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Museum thread, part 2 [06 Nov 2008|09:50pm] http://asylums.insanejournal.com/city_limits/110435.html Eye for an Eye

Late Night at the Museum [03 Nov 2008|07:10pm] part 1: http://asylums.insanejournal.com/city_limits/108924.html Eye for an Eye

Double-Header [07 Oct 2008|12:02pm] Most matches in the ring at the old Godwin box factory began after sundown. Tonight would be different. There was a double-header scheduled-- one moments prior to sunset, and the other just afterward. A pair of what looked like humans would square off, one at a time, against two demons, both champions from former weeks. The audience was heavily male, and most of them had placed their bets in person, immediately prior to the match-up. They were shown photos of the night's contestants and given basic physical descriptions, but those were based on appearance rather than biological or metaphysical facts. In short, picking a winner was tricky. While the crowd filed into the bleachers, the contestants were backstage in a series of small, crude locker rooms. Each had a separate space, in order to keep any skirmishes from breaking out early. At ten minutes until the first match was scheduled to start, the owner knocked on one of the doors. "Bethany?" Bethany had spent the better half of an hour getting ready for her fight, hair plaited back and simple clothing put on. She looked nothing like the rich strip-club owning woman that she did every other day, if anything she looked quite young and her more innocent of appearance might actually work in her favour. It was possible people might underestimate her and then wouldn't it be fun proving them wrong? Even if the scar on her face would suggest she'd lived through something in her past. She taped her hands and rolled her shoulders, glancing up at the call of her name. "Come in," she said with a small smile as it was easy enough to recognise that voice. Bethany reached into the bag she'd brought with herself and pulled out a small set of knives, all of which varied in size and had different shaped blades. Bethany would have used Darian's more recent presents but they were still so new and she didn't want to break them on some demon she had nothing invested in, those would be saved for a more personal hunt, one that meant something to her. It wasn't like she wouldn't have one of those eventually. Darian would never tell his lover this, but before her matches, he was uncomfortable. It wasn't that he expected her to lose. He rarely let the possibility of it enter his mind. She was far too capable for him to actively worry, and she might consider it an insult if he did. The truth was, the Dealmaker watched those bouts so closely, if Bethany took a hard fall in the middle of one, he'd be on the floor in seconds. Less. Rules would stop mattering. Reputation wouldn't register. Neither would what the corrupt Slayer wanted. All of that was unlikely. But Darian got a knot in the middle of his chest that didn't go away until she won, anyway. When he opened the door to her locker room, though, there wasn't a trace of that on his face. It was just a thing he kept to himself. "You look beautiful." He walked up to the blonde and picked up her hands, inspecting the tape. "How do you feel?" Bethany's expression softened as Darian entered the small locker room and she turned her hands over to capture his wrists, leaning up to steal an impulsive kiss. "Like I could take on fifty men and still come out the winner." She was without lipstick and makeup, it was just Bethany and nothing else. The adrenaline had kicked in the closer it had gotten to her fight and she could feel it in her veins, it was definitely making her heart beat faster. "I plan to take my opponent apart until they're begging for mercy." And she said it with such certainty that one couldn't help but be convinced by her. "And you?" She asked, lifting her eyes to regard Darian through lashes. The usual brush-off of any personal concerns got stuck in his throat. Lately Darian was having a difficult time keeping what he said ambiguous. He'd begin to give a pat answer, and halfway through he'd involuntarily segue into something a little too real, even for her. It was easier to just shut his mouth. Which wouldn't work right now. "I'm... optimistic," he said. "I think it's going to be a good night." Darian lifted her knuckles and kissed the tape on her left hand. "Before you go out, I want to introduce you to someone. A contender in the second match." Ultimately how she chose to spend the final minutes of her preparation was up to her, and if she had other plans, he'd respect those. But the demon had never known her to meditate, or do anything else of the sort, so he didn't think twice to ask. "Let's hope so," she agreed with a nod of her head. Bethany had noticed the hesitation before Darian's words had come but thought nothing of it, she just figured he was taking his time and working out what he wanted to say before he said. There was something to be said for thinking before you spoke even if Ralphael appeared to be experiencing difficulties with that lately. She was an inch away from sending him to see a shrink. The mention of meeting somebody brought about a movement of her thumb across his lips. "Lead the way." All she needed to do was pick up her knives and she was good to go. Darian bit her thumb, not hard enough to break the skin. Once he had leaned down to kiss her and tell her, somewhat impulsively, that he loved her, he let go and led the way out of the locker room. A few doors down the hall, Cian O'Neill was getting ready for his first match. With some time left on the clock until the sun went down, he wasn't dangerous to interact with yet. He knocked on the door, then looked over his shoulder to see if Bethany was behind him yet. Shane hadn't been happy, still, by the time the day arrived for Cian to go to the arena. It was almost a calming influence on Cian, seeing the younger man's concern, because it took the worry away from himself. But he'd also found the small pouch, given him by Erato, was also helping. He usually wore it hung on a leather cord around his neck, against his skin inside his shirt. Now it was hanging from the cord as he sat on the chair in his cubicle, his fingers lightly holding it as he stared at the opposite wall. Annie had spoken to him earlier, Shane of course having told her what was going on and the older witch finally asking to speak to him. He was now putting into practice what she had instructed him over the phone. When the knock sounded it broke into his concentration and he blinked, looking up at the door and calling out, "Come in," as he stood up, his fingers tucking the pouch back inside his t-shirt. He wore that, and some lightweight, loose sweatpants, both items would be left in the room once he headed for the arena. It would give him something to put on in the morning. ( A Brief Introduction of Fighters ) ( Defying Expectations ) Eye for an Eye

