The First Age

High above the two women, two men stood in the darkened shadows of a large HVAC duct, silently observing the odd interaction unfolding below. It was as if Aria was as drunk as the reporter, and certainly as eager to get out of there as he had been. They left, and Takeo curiously looked to Jun, who in turn was studying the fallen dranaika splayed out on the cement like some forgotten plaything. No one wanted to play with her anymore.

Would Aria return? What would she do with that woman? Takeo pulled his wallet out and checked the time. He sighed. "Take care of it, and have Ren tail those two."
He met Jun's chilling blue eyes. "Discretely this time."
Jun nodded, turned to leave, and stopped. It was very quiet on the roof - just the wind, the city, and the quiet hum of the generator. Takeo waited.

"You should have let me kill her…" He sounded as depressed as he looked, and he looked as if some lifelong dream had escaped him tonight. Takeo was not the only one with Atharim issues.

"You're probably right,"
Takeo said, and he meant it. To leave one of her kind roaming about freely, knowing what Takeo knew. It was dangerous, but it was also his only contact with the Atharim at this point. If Aria dug deep enough, she might get herself killed, or, worse, misled by her Regus. Takeo would hate to have to regret his choice to keep her alive. Jun was talking into the air - giving orders to Ren and others nearby - so Takeo pulled up a map on his wallet. The Clinton was not far - just on the fringe of Cheapside.

With a nod, Takeo grabbed a handful of cash and surrendered his wallet to Jun. He gave the man a pat on the arm, and smiled when Jun finally turned away from his own plans and thoughts. "Stay alive,"
Takeo reminded him of their old adage, then he jogged off for the far end of the roof, leaving the situation, and the slain dranaika, in Jun's more than capable hands.

((in response to Aria's text from Untethered))

This was the second time that little girl had sent for a mess to clean up. Father Stone was going to take matters into his own hands this time. Was Aria so careless that she couldn't clean up her own messes? She hadn't even been present at the last one to tell them what had happened. Her written report had been just as vague. There was no such thing as luck in this business.

Father Stone quickly put together a clean up crew, god only knows what the girl had done this time.

***

The scene was rather unexpected. Not only had this little whipper-snapper killed an Ijiraq but a dranaika. Was the Vatican keeping her as some sort of secret weapon? Father Stone felt like he'd been left in the dark about this one. Why had she needed a handler, she seemed capable of just about anything and he was right to let her out. But she was irresponsible!

His anger fumed and he was ready to spit nails at Aria, but she wasn't here! AGAIN! She better have a good explanation.

Father Stone sent Aria's wallet an urgent text. "HQ NOW!"

Edited by Aria, May 12 2014, 12:19 PM.

Junnichi sent a text to Kasumi and Sergei - T @ CBB - then started quietly down the fire escape Takeo had just climbed up. He couldn't take his false blue eyes off the allegedly dead dranaika as he descended. He felt certain that the moment he did would be the moment it decided to reanimate itself and swoop up upon him, and he'd be damned if his alley would be his final resting ground.

He made it to the bottom about the time he heard others approaching. They were quiet, so they must have been that Aria woman's cohorts. Jun ducked behind the dumpster Takeo had launched himself from, and watched as the team unceremoniously cleaned the alley free of any signs of struggle whatsoever. Whatever one of them was spraying smelled of ammonia, so he could only imagine they were getting rid of any traceable blood residue, human or not. They left no stone unturned, and the last of them seemed to have the best job, drinking every other bottle he tossed into the alley - covering the pavement in broken glass and alcohol, and Coke? An odd choice, or not so odd, given its corrosive properties.

Jun was splashed a few times, even in his out-of-the-way corner, and it was some time before he could leave the area to follow Takeo. While he had no personal disputes with the Hunters, he would recount the faces and words he collected in the alley for his boss, few and far between though they were.

((Ooc: omg, so sorry for the delay, and for the shoddiness of this post)).

Claire liked Oriena. She liked the way the other woman moved; the way she lounged an arm across the back of a chair; the way she held herself while surrounded by men clearly wagging their tongues at her.

Claire herself was less... luxurious... than Oriena, but womanly competition didn't inspire her to change her ways. She laid her jacket across a chair and grabbed a pool cue, that's right boys, she taunted behind a coy smile whilst awkwardly hefting the cue.

She took a stance by Viktor while he racked the balls. "Care to make it interesting? What do we say? Men against women?"
She sent Oriena a conspiratorial wink behind a swig of beer.

