thought�Eva!!"
He had been sure they'd crushed bones in the processes. Or at least torn the cartilage right out of his neck. His body had gone stiff, clutching to the body that bled for him because it was the only thing he could think about. That and�
"Pick him up, Laurent."
**Title by de/vision
Jonathan: "I'm scared of mirrors in case it's me"
5/10/01 4:06 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"You smell like shit, who knocked you around?"
Jonathan had sat himself down, wrapping himself in wet leather arms. His knees were kissing his chin, like buttercups meant for sweet, tender children. Not finally-not-gawky boys who knew what bruises felt like when they reached the bone.
Eventually he shrugged, a testimony in delayed reaction. Sorry. Late. Yeah, well, so was he. Though, more profoundly, he was early.
"Chris, no, not in here! Chris I can't!"
Eva laughed, and he felt it rattling around in his ears. Hollow.
He clawed at the wood, clawed at the satin, clawed at his skin.
"Just kill me, I don't want it! Chris, Man! Brother!"
He sighed, and the city felt more comfortable in crying her dirty tears on his pallid skin. She smiled her iron and yellow-light teeth. They were gentle in the ways of cut-throats and thievery. He squinted at Gabriel's feet, trying to stop himself from leaping up. Unsure as to whether it would be away, or towards. Neither was a preferable option, so he left himself locked up tight on the ground.
He was quite sure that would be the rest of his story. Knotted up in such a way that nothing that came in or out was in any other form besides a red, viscous liquid that he refused to believe in. Hey, hey, hey, I've got nothin' to lose.
"You were right, man. You were right to be mad. I was going to ...to..." He waved his hand, the nails were longer. There was a dull hum of electricity in his eyes, the song of synapses re-wired in the muddy, puppy-brown of his irises. He wanted to laugh, it almost curled his lip. Irony was one of his closest friends, lately.
Logan could appreciate that.
"Please, please don't make me. G-d, please!"
The wood splintered, and it was his bloody fingers that were first reborn.
The dirt felt warm, like decay would have felt if it had been his natural end.
Chemical reactions kissed his fingers, like they could taste everything that had died here. all at once it felt like meat, and water, and roses, and iron. It felt like light licking his hand, and it made him sigh and cry even as he screamed with rage. The boards broke their sturdy backs, hemorrhaging the body of a boy gone mad. Mad.
if god has a heart he will find you
Jonathan pressed his lips together, even the taste of his wet hair at the corners of his lips tasted funny. Foreign. What hadn't they done? Was it funny, were they laughing? Was this what happened to all of them? Maybe he'd never known hate before. Maybe none of them had.
Maybe that wasn't even what he was feeling.
He felt the gumming bite of his fingers as they pressed their weight into his cheek and brow. The touch was disembodied, but no more comforting than any other touch he touched to himself. It made the storm inside him angry. And he wanted to be alone again, as much as he wanted to ask Gabriel to try and help him not be alone.
Maybe he needed to remove himself.
"Just don't touch me, ok? I don't know what I'm thinking anymore."
"I think they really killed me, Gabe. I think they really killed me."
and one, one perfect life
turned to stone.
cold mercy.
i kneel down by your grave
i kneel down torn and guilty
...i kneel down by your side
i kneel down scared and helpless
I'm torn and guilty
torn and guilty
torn and guilty
gary numan
**Title by gary numan. Perfect song for this scene is 'one perfect lie'.
Jonathan's got a new pair of shoes.
Jonathan: "confess what you crave, a life without pain"
5/10/01 11:48 PM Eastern Daylight Time
you'd kill for the taste,
but the hurt still remains
still they don't know who you are
ashamed by the threats
you pierce the embrace
afraid and alone
in a dark lonely place
did you always want to be
did they try to steal your soul
did they hurt you with deceit
can't you come in from the cold
--The Tea Party
"No, see. That's the thing..." His laugh, at himself, was just an exhale through tight teeth. "*I* don't even know me. So don't say pretty shit like that. I don't believe it anymore. Gave it up like a bad habit."
"Just like you getting your ass kicked by street-rodents."
you took my wife, my unborn son
[--wolfsheim]
"I envy you, you know that? I've finally thought about it for a little while, and I think I do." He fanned his fingers over his leg. "Don't worry, it's not really in a bad way, I just think you did a damn good job. You're a lucky bastard. And that's not me saying it was luck and not you, or you not deserving it, it's not that."
Jonathan shrugged.
"I'm not bitter about it, but I think psychology, and philosophy all have to say the same thing, that there's something in me that wants it too. Or at least will want to take it."
"So yeah, really. I almost did. Just 'cause I couldn't control myself." He tilted his head, he felt like a snake. Felt his scales stilling, his forward pointing eyes tilting. "You know what it's like not to control yourself?"
"Shit, who am I kidding. You're a raging psycho sometimes." He laughed at himself, again. They say that's a talent everyone should have. Jonathan disagreed.
He liked playing two bodies on the sidewalk. He liked Gabriel, he liked company. He really did. Even when he denied it adamantly.
"How the fvck can I tell somebody about this?" His voice was starting to raise. The rain on him glittered differently, like he was crystal and the sky was magnetized.
The first thing he did was cry.
In front of Laurent's grinning teeth and Neil's stoic gaze. Christopher
was there, but Jonathan knew it was only because he had to be.
The soil spilled down his wrists and knuckles as he kneaded his fingers, his bones, into the ground. He couldn't fold himself in half enough times to disappear.
He did look up at him when he was asked. A pitiable thing, with his hair caked to his pretty cheeks and his eyes downcast like misbegotten clouds after a storm. There were things racing away faster than the wind could push them.
"I'm not going to go anywhere, but I need a little time off, Gabe. I don't want to hurt you two."
"I almost did. I really almost did."
"Well done," said Neil.
And the patriarch nodded and turned on his heal. A wave of his hand and the evidence was destroyed. Jonathan stayed their for hours, watching the acid-trip of a sky turn liquid till he could breathe it in like food, like light. The first person he killed was a child who'd asked him what was wrong.
"e v e r y t h i n g," he whispered.
"Why do you do this shit to yourself, Gabe?"
**Title by The Tea Party first lines of quoted song
Jonathan: "draining patience, drain vitality / this paranoid, paralyzed vampire"
5/22/01 12:14 PM Eastern Daylight Time
silence has a tendency to atrophy any
sense of compassion
between supposed lovers/brothers.
TooL
"Still where? Jesus, you're being idealistic and just.. fuckin' naive." Jonathan shook his head like he was trying to shake sleep from it. He was shedding skin and it was sloughing in record time. He was almost held in curiosity rather than fear, in the realization that what could come out of the ashes would be a phoenix with armor that ate him and those around him like negative space.
He heard it cackling, forming, turning three faces upon the axis of its one neck, one body, one blood. He saw Neil's face and he was on his feet, startled and stumbling.
"Skrew luck, I'm... I'm just going to deal with my shit... That's what I need to do, and I'm going to do it."
He pushed sheets of rainwater off his leather shoulder and arm. "Don't give me anything. I have to earn it, or I'll take it." He had a laugh for himself, at his disposition, at his reflection in the watered down city.
"I know what you can't give me, that's great, lets illustrate shyt some more while we're at it." Sarcasm bared its teeth, Envy smiled.
Jonathan squinted down at the bloody boy. His irises thundered like zoom-lenses, the shutters snapping at the red on the white skin. Jonathan slammed his hands (no, fists) into his pockets.
"I'm not going anywhere," he lifted his chin and looked up into the raining sky. He wanted to see something, he thought he deserved a glimpse at something bigger than just a horizon line, now that he'd sacrificed himself like this. His nails bit into the new, black crescent mark on his palm. Neil... "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't, ok?"
The lowering of his eyes was as soft as a shroud. And as final as that descent as well. He looked at the guitarist a different way now. Something a little mad, in both senses of the word. His body seemed to bleed its dark dimensions into the road, and they wanted to slither up the guitarist's legs, and hide him away in a sheath of leather and dead skin.
you hate it don't you...
And then Jonathan turned to walk away.
"Bite her, I was going to bite her."
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
|>etra & Vic Vaile: "pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion"
5/23/01 4:05 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"Your sister is a total bitch," said Ian. "I think I'm in love with her."
Vic cocked a black brow at the Scottish boy. The one he was doomed to be paired with due to accents, as well as his proclivity for decking him when need be. Ian didn't necessarily 'take it' from Vic, but he didn't tickle his revenge streak when things happened.
"Just leave 'er alone, mate. I don't care 'ow smart y'are. She wont like you."
"Me?"
"Yeah, as in who you are, your personality. Forget it, if there's one thing I know about Petra, it's that."
"This is just bleeding' irony, you realize?" Ian was grinning, but glancing back at the two figures sitting on the fire-escape steps.
Vic wasn't being totally honest, but it served his inclinations for the moment. "C'mon Ian, Lars is waiting."
"Yeah yeah."
The two figures on the metal escape weren't even cognizant of the discourse the two boys were having. They had a different relationship all together.
Petra was a test-tube child of leather and buckles. Where her short corset left off, electrical tape bound her body, and black body paint made into whorls crept up to her collar bones and licked down her arms. Years of deterioration had brought this about. Her skin had seen so little sunlight she was white and nearly olivine. The only acceptable portion of her was her beautiful auburn hair. Totally untouched save two feathers of white spiraling from above and behind her ears.
"I don't care how 'underground' it sounds, nor the fact that ...'club's" She shivered. "play ignorant remixes of it. The Carmina Burana is incredible by itself, and no piece of shyt synthesizer will ever add to it." Petra was taking out money from her pocket and handing it to the 'boy' she sat next to.