Betting on Cian [22 Sep 2008|07:08pm] In the week after his regular confinement Cian was restless and irritable. The lack of anything new, and the news from Pat, that the woman was a con artist, a charlatan known to the cops, had given rise to major worry for all of them. "How th' fook are we gonna find out what Oonagh's done?" Shane had said loudly, attracting more than a few glares and tight-lipped stares from other occupants in the library. After frustratedly scrubbing his hands through his hair he'd helped Cian pack up the laptop and papers he'd been looking through when the older man had come to tell Shane the news. Outside on the footpath the discussion had continued. "We'll call Annie, let her know, and head back," Cian said tightly. His eyes darted around, the people walking past and brushing against him on the crowded street making him recoil a little as he remembered the young red-headed girl he'd collided with a few days earlier. He had told Shane about the incident, leaving out most of the conversation as it hadn't really been able to be remembered, let alone classified as such, no matter how elastic the definition. He'd missed Shane's glance at him, the look of concern on the younger man's face. Shane and Annie had been conversing a little more than Cian knew, the old woman encouraging Shane to continue the search Oongh had started on when she'd ended up in this predicament. He had no idea what she'd say about this piece of news though. "Y' still gonna go check her place out?" Shane asked, eyeing Cian as they walked along the street, Shane again having to almost skip to keep up with the taller man's angry stride. "Aye. What's th' old sayin', 'Y' nev' know y' luck in a big city.' and this 'ere's one fookin' big city," Cian said, mouth twisting into a cold grimace. The last five years of his life had been spent hiding what he was, his life controlled by something he had no idea how to control in return, and he hated that. Shane, Annie and Oonagh all knew it. And knew he hated it. And it's why Oonagh was now as she was. All because of him, and a fucking liar of a woman who'd disappeared. His lips thinned as his eyes narrowed. He'd never forgiven himself for his family's death, still believing it was his doing that brought them to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, that fateful August day. He ignored the point Annie had made to him so many times - that if the car bomb had been placed where it was supposed to be, or if the call hadn't given police the wrong location, or if his father had decided to do the journey the other direction... so many 'if onlys' and yet none of them ever gave him relief from the belief that his own selfish, self-centred needs had put his family in that spot at that time. If only he'd caught the bus, or agreed to take his younger siblings to the game, or not been injured the previous season due to his own drive to be seen as the best and make it into the big league... His fingers curled into fists and he shoved them into the pockets of his shorts, the action one that also made him slow slightly as he weaved his way through the crowds. So many people, and so many secrets. He suddenly remembered snippets of conversation he'd easily overheard at the bar he'd now been to a number of times, up near the woman's - no the liar's apartment. The bar he'd met the woman Rhiannon in. Soldiers had been talking about a place where fights took place. That in itself hadn't been what caught his attention, the idea not a new one at all. The thing that had caught his extremely sensitive hearing was 'what' was fighting. Demons. At the time he'd thought it a place to stay away from, but after everything that had happened, and the curiosity that had been aroused by the crazy girl, Cian felt a restless need to check out this 'demon drawer' as he'd heard one soldier laughingly call it. "I'll go and check the lying bitch's place and meet y' back at the hotel," he said to Shane, only waiting long enough for the young man to nod, the surprised expression switching to concern the minute Cian turned his back and stalked off. The tide of people swept around Shane as he slowed, eyes following Cian's back until the man had disappeared from sight. With a nervous shifting of the weight of the laptop over his shoulder Shane quickly looked around and crossed the street. It would give him a chance to talk to Annie without Cian overhearing the conversation. Cian's footsteps would've taken him towards Chicago's Industrial Corridor, a narrow tract of land populated by commercial warehouses, drab office buildings, and parking lots. In the prior decade, most of the buildings had gone vacant, lending the area a desolate atmosphere that was only worsened when its neighboring community to the east was walled off by the military. On the south end of the corridor, an old box factory occupied a full block of Lister Avenue. It had been owned by the late Cedric Godwin until the 1990s, and then stood empty until purchased in the summer of 2013. The new owner efficiently transformed the property into a small arena. Metal bleachers surrounded a caged pit; at capacity they seated two hundred spectators, some of whom gambled on the outcomes with money or metaphysical currency. The operation was under the radar of most people, but a few in law enforcement knew about it, military included. For the most part, there were no objections. Most matches ended up in the serious maiming, dismemberment, or death of a competitor, and since half of the competitors were demonic, it was a convenient method of thinning the herd. Only one police officer poked his nose too far into the gambling side of the house. The owner dealt with him in a way that wouldn't have surprised most of his acquaintances. It was quick, painful, and there weren't many pieces left for investigators to pick up. Darian was a hands-on businessman. He watched each match and he collected the debts himself. During a double-header, he often started the night watching from his office window, but halfway into it he was in the stands. He stood out from the crowd with his expensive suits, upright posture, hands in his pockets and detached expression. In the old box factory people knew the Dealmaker's face and of his reputation. They gave him a wide berth. The night that Cian chose to attend, two demons were in the ring. One was a massive, scaled creature with horny protrusions coming out of his elbows and knees. The other was smaller and coated in an excreted mucous; periodically it shot a toxic-looking fluid out of its nostrils. The floor was slick. Darian watched from a platform between two stands of bleachers. "It's a good thing I didn't put down carpet," he muttered. ( Things You Can Tell By Looking ) ( Let's Make a Deal ) Eye for an Eye

