Rushed Planning and Stale Air

[Alastor]

March 4th, 2012.
Irkutsk 'Slums'
Abandoned Building, Room 106.

Smoke mixed in with the cold air in a harmonic dance as the two substances controlled the air of the room with an iron fist. Absolution, perhaps one over the other, as the former would vaporize into the later, becoming one with it in the end. And the end that stick only grew smaller, shorter with every passing second, returning back into the void, the nothingness. It gave off a rotten smell at that, at least to the non-abuser, and possibly even allergy inducing to some. But it was common-place, not outlawed. The air, it was not conditioned, but it didn't need to be. Nor was it heated, the natural temperature took it over. It was dry, if one were to put it in a single word, but I'd much rather like to describe the air of this room as tense.

This empty room was exactly that save for a desk and a couple seats, and said furniture was much less anything spectacular. In fact, the desk itself was simply pulled from a local dumpster with a little hired help and placed here. The chairs, probably and likely a similar situation. The horrible designs upon them were straight out of the Eighties, and at that, torn, ripped, and faded. Hell, one even looked like it had a piss stain in it. That seat was currently left open and a little further away from the desk than the other two, but still present. The room itself was an abandoned office, or perhaps it were a store front back in it's prime, but that was impossible to tell. The worn walls were all hastily spray painted a starch primer white, covering up what appears to be an ugly beige color. Only one of the aforementioned seats were occupied, and this lone seat and gentleman sat upon the opposite side of the desk, where one would expect the owner of such to sit.

Leaned back in the old chair and feet kicked up upon the old desk, over what appeared to be some sort of quickly drawn up map, this man was without a doubt the source of the smoke filling the room. His dress was simple, a white shirt with a few holes near the end of it, showing a little bit of wear and a little less money. His jeans were dark but without tears, an almost surprising feature considering the condition of his top, and ended with a pair of semi-abused black sneakers. The man's most defining article of clothing was without a doubt his jacket, made of leather and sleek in appearance. But perhaps even his wardrobe wasn't what stuck out most.

No, the gentleman's eyes did, a harsh yellow color that was simply out of this world. It made shades a regular part of the everyday wear and go, but today wasn't everyday, and he lacked any form of eye wear. The reptilian retinas were only greater amplified by the color of his dark blue hair, medium length, and messily done. One may mistake this man for a teenager but that was not entirely true. This man was known as Alastor Azarov II, or simply Alastor or Al to most. But what was he doing here, in this abandoned and run down old building?

Simple. The research on Moloch was all starting to come together. An opening was seen, a weak spot, well, maybe. The messy pen on the old map of the Soviet Union was all he could come with at this point, all he had. And as much as a deep part of him told him to, keeping this information to yourself just seemed outright greedy. Besides that fact, attempting to coupe a monster of such status and caliber was not to be attempted alone, or even with a small group. No, a small army was needed, and after hearing stories of the great ice demon, Al got an idea while watching Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back one night. No, the best and greatest plan so far to topple an archdemon was not in fact well thought out by top military leaders and scientists, but instead by a stoned twenty two year old on a Friday night.

The plan was simple. He was big, right? There was no way that the Devourer had the greatest sense of balance. The demon form of the beast was said to weight thousands of tons, or maybe more than that, it's not like anybody has every gotten around to asking Moloch was his weight was. At least no mortal, per say. Who knew what those twisted fucks did in their free time. Anyways, cable was the primary ingredient to the success of this plan. Thick cable, the same material used to carry trolleys, and it just so happened that the dark haired man had acquired some from the very same dump the furniture came from. In fact, the desk and chairs came second, a simple bargain pick on the way out. The plan was to literally trip the behemoth. A feat largely impossible by Alastor alone, so he had invited a couple allies, or perhaps they first extended to him. He didn't remember.

At the first instance of the door opening, the relaxed Demon Hunter would speak up, Russian accent thick in his voice, "Took you long enough."