His ribs crackled in response, the half corset he wore pinched breath out of him as much as the tooled, carved and metaliced leather of the rest of him screached and screamed. HIs hair was dreaded, but you could barely tell under the extensions of plastic fiber optic tubes that shocked his mass of black and white and pink and blue with synthetic degrees. "I'm not questioning the quality, I'm saying that they didn't do half bad of a job, considering what they were using to enhance their own work. Believe me, the original Latin was a crutch, I understand that. But at least it can move you."
Petra inhaled to retort.
"Body wise, not intellect."
She exhaled no worse, and swept up her breathing pattern with a curt nod. "Fair enough."
Agreement. "Is that enough?" she asked him.
"Yeah, it'll do. Lets go."
**Title by TooL
5/23/01 4:05 PM Eastern Daylight Time
"Your sister is a total bitch," said Ian. "I think I'm in love with her."
Vic cocked a black brow at the Scottish boy. The one he was doomed to be paired with due to accents, as well as his proclivity for decking him when need be. Ian didn't necessarily 'take it' from Vic, but he didn't tickle his revenge streak when things happened.
"Just leave 'er alone, mate. I don't care 'ow smart y'are. She wont like you."
"Me?"
"Yeah, as in who you are, your personality. Forget it, if there's one thing I know about Petra, it's that."
"This is just bleeding' irony, you realize?" Ian was grinning, but glancing back at the two figures sitting on the fire-escape steps.
Vic wasn't being totally honest, but it served his inclinations for the moment. "C'mon Ian, Lars is waiting."
"Yeah yeah."
The two figures on the metal escape weren't even cognizant of the discourse the two boys were having. They had a different relationship all together.
Petra was a test-tube child of leather and buckles. Where her short corset left off, electrical tape bound her body, and black body paint made into whorls crept up to her collar bones and licked down her arms. Years of deterioration had brought this about. Her skin had seen so little sunlight she was white and nearly olivine. The only acceptable portion of her was her beautiful auburn hair. Totally untouched save two feathers of white spiraling from above and behind her ears.
"I don't care how 'underground' it sounds, nor the fact that ...'club's" She shivered. "play ignorant remixes of it. The Carmina Burana is incredible by itself, and no piece of shyt synthesizer will ever add to it." Petra was taking out money from her pocket and handing it to the 'boy' she sat next to.
His ribs crackled in response, the half corset he wore pinched breath out of him as much as the tooled, carved and metaliced leather of the rest of him screached and screamed. HIs hair was dreaded, but you could barely tell under the extensions of plastic fiber optic tubes that shocked his mass of black and white and pink and blue with synthetic degrees. "I'm not questioning the quality, I'm saying that they didn't do half bad of a job, considering what they were using to enhance their own work. Believe me, the original Latin was a crutch, I understand that. But at least it can move you."
Petra inhaled to retort.
"Body wise, not intellect."
She exhaled no worse, and swept up her breathing pattern with a curt nod. "Fair enough."
Agreement. "Is that enough?" she asked him.
"Yeah, it'll do. Lets go."
**Title by TooL
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Neil, Marion & Laurent: "what's holding up is a mirror/but what's singing songs is a snake"
5/30/01 2:56 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Neil had been at ease in the silence for some time now. He'd switched from smirking to smiling and then from twirling his pen to using it. The numbers in the documents did not seem to add up. Not after Ewan swore they did, nor after Evan bet his drum-set on them.
"It's my drum-set anyway," was Neil's reply. "But Still!" had been Evan's.
He wasn't sure how the mistake had hidden itself so wonderfully in the meat of the document, but he knew there was something off. It was not a decimal point, nor was it a zero or a place holder. Something was simply wrong when he held it up to his estimations.
He had more faith in his estimations than he held in mathematics in general.
He took a moment to glance up at the slight girl who'd been softly padding about his office. Her hair was the most charcoal black, and it fell in waves like they used to hang from the crowns of women when he was alive. Softly rolling curls of smoke, pitch black like they'd come off the skin of men or the dirty ramparts of a neighboring stronghold.
She seemed unaware of his watching her. And this made him curious. He rolled the pen from the tips of his fingers to his palm.
"Severin seemed to be familiar with you, but I must admit I've not heard of a 'Marion De'Leda' before. Are you from Rome?"
The girl rose her china-smooth skin, and curled the corners of her lips with a tiny smile. She nodded, her black hair bouncing gracefully around her pretty face and her enchanting green eyes.
'Straight from Miranda,' Neil thought. And her response was nearly as good as an explicit answer. Who could argue with another's version of 'succinct'?
"He shouldn't be much longer."
And her smile distinctly stated that she knew this.
Neil watched her as she continued to look at his office, never glancing at the cameras or the security, just the little pieces of history he had lying about. She seemed most charmed by a simple fan he had, lying upon it's dark stand on his book shelf.
His voice was almost warm on the curve of her shoulder. She wore silks, wrapped like diaphanous milks and water. Straight from the 1700s, thought Neil. Straight from Rome, at night, the shadows of the seven hills.
"They're swan's feathers," his arm brushed her as he picked up the delicate fan. "Something purely decadent, but truly beautiful. The white is remarkable, is it not?" He lay the feathers upon her arm. The hue (or hue-less) gripped her skin and melted with it. Symbiosis of likenesses and likes.
"My my my," from the door way.
Laurent had had enough time to cross his arms over his silver chest.
Neil replaced the fan to the shelf and its cherry wood holder as the girl took three subtle steps towards the synth-player.
"Whyever would you need to visit me, Marion?"
"Perhaps because you like to think yourself Robin Hood?" Neil's smirk was gracious as he turned to return to his desk. The girl crossed her arms over her stomach, her dress twinkled like the early evening stars.
"So many visitors lately, Laurent. But apparently this one's for keeps."
"Really?" Laurent fell out of his lean in the door way.
"Well then perhaps I should do proper introductions."
Neil's brow rose.
"Neil, this is Echo. Echo, Neil. The man who runs this faction of our lovely...establishment."
And between palms, they paired a set of three black crescent moons.
"Echo."
Nick & Echo: "Mention something, mention anything"
5/30/01 5:33 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The club was dark.
Dark in the way open spaces with black walls are during the day-- without lights.
A dark that was synthetic, but wholesome.
The sunlight was filtered with fiber optics spread through the windows like prisms.
But there were no rainbows, just a low frequency hum of metal.
The windows looked like sunglasses.
And that's how Ewan liked to describe their function.
Severin didn't like to talk about it. If you didn't understand, did it matter?
Why tell people things they don't need to know?
He would, however, remind people that they were bullet proof. Like the doors.
Like himself.
Pan in a little more. Grasp the mica and the glass of the bar. The black lights and the blue lights. And the lone man rubbing it down.
There was a silence around Nick the bartender. The music didn't touch him, and he didn't need the music to. He was solitary, but not in the way of men who lock themselves away. Not like Neil could be. He was the product of his age as much as he was the product of men. Men in general.
His face was pale and his hair was red. And he wore neither a smile nor a frown. Just there, quiet. Enjoying his work.
He knew she was there. At the least he knew someone was there, and they required him to not lift his chin. So he only looked at her when her tiny hand rested on his lion's paw.
He smiled, "Maid Marion."
They sat to talk. He made her a Chartreuse and Tonic water.
"Aye, I still keep it. How could I not?" Nick fished into the button down shirt he wore. He'd traded in his workman's blues for something Neil had bought him. Black, expensive, it had taken him years to not look awkward in something sleek. He still seemed too big.
People always said he looked like a cop.
The locket pitter-pattered on his wide chest. His big fingers clicked the delicate latch with the skill of years and years. Reverent.
Echo touched it, and smiled at him.
"The likeness I always found to be extraordinary. You caught her sensitivity as well as her spark, you did."
"I did," replied Echo. She nodded with her bobbing black waves.
"The both of them actually, they were my little flames."
Echo's eyes softened, her black lashes curling around the aqua irises. Searching.
"I'm glad you're here."
"I'm glad I'm here."
"They'll be more work ahead, I assume?"
"Yes, more work."
"Good, lass. I needed something to do. It was getting too easy," Nick smiled and pat her little knee. The chiffon and taffeta and linen and fleur-de-lis whispered to his skin.
"Will you paint me something else, dear?"
"I will."
"Good, good. I already have an idea what. Has Laurent found you yet?"
She nodded. " 'Echo is an old friend.' "
"Yes," Nick smiled. "She is. Is that what he said?"
" 'Echo knows, Nick.' " Then her voice changed, " 'She gets along with him better than', " change. " 'Laurent' " She smiled, as though she waited for a reward.
Nick ruffled her hair. "Neil knows I'm all right with Laurent. It's Severin who has problems with the boy."
"Problems with the boy?"
"I think it has something to do with his Welsh Tapestries."
Echo laughed. " 'Pray not for me, father.' " In Laurent's voice.
Nick perked, and shivered. "That was eerie, don't do that." And then intrigue gripped him. His volume lowered, "You were there?"
"I was there."
A pause, and then Nick shook his head as he was tucking the locket back into his shirt. He felt it sear his skin with memory. The pain was throbbing, but comforting. "I never understood why you liked that boy."
"I like that boy."
"Oh, Echo. I know."
A moment.
" 'See Lamia.' "
"What?" inquired Nick. "You?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
" 'and I have taught men fishing, the sowing of seed, the scripture, and the history of the Gods' " The Temptation of St. Anthony, Flaubert.
"You give them too much credit, Marion. They are hardly Oannes, if anything they're maybe a lesser Oracle."
Marion snorted.
"Just make sure they don't convince you to not paint for me, or I'll throttle their dusty little bodies myself."
Echo smiled at him, and nuzzled her cheek to his shoulder.
**Title by TooL
Echo & the Sisters: "the Moon tells me a secret"
5/30/01 8:34 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The space between spaces was warm. Not as warm as the flesh, but it felt that way. It was enfolding, beautiful. Like the way it was before the light and the noise. Like the way it was before people. An environment that you still had no control over, but because it was perfect, you did not contemplate this fact at all.
