1/14/03

Temple

This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly raw acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass of dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St. Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium downtown.

The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often used for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times, exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the CD spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of the club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as seating areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the occasional unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained velvet sofas and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide conversation areas somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, arranged in an arc behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the Nachtskinder to play, exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other vices.

The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.

In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch the writhing below.

Lara

She's a lean, athletic woman, in height a few inches under the six-foot mark, pale-skinned and liberally freckled across her thin, straight nose. Calm blue eyes regard the world with a kind of guarded amiability, and her full mouth is prone to wry smiles; when at ease, she seems to consider the world as something for her amusement, and when she speaks, it's with a soft Southern lilt.

A black leather biker jacket, dripping gleaming chains, hangs open over a blood-red t-shirt that bears the image of a dim-looking cartoon robot. Her white jeans skim close to her legs and have been drawn on in black ink, abstract designs, some fresh, many faded. A bright yellow handkerchief is tied just below her left knee. On her feet are dark purple Doc Martens, or a reasonable copy of the brand, with red laces.

She wears a wig of gleaming golden strands, the length and style of a pageboy's haircut. A close examination will note that her eyebrows are pencilled in.

Rina

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well.

A short dress of dark-purple crushed velvet skims over her curves, an empire waist accenting the scant swell of her chest. It's almost medieval in tone: a wide, round ballet neckline baring her throat and clavicles, belled sleeves flaring wide at the wrists, the skirt falling in a loose a-line from the high waist. Black stockings overlaid with fishnet descend into black Victorian lace-up boots; her movements occasionally betray a flash of pale thigh between the hem of the dress and the sheer black stockings.

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. On her right hand is band with three inset stones: a larger diamond framed by two smaller ones, set flush with the surface of the band. On the left is a simple band decorated with letters and scrollwork.


It's a good night for dancing; the floor is clearer, the club less crowded than it is on the busy weekend nights. Rina whirls in the midst of the chaos, amid poseurs and Nachtskinder and latex-clad deviants--one of the few flashes of deep, vibrant color in a sea of black leather and latex and fraying lace.

One of the few, yes, but not the only. The metallic strands of Lara's gold pageboy wig catch the light and throw it back every which way, glimmering. She's watching at this moment, not dancing, though the flush on her pale face and the faint sheen of sweat shows that the woman is no stranger to the lure of the dance floor and the hedonistic crush of bodies there.

There is little fanfare as Tatt pushes her way into the club; just another dark-clothed, sunken-eyed reveller. She makes a beeline to the ground-floor bar, although there's already a half-empty bottle dangling from one hand.

Tatt

She's no beauty, conventional or otherwise. Standing somewhere above six-foot, she moves loose and easy in coffee-colored skin. Her apparent age shifts with her moods, but usually falls in the late 30's. Features are a study in sharpness: all prominent angles and time-weathered planes. Her androgynous figure is no gentler: She has the rangy, raw-boned build of a hungry dog, with a loping stride to match. Oddly light amber eyes anchor her features, flashing topaz above a mouth given to long-toothed grins.

Hair is inky-dark and haphazardly cropped, showing a stylized antelope head at the nape of her neck. One of her more prominent tattoos is a feather design encircling her left eye-socket, bringing to mind the facial plumage of a hawk or falcon. The brown canvas of her skin is etched with stories: some tattoos are faded, and others inked in fresh, raw indigo. They cover every exposed limb like milemarkers, measuring the distance she's travelled.

There is no attempt to hide her obvious scars: a broad slash of long-healed tissue across her throat, and little more than a stub where the cartilage of her right ear should be. Scarred and calloused hands bear letters inked across the knuckles: 'HARD LUCK'.

Clothing is dark, and fits like a second skin: black leather pants patched from a variety of sources, studded belt slunga round narrow hips, steeltoed boots, and a Harley Davidson t-shirt. The garment's arms are ripped off to reveal full, vivid tattoo 'sleeves' and an array of scars.

Rina comes out of a spin half-dazed, and throws off the hand of a stranger who reaches to steady her. Her eyes are still a little hazy, as she weaves her way out of the dancers and toward the area of the bar. When she spots the gold wig, a grin comes to her lips, and she makes her way toward Lara along the fringes of the dance floor.

Lara's sly grin widens a notch, as her eyes follow Rina off the dance floor. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her artworked jeans and waits for the smaller, darker woman to reach her before greeting her with a lazy, welcoming drawl. "Hey, angel. Havin' fun?"