[Etreven]

The building had been the first sign.  Abandoned, wrecked, another storefront once associated with the glorious revolution of the people and now nothing more than a husk.  It was truer now than it had been in its time, truer because in a way it had all been a husk.  Not even just this one particular building in this one particular town, but the whole rotten and undulating mass that was the former Socialist Republic.  A husk of flesh and anger, a hollow people crafting hollow works towards hollow ends.  There had been glory there, but a corpse wrapped in fine linens is still nonetheless a corpse.

He could almost have liked this place, excluding that to like something implied any sort of feeling.  No, he understood how much it fit its purpose, how well it crafted into the moment about to play out, and intellectually he knew he should smile.  He did not.  The effort was wasted when it lacked an audience to perform for.  No expression without a purpose, a plan, an output.  The man stepped inside the crumbling alley entrance that had once been boarded up but had clearly been so painstakingly made accessible without being obvious.  Plans were unfolding.  Again he could almost have liked what he was seeing.

The ground crunched under Etreven's pristine black leather boots.  As usual the man was dressed carefully, neatly, his uniform currently discarded in favor of an old but well cared for great coat in olive drab.  Military surplus was cheap and warm and delightfully anonymous.  Not generally his modus operandi, but sometimes it fit the bill.  In this case, his target audience needed some degree of secrecy and he knew exactly why that might be.  More to the point, this was going to be something of a tentative meeting to begin with, better not to tip off strangers with prying eyes about their business here.  The magnitude alone was staggering, but he was prepared for the weight of it.  Plans were already underway, and not all of them his.  It was time to share, that much was clear.

He knew he'd found the right door by the way the smoke curled in fat wisps around its edges.  The air felt dryer inside.  Just as cold, but less abandoned.  The way up had been crackling footfalls on rotting wood and dust, but the presence inside?  He could feel it.  A gentle push at the door and a voice rang out from inside, calm and heavily accented.  "Took you long enough."

He knew some of the boy's history (what little there really was to know) but the accent did much to give it away, as did the choice of language.  Heavily accented English meant a desire to learn but not much formal training.  His family had been…disrupted by an organization even he hadn't been able to fully trace, but that just provided a useful bit of leverage.  An angle.  Already the framework was coming together even as he took note of the scent of the smoke on the air.  Information, and all of it useful.

He chose to respond in Russian, the boy would be more conversant in it.  Though possibly less comfortable.  Either way it was worth extending the effort.  "I think you have yourself to thank for that.  You did a surprisingly good job of hiding this little meeting place.  And personally I'd rather be late than unsafe."  He spoke as he strode across the room towards the dilapidated and apparently piss-stained chair the boy had prepared for him.  It wouldn't pay to fuss here, but a brief delay could certainly be made in order.  Extending his hand he spoke, "Etreven.  I presume you are Alastor?  We have much to discuss."

[Lazarus Carter]

The flight had touched down a few hours earlier at some absurd time in the mid-morning. Reasonable to most. Not reasonable to him for a Sunday. He'd left Yuuko in charge of things back in London - instead of his last country changeover, the trip down to Irkutsk was planned on being no longer than a week, and the plane hadn't cost nearly as much as the flight back from Washington. University holidays begun soon; this little sortie to one of the more bitter parts of Russia - some shithole he couldn't pronounce in Siberia - was only a few days' misadventure, planning for something grander that would hopefully occur later in the month.

A handful of ruble banknotes - exchange rate terrible as it was - after he'd noticed the unnatural chill in the morning air from setting foot out of the plane - not that he'd assumed it would be fucking tropical in Russia at this time of year - and he now had a comfortable, thick, fabric longcoat. To pull over his bomber. Which was over his long-sleeved shirt. Which was over a vest beneath. And his nipples could still probably slice through glass with ease. Montana winters were one thing - the miserable grey drizzle of London was barbeque weather, but this was enough to freeze your balls solid if you stood around for too long. He hoped to whatever deity was looking after him - hoping still there was one looking after him, lest he succumb to frostbite of the testes - that meeting this Azarov character was gonna be worth it.

They'd been in correspondence for a couple weeks. Lazarus had jumped down an online rabbit hole and followed a few clues to find some suspicious facts concerning the boy. He'd managed to grab hold of an email address as part of his idle Nephilim recruitment protocol, and Alastor had been the only person in the past month who wasn't either a kooky tin-hat