It was warm darkness, because you could see through your eyelids and you were suspended.
Suspended in liquid sound.
She froze, listening.
"echo" Her senses woke. "echo" She felt her body. "echo" a woman.
"echo" calling her, waiting for her "echo" coming closer. "echo" Lamia!!
The face ripped through the womb, with fire for eyes and a tongue that rolled out of its head, black, hissing, a snake that grabbed for her with grinning metal teeth and a thousand eyes.
Echo jumped in the chair, her arms grabbed for the armrests and her body shook. She was panting softly and she looked around her to find that horrible face. Horrible face.
The ill-lit makeshift waiting room was clouded with cigar smoke. She tried not to look at the people she sat next to. They smelt of blood, and sex, and candle wax.
She smelled fur, and hyacinth, and was that....
"Echo, come in. Come in, Echo." A voice behind the curtain she'd fallen asleep next to.
She got up, pulling her layers together. She didn't have the chills or any such afterthoughts. No afterbirth from this dream. She parted the curtain with her hand.
...and......stepped ins i d e.
She felt like she was choking. Like the liquids had come in or that something through their boarders had reached through them, webbing their figures with membranes to.. to choke her.
She gasped.
Lamia cackled.
" 'What was that?' She's going to ask. Poor, dear Echo. foxglove, what would you say that was? How would you explain our little secrets like that one there?" The woman leaned forward to the slouching form of Echo.
Echo, couldn't remember falling asleep.
fox never spoke, Lamia was wretched.
"I don't know, Echo. You tell me?" Lamia leaned back, her dust bitten dress tumbling over her 10 cent chair. She shifted in all the lace and leather. "You don't have words for that, do you?"
foxglove put her fingers upon Lamia's arm, trying to still her forked tongue from instilling anything else into the pretty aqua eyes of Echo. (Though, fox did think about how they would have made a pretty addition to her collection. Or how they would be perfect for doing some oceanography scrying. With just a pinch of myrrh and frankincense...)
Lamia ignored fox's hand, and sent the pair of her own into the water of the wood bowl in front of her.
"What you know is yours to know, and what you've seen is but one-third of the story. There are personalities afoot, Echo. Laurent shares blood with them."
Echo swallowed, and tried to hold the blue eyes of the Oracle, but she let the vigil slide to the black roots of her bleached hair. She parted her lips to speak, and Lamia hissed at her for silence.
Lamia leaned into the waters, into which she dropped oil, and blood, and leaves. She exhaled smoke she hadn't breathed in, and she inhaled it again as her eyes rolled back.
Echo knew few things more hideous than Lamia in the throes.
"Steal this blood of his, like you've offered your voice. The cathedral pillars will fall if he loses the boy. The boy. Neil will battle his arrogance, and Leda will sleep with her swan. In seething screams of passion and pain. Oh, Echo, Echo... the mirror tastes like memory. Leave him to his magic, Echo."
And her eyes snapped back to ice chips in webs of black lashes of lace.
"They come from Rome, they come from home, and wherever you've gone they shall come again. Suckle them at your breast, Echo. Suckle them with your sweet sweat and your bitter words. You know, you know... like Nick's family in the flames."
Lamia slid, and pushed her cold fingers into the hem of Echo's dresses. The younger vampire could not move, not even when the chill invaded every part of her.
Every part. Lamia panted upon her rose petal lips.
Several strokes, and her fingers were hooks, nearly lifting her from her chair by catching her by the bone.
"Organs and bone will give birth to metal, to metal Oh Echo, Echo..." the woman whimpered and touched her face.
And the black serpent slid down her throat.
The fox's tongue took the place of fingers.
When Echo walked out from the curtain, she saw a man with the snout of a wolf, and a boy with two beautiful, auburn haired heads. And four honey eyes.
She dropped one of her chiffon sashes when she began to run.
The sleigh-bell on the door snickered merrily.
Nick pursed his lips and bobbed his head. Who could argue with that?
"Pourquoi? Why do you do these things? Don't you care?"
"About you, yes."
"Non, Lars, not about me. About people."
"No, Satine, Ich nicht."
He prowled.
This had become habit now, not passion.
He nodded to Ewen, he only glimpsed Mickey, he stopped to speak with Lorne.
"Hot Damn, Lars. Where did all these Europeans come from? We leave there, and they follow us here."
Lars looked at Lorne skeptically. Or so Lorne thought. He rolled his eyes.
"I can smell them, you know? There was this naughty little red head I just finished. She reminded me of Paris, and then she opened her mouth, and I heard France. Southern France," he waved his hand. "But France nonetheless. I think she tasted like truffles." He laughed and licked his fingers as though he'd eaten chocolates.
"Paris..."
"Why will you not come home avec moi?"
"I can't leave here, not for a few more weeks."
"Is work more important than us? Is it?"
"No, no, it's not."
"Then come back to Paris, meet ma famile"
"I'll meet you there, ok? I'll come when I can."
"C'est vrai?"
"Ja."
"...Berlin, but not Berlin. I don't know, something funny about her. Other than that noxious hair."
"What?"
"You weren't listening to me."
"No..I just missed what you said."
Lorne stared at him. Lars could only smirk. A neat little 'fvck you, you're right, but what did you say?'.
"She just came in, go, go have a snack. Appetizer from home, no?"
"German?"
"I think so. I'm not sure. I'm so horribly Americanized." Lorne sneered.
"I only worked in Northern Germany, they aren't my type."
"I don't know if she's from Berlin, that's just the only city I know from there, ok?" Lorne shoved Lars.
Lars started towards the people near the door.
"The hospital?"
"Yes, she told us to call you."
"How much time do I have?"
"...maybe the plane trip here. Not much more."
"... I'll...Ich komme. Tell her I'm coming."
"Hurry."
He circled her a few times.
Raising his chin like Wintermute would have. Letting her scent sear his fibers. Let them grip his cells and chain them down to memory. It was like the aftertaste of a thousand dollar meal. It permeated.
His movements were impossibly fast, but at the same time improbably slow.
He almost pulled off his glasses when he approached her.
His cigarette was gone, his head had tilted.
He almost pulled off the glasses, just to tack her down like the industry-butterfly she was.
He'd have been happy to tack her through, his sharp edges coming out her other side.
"I always wondered what sort of studio you had," to her side, over her shoulder, near her ear. "to catch the sound of warehouse ger�usche like you do." Egotistical, and poured out in front of her.
A pillar of Germany.
"Are you coming?"
"Kein, I'm going back home."
**Title by Wolfsheim
[The sisters are, quite directly, Sandman inspired.]
5/30/01 2:56 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Neil had been at ease in the silence for some time now. He'd switched from smirking to smiling and then from twirling his pen to using it. The numbers in the documents did not seem to add up. Not after Ewan swore they did, nor after Evan bet his drum-set on them.
"It's my drum-set anyway," was Neil's reply. "But Still!" had been Evan's.
He wasn't sure how the mistake had hidden itself so wonderfully in the meat of the document, but he knew there was something off. It was not a decimal point, nor was it a zero or a place holder. Something was simply wrong when he held it up to his estimations.
He had more faith in his estimations than he held in mathematics in general.
He took a moment to glance up at the slight girl who'd been softly padding about his office. Her hair was the most charcoal black, and it fell in waves like they used to hang from the crowns of women when he was alive. Softly rolling curls of smoke, pitch black like they'd come off the skin of men or the dirty ramparts of a neighboring stronghold.
She seemed unaware of his watching her. And this made him curious. He rolled the pen from the tips of his fingers to his palm.
"Severin seemed to be familiar with you, but I must admit I've not heard of a 'Marion De'Leda' before. Are you from Rome?"
The girl rose her china-smooth skin, and curled the corners of her lips with a tiny smile. She nodded, her black hair bouncing gracefully around her pretty face and her enchanting green eyes.
'Straight from Miranda,' Neil thought. And her response was nearly as good as an explicit answer. Who could argue with another's version of 'succinct'?
"He shouldn't be much longer."
And her smile distinctly stated that she knew this.
Neil watched her as she continued to look at his office, never glancing at the cameras or the security, just the little pieces of history he had lying about. She seemed most charmed by a simple fan he had, lying upon it's dark stand on his book shelf.
His voice was almost warm on the curve of her shoulder. She wore silks, wrapped like diaphanous milks and water. Straight from the 1700s, thought Neil. Straight from Rome, at night, the shadows of the seven hills.
"They're swan's feathers," his arm brushed her as he picked up the delicate fan. "Something purely decadent, but truly beautiful. The white is remarkable, is it not?" He lay the feathers upon her arm. The hue (or hue-less) gripped her skin and melted with it. Symbiosis of likenesses and likes.
"My my my," from the door way.
Laurent had had enough time to cross his arms over his silver chest.
Neil replaced the fan to the shelf and its cherry wood holder as the girl took three subtle steps towards the synth-player.
"Whyever would you need to visit me, Marion?"
"Perhaps because you like to think yourself Robin Hood?" Neil's smirk was gracious as he turned to return to his desk. The girl crossed her arms over her stomach, her dress twinkled like the early evening stars.
"So many visitors lately, Laurent. But apparently this one's for keeps."
"Really?" Laurent fell out of his lean in the door way.
"Well then perhaps I should do proper introductions."
Neil's brow rose.
"Neil, this is Echo. Echo, Neil. The man who runs this faction of our lovely...establishment."
And between palms, they paired a set of three black crescent moons.
"Echo."
Nick & Echo: "Mention something, mention anything"
5/30/01 5:33 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The club was dark.
Dark in the way open spaces with black walls are during the day-- without lights.
A dark that was synthetic, but wholesome.
The sunlight was filtered with fiber optics spread through the windows like prisms.
But there were no rainbows, just a low frequency hum of metal.