Viktor bumped her gently from the task of racking the balls, a clumsy attempt at chivalry she supposed. Ori shoved playfully at his head, and though she was smirking while she did it there was a warning promise of violence to the movement. He grinned, assuming flirtation on her behalf, glancing at her with a puppyish expression. The miscommunication only fuelled her vitriolic instincts. She flashed her teeth when she smiled.

Claire didn't answer the question, but Oriena did not repeat it. Her interest in the answer was superficial at best, an offer of camaraderie that the woman seemed amenable to anyway given her sly wink. What she proposed was no contest at all. At least not if Ori continued to use her gifts to allow her to win. Even then the game inspired little; the men bored her. They were inoffensively ordinary, mired in a dull world, too unimaginative to think beyond the rush of blood south. Distracted by a more interesting prospect, and still waiting on her contact, Oriena's tolerance edged sharp, but she'd use her advantages where she saw them. The spark of a conspiratorial smile ricocheted from the challenge.

"And what're the stakes?"
After a swig of beer, Ivan pulled his cue from the stand, using it to lean on. His question was undirected, his gaze drifting between the pair of women with the lazy intensity of one rocking on the edges of drunk.

"What do you want, Ivan?"
The husk in Oriena's voice did not offer an invitation, though the brazen dare of it was hardly a rebuff either. She crossed to wrap her fingers around the cue in his grip. She was tall enough even without heels to look him in the eye. "We'll go first then?"
A gentle pull and he relinquished his hold. "Want to break, Claire?"


"Can you even use that, Claire?"
Viktor laughed in a good natured way as he blearily lined up the balls and lifted the plastic triangle, then stepped back to admire the perfection - or at least check that it was level. He grinned and waved a hand to offer Claire the stage.

Claire twirled the cue in a circle and fixed Viktor a coy look. "You mean this stick thing? You hit the white ball with that end, right?"
He chuckled and very quickly the boys agreed to raise the stakes.

The plastic triangle was removed and Claire walked in a cat-like saunter around the table, swiping a chalk square as she went.

It soon became very clear that she knew exactly how to handle a pool cue.

She bent to line her sights down the table, silent and still as a snake on a rock. Then, in a flash, the cue ball smacked the rack and colors went soaring.

She raised, grinning as two heavy plunks announced their success. She flashed a smile at Oriena. "I guess we're stripes,"
she said and took another walk around the table. She flashed the boys a wink and holed five more stripes until she missed the sixth by a hair. Granted, that one was behind the number three and eight, and the hole was blocked by numbers five and six.

The striped ball rolled to a frustrating stop a hair's breadth too soon. Claire watched it with a hand on her hip, frowning at the boys' taunts. A conspiratorial glance at Oriena announced her intentions, and she reached for the Light.

Its in your mind, you don't need artifacts. Cast the spell with your mind," but try as she might, the spell would not kick the ball that final bit into the hole.

A cheshire grin observed Claire's prowess, or more specifically the reactions of the two men when it became clear just how she'd hustled them. A shrug accented her slender shoulder at Ivan's glare, though her gaze glittered a misinforming complicity - daring him to call them out. She almost hoped he'd try, but though his eyes daggered lower with every ball struck into the pocket, he said nothing. Viktor, on the other hand, was staring with a kind of boyish awe, swaying between the sashay of Claire's hips to the finesse with which she played.

The last ball teetered on the edge. Ori's gaze flicked up to Claire, twitched a smirk at the woman's intent, and waited. No tell-tale light glowed from her skin. No curling tendrils of otherworldly power nudged the ball into the hole. Oriena did not help out either, though the curve of her expression lured dangerously wanton. She understood the frustration; the gift did not always come to her call, either. Cara had taught her techniques to welcome the power in, but the situations in which it was denied her were so rare she'd never definitively broken through the weakness.

A mischievous smirk indicated commiserations as Viktor began lining up his first shot. Oriena came to stand behind Claire, curled an arm around her neck, brushed fingers against her collarbone. It was an intentionally seductive repose; the eye she kept on Ivan was devilishly self-aware as she leaned into the other woman. Even in motorcycle boots she stood taller, her lips brushing into dark gold hair. A low laugh, her amusement aimed at two oblivious prey. "The secret. Is submission. Let it take you. Surrender to it."
Her voice purred, encouraging.

The boys were all too happy to regain control of the table. Between shots they made certain to call Claire out on her hustling, but by the beer-glazed glint in their eye, they were more intrigued than upset. Viktor shot in a couple before he scratched, at which point the ball would return to Oriena.