Rina's off-kilter smile doesn't quite reach her eyes; her gaze remains full of dark things. "Not enough," she says, her voice raised a little to be heard through the music.

"Maybe we can fix that, huh?" Lara reaches up to tuck strands of her golden wig behind one small, unpierced ear. "You wanna siddown somewhere lil' quieter?"

At the bar, Tatt thumps the countertop with a calloused palm and calls for some whiskey. The barkeep nods, apparently recognizing the dark-skinned woman. While she waits, she scans her surroundings and finishes off the bottle of tequila with a gulp.

Rina's smile widens a touch, though it still does not soften her eyes. "Whatever," she answers, with a careless gesture. "You wanna drink or anything?" She takes a step closer, near enough to the taller woman that she tilts her chin up a bit.

Lara rolls her shoulders in an easy shrug and glances over toward the bar. "Hmm. Sure, honey, why not? Night's young." Straight white teeth flash in a grin.

Tatt pages: Is Lara a Temple regular?

You paged Tatt with 'Nope. In fact, she only showed up a week or so ago, at most.'.

You paged Tatt with 'But she's been around pretty regular since then.'.

Rina runs a hand back through sweaty hair as she heads for the bar. She catches sight of Tatt, and her smile fades the slightest bit into seriousness--but then she is waving for the attention of the bartender, and calling over her shoulder to Lara, "What's your poison?"

Lara leans an elbow against the bar, pale eyes skimming the area lazily, her manner too casual to seem vigilant. "Vodka tonic." Noticing Rina's glance, she, too, studies Tatt for a moment.

Tatt takes up her freshly-poured drink and slouches against the bar. As though sensing their attention, she turns and fixes the pair with unnerving golden eyes. The raptor-tattoo encircling one eye gives her a decidedly predatory air, tonight.

Rina catches the look, and ducks her head to hide a slightly more genuine smile; she passes the order along to the bartender. "Vodka tonic and a double Jamie's..." She leans down, then, to hike the hem of her dress up a few inches--revealing a span of olive thigh and a Derringer holster. It doesn't hold a gun, and when she opens the snap she pulls out a few rolled-up bills, sorting through them and passing one to the bartender.

As the Walker kin straightens, she looks down the bar to Tatt--a very direct look. Her hand lets the velvet fall again, and smooths it absently.

Lara returns Tatt's stare with a warm, crooked smile, like a woman who's got the taste of everything good in her mouth and it's just the start of the first course of a five-star dinner. Then she shifts her weight and watches Rina, observing that flash of flesh with an air of intellectual appreciation, and approval. Then she nods toward the tattooed woman. "Friend a' yours?"

Rina's mouth tugs up at one corner. "You could say that," she says over her shoulder as the barman pours the drinks. "Fellow artist. She does tats. Gonna have her do some ink for me." She collects the two glasses and leaves the change, turning to offer Lara her drink and a sly half-smile.

Tatt watches wordlessly from afar, eyes narrowed. Eye contact with Lara is accompanied by a sharp lift of the chin--almost cocky. She nurses her drink without really tasting it.

Lara takes the glass and raises it in a slight salute to the Italian woman before tossing back a swallow. "Mmm. Y'first, or what?" She glances occasionally at Tatt -- keeping tabs on the dark woman, no more.

Rina shakes her head, and lifts her glass to let the sleeve fall back from a wrist--braceleted in a barbed design, the same as the ink around her neck. She sips at her shot, and gives Tatt a slanting glance as she leads the stranger away from the chatter and noise. She heads for a side chapel that holds a couch or two--and no other people.

Lara saunters off with Rina. Her gait, like the rest of her, is casual and lazy, though the pale-skinned woman moves in time with the music, flowing along with its steady beat.

Rina drapes herself over one end of the couch, and lifts the glass to her lips--watching Lara over the rim. A swallow of the whiskey, and her smile is slower.

Lara sprawls out at the other end, tucking one foot under the opposite leg. Her head tilts as she studies Rina, a calculating coollness underneath her warm smile. "Din' get'cha name the other night, hon," she notes slyly, sipping her drink.

Before they get too far, the sound of shattering glass erupts behind them. The knot of people by the bar disperses hurriedly, clearing room for the dark-skinned woman as she stalks after the pair. The neck of the broken tequila bottle is held tight in one fist, and her eyes snap dangerously.