The windows looked like sunglasses.
And that's how Ewan liked to describe their function.
Severin didn't like to talk about it. If you didn't understand, did it matter?
Why tell people things they don't need to know?
He would, however, remind people that they were bullet proof. Like the doors.
Like himself.
Pan in a little more. Grasp the mica and the glass of the bar. The black lights and the blue lights. And the lone man rubbing it down.
There was a silence around Nick the bartender. The music didn't touch him, and he didn't need the music to. He was solitary, but not in the way of men who lock themselves away. Not like Neil could be. He was the product of his age as much as he was the product of men. Men in general.
His face was pale and his hair was red. And he wore neither a smile nor a frown. Just there, quiet. Enjoying his work.
He knew she was there. At the least he knew someone was there, and they required him to not lift his chin. So he only looked at her when her tiny hand rested on his lion's paw.
He smiled, "Maid Marion."
They sat to talk. He made her a Chartreuse and Tonic water.
"Aye, I still keep it. How could I not?" Nick fished into the button down shirt he wore. He'd traded in his workman's blues for something Neil had bought him. Black, expensive, it had taken him years to not look awkward in something sleek. He still seemed too big.
People always said he looked like a cop.
The locket pitter-pattered on his wide chest. His big fingers clicked the delicate latch with the skill of years and years. Reverent.
Echo touched it, and smiled at him.
"The likeness I always found to be extraordinary. You caught her sensitivity as well as her spark, you did."
"I did," replied Echo. She nodded with her bobbing black waves.
"The both of them actually, they were my little flames."
Echo's eyes softened, her black lashes curling around the aqua irises. Searching.
"I'm glad you're here."
"I'm glad I'm here."
"They'll be more work ahead, I assume?"
"Yes, more work."
"Good, lass. I needed something to do. It was getting too easy," Nick smiled and pat her little knee. The chiffon and taffeta and linen and fleur-de-lis whispered to his skin.
"Will you paint me something else, dear?"
"I will."
"Good, good. I already have an idea what. Has Laurent found you yet?"
She nodded. " 'Echo is an old friend.' "
"Yes," Nick smiled. "She is. Is that what he said?"
" 'Echo knows, Nick.' " Then her voice changed, " 'She gets along with him better than', " change. " 'Laurent' " She smiled, as though she waited for a reward.
Nick ruffled her hair. "Neil knows I'm all right with Laurent. It's Severin who has problems with the boy."
"Problems with the boy?"
"I think it has something to do with his Welsh Tapestries."
Echo laughed. " 'Pray not for me, father.' " In Laurent's voice.
Nick perked, and shivered. "That was eerie, don't do that." And then intrigue gripped him. His volume lowered, "You were there?"
"I was there."
A pause, and then Nick shook his head as he was tucking the locket back into his shirt. He felt it sear his skin with memory. The pain was throbbing, but comforting. "I never understood why you liked that boy."
"I like that boy."
"Oh, Echo. I know."
A moment.
" 'See Lamia.' "
"What?" inquired Nick. "You?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
" 'and I have taught men fishing, the sowing of seed, the scripture, and the history of the Gods' " The Temptation of St. Anthony, Flaubert.
"You give them too much credit, Marion. They are hardly Oannes, if anything they're maybe a lesser Oracle."
Marion snorted.
"Just make sure they don't convince you to not paint for me, or I'll throttle their dusty little bodies myself."
Echo smiled at him, and nuzzled her cheek to his shoulder.
**Title by TooL
Echo & the Sisters: "the Moon tells me a secret"
5/30/01 8:34 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The space between spaces was warm. Not as warm as the flesh, but it felt that way. It was enfolding, beautiful. Like the way it was before the light and the noise. Like the way it was before people. An environment that you still had no control over, but because it was perfect, you did not contemplate this fact at all.
It was warm darkness, because you could see through your eyelids and you were suspended.
Suspended in liquid sound.
She froze, listening.
"echo" Her senses woke. "echo" She felt her body. "echo" a woman.
"echo" calling her, waiting for her "echo" coming closer. "echo" Lamia!!
The face ripped through the womb, with fire for eyes and a tongue that rolled out of its head, black, hissing, a snake that grabbed for her with grinning metal teeth and a thousand eyes.
Echo jumped in the chair, her arms grabbed for the armrests and her body shook. She was panting softly and she looked around her to find that horrible face. Horrible face.
The ill-lit makeshift waiting room was clouded with cigar smoke. She tried not to look at the people she sat next to. They smelt of blood, and sex, and candle wax.
She smelled fur, and hyacinth, and was that....
"Echo, come in. Come in, Echo." A voice behind the curtain she'd fallen asleep next to.
She got up, pulling her layers together. She didn't have the chills or any such afterthoughts. No afterbirth from this dream. She parted the curtain with her hand.
...and......stepped ins i d e.
She felt like she was choking. Like the liquids had come in or that something through their boarders had reached through them, webbing their figures with membranes to.. to choke her.
She gasped.
Lamia cackled.
" 'What was that?' She's going to ask. Poor, dear Echo. foxglove, what would you say that was? How would you explain our little secrets like that one there?" The woman leaned forward to the slouching form of Echo.
Echo, couldn't remember falling asleep.
fox never spoke, Lamia was wretched.
"I don't know, Echo. You tell me?" Lamia leaned back, her dust bitten dress tumbling over her 10 cent chair. She shifted in all the lace and leather. "You don't have words for that, do you?"
foxglove put her fingers upon Lamia's arm, trying to still her forked tongue from instilling anything else into the pretty aqua eyes of Echo. (Though, fox did think about how they would have made a pretty addition to her collection. Or how they would be perfect for doing some oceanography scrying. With just a pinch of myrrh and frankincense...)
Lamia ignored fox's hand, and sent the pair of her own into the water of the wood bowl in front of her.
"What you know is yours to know, and what you've seen is but one-third of the story. There are personalities afoot, Echo. Laurent shares blood with them."
Echo swallowed, and tried to hold the blue eyes of the Oracle, but she let the vigil slide to the black roots of her bleached hair. She parted her lips to speak, and Lamia hissed at her for silence.
Lamia leaned into the waters, into which she dropped oil, and blood, and leaves. She exhaled smoke she hadn't breathed in, and she inhaled it again as her eyes rolled back.
Echo knew few things more hideous than Lamia in the throes.
"Steal this blood of his, like you've offered your voice. The cathedral pillars will fall if he loses the boy. The boy. Neil will battle his arrogance, and Leda will sleep with her swan. In seething screams of passion and pain. Oh, Echo, Echo... the mirror tastes like memory. Leave him to his magic, Echo."
And her eyes snapped back to ice chips in webs of black lashes of lace.
"They come from Rome, they come from home, and wherever you've gone they shall come again. Suckle them at your breast, Echo. Suckle them with your sweet sweat and your bitter words. You know, you know... like Nick's family in the flames."
Lamia slid, and pushed her cold fingers into the hem of Echo's dresses. The younger vampire could not move, not even when the chill invaded every part of her.
Every part. Lamia panted upon her rose petal lips.
Several strokes, and her fingers were hooks, nearly lifting her from her chair by catching her by the bone.
"Organs and bone will give birth to metal, to metal Oh Echo, Echo..." the woman whimpered and touched her face.
And the black serpent slid down her throat.
The fox's tongue took the place of fingers.
When Echo walked out from the curtain, she saw a man with the snout of a wolf, and a boy with two beautiful, auburn haired heads. And four honey eyes.
She dropped one of her chiffon sashes when she began to run.
The sleigh-bell on the door snickered merrily.
Nick pursed his lips and bobbed his head. Who could argue with that?
"Pourquoi? Why do you do these things? Don't you care?"
"About you, yes."
"Non, Lars, not about me. About people."
"No, Satine, Ich nicht."
He prowled.
This had become habit now, not passion.
He nodded to Ewen, he only glimpsed Mickey, he stopped to speak with Lorne.
"Hot Damn, Lars. Where did all these Europeans come from? We leave there, and they follow us here."
Lars looked at Lorne skeptically. Or so Lorne thought. He rolled his eyes.
"I can smell them, you know? There was this naughty little red head I just finished. She reminded me of Paris, and then she opened her mouth, and I heard France. Southern France," he waved his hand. "But France nonetheless. I think she tasted like truffles." He laughed and licked his fingers as though he'd eaten chocolates.
"Paris..."
"Why will you not come home avec moi?"
"I can't leave here, not for a few more weeks."
"Is work more important than us? Is it?"
"No, no, it's not."
"Then come back to Paris, meet ma famile"
"I'll meet you there, ok? I'll come when I can."
"C'est vrai?"
"Ja."
"...Berlin, but not Berlin. I don't know, something funny about her. Other than that noxious hair."
"What?"
"You weren't listening to me."
"No..I just missed what you said."
Lorne stared at him. Lars could only smirk. A neat little 'fvck you, you're right, but what did you say?'.
"She just came in, go, go have a snack. Appetizer from home, no?"
"German?"
"I think so. I'm not sure. I'm so horribly Americanized." Lorne sneered.
"I only worked in Northern Germany, they aren't my type."
"I don't know if she's from Berlin, that's just the only city I know from there, ok?" Lorne shoved Lars.
Lars started towards the people near the door.
"The hospital?"
"Yes, she told us to call you."
"How much time do I have?"
"...maybe the plane trip here. Not much more."
"... I'll...Ich komme. Tell her I'm coming."
"Hurry."
He circled her a few times.
Raising his chin like Wintermute would have. Letting her scent sear his fibers. Let them grip his cells and chain them down to memory. It was like the aftertaste of a thousand dollar meal. It permeated.
His movements were impossibly fast, but at the same time improbably slow.
He almost pulled off his glasses when he approached her.
His cigarette was gone, his head had tilted.
He almost pulled off the glasses, just to tack her down like the industry-butterfly she was.