Pole Dancer [05 Sep 2008|11:24am] The club was coming together and Bethany was pleased with its progress, even if the dressing rooms weren't finished. They would be soon and that was all that mattered. She'd just finished interviewing bartenders, looking for the right sort of people who could handle the pressure of the crowds she was expecting and some had excelled whilst others had failed miserably. Bethany had already made calls and offered positions along with shift rotations and the rules of conduct so there would be no misunderstandings, she hated those. Especially in business. Currently she was stretching her arms above her head before taking a few steps closer to one of the tables she'd had delivered, reaching out to trace her fingers across its smooth surface. The guy she'd gone to had assured her that it would be perfect for what she needed even if his eyes had widened when she had told him what she needed the tables for. Another talented craftsman had fitted the tables with poles, for the more private and personal dances. Bethany looked around herself before she hopped up onto the table and walked the circular shape, turning on her heels to judge if there was anything to hold the girls to the table itself. The surface might have been shiny but it seemed easy enough to walk on and move on, she didn't think the girls would have much of a problem. She pressed her weight down on the table, making sure it was stable and solid enough. The last thing she wanted was for the tables to give under the girls movements, that was one headache she could do without. She reached up and loosened her hair, clasping the pole in one hand and turning around it slowly. The movement was fluid and it didn't take very much for Bethany's weight to carry around it in a shapely curve, long legs hugging the solid metal. She smirked ever so slightly and rose to her feet very slowly, pleased with how the pole had handled her. Maybe there was hope for the girls? "Couple more days and we'll be open for business," she remarked with a small satisfied smile. The door on the far side of the venue opened, allowing daylight to slice across the tabletops and shine on the metallic poles. It seemed as if the designer had intended for such a sleek, cool ambience to the place. All surfaces were polished to reflect the images of dancers' skin, or the dollars outstretched in wanting hands. The poles were a brilliant silver, the floor dark and slick, the stage spare. It was sin-sophisticate. The door closed on a soft click and lock. Darian roamed around the room in his suit and tie, past the bars and round tables, simply taking in his surroundings without speaking to her. She had done a fine job, and he expected no less from her. Bethany had the high taste to envision a place like this, and the financial sway to pull it off. Suddenly fixated, he cut through the center of the room to the table where Bethany stood. He was caught up, fascinated by Bethany's high-heeled foot, or more specifically, the spot where her shoe met the table in a smudge-free reflection. The demon rubbed his chin. That reflection of her foot carried straight up her leg and beyond. "Nice craftsmanship," he said. Darian looked up and smiled. Bethany couldn't help but turn at the sudden introduction of light into the otherwise dim interior and once her eyes had adjusted her lips tugged into a soft smile as she couldn't help but recognise those very familiar shoulders. "It helps when you pay for the best," she assured him with a nod of her head. She reached out and clasped the pole in her elegant hand and turned on the point of her heel very slowly. "Here's hoping everybody else shares your views." Bethany's spin eventually slowed and her head tipped, dark eyes regarding Darian through long strands of gold. She didn't have nerves persay but this was a new business venture and those were always worrying, especially in new cities. Bethany slid down the pole and crawled along the surface of the table, hooking her hand in Darian's tie to drop a lingering kiss on his lips. "The sign should be arriving in a couple of hours." The elegant arc of her body was exquisite. He couldn't take his eyes off her, not when she circled, not when she got on her knees and crawled to him, and not during the kiss. She tasted like an afternoon cocktail. Vodka and the salt of an olive. Perhaps she'd been trying out the product in advance. "The sign excusing you of all legal liability for the heart failure you might cause?" ( Dance For Me? ) ( Giving in to Temptation (Adult Content: Sexuality) ) Eye for an Eye