Rina sits up abruptly, tossing back several swallows as she watches Tatt's approach. She stands, then, her eyes guarded and a little narrowed. From her expression, she doesn't quite understand the sudden violence, or the look in Tatt's eyes... but she holds her ground.

The smile wipes off Lara's face. Slower than Rina, the woman stands, pale eyes narrowing as she slips up beside Rina. The laziness is gone from her stance; her body language is all vigilance now.

Tatt doesn't give much pause, or much warning as she stalks into the chapel with teeth bared. With near-supernatural speed, she takes Rina's jaw in one calloused hand and pulls her close enough to feel the heat of her breath. "He would be /disappointed/ with you," the lanky Strider snarls, full of bitterness. Releasing the woman's face roughly, she steps away as though disgusted. "With both of us."

A film of tears wells in Rina's eyes--and when Tatt pushes her away, she ducks her head, rubbing at her jaw with one hand. "Take it easy, Tatt," she says in a taut voice. A haunted glance to the Strider, and she swallows. "I'm only tryin' to stay alive. Make it-- bearable." Then, for no apparent reason, she laughs: a gallows chuckle, devoid of sound or humor, made unnerving by the tears in her eyes. "Nothing works," she adds roughly.

The stranger -- named or not, Lara's still a stranger to both of them -- remains perfectly still apart from a twitch as Tatt reaches for, grasps, and then releases the Walker kinswoman. She's quiet, but there's no fear in her. Nor does she seem as lost as a stranger would be in a situation like this, caught in a debate between two old acquaintences. She's not smiling anymore, not a hint of it.

Shattering glass again--this time, Tatt hurls the remainder of the bottle into the nearest stone wall. "This *isn't* fucking *living*." The tall woman is bristling now, anger palpable in her looming frame.

Lara's Southern lilt is soft, but there's steel underneath the magnolias. "Hey. Ain't the place. Cool down a lil' bit."

Rina looks up, her expression somehow numb and pained at the same time. "No," she answers dully. "Guess not." From somewhere she summons back that smile, the one that does not touch her dark eyes. She glances from one woman to the other, and makes a sweeping formal gesture. "But I am remiss," she says dryly. "Tatt, this is Lara. Lara, meet Tatt. Don't kill each other, aright?"

Smoldering amber eyes rake over Lara unforgivingly, and dismissively. "It's a pleasure," she grunts, void of humor. Fixing Rina with that gaze again, she opens her mouth--then closes it again. "Don't spit on his grave, Renata. I got no qualms 'bout killing off relatives." With those cold words, she lowers her head and stalks out of the chapel, disappearing into the throng outside.

Rina stares after her, blinking several times to hold back the shimmer of tears. She wets her lips, and presses them together hard.

Lara's gaze follow the dark woman out. Then she shakes her head and rubs at the back of her neck. "Hell. Tatt, huh? Jesus. Real firebrand, ain't she?" The woman's lips curve into a smile, one that doesn't touch her eyes. She glances sidelong, then, at Rina, sympathetically. "Y'still wanna do business, Rina?"

Rina tosses back the last inch of her shot, closing her eyes as she gulps it down. When the dark eyes open again, they are clearer; she looks over to Lara and forces a humorless not-quite smile. "Sure." Her voice remembers Chicago, in the word.

From afar, to the room, Rina ow OW ow ow ow OW OW OW ow ow.

Rina pages: I think the word of the day is jaded. She has this tired, jaded, dark look about her. It stays in her eyes, even when the rest of her face speaks or smiles... her eyes stay distant, and weary, and jaded.

Lara settles back on the couch, crossing her legs. She studies Rina thoughtfully for a moment, then asks, softly, "Y'sure Jack won't mind?" She swallows the last of her drink without taking her eyes off the smaller woman.

One corner of the smile tightens slightly, and Rina sits down again. "You sure know a lot, for a girl I never saw before last week," she answers. "But y'don't know everything." She sets her empty glass on the floor, by the end of the couch. Her gaze, narrowed, returns to Lara. "You run your own lab, or work f' somebody?"

"I freelance," Lara replies, toying with her glass. "Don't work for no one but m'self. Though I'm usually pretty picky about jobs." She shifts it to one hand, her right, and with the left dips into the front pocket of her jeans, coming up with a thick leather wallet. It's more full of papers than cash, and the middle has a section for snapshots. She flips through with one hand, then slips one out and offers it to Rina, picture-side down.

Rina's brow furrows slightly, and her eyes narrow--but she takes the offering, and turns it over for a moment to look.