He'd have been happy to tack her through, his sharp edges coming out her other side.
"I always wondered what sort of studio you had," to her side, over her shoulder, near her ear. "to catch the sound of warehouse ger�usche like you do." Egotistical, and poured out in front of her.
A pillar of Germany.
"Are you coming?"
"Kein, I'm going back home."
**Title by Wolfsheim
[The sisters are, quite directly, Sandman inspired.]
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
The Triumvirate of Fashion and Violins: "Saturn ascends, choose one or ten"
5/30/01 7:38 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Stephen snorted. "I hardly believe that, you brute."
And the brute swung to slap him, but Stephen caught his slender wrist and returned the gesture without delay.
"You, are so very unlikeable! Leave."
And the youth did just that, he left, slamming the door and shaking the Venetian glass. Stephen stormed out of the parlor to where the Twins lay in wait. Like spiders in the temples of the dead.
And this place was a Temple.
"Stephen," Adrienne crooned.
"What is it that he's done now," Gabriel.
"To you?" In unison.
"Nothing, Nothing!" Stephen huffed and flipped his golden curls. He was about to stalk off when Adrienne leaned close.
"Stephen," he hissed. The warm gaslight purring in his amber eyes. Gabriel was silent. "You are nervous, it is not like you..."
"We know what is on your mind, dearling," said Gabriel, more to his rich red varnished Stradivarius than the blonde vampire or his brother.
"Well now, isn't that just oh-so-fun for the two of you!"
They smiled.
"Why don't you people do something then? I can't put this together by myself."
"You are hardly alone," Adrienne
"In the preparations." Gabriel
"Stephen." Together.
"I mean our portion, you creepy little rugrat, tom-toms!" Stephen slapped his knuckles into the niches of his upper hips.
"You know what we have to do,"
"First. Of course, there is always,'"
"Protocol," they hissed.
"Well that's just flamingly grande. Just grand. Shall I just go now? Make an appointment with the hags?" Stephen gesticulated wildly. "Shall I just knock on their door with a live chicken?"
The Twins laughed, delighted. Gabriel stroked his violin as it was tilted to the left, and Adrienne pet his, tilted to the right. The old wood breathed. The air cooed through their 'f' holes. The four amber pupils dilated and then sharpened to pins. '
Like animals' Stephen thought.
"You know Lamia,"
"does not accept chickens,"
"Stephen. Silly."
"I don't want to deal with either of them. You get along with them fine, you go."
"Have we decided,"
"upon the appropriate"
"date?"
Stephen's fingers fanned and they were sliced through the air, head level. "That's part of the oracle! You know that as well as I do! Just find out when and we'll do it, ok?! I've already found enough damask and chandeliers to fill wherever they tell us to put it."
And then Stephen sighed.
"And him," he gestured towards the door. "He was...he's going to 'play'."
"Ohhh?" They both sat up, sliding the violins between their knees.
"Him? realllllly?" They tilted their heads in opposite directions.
"He plays?" They grinned.
"Of course he plays, why would I ever deal with him if he didn't?"
The Twins blinked their honey coloured eyes.
"Will the muse come to this,"
"one? Like, last time? With,"
"her lovely little friend?"
"I don't know, I don't know. I have to speak with Neil. I should think it would be fine. There shall be more breathers, I am sure of this."
"Reallllly? What shall,"
"we do with all of them?"
"We're not that hungry."
"Speak for yourself. You know how big these end up." Stephen pursed his lips.
"Look," Stephen smoothed his forefinger and his thumb over his golden brows. "It's the three-hundredth Omoroca Coniunctio, can you just do this for me? Spare me dealing with them?"
"Awww, darling" They began to rise.
"We know. We will."
"Come play with us." They touched his neck and shoulders.
"On the verandah?"
"Yesssss."
"All right."
5/30/01 7:38 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Stephen snorted. "I hardly believe that, you brute."
And the brute swung to slap him, but Stephen caught his slender wrist and returned the gesture without delay.
"You, are so very unlikeable! Leave."
And the youth did just that, he left, slamming the door and shaking the Venetian glass. Stephen stormed out of the parlor to where the Twins lay in wait. Like spiders in the temples of the dead.
And this place was a Temple.
"Stephen," Adrienne crooned.
"What is it that he's done now," Gabriel.
"To you?" In unison.
"Nothing, Nothing!" Stephen huffed and flipped his golden curls. He was about to stalk off when Adrienne leaned close.
"Stephen," he hissed. The warm gaslight purring in his amber eyes. Gabriel was silent. "You are nervous, it is not like you..."
"We know what is on your mind, dearling," said Gabriel, more to his rich red varnished Stradivarius than the blonde vampire or his brother.
"Well now, isn't that just oh-so-fun for the two of you!"
They smiled.
"Why don't you people do something then? I can't put this together by myself."
"You are hardly alone," Adrienne
"In the preparations." Gabriel
"Stephen." Together.
"I mean our portion, you creepy little rugrat, tom-toms!" Stephen slapped his knuckles into the niches of his upper hips.
"You know what we have to do,"
"First. Of course, there is always,'"
"Protocol," they hissed.
"Well that's just flamingly grande. Just grand. Shall I just go now? Make an appointment with the hags?" Stephen gesticulated wildly. "Shall I just knock on their door with a live chicken?"
The Twins laughed, delighted. Gabriel stroked his violin as it was tilted to the left, and Adrienne pet his, tilted to the right. The old wood breathed. The air cooed through their 'f' holes. The four amber pupils dilated and then sharpened to pins. '
Like animals' Stephen thought.
"You know Lamia,"
"does not accept chickens,"
"Stephen. Silly."
"I don't want to deal with either of them. You get along with them fine, you go."
"Have we decided,"
"upon the appropriate"
"date?"
Stephen's fingers fanned and they were sliced through the air, head level. "That's part of the oracle! You know that as well as I do! Just find out when and we'll do it, ok?! I've already found enough damask and chandeliers to fill wherever they tell us to put it."
And then Stephen sighed.
"And him," he gestured towards the door. "He was...he's going to 'play'."
"Ohhh?" They both sat up, sliding the violins between their knees.
"Him? realllllly?" They tilted their heads in opposite directions.
"He plays?" They grinned.
"Of course he plays, why would I ever deal with him if he didn't?"
The Twins blinked their honey coloured eyes.
"Will the muse come to this,"
"one? Like, last time? With,"
"her lovely little friend?"
"I don't know, I don't know. I have to speak with Neil. I should think it would be fine. There shall be more breathers, I am sure of this."
"Reallllly? What shall,"
"we do with all of them?"
"We're not that hungry."
"Speak for yourself. You know how big these end up." Stephen pursed his lips.
"Look," Stephen smoothed his forefinger and his thumb over his golden brows. "It's the three-hundredth Omoroca Coniunctio, can you just do this for me? Spare me dealing with them?"
"Awww, darling" They began to rise.
"We know. We will."
"Come play with us." They touched his neck and shoulders.
"On the verandah?"
"Yesssss."
"All right."
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Sacrifice Security: "lies, conspiracy, f*** off democracy"
"'ome wit us, mate. Danno 'oo y'ar but 've got tha'tention of da boss, y'see?" Said a leering voice over the man's ear. Irish eyes are shining... or whatever have you. Well, Mickey wasn't quite Irish, but it was good enough.
Either way, he laid his hand on the new comer's shoulder.
"What he said, is... We have to take you somewhere now. But you were expecting that, weren't you?" Tommy smiled from the other side.
The tender was having nothing to do with the situation, he was soothing the desires of customers. Shaking up a martini while he poured out a tequila shot.
Tommy pat the new comer on the back.
"C'mon boy. Time to see if the fat lady sings."
"'Fat lady', 'ey Tommy, 'at was funny."
10 minutes earlier:
"Dah!" squeaked Sick.
"What?" Asked Ewen, swiveling in his char and rolling himself over to where Sick was at the monitors. "Is that damn cable tweaking out again, I told Severin that the door-cam was on the fritz when.... is that what I think it is?"
"Isn't...isn't...that red light...?"
"Shit."
"Who do we tell first? Severin's--"
Behind them the door opened. "How's it going boys? Severin wanted me to come down 'ere and... you guys look like you've seen a breather in your lair."
"Well, I..." begain Ewan.
"It's sorta worse than that, Lars."
"Oh?" Lars had the disconcerting tendency of sliding into a cool, charming quality whenever he was more likely to reach for his gun.
"You see," Ewen began to gloss the situation over.
"There's some crazy vamp in the club!" Sick panted.
"I see."
The door closed silently as Lars left.
The phone rang a moment later, with orders.
Lars was leaning against the red wall of the main stairwell. From behind his sunglasses he was watching the collective group of Tommy, Mickey and Severin.
"It's ballsy, but just stupid," Tommy was saying.
"Are you sure there's only one?" Inquired Severin.
"Oh yes, yes indeed. I told Ewen to call me immediately if that changed."
The three men were nodding, all near silent and in thought.
Severin shrugged. "Bring him to the back, then. Only one thing to do with guys with balls as big as that."
"Beat 'em to a pulp n tack 'im on Laundon Bridge!" trilled Mickey.
"After," Severin rose a warning finger, "we find out what miracle grow he's been using, and why he's been using it around here."
Mickey nodded and turned to swagger out of the area. Tommy went after him.
Severin snorted under his breath, "Stupid kids now our days, too stupid to stay out of the kitchen."
**Title by suicide commando
Sacrifice Security: "Heaven forbid you have to face the ones you slight"
6/6/01 3:25 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The first thing that happened when they reached the cool air of the back alley (the one in which Demitri Romanov had so nicely deceased himself in) was the swift flight of a big Italian fist into the intruder's gut.
"That, mio fratello, is for insulting us by walking in without invitation."
The gesture was repeated again.
"That, is because you're just stupid. Capice?"
