It is currently 21:16 Pacific Time on Mon Jan 19 2004. Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (15% full). 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. The crowd is light tonight, brightly-dressed retro punks and techno fiends thrashing away, with spots of black amid the lurid colors of hair and clothing. There's a piercing-laden boy with an impressive spiked mohawk, and over there a glittery David Bowie wannabe--and under the lights, a dazzling array of studded leather, Manic Panic dye, and spandex. Crocuta loiters at the edge of the dance floor, nodding absently to the beat of the music and mostly watching as others dance, writhe, pose, posture, and pair (or trio or quartet) up. Her expression's guarded and sullen -- eyes moving restlessly, hands in pockets, teeth gnawing at her lower lip unconsciously. She doesn't seem to be with anyone tonight -- the usual crowd of SCCU-attending freakos is, by and large, absent tonight. There's one, at least: the glam-drag dancer, her hair all spiked up with glittering reddish streaks. No restraint at all, in that one--only the violent urges of the music, tempered by small concessions to the language of dance. She moves without a care for anyone around her, painting her eloquent release in three dimensions, utterly lost in a trance of her own making. A flash of envy passes across Crocuta's young face as she watches. Then she scowls, tips her chin up in a determined sort of way, and melds herself into the sea of dancers, submerging into sound and motion. Self-consciousness makes her awkward, but she has rhythm and energy, and if it's not quite the kind of angry punk thrashing that she's in the mood for, you can still move to it. Ministry breaks out of the speakers like a plague, in the most perfect synergy since the casting of Casablanca. The glam-rocker breaks loose, fists slamming against the air, violence clearing a space around her. [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 black barbed-wire tattoo encircles her neck, and matching inked bracelets are visible on her wrists. There is another marking visible at the base of her neck, not ink but a scarred-in symbol that looks as if it was branded into her skin. (page for details if taking a closer look) The evening's theme seems to be a Bowie-esque version of gothic drag. Low-slung pants of shiny black PVC pour over her hips and legs, descending into battered black thrash boots that buckle up the sides. A knee-length frock coat of wine-scarlet brocade fits her upper body tightly, then flares out at her waist. Beige lace falls from beneath the turned-back cuffs of black velvet; under the jacket, the girl wears a Byronesque poet's shirt of ivory silk, with a fall of the same antique lace tied at the throat. Gloves of black leather stretch tight over her hands. Her makeup is a glittering homage to the days of glam rock and Charlie's Angels--but somehow she skirts a tasteful edge. Dark-red lipstick, a smudge of black eyeliner, an asymmetrical paint job of silvery-rose that slants up from one eye and down over the opposite cheek: it complements the glam-rock drag, and plays up the rakish side of her beauty. She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork. [Crocuta] A lean, slim specimen of _Homo gothius punkius_, Crocuta is a little under five and a half feet tall and looks to be around college-age. Her smooth, youthful face is attractive in its way; her nose is a little large, but it fits in with the rest of her features, and her dark blue eyes -- touched with green in certain lights -- are especially distinctive. A lack of piercings and tattoos gives the broodling goth-punk the naive aura of a warrior that hasn't yet been blooded. Her light brown hair has been shaved off along the sides, leaving an inch-wide, two-inch long strip down along the middle. This has been dyed a toxic shade of green and spiked up into a short but perfectly servicable mohawk. Ripped blue jeans sport giant holes, displaying bright yellow tights underneath. Her t-shirt's torn off just above the waistline and displays a picture of Chunk from _The Goonies_ -- fresh from Hot Topic. Red Chuck Taylor sneakers cover her feet, and a small padlock hangs from a chain around her slender neck. Another chain's been threaded through her beltloops. Crocuta grins briefly and toothily as "Just One Fix" lunges out and starts raping the air and lets her motion devolve into thrashing anger. When someone steps on her foot, she yelps, then shoves back, and an impromptu mosh-fest erupts around her, the group frenzy threatening to engulf the Bowie glam-girl. Rina gives as good as she gets, kicking a classic preppie out of her way; the trance is broken, and she joins the fierce chaos for a while. After a few minutes, though, she pushes her way back out to the