The snapshot Lara shows Rina looks like it's been folded once or twice and is slightly faded. But the image on it is still clear enough. The background shows the Las Vegas strip -- no other place is that studded with lights and crassness. Two people are framed in the photo, male and female. The woman's Lara, wearing a silvery wig this time and dressed in something dark green and strapless. She's grinning widely at the camera over a pair of bottle-green John Lennon glasses. The man she's with has his arm around her, and is dressed in black. Black hair, mussed, is just short of his shoulders, and a cigarette dangles from a sardonic, lazy smile. His features are bearded, hawkish, saturnine, with a single scar down the left side of his face which just misses the eye.

It's Jack Salem.

Nicodemus filters through the main doors to the nightclub, this time not dressed up as a Catholic priest alien with a skeletal hand. In fact, he seems to more or less fit in with the crowd--except he's better dressed and appears more formal. He could practically conduct business in his current attire, and maybe he recently has. His destination is obvious and he needs not even look for it to find it: the bar.

Rina stares at the image, and a touch of bemusement comes to her face. She tips her head a fraction, and flips it facedown to hand it back. "Aright, so you know him. Or used to." She purses her lips slightly, then. "You know who I am?"

Lara slips the photo back into her wallet. "Rina Vencenzo. Widow of John Smith. Like I said, I freelance. Jack and I're old friends. Well. We did some work together a coupl'a times, anyway." She shrugs a shoulder as she repockets her wallet and tilts her head at Rina.

Rina's expression tightens the slightest bit at the mention of John's name. "Then you'd know that sellin' anything you know about them-- or me-- might be hazardous to your health," she says evenly. She gives a little jerk of her chin. "Be careful."

Lara shrugs a shoulder. "I got principles," she drawls. "'Sides, Jack's good people. An' I owe him." She smiles crookedly, then pushes up from the couch, stretching with her hands laced together at the back of her neck.

"Good t'know," Rina says dryly. Her mood is much darker, now. She tips her head and asks, "You still feel like improvin' my evening? Not like it could really go anywhere but up, after /that/ scene..."

Lara turns back and smiles, all warmth again, all Southern charm. She reaches into her jacket and takes out a small mint tin, palm-sized. It rattles faintly. "Y'like the little butterflies I sold ya the other night?"

Rina's answering smile is crooked, humorless. "You do good work," she says quietly. Shifting a little on the couch, she leans down to bare a few inches of thigh again, getting a couple of bills from the Derringer holster and palming them deftly. Then she rises to take Lara's free hand, and lift it to her lips; after the kiss, as she lowers her hand, the money is slipped into the woman's fingers.

The money'd hand slips into Lara's pocket, the mint tin is passed to Rina, discretely. The pale woman's smile is wistful. "Clean, too. Like I said, I got principles. Do me a lil' favor, sugar?"

Rina pockets the mints, and looks back at Lara steadily. "Depends on the favor," she says with the barest trace of a smile.

Nicodemus collects a drink, turns around, and surveys the who's who of the crowd there this evening.

"Don' tell Jack I was here, all right?" Her smile is sly and self-deprecating. "M'jus' passin' through. He don' wanna be seen associatin' with riff-raff like m'self, anyway."

Rina wets her lips, slowly. Then she leans forward to kiss the woman on the cheek, and murmurs, "I think he knows, already." There's a hint of shadowed apology in her eyes, as she draws away and turns to look at the bar and the dance floor. A hand slips into her pocket for the tin, and she pops one of the 'mints' and swallows it dry; moments later she is headed for the bar.

"Ah, shit," Lara murmurs, but she shrugs carelessly. "Ah, well." She lingers in the side chapel a few moments more, time enough for Rina to reach the bar, then slips out herself and submerges herself back into the nightclub crowd.

This time, when she hits the bar Rina only gets water; by the time she drinks half of it down, her eyes are brighter, her demeanor far more alert. She smiles when she sees Nick, and this time the smile reaches her eyes.

Nicodemus notices Rina as she approaches the bar, nods, apparently having failed to make eye contact, and pretends he was nodding at someone else--as if a cat, having fallen off the back of a couch, recovers by pretending it meant to do that. Subtly, he waits a while and then shuffles sporadicly in her direction--noticing the eye contact when she makes it. He nods again, successfully this time, and alters his course slightly to intercept. "Gohd eve'nink," he says in a mock-Dracula accent that's intentionally bad. Then he drops it. "Long time no see."

Lara sifts herself through the crowd and out the doors, pausing only once to glance back at the bar toward Rina.