Severin put his back to the boy vampire that was held in the arms of the other two vampires. Did it matter what affiliation the boy had? Or how old he was? No, not at all. This was their turf, and their time. The place was crawling with dead things and for anything less than a militia, it was highly improbable that anything going in would come out without their permission. (Neil had even prepared the place for a kamikaze action, not even a psycho with a bomb strapped to his chest could take this place out.)
This was why Severin had such a problem with one stupid vampire walking in and making everyone pull a practice run.
They practiced enough as it was.
Ah, and Severin liked hitting people. A lot.
Tommy and Mickey, after wincing in unison to both contacts, dumped the boy on the ally floor Simply for the demoralizing quality of crumpling to the ground. It meant the boy had to get up again and look them in the eye.
Severin crossed his arms, watching his two affiliates for a moment and then narrowing his dark eyes on the newcomer.
"Talk."
In the background, Mickey and Tommy made bets as to what sort of chow Lars was snacking on tonight.
Tommy said 'Lorne' and Mickey almost hit him.
Sacrifice Security: "Don't misconstrue silence as safety"
6/8/01 10:45 AM Eastern Daylight Time
"If you want to pay back a debt to someone, don't fvck up his dealings with his current business associates. Make sense?" Severin's eyes narrowed, and it was quite obvious that he would have adored simply getting rid of this man-boy. Body, mind and soul.
And every throbbing muscle and vein in his body was singing songs of wanting to do just that. There was an animalistic eagerness for it, too.
There was rarely any reprimand for killing someone, but there were punishments similar to all nine levels of hell for letting someone go. Severin may not have had the snout nor the jackal laugh of the wretched (but efficient) Demitri Romanov, but his bloodlust was alarmingly similar. If not more skillfully contained.
Severin had seen massacres.
Severin killed children.
Severin diablerzied on order.
Severin ordered massacres.
Severin had been a prize pet to the Prince of Rome.
Severin was a gift.
And Severin was a security down payment.
"Recently? Recently might become 'never', boy." Severin lifted his chin to Mickey and Tommy. "Take him downstairs."
Tommy and Mickey barely reacted. Though the twitch in Mickey's eye said basically what Tommy was thinking too. 'Downstairs? Downstairs? Downstairs means business, upstairs meant talking.' Mickey just had his shoes cleaned, damnit.
They nodded and led the kid away. Carried, pulled, unconscious, or not even touched. Whichever the kid preferred.
Severin pulled out his cell phone. It was custom made with the extra mechanism in the slidedown mouth piece that cost a neat clean extra four hundred dollars (extravagance and sleek looks, that's all money paid for).
"Yes." "Yes." "Of course." "No, he's downstairs." "Excellent, five minutes is perfect."
He paused, listening to orders.
"Ci, Ci. Capito." "Sono andato." "Ci, Io." "Perche no?" "Ahhh." "Oggi? Va bene. �I'll call Lars."
The song she'd left him to dance to was furious. It was angry in the manner that beautiful things were angry. He felt foreign in its midst.
He was shaking off the shackles of conversation. He was slipping on the smirk he customarily wore. The one that tagged him as dangerous, contemplative and sarcastic at the same time.
"Lars," He said into the impossibly slender phone.
"We're taking him downstairs, Lars. Care to watch?"
"Hmm," Lars was grinning. "Why not."
Severin chuckled.
"Neil coming?"
"Oh yes."
**Titley by assemblage 23
"'ome wit us, mate. Danno 'oo y'ar but 've got tha'tention of da boss, y'see?" Said a leering voice over the man's ear. Irish eyes are shining... or whatever have you. Well, Mickey wasn't quite Irish, but it was good enough.
Either way, he laid his hand on the new comer's shoulder.
"What he said, is... We have to take you somewhere now. But you were expecting that, weren't you?" Tommy smiled from the other side.
The tender was having nothing to do with the situation, he was soothing the desires of customers. Shaking up a martini while he poured out a tequila shot.
Tommy pat the new comer on the back.
"C'mon boy. Time to see if the fat lady sings."
"'Fat lady', 'ey Tommy, 'at was funny."
10 minutes earlier:
"Dah!" squeaked Sick.
"What?" Asked Ewen, swiveling in his char and rolling himself over to where Sick was at the monitors. "Is that damn cable tweaking out again, I told Severin that the door-cam was on the fritz when.... is that what I think it is?"
"Isn't...isn't...that red light...?"
"Shit."
"Who do we tell first? Severin's--"
Behind them the door opened. "How's it going boys? Severin wanted me to come down 'ere and... you guys look like you've seen a breather in your lair."
"Well, I..." begain Ewan.
"It's sorta worse than that, Lars."
"Oh?" Lars had the disconcerting tendency of sliding into a cool, charming quality whenever he was more likely to reach for his gun.
"You see," Ewen began to gloss the situation over.
"There's some crazy vamp in the club!" Sick panted.
"I see."
The door closed silently as Lars left.
The phone rang a moment later, with orders.
Lars was leaning against the red wall of the main stairwell. From behind his sunglasses he was watching the collective group of Tommy, Mickey and Severin.
"It's ballsy, but just stupid," Tommy was saying.
"Are you sure there's only one?" Inquired Severin.
"Oh yes, yes indeed. I told Ewen to call me immediately if that changed."
The three men were nodding, all near silent and in thought.
Severin shrugged. "Bring him to the back, then. Only one thing to do with guys with balls as big as that."
"Beat 'em to a pulp n tack 'im on Laundon Bridge!" trilled Mickey.
"After," Severin rose a warning finger, "we find out what miracle grow he's been using, and why he's been using it around here."
Mickey nodded and turned to swagger out of the area. Tommy went after him.
Severin snorted under his breath, "Stupid kids now our days, too stupid to stay out of the kitchen."
**Title by suicide commando
Sacrifice Security: "Heaven forbid you have to face the ones you slight"
6/6/01 3:25 PM Eastern Daylight Time
The first thing that happened when they reached the cool air of the back alley (the one in which Demitri Romanov had so nicely deceased himself in) was the swift flight of a big Italian fist into the intruder's gut.
"That, mio fratello, is for insulting us by walking in without invitation."
The gesture was repeated again.
"That, is because you're just stupid. Capice?"
Severin put his back to the boy vampire that was held in the arms of the other two vampires. Did it matter what affiliation the boy had? Or how old he was? No, not at all. This was their turf, and their time. The place was crawling with dead things and for anything less than a militia, it was highly improbable that anything going in would come out without their permission. (Neil had even prepared the place for a kamikaze action, not even a psycho with a bomb strapped to his chest could take this place out.)
This was why Severin had such a problem with one stupid vampire walking in and making everyone pull a practice run.
They practiced enough as it was.
Ah, and Severin liked hitting people. A lot.
Tommy and Mickey, after wincing in unison to both contacts, dumped the boy on the ally floor Simply for the demoralizing quality of crumpling to the ground. It meant the boy had to get up again and look them in the eye.
Severin crossed his arms, watching his two affiliates for a moment and then narrowing his dark eyes on the newcomer.
"Talk."
In the background, Mickey and Tommy made bets as to what sort of chow Lars was snacking on tonight.
Tommy said 'Lorne' and Mickey almost hit him.
Sacrifice Security: "Don't misconstrue silence as safety"
6/8/01 10:45 AM Eastern Daylight Time
"If you want to pay back a debt to someone, don't fvck up his dealings with his current business associates. Make sense?" Severin's eyes narrowed, and it was quite obvious that he would have adored simply getting rid of this man-boy. Body, mind and soul.
And every throbbing muscle and vein in his body was singing songs of wanting to do just that. There was an animalistic eagerness for it, too.
There was rarely any reprimand for killing someone, but there were punishments similar to all nine levels of hell for letting someone go. Severin may not have had the snout nor the jackal laugh of the wretched (but efficient) Demitri Romanov, but his bloodlust was alarmingly similar. If not more skillfully contained.
Severin had seen massacres.
Severin killed children.
Severin diablerzied on order.
Severin ordered massacres.
Severin had been a prize pet to the Prince of Rome.
Severin was a gift.
And Severin was a security down payment.
"Recently? Recently might become 'never', boy." Severin lifted his chin to Mickey and Tommy. "Take him downstairs."
Tommy and Mickey barely reacted. Though the twitch in Mickey's eye said basically what Tommy was thinking too. 'Downstairs? Downstairs? Downstairs means business, upstairs meant talking.' Mickey just had his shoes cleaned, damnit.
They nodded and led the kid away. Carried, pulled, unconscious, or not even touched. Whichever the kid preferred.
Severin pulled out his cell phone. It was custom made with the extra mechanism in the slidedown mouth piece that cost a neat clean extra four hundred dollars (extravagance and sleek looks, that's all money paid for).
"Yes." "Yes." "Of course." "No, he's downstairs." "Excellent, five minutes is perfect."
He paused, listening to orders.
"Ci, Ci. Capito." "Sono andato." "Ci, Io." "Perche no?" "Ahhh." "Oggi? Va bene. �I'll call Lars."
The song she'd left him to dance to was furious. It was angry in the manner that beautiful things were angry. He felt foreign in its midst.
He was shaking off the shackles of conversation. He was slipping on the smirk he customarily wore. The one that tagged him as dangerous, contemplative and sarcastic at the same time.
"Lars," He said into the impossibly slender phone.
"We're taking him downstairs, Lars. Care to watch?"
"Hmm," Lars was grinning. "Why not."
Severin chuckled.
"Neil coming?"
"Oh yes."
**Titley by assemblage 23
-
Millicent Grim
- Adventurer
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
- Location: The Sacrifice Club
Re: The Sacrifice Club
Jonathan & Neil: "Did I stand on the shore and watch you as you drowned?"