That Time Darian Wished Grace Was Joking [26 Aug 2008|07:34pm] Grace had returned to her hotel room so she could pack her nose with cotton and make sure it wasn't broken. For a kid with no obvious fghting experience, Emo Hair had packed one fuck of a wallop. Fortunately, the vampire's nose was only swollen, even if it was out of joint in a different way. The next night, she was out nursing her bruises and getting a drink. She was due to have a sit-down with Felix Cassavetes and his boss at the end of the work, and if things went well, she'd find herself with some sort of employment. Her work, while crude, was efficient and it got the job done. If they could use her, she was always open to making a dishonest dollar. "One more," she said to the bartender, indicating her empty bourbon glass. She'd gotten some looks when she first took her seat, the purple marks on her face looking l like she'd been through a hazing ritual, but she'd ignored them. They'd be gone by tomorrow, anyway. And the booze helped. Drinking from the top shelf improved the quality of her nights a lot. It was a very small world, or so thought the man who, at that moment, was coming in off the street. Upon entering, he had taken a moment to look around and scout out a decent place to sit until his client arrived. The profile view of Grace's face and arm had him thinking bar instead. Darian edged his way through the patrons. In trousers, a sport jacket, and a collared shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he looked professional but casual, like a man who had just put in a long day at the office and needed to unwind. Perhaps his tie had gotten left behind in a car, along with a briefcase. It had been over a year since the Dealmaker saw Grace. Last time had been in a bar, too; no surprise there. He guessed Germany had been as ultimately unsuitable to her as Ireland had been to him. "You should really stop following me," he said, insinuating himself into the space between stools and leaning down to her ear. "People will start drawing conclusions." ( I Was Here First ) ( Your What? ) ( Don't Get Personal )</> Eye for an Eye

The Charity Crowd [04 Aug 2008|09:41pm] At five thousand dollars a plate for dinner, one would think they could at least serve fresh seafood. Rebecca had been working the room for over an hour, a glass of mineral water in one hand as she made the rounds of local dignitaries and their spouses, exchanging the usual bland pleasantries while mentally doing the arithmetic of possible donations. Two Valium for the event, since nothing grated on her nerves like banal talk about this season's baseball scores. At least she was likely to see some signed checks at the end of this ordeal. The fundraiser was being held at McCormick Place, and the ice sculptures were already melting amid the gathered heat in the large room. Small knots of people stood here and there, and Rebecca made her way from one to the next, letting the conversation flow over her while making sure to nod in the right places and occasionally respond with something appropriate. This was not the part of her calling she enjoyed. The same could be said for Darian. While it was true that his livelihood no longer depended upon how many successful deals he made, like a sort of metaphysical commission, the enjoyment of doing so was ingrained in him. It was neither profession nor responsibility; it was literally bred into the demon’s nature. Trolling for new clients was the least enjoyable part of the Dealmaker’s work. It often put him in the company of people for whom he didn’t care, and with the long leash he allowed his foul temper, un-pleasantries were a frequent consequence. Thus far, however, the benefit hadn’t proven intolerable. Though it required the gift of making drab conversation, it was an occasion of class and social consequence, and one during which his arrogance might seem appropriate. Darian removed himself from a subset of the modern-day aristocracy, announcing his intention to go in search of a flute of champagne. He did as he promised, but afterwards zigzagged the room in another direction. The route he chose took him directly behind a tall woman with a glass of water in hand. “Excuse me.” As Darian slipped past, the shoulder of his tuxedo brushed across her back. "Pardon me, didn't realize I was standing in the path of traffic." Rebecca took a step to the right, allowing the man to make his way past her before catching him in profile. Had she met this one yet? It was so hard to keep track among so many people. She sipped at her water, turned more fully to look at him. They were the same height, thanks to the heels she'd slipped on for the evening, and she inclined her head in his direction. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met." No, the face wasn't familiar, and she'd remember that particular face. Extending a languid hand, the Englishwoman said, "Rebecca Halston-Burke, of the Last Refuge Foundation. Are you with the contingent from the Senate?" Darian retraced his steps with equanimity; however being mistaken for a politician was enough to mildly rankle, and so much showed in his expression. “You must be joking.” He passed the flute into his left hand and reached with the right out of respect for formality. The grip was perfunctory. “Ms. Halston-Burke. I’m Darian, with the demonic contingent.” ( An Easy Mistake )</> ( Another Person's Fantasy ) Eye for an Eye