edge and leans against one of the stone pillars, watching with a crooked grin. Crocuta meanwhile gets another lesson in why steel-toed heavy boots are better, if not more comfortable, than Chuck Taylors, but she holds her own pretty well, lasting until the tides of war wash her up on shore -- not far from Rina, as it happens. A good deal sweatier and breathing hard, she limps over to a nearby pillar and braces a hand against it. Rina glances over, flashing her a rakish grin and then slipping over to the new neighbor, sneaking around the back of the stone column to come up behind the toxic-punk. "Buy you a drink, Thrash?" she half-shouts above the music. Crocuta, poking gingerly at her left foot through the thick canvas of her sneaker, glances up in startlement, then grins back, nods, and straightens up. Rina offers a gloved hand with a flamboyant gesture, just in case the lady should wish to take her arm. Lady? What lady? Punk-girl's good at taking suggestions, though, and indeed takes Rina's arm. Her grin stays, broad and toothy, as the night starts looking up. As they head for the bar, Crocuta's free hand dips briefly into her front pocket, making sure her wallet's still there -- the habitual gesture of a paranoid New Yorker. Rina escorts her around the quieter edges of the cathedral, giving the chaos of the dancefloor a wide berth and taking the opportunity to study the punk on her arm. "Haven't seen you here before. Not that that's saying much... it's been a while since I was a regular." Crocuta wipes at her forehead with the back of her free hand. "Yeah?" The Noo Yawk accent's plain to be heard. "Me neitha'. But it's only, I d'no, like, my second're third time." Rina's accent is a Chicago-urban muddle--but something sharpens in her eyes. "You from back east?" she prompts, her attention suddenly focused. "Yeah, Noo Yawk. Lon' Gyland actually." Her brow furrows as she frowns. "Somethin' wrong wi' that?" Rina shakes her head minutely. "Nah." There is, but she isn't saying, evidently. Her free hand comes up to rub at the back of her neck, covering the mark there. "What's your poison?" she asks, early enough that they haven't yet been drowned out by bar chatter. Crocuta's eyes flick to the mark, though she's as interested in the woman's other tattoos. She shrugs. "Beer's fine, whateva'. I'm not, like, picky or nothin'." Releasing her arm, the glam-punk steps ahead of her to head for the bar. Before too long, she returns with two tall glasses. Crocuta's face brightens with an enthusiastic grin. "Cool, ya wanna get a table? That last fucker really stomped on my fuckin' foot." Rina flashes a grin. "Yeah, sure..." It's easy enough to find one. Rina sets down both drinks and flops into a chair. "You ever go to this club in Manhattan, called Mother?" Crocuta flops into the opposite chair and swallows a generous throatful of cold beer. Wiping her mouth, she ums a bit at the question, looking unsure. "Uh... don't think so? I mean, mebbe I mighta', but I don' recognize th'name." Rina waves a hand, and then picks up her beer. "Enh, prolly gone by now anyway." She drinks, and then looks across to the woman through narrowed eyes. "You know a guy that goes by Balthasar?" Crocuta's brow furrows; she shifts her weight nervously, frowns as if thinking about it, and then shakes her head. "No... but I kinda ran with a small crowd." She shrugs. Rina lifts a shoulder, and lets it fall. The dark eyes lower as she drinks. "Y'like Ministry? Or were you just fed up?" Crocuta jitters a leg absently. "Little'a both, I guess." She shrugs. "I don't dance a lot, just flail around enthusiastically, ya know?" Rina flashes a quick, shockingly pretty smile. "Yeah. Nothin' wrong with that." She lifts her glass, drinking again, sharp dark eyes watching the punk. Crocuta returns it with a shy, crooked grin and looks down to take a drink. "Yeah... so, um." She looks up, sticks a hand out. "Crocuta," she says, introducing herself. "Like the hyena." Rina's brow furrows. "Like what?" Bemused, she raises an eyebrow and offers a gloved hand in answer. "Spotted hyena," the punk explains, smirking. "Crocuta crocuta." "Oh..." A sheepish smile, then. "Only Latin I know is the church kind." She rises, to bow theatrically over the woman's hand. "Rina. Nice to meetcha." A grin, as she straightens, and she gives a little jerk over her shoulder. "They're playin' my song. Crocuta looks briefly disappointed, but nods. "'Kay. Nice meetin' ya, Rina." She grins again. "See ya 'round?" The crooked smile comes again, and Rina nods, her eyes bright with the need to move again. "Yeah. Come out and thrash some more, when you feel better." A skipping step back, and she turns the dive into the crowd again. "Sure," the punkgirl murmurs, too late for Rina to hear. She nurses the rest of her beer, watching.