6/6/01 11:08 AM Eastern Daylight Time
just one more time
for the sake of sanity
tell me why
explain the gravity
that drove you to this
that brought you to this place
that pushed you down
into the soil's embrace
give me the chance
i was denied
to sit and talk with you
---
i can't forget
having to see
the words that knocked the wind
right out of me
it's not enough
i've come undone
trying to find sense
where there is none
just give me peace you owe me that
to help ward off the fears
i must combat.
"Look, Jon. I don't think you should go in there right now."
"Hell if I'm not getting in to talk to him!" Jonathan jerked his arm to remove Chris's hand from his shoulder. "That bastard hasn't said one thing to me since he ..since you�" Jonathan snarled.
"Jon, he's in a meeting, I'm not going to interrupt him for this. You need time to cool down."
"Cool down? Cool down? That fucker killed my girlfriend and you want me to cool down?
I've been cooling for weeks now, he's lucky I haven't--"
Chris, who was notorious for being able to be calm and collected during any sort of goings on, gave Jonathan a look that sliced his soliloquy in two.
"Do not say something that will make them make an example of you, Jon."
"Fuck examples, Chris, I am an example!" And with all his strength, he threw Christopher into the wall and slammed open the door to Neil's office.
Four eyes were staring at him. Two green, and two a cerulean blue. Eskil pivoted in his seat upon the leather couch, the better to see the intruder.
Jonathan stuttered, but stared down Neil's crisp, clean gaze.
Neil got the better of him. The first words were his. "Why, Jonathan, my boy, what seems to be so urgent?" And though there was an anger at interruption, Neil was never one to pass up an opportunity to share how good he was at handling the unexpected. His smile for the boy, who would technically be his grandson in blood, was mocking and sarcastic as much as it was expecting, sympathetic and already knowing of the response he was going to receive.
"Neil, I have to talk to you, this is just too much, way too much." Jonathan was shaking his head, his chocolate hair shaking against his features. It was weighed down, dirty, not unpresentable but unkempt in the subtle crazy-scary ways of the insane or alarmingly (lethally) disgruntled.
"If it is as urgent and unavoidably pressing as to require interrupting myself and Eskil here, then I suppose I shall have to devote my immediate attention to it, won't I Jonathan?" Neil's eyes narrowed.
Jonathan blinked, he had not expected this response. He tripped over his tongue and looked between the two men seated in the room. The other, this Eskil, was unnervingly still, his features devoid of both expression and decision. (One waits to make decisions about such scenes as this, as long as one is not expected to participate in them. This was something he had learned.)
"I�I�yes�.Neil, it is. You should."
"Ah, forgive me, Jonathan, Eskil Simonsson. Eskil, Jonathan Davis." Neil grinned. "My body, my blood as they say." Cordial introductions? Jonathan nearly had a system error.
Eskil stood, and offered Jonathan his manicured nails and his firm, white handshake. "I'm honored to meet you, Jonathan." Eskil's other hand smoothed down his tie, he nodded very simplistically, just a tilt of his chin.
"I�I�" Jonathan looked at Neil. "I'm sorry�I shouldn't�" Neil glittered in his line of sight. Jonathan almost felt tired, like his weeks of fighting had left him simply wanting to sleep (perchance to dream).
"Ahhh, but you did, Jonathan. That's all that matters." Neil smiled, and Jonathan felt in every hair upon his body that that smile was only skin deep.
"I shall leave the two of you then. Neil," Eskil looked to the seated, reclining Neil-- who's eyes never lifted from the frazzled, wild boy.
"I have enough to keep me busy for some time," continued Eskil. "I shall make another appointment with you soon." Eskil took several steps to shake Neil's hand. And turning to Jon he added, "You couldn't have had more perfect timing." (For had you not had perfect timing, I imagine I would have seen very little of you after.) Eskil offered a warm, uncharacteristic smile for the chiseled, cold, Norwegian features, and then Eskil Simonsson left the room. The expensive lock clicking into place silently.
Jonathan remained frozen where he stood. His body language locked in the form of reception (of two of his�superiors). This intrigued Neil, he wondered absently as to whether the boy's wits had truly been effected permanently. For, Neil understood how anger could effect those same faculties for ephemeral periods of incongruancy. He could say the same effect held true for any crime of passion, perhaps that was Neil's own folly, understanding passion's habits of driving one mad.
"If you ever do that again Jonathan, I will simply have to make an example of you. Do you understand?"
"Fuck you, Neil." Jonathan murmured, barely audible, but Neil heard it like a clarion call.
Jonathan's chin was wrenched from its voluntary positioning by five cold, dead, stone fingers. A mortal man would have been bruised. Jonathan became aware of existing upon and within Neil's sweet breath. Literally, and in proverb.
"You will know exceptions because you are mine. But there are limits, Jonathan. You will never interrupt me when I am with someone, whether it be with the president, the pope, or your slut of a mother. Do you understand?" Neil sneered as he hissed.
"She wasn't�" Jonathan whispered. His body had flinched, and instead of fighting, he collapsed, Neil's hold was what primarily held him upon his feet.
"She was. Don't you ever forget your origins, boy. Don't you ever. They are what made you, like I made you. And if you out live me, I will have you remember me too. Don't you ever forget what your blood brought you through. It is respect to yourself, and to origins-- the trials you have overcome. Do you understand me, Jonathan Davis?" Neil's thin brow rose, "Keep your secrets, but keep the ones for yourself true."
There was a pause if digestion, and then Neil added flatly. "Or you are nothing. Nothing, boy."
Neil's nostrils flared with the weight of his murmurings. He pulled his hand from Jonathan's chin, and similarly threw away the boy's desire to fight.
"Mya, you killed Mya." He couldn't stop the tears, but he would not wipe them away.
"She was mortal, she was what you were, you are beyond her."
"You didn't have to..."
"Oh yes, yes I did. Jonathan," Neil leaned away, crossing his arms over his loose, silk shirt. "Would you have forgotten her?"
"No," nearly inaudible.
"She can not know, she will not know. She endangered us. And later, she would have died anyway. And I would not have given you permission to make her." Neil's voice was flat, like he was going over a list of prices. "I saved us all the trouble, do you deny this?"
"No."
"We must all lose something, you are reborn, Jonathan."
"I died, you killed me, wasn't that enough?"
It was Neil's turn, "No." And there was an odd softness in the clefts and grooves of Neil's remarkable eyes. Jonathan felt as though they admitted something to him in the silence between them.
It was almost as though they apologized. But not for the deed, but through empathy.
�empathy�
"�you sired Chris�"
"I did."
"Then I am more yours than the rest of them�"
"You are." Neil turned his back and returned himself to his seat behind his desk.
"�then� give me one more week� And then I'll come back to you."
"One week, Jonathan. Seven Christian days."
"Yes. Thank you, Father."
and so I ask
for one more chance
to understand
this senseless circumstance
help me to see
this through your eyes
the reasons I've been trying
to surmise
though you are gone
i am still your son
and while your pain is over
mine has just begun.
Neil: "at peace with all my limits"
6/8/01 2:41 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Neil had been sitting, fingers steepled, since Jonathan left his office. Twice he cast an askance glance at the blue prints and documents upon his desk.
Oh, what the Prince of this city would pay for these pieces of paper. Oh what would one of his competitors do for just the information hidden in the angles and schematics of these diagrams and notarized affidavits. But Neil didn't smile, he didn't sneer or smirk. This was the spoils of months of work-- all dropped into his lap, prettier than any monetary payoff.
When the phone rang he let it ring one more time before he sat up and spoke into the piece. He glanced at the caller ID specifically set up for his account of untrackable, scrambled cell-phones.
"Severin."
"You've apprehended our little problem?"
"It was successful and he's alive, I presume."
"Should I be expecting him? "
"Ahh. Well then, I can't leave any loose strings, now can I? I shall be down in five minutes."
"And Severin, I'd like to explain my priorities to you. There are many important people here. I am assuming this is in regards to either Aleister or Eskil's business. However, Eskil just left my office.
"Nonetheless, this is fine, no matter what he says I have a hundred reasons to assume he is lying. I believe it's safe to say that that's more our job than anything, or at least our first course of action. However, I'd like to get enough out of him to at least plan ahead when I find out what he is truly after. (AKA, what he will not be getting.) While I am down there I do not expect to make a martyr out of him, nor do I expect to do much talking. In. Out.
"I am unattainable. We are unattainable. I would like to keep it that way, capice?"
Neil nodded. Good, good, Severin worked out better than even Neil dreamed. However, he was still new. Neil had yet to grow the informal respect and assistance that he found necessary in any business relationship. Formally, however, Neil trusted the Italian. (Even if he seemed like a too pretty bribe from Rome. Neil had his doubts, but if Severin was a well placed and well recommended (Neil's own inquiries had only made him more impressed) attempt at espionage, well, Neil would have to deal with it when the time came. He tried to keep the situation with as low of a potential for damage as possible. But he needed someone . And that someone was supposed to be Severin.)
"Was someone sent to deal with that lovely� institution piccolina?"
"Tu?"
"I didn't want you to go, Severin. Ci sono per il duo fratelli. Non est per tu."
Neil's one dark brow slid up slowly. An icon for reserved disdain.
"Perche� I said so." Then Neil grinned. "Because it's too easy, Severin. I'm saving us time and letting you finish with the system. Which, I'd like to have finished and tested for the last time today. Il tempo finalamente. Mas prima, tell Lars to join us."
"Bene."
Neil picked himself out of his char and went to his closet. He peeled back the door and looked amongst the attire he kept at the office. He had a wonderful assortment of suits, shirts and pants just in case there was a meeting, or if he forgot to prepare for formal plans after a work day that runs late.
He pulled out a nice jacket and pulled it over his shoulders. He buttoned it.
But he did not leave before slipping a mean, black glock into his shoulder holster.