Play on Words [30 Jul 2008|07:31pm] ( Welcome Home ) Eye for an Eye

Evolution [26 Jul 2008|09:59pm] The Gingerman Tavern was a bit of an anomaly. While it was a bar boasting its share of pool tables and dart boards and other typical fare, it was one of few that hadn't caved to the trend of mounting enormous plasma screen televisions on every available wall space. In that regard, it was a throwback to a time when ambiance counted for something. The tavern sat in the shadow of Wrigley field on Clark Street and was a refuge for a variety of customers, the least of which was Chicago's omnipresent yuppie. The music came from a behemoth jukebox on one end. Doug Miles was a human resources consultant. Though his title, power suits, and bravado led some to believe he was an intellect to be reckoned with, the truth was that he was a schmuck. A guy whose attendance at Brown was based on a legacy admission and a hefty donation from his father, and whose only job was to sweep into corporations, slice and dice the personnel list, and get the hell out of dodge before the firings began. At present, he was engaged in a series of dart games, each round going progressively worse as he plowed his way through the beer selection. At his side, a man stood with his arms crossed and his eyes on the dart board. On his face he wore a sardonic expression, a sentiment that increased with the intoxication of his client. While Doug went to tug his darts out of the board, Darian adjusted the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt. Faith was in a foul mood as she entered the bar, unable to believe she’d actually just paid money to see that monstrosity. If the Slayer ever stayed in town long enough to begin adopting the local sports fare – which was doubtful, considering how deep her love for the Red Sox and Celtics went – Faith knew she would become a White Sox fan. Because a night in that run-down ballpark surrounded by all those drunks cheering for a team that couldn’t get out of its own way was not Faith’s idea of fun. She almost preferred being eviscerated by a dun-claar beast – and they preferred their victims alive during the ceremonies. At least the beer at Wrigley had been good. And Faith would do her nightly rounds soon enough, but for now, she just wanted another drink. Besides, there was no telling who or what was in this place. “Whatever’s on tap,” she called to the bartender, lighting up a smoke almost immediately. ( Something Familiar ) Eye for an Eye

Always Bet On the House [21 Jul 2008|08:31pm] The Old Godwin Box Factory Chicago, IL After midnight, the main event was over. The lights went down, the metal bleachers emptied, and the bodily fluids on the floor were soaked in solidifier, scraped up, and thrown out. The only thing left was the stench. The room stank of sweat and blood and something putrid that dripped out of the dead boxer's nose. Or maybe it was more accurately termed a snout. In 2013, there was money to be made off curiosity. It was the same mentality that had drawn spectators into carnival sideshows in centuries past. Even back during the Great Depression, when people didn't have two cents to rub together, when there were mouths to feed and no food to put in them, they still scrounged in their pockets and came up with change. All they wanted was a chance to see the unbelievable-- conjoined twins or a bearded lady or the world's fattest man. Not even the holy rollers stayed home when the freakshow came to town. Nowadays, they didn't want bearded women. What people wanted was to see for themselves the monsters that showed up on the 11 o'clock news. Not in cages, not behind shatterproof glass, but in their element. What they wanted was an adrenaline rush, a story to tell. The second incarnation of Darian's ring provided a venue for that fervent wish. He even took it one step further. He married curiosity with the powerful motivator of greed. What captured Darian's interest was the impulsive nature of the human mind, coupled with its avarice. What would a spectator pay to watch a pair of demons rip one another apart? How much would a gambler bet on the winner? He never got tired of figuring it out. The Dealmaker accepted cash, and when a gambler won, he was good for the winnings. But he also liked to think of himself as an 'equal opportunity lender'. If a gambler didn't have any money to put down, he could borrow from the house. In Darian's house, cash wasn't the only form of currency. There was also physical currency, and metaphysical currency, and those rewards could be so sweet. But when the gambler lost, there was hell to pay, because he paid the Dealmaker's price. Whatever seemed 'fair'. After midnight, the main event was over. It was the encore that rocked the house. In Darian's office, there were just the three men. The owner, the loser, and the henchman. Phillip, former concierge for the Bellagio hotel, filled the latter bill. He had made the trip to Chicago to work for his old boss. There were some nights when he wasn't sure he had the stomach for it. His own torso was a disgusting mass of scar tissue -- the price he paid for a pretty-boy face -- so he knew well the kind of pain that Darian could inflict. . He flinched. There was nothing like the sound that flesh made when it was ripped open. "It's really not important," Darian was saying. The white sleeve of his shirt was rolled to his bicep. This, so he could reach in and not get it stained. He looked the gambler in the eye while he was fishing around. "You won't even miss it." The organ made a wet slap when he tossed it in a pan. He got up and wiped his arm on a towel. "So." Darian turned to Phillip and scratched his nose on his shoulder. "Who's next?" Eye for an Eye