Oriena's curling an arm around Claire's collar might have had something to do with that.

She whispered words of advice in Claire's ear. The puff of air was sultry and steamy, and Claire snaked a hand up to tickle Oriena's hand where it draped across her collarbone, and wondered how much of the other woman's teasing was an excuse to whisper or if it were something more.

"Submission?"
The smokey word curled from her tongue with a smirk that flicked toward the taller woman. She turned to face the other woman and so step into the circle of her arms and whisper secrets in return, "Are you talking about the magic or me?"


She retreated, coy and playful as a bobcat taunting its prey. Viktor cleared his throat and offered Oriena the cue ball. Claire busied herself with the beer, meanwhile.

She watched Claire's playful retreat. A shipwreck smile curled her lips, sparking chaos in her eyes. "Both, sweetheart."
She was aware of the heated eyes of their audience, and the boys' reaction only exacerbated her provocativeness. A hint of feral touched her seduction; the faded black eye and motorcycle boots juxtaposed against feminine curves and a decadent command over her allure. Ever the exquisite performer, the tease of a smile greeted Viktor's loss of the table. A blush crept up his neck, half hidden by his collar.

She was not as naturally a skilled player as Claire; she'd been cheating to win the previous games, to maintain her place at the table and thus her advantageous eye on the door. Despite the monetary stakes, her interest in winning this game - at least the one of pool - was thin; she had her eye on other prizes, fuelled by an exhilarating recklessness that supplanted every promise she'd ever made to Cara about keeping safe, staying hidden. The light rushed into her veins, catching alight in the paleness of her skin. Dusky blue eyes lifted up to Claire as she lined up the shot. Her smirk was a secret; she did not use her gift to guide the balls. The rest of the stripes sunk. The black she missed.

Ivan chuckled vindictively, drowned out by Vitkor's more good-natured whoop. "Fancy your chances, huh?"
The dare lit incitement in her eyes as she brushed passed in a vaguely confrontational manner. Ori wound him up inch by sorry inch, and revelled in every bit more she crawled under his skin. She scooped up her beer, and took a stance leaning against one of the surrounding tables. Her gaze held Claire's for several seconds, a gin playing on her lips as she pressed the bottle to her lips, before she turned her attention to watch Ivan take his turn.

Chords of light edged the balls along at odd angles; even if Claire couldn't see the mischief, she'd realise what Oriena was doing. The balls potted, one after the other, no matter how physics dictated otherwise. Viktor cheered, giddy with each ball that found its mark, "That's my buddy!"
He grinned at Claire, waving his beer bottle towards the man in question. Ivan's brows slashed down low over his brows, frowning, until the fugue of alcohol convinced him to just claim the small miracles as skill. Soon, only the black eight-ball remained.

He missed; the fucker bounded strangely off the edge of the pocket. "Mother fucker."


The game returned to Claire.

The way the black and white cue ball had "ended" on the table, a clear shot was difficult. Of course, the most difficult thing for Claire was going to be that, unless she embraced her gift, submitted to it, Oriena just wasn't going to let that ball in.

Claire groaned poisonous disappointment when her partner failed to pocket the 8-ball. The game returned to the boys, but Claire taunted and disabused them of their notions at being their betters. Really, she wasn’t sure why she wanted to win so badly, even to cheat to do so. She liked to think she was caught up in the thrill of victory, but it was more than competition. She liked to think she was the one pulling the strings, and they were the cats pouncing after her every whim.

She brought a cold bottle to her lips as she smothered a flirtatious laugh, but paused when a spell coiled from the heart of her partner. Claire watched the tendrils unabashed as they flicked and pushed the balls according to Oriena’s desire. The sensation her partner’s witchcraft bloomed bright as the sun, even for such a minor spell. Claire recalled tissues fluttering unnaturally against the breeze, and she craved for more.

Oriena could work a spell with her mind, without divination, chants and circles. It burdened Claire with vehement desire to replicate such powers. The balls were tricky to place. She’d make use of two of the table’s edges to pocket the winning ball. Her heart soared with hope. The light was so close! With your mind. Submit.

She licked her lips, but the boys had no idea what she was straining to accomplish. Long moments passed, Claire unmoved, sliding the cue stick between her fingers with practiced motions.

She struck the cue ball. Edge one. Edge two. Eight-ball struck. It rolled toward the corner pocket, but was off the line to the right. It missed by almost an inch.

She stood upright and looked to Oriena, willing her to flick it into the pocket and secure their win.