**Title by assemblage 23
6/6/01 11:08 AM Eastern Daylight Time
just one more time
for the sake of sanity
tell me why
explain the gravity
that drove you to this
that brought you to this place
that pushed you down
into the soil's embrace
give me the chance
i was denied
to sit and talk with you
---
i can't forget
having to see
the words that knocked the wind
right out of me
it's not enough
i've come undone
trying to find sense
where there is none
just give me peace you owe me that
to help ward off the fears
i must combat.
"Look, Jon. I don't think you should go in there right now."
"Hell if I'm not getting in to talk to him!" Jonathan jerked his arm to remove Chris's hand from his shoulder. "That bastard hasn't said one thing to me since he ..since you�" Jonathan snarled.
"Jon, he's in a meeting, I'm not going to interrupt him for this. You need time to cool down."
"Cool down? Cool down? That fucker killed my girlfriend and you want me to cool down?
I've been cooling for weeks now, he's lucky I haven't--"
Chris, who was notorious for being able to be calm and collected during any sort of goings on, gave Jonathan a look that sliced his soliloquy in two.
"Do not say something that will make them make an example of you, Jon."
"Fuck examples, Chris, I am an example!" And with all his strength, he threw Christopher into the wall and slammed open the door to Neil's office.
Four eyes were staring at him. Two green, and two a cerulean blue. Eskil pivoted in his seat upon the leather couch, the better to see the intruder.
Jonathan stuttered, but stared down Neil's crisp, clean gaze.
Neil got the better of him. The first words were his. "Why, Jonathan, my boy, what seems to be so urgent?" And though there was an anger at interruption, Neil was never one to pass up an opportunity to share how good he was at handling the unexpected. His smile for the boy, who would technically be his grandson in blood, was mocking and sarcastic as much as it was expecting, sympathetic and already knowing of the response he was going to receive.
"Neil, I have to talk to you, this is just too much, way too much." Jonathan was shaking his head, his chocolate hair shaking against his features. It was weighed down, dirty, not unpresentable but unkempt in the subtle crazy-scary ways of the insane or alarmingly (lethally) disgruntled.
"If it is as urgent and unavoidably pressing as to require interrupting myself and Eskil here, then I suppose I shall have to devote my immediate attention to it, won't I Jonathan?" Neil's eyes narrowed.
Jonathan blinked, he had not expected this response. He tripped over his tongue and looked between the two men seated in the room. The other, this Eskil, was unnervingly still, his features devoid of both expression and decision. (One waits to make decisions about such scenes as this, as long as one is not expected to participate in them. This was something he had learned.)
"I�I�yes�.Neil, it is. You should."
"Ah, forgive me, Jonathan, Eskil Simonsson. Eskil, Jonathan Davis." Neil grinned. "My body, my blood as they say." Cordial introductions? Jonathan nearly had a system error.
Eskil stood, and offered Jonathan his manicured nails and his firm, white handshake. "I'm honored to meet you, Jonathan." Eskil's other hand smoothed down his tie, he nodded very simplistically, just a tilt of his chin.
"I�I�" Jonathan looked at Neil. "I'm sorry�I shouldn't�" Neil glittered in his line of sight. Jonathan almost felt tired, like his weeks of fighting had left him simply wanting to sleep (perchance to dream).
"Ahhh, but you did, Jonathan. That's all that matters." Neil smiled, and Jonathan felt in every hair upon his body that that smile was only skin deep.
"I shall leave the two of you then. Neil," Eskil looked to the seated, reclining Neil-- who's eyes never lifted from the frazzled, wild boy.
"I have enough to keep me busy for some time," continued Eskil. "I shall make another appointment with you soon." Eskil took several steps to shake Neil's hand. And turning to Jon he added, "You couldn't have had more perfect timing." (For had you not had perfect timing, I imagine I would have seen very little of you after.) Eskil offered a warm, uncharacteristic smile for the chiseled, cold, Norwegian features, and then Eskil Simonsson left the room. The expensive lock clicking into place silently.
Jonathan remained frozen where he stood. His body language locked in the form of reception (of two of his�superiors). This intrigued Neil, he wondered absently as to whether the boy's wits had truly been effected permanently. For, Neil understood how anger could effect those same faculties for ephemeral periods of incongruancy. He could say the same effect held true for any crime of passion, perhaps that was Neil's own folly, understanding passion's habits of driving one mad.
"If you ever do that again Jonathan, I will simply have to make an example of you. Do you understand?"
"Fuck you, Neil." Jonathan murmured, barely audible, but Neil heard it like a clarion call.
Jonathan's chin was wrenched from its voluntary positioning by five cold, dead, stone fingers. A mortal man would have been bruised. Jonathan became aware of existing upon and within Neil's sweet breath. Literally, and in proverb.
"You will know exceptions because you are mine. But there are limits, Jonathan. You will never interrupt me when I am with someone, whether it be with the president, the pope, or your slut of a mother. Do you understand?" Neil sneered as he hissed.
"She wasn't�" Jonathan whispered. His body had flinched, and instead of fighting, he collapsed, Neil's hold was what primarily held him upon his feet.
"She was. Don't you ever forget your origins, boy. Don't you ever. They are what made you, like I made you. And if you out live me, I will have you remember me too. Don't you ever forget what your blood brought you through. It is respect to yourself, and to origins-- the trials you have overcome. Do you understand me, Jonathan Davis?" Neil's thin brow rose, "Keep your secrets, but keep the ones for yourself true."
There was a pause if digestion, and then Neil added flatly. "Or you are nothing. Nothing, boy."
Neil's nostrils flared with the weight of his murmurings. He pulled his hand from Jonathan's chin, and similarly threw away the boy's desire to fight.
"Mya, you killed Mya." He couldn't stop the tears, but he would not wipe them away.
"She was mortal, she was what you were, you are beyond her."
"You didn't have to..."
"Oh yes, yes I did. Jonathan," Neil leaned away, crossing his arms over his loose, silk shirt. "Would you have forgotten her?"
"No," nearly inaudible.
"She can not know, she will not know. She endangered us. And later, she would have died anyway. And I would not have given you permission to make her." Neil's voice was flat, like he was going over a list of prices. "I saved us all the trouble, do you deny this?"
"No."
"We must all lose something, you are reborn, Jonathan."
"I died, you killed me, wasn't that enough?"
It was Neil's turn, "No." And there was an odd softness in the clefts and grooves of Neil's remarkable eyes. Jonathan felt as though they admitted something to him in the silence between them.
It was almost as though they apologized. But not for the deed, but through empathy.
�empathy�
"�you sired Chris�"
"I did."
"Then I am more yours than the rest of them�"
"You are." Neil turned his back and returned himself to his seat behind his desk.
"�then� give me one more week� And then I'll come back to you."
"One week, Jonathan. Seven Christian days."
"Yes. Thank you, Father."
and so I ask
for one more chance
to understand
this senseless circumstance
help me to see
this through your eyes
the reasons I've been trying
to surmise
though you are gone
i am still your son
and while your pain is over
mine has just begun.
Neil: "at peace with all my limits"
6/8/01 2:41 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Neil had been sitting, fingers steepled, since Jonathan left his office. Twice he cast an askance glance at the blue prints and documents upon his desk.
Oh, what the Prince of this city would pay for these pieces of paper. Oh what would one of his competitors do for just the information hidden in the angles and schematics of these diagrams and notarized affidavits. But Neil didn't smile, he didn't sneer or smirk. This was the spoils of months of work-- all dropped into his lap, prettier than any monetary payoff.
When the phone rang he let it ring one more time before he sat up and spoke into the piece. He glanced at the caller ID specifically set up for his account of untrackable, scrambled cell-phones.
"Severin."
"You've apprehended our little problem?"
"It was successful and he's alive, I presume."
"Should I be expecting him? "
"Ahh. Well then, I can't leave any loose strings, now can I? I shall be down in five minutes."
"And Severin, I'd like to explain my priorities to you. There are many important people here. I am assuming this is in regards to either Aleister or Eskil's business. However, Eskil just left my office.
"Nonetheless, this is fine, no matter what he says I have a hundred reasons to assume he is lying. I believe it's safe to say that that's more our job than anything, or at least our first course of action. However, I'd like to get enough out of him to at least plan ahead when I find out what he is truly after. (AKA, what he will not be getting.) While I am down there I do not expect to make a martyr out of him, nor do I expect to do much talking. In. Out.
"I am unattainable. We are unattainable. I would like to keep it that way, capice?"
Neil nodded. Good, good, Severin worked out better than even Neil dreamed. However, he was still new. Neil had yet to grow the informal respect and assistance that he found necessary in any business relationship. Formally, however, Neil trusted the Italian. (Even if he seemed like a too pretty bribe from Rome. Neil had his doubts, but if Severin was a well placed and well recommended (Neil's own inquiries had only made him more impressed) attempt at espionage, well, Neil would have to deal with it when the time came. He tried to keep the situation with as low of a potential for damage as possible. But he needed someone . And that someone was supposed to be Severin.)
"Was someone sent to deal with that lovely� institution piccolina?"
"Tu?"
"I didn't want you to go, Severin. Ci sono per il duo fratelli. Non est per tu."
Neil's one dark brow slid up slowly. An icon for reserved disdain.
"Perche� I said so." Then Neil grinned. "Because it's too easy, Severin. I'm saving us time and letting you finish with the system. Which, I'd like to have finished and tested for the last time today. Il tempo finalamente. Mas prima, tell Lars to join us."
"Bene."
Neil picked himself out of his char and went to his closet. He peeled back the door and looked amongst the attire he kept at the office. He had a wonderful assortment of suits, shirts and pants just in case there was a meeting, or if he forgot to prepare for formal plans after a work day that runs late.
He pulled out a nice jacket and pulled it over his shoulders. He buttoned it.
But he did not leave before slipping a mean, black glock into his shoulder holster.
**Title by assemblage 23
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