Segueway [18 Jul 2008|01:04am] Limerick, Ireland August 2012 Much to Darian's satisfaction, the debate about relocation settled on Ireland. It was a city of only 90,000, with more limited opportunities than Vegas held, but he was not so bound to business anymore. The Dealmaker's main points of concern were that it was European and not Scotland. There was only so much he could take. After all, a small but intelligently silent part of him still reeled from knowing he relocated for a woman. Where Bethany was concerned, he had accepted that he would behave out-of-character, for however long their affair lasted. Yes, though. That was internal acknowledge. When questioned, Darian identified the city's finer points (among which he did not include its reputation as the largest supplier of contact lenses in the world). Over the centuries, Darian had become a connoisseur of culture and an aficionado of accents. Before long, he spoke in as good as native tongue, quite willing to shed the American flatness for something with more class. And whichever small pieces of Bethany's confidence hadn't been restored in her last year in Las Vegas returned when she went closer to home. While always seeming to be at ease in Las Vegas, Darian's eyes detected differences in her. Perhaps it was an absence of snobbery; There was less occasion for it there, in Ireland. Darian had gone willingly, and for a while, it was enough. By spring of 2013, however, the winds of his restlessness began to shift. Eye for an Eye

Getting Out of Dodge [10 Jul 2008|11:10pm] The casino was nearly deserted when Grace pushed through the doors, and three more people left when she arrived, looking at their watches and muttering to one another about the curfew and how it was such a bitch to come to a place like this and not even be able to stay out after dark. The vampire heard something like, "Fucking army bastards..." before the little group departed, and she really couldn't agree more. A girl couldn't unlive like this. Well, at least she was almost out of here, onto freer, if not greener, pastures. She'd arranged to meet Darian tonight, and she looked around for the Dealmaker before making her way over to the bar. One drink, maybe two. As she lowered her weight onto a padded stool, she lit up a smoke, wondering where the hell the past two years had gone. Meanwhile, Darian was at a craps table, talking it up with the dealer. The demon seemed stoic tonight, more himself. His hands were in his suit pockets, and the beard he'd grown out was gone. He watched the dealer talk, leaning back when her hands gestured a little too enthusiastically. If there was one thing Darian hated, it was someone coming uninvited into his personal space. Becoming more disinterested by the moment, his eyes wandered over the hardcore gamblers, still were scattered about the casino and bellying up to the bar. When he caught sight of Grace, he interrupted the dealer with a hand gesture and walked over. "I'm curious," he said, "If you get caught outside, does that government identification still get you out of hot water?" He brushed a piece of lint off the nearest stool and took a seat. "I wouldn't know, they haven't caught me yet. I'm a fuckiin' shadow of a shadow." Grace already had her drink in front of her, a double bourbon with no ice from the top shelf, and she was nursing it while watching the few other patrons wander back and forth from the craps table to the slots machines, and occasionally to the bar. "Why, you worried they might not buy you as one of them anymore?" She swiped an ashtray from the spot two seats away from her, tapped her cigarette into it. "Business gettin' sparse?" she asked Darian. "Or is the current ambiance just adding to the desperation?" ( In Her Company ) Eye for an Eye

Drowning Her Sorrows [02 Jun 2008|10:32pm] http://asylums.insanejournal.com/free_form2/38234.html Eye for an Eye

In the Name of Causing Trouble [27 May 2008|06:43pm] May 18, 2012 At just after 9pm, Davey's Locker, a shit-hole that masqueraded as a locals bar, went under siege. Two dozen heavily armed Federal Agents stormed the premises under orders from Project Integration. The goal was to capture as many assembled 'illegals' as possible, using non-lethal means. There was resistance and what might have seemed like an easy take for the government turned into a brutal fight. By the time the building was secured, eleven illegals had been captured and caged inside two transport vehicles. The Federal Agents were loaded into separate vehicles, one of which embarked on the return trip to headquarters in Henderson, Nevada. The other made a stop at the Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center three blocks away, where several Agents were treated for injuries. The government vehicles left the scene at approximatetely 9:41pm. But not before a call was made from a cell phone inside transport vehicle number four. It was answered by David Fuller, a reporter for the Clark County Beacon. He was instructed by the vehicle's driver to grab a camera and get to the East Tropicana Avenue on-ramp for I-95 South as quickly as possible. What was about to unfold was guaranteed to be a very newsworthy event. Fuller got to the scene within five minutes of the call. He pulled his car off the road, got out, and turned on the camera. At first nothing of note happened, except that two large, government-issue vans took the ramp to I-95. Not two minutes later, Fuller got what he'd come for. A third government van signaled for the ramp. But then its driver seemed to lose control of the vehicle. It plowed through the guardrail, careened up the embankment and slammed into a group of trees. Fuller didn't know whether to call 9-11 or keep rolling. The reporter in him chose option two. With his camera at the ready, he moved closer. As Fuller watched, the driver kicked his buckled door open and climbed out with his cap pulled low over his face. He signaled the reporter over. Moving a little closer now, Fuller captured the license plate number of the van. Strange noises were coming through the back doors-- a mixture of human-sounding voices and animal snarls. He focused his camera on it and waited, ready to dart back to his car if anything lunged out at him. The driver yanked the doors open, revealing a massive steel cage, which was now bent on one side of its frame. Inside there were at least six creatures of varying shapes and sizes. All but one were conscious and kicking furiously at the metal door. Fuller, a man who made his career on words, only managed to mumble, "Son of a bitch..." The driver spoke up. "If I were you, I'd get my footage and get out of here." "Before they break the door down?" Fuller asked. Darian was already leaving. "Or before the government get here. Whatever comes first." Eye for an Eye

Confrontation on a Serious Scale [10 May 2008|03:06am] http://asylums.insanejournal.com/free_form2/32756.html Eye for an Eye

Cutting Teeth [21 Apr 2008|12:28am] ( Emma ) Eye for an Eye

You Again [07 Apr 2008|02:17am] Hell was very busy. Those who had betrayed, refusing to side with Lady Elfleda against her would-be successor, were being hastily purged. A great culling was in process and those of prior lowly status were being promoted by virtue of merit, to take the place of their former superiors. A little revolution, it seemed, was good for the damned. The strict imposition of order was Leviathan's creed and, with own dominion returned, Elfleda was seeing to it that her own proverbial territory would exemplify its loyalty to both her and the cause she represented. It was not necessarily measured in terms of land, although certain places were gifted for her use. No, dominion was mastery. Control. Those decreed to be under Elfleda's personal guidance needed to do as she ordered or requested, depending on the situation. The Abyss' laws might not be for her to decide, but interpretation was another matter. The disloyal, the unfavorable, the unworthy and just plain lazy... All needed to be cleansed - and the lady in black had achieved much since Rhiannon Lee's absence. It had been an age since one of the Brides of Leviathan had enacted such a harvesting of blackened souls, but, nonetheless, it was servicing as both warning and a message to her reunited 'groom', that Elfleda was far from unable to enact a terrible price from those in debt. Elfleda was as much proving herself again, as she was dealing revenge. It had been a while since she had summoned Darian to her midst. Elfleda levitated in meditative likeness, in the uppermost central chamber of a vast palace. One constructed from a fusion of ebony metal and the blackened bones of the damned. The very walls seemed to hum with a ghostly, demonic chorus; a low-frequency thrumming, embuing the venue with an aura of power, both within and without. No physical guards stood here, but the ever-writhing shadows could snatch an intruder with ease, enveloping with suffocation or tearing the victim apart with horrifically sacrificial purpose. The floor seemed fashioned of something not too unlike glass. Beneath it, crimson skeletons could be seen entombed like primordial insects trapped in amber. The vast doors to that room creaked open and the empowered Corruptress raised head toward her guest. "I trust your journey was absent of problems," the familiar woman in black intoned. "Ah. But never without ceremony," he returned, a touch of the sardonic in Darian's voice and demeanor. After all, it wasn't every day that he, while in the process of shaving, was set upon by pincered minions and ushered through a portal that had appeared above his toilet. Once in Elfleda's realm, and what roughly counted as a receiving area, there was barely time to wipe away the evidence of white foam and nicked throat. As it was, he wore only a white shirt, dark trousers, and shoes, with no jacket to complete the demon's uniform. Darian supposed he should be glad he didn't shave in a towel. "All things considered, I'm glad to be back in the fold," he told her. "Your fold, that is. Then again, no one's tied me to anything yet." Should memory serve, the Corruptress had a hard-on for bondage. The maker of deals passed through the room with indifference that spoke of his demonic nature. Human eyes might've been horrified by the sheer noise of the place, not to mention the skull collection underfoot. Empathy was an emotion he did not feel, so the tortured shouts of betrayers didn't illicit concern. He had not been a supporter of Atia's cause. Darian rebelled against Elfleda with much fanfare, now and then, just to assert his independence. But he would rather fly her colors than the deranged Roman's. Especially considering she'd sent Bethany on a sapphic thrill ride. Not his favorite day. [Thread: Open to Elfleda] 1 Deal |Eye for an Eye

Discussions of Fact [24 Mar 2008|05:16pm] http://asylums.insanejournal.com/free_form2/21941.html Eye for an Eye

Hostile Takeover [18 Feb 2008|10:14pm] Cal Petrenko was a very wealthy man. Six years after retiring from the ring, where he'd been a heavweight boxer, he had his fingers in a lot of pies. He started out predictably enough. He married his manager, a hell cat named Carlotta who had him by the purse strings and the balls. She was a shrewd businesswoman, and before long Cal's money was invested in a casino, a topless bar, and a string of high-profile prize fights. When the money started pouring in, Cal decided it was time to branch out and run a small fight circuit of their own. Not just any fight circuit. They went a step past knock-outs; they went to the death. They went a step past amateur boxers; they used demons, and Carlotta knew how to find them because she was a half-breed. They kidnapped humans and hedged their lives on the outcomes of the fights. It was a modern-day Roman Coliseum with a twist, operating right beneath the noses of authorities. One year later, the Ring's reputation had grown. Hundreds of people showed up to watch the gruesome matches. Carlotta ran the money behind the scenes, and Cal took on the revered (if unpopular) role of the Overseer, his true identity mostly unknown. He hired security to guard him and his wife full-time, in order to prevent retaliations and keep public events under control. Lucky for Darian, security could be bought. The Dealmaker stood behind the small restaurant, waiting impatiently for things to get underway. The Petrenkos were over an hour late getting to dinner, a matter of serious annoyance. Once Cal and his wife were seated, a member of their security detail was supposed to step out back to meet him. If Darian delivered the right sum of money, security would conveniently leave the couple vulnerable to attack. So far, no security. He fiddled with his shirt collar and paced behind the kitchen. Grace wanted to tell Darian to stand still, that his pacing was nudging her towards a full-on bad mood, but instead she kept her mouth shut and checked her shotgun for the fourth - fifth? - time to make sure it was loaded. Let the Dealmaker stew; if it made things go quicker once they got underway, so much the better. Meanwhile, she'd bide her time. She'd been very quiet for most of the night, a hard knot of tension in the small of her back. If the demon noticed it, she had no idea, and less inclination to discuss it. She liked Darian as much as she was capable of liking someone, but some things no one but another vampire would understand. Her mood was going to expedite things once they finally got rolling, though, because she really wanted to kill something. Someone. Anyone. The kitchen door creaked open approximately three inches, then swung open more fully. Grace half-pointed her weapon in that direction, then made a reasonably coherent noise that comprised Darian's name. It looked like their number was up. Until a dishwasher came out with a trashbag. The kid looked about nineteen. His apron was covered in spaghetti sauce. "Um... can I help--?" "No, you can't." Darian had stepped into the young man's line of sight, effectively blocking the view of Grace's shotgun. Now taking the dishwasher by the shoulders, he steered him in a half-circle and nudged him towards the door. "We came out here for some privacy," he hinted, figuring it was a reasonable excuse for being behind a restaurant, if you were a nineteen year old employee who probably took smoke breaks back there and god knew what else. "But what about the trash?" "I'll take it." Darian commandeered the bag, only to unceremoniously drop it the instant the door closed. "Let's hope he keeps his mouth shut." Turning more fully towards Grace, he eyed the firearm. "Do you really need to stand there with it locked and loaded? We're not shooting security unless we have to." ( Waste of Bullets ) ( Ready If You Are ) Eye for an Eye

[07 Jan 2008|09:24pm] Entries prior to Jan. 7, 2008: http://sinister-darian.greatestjournal.com Eye for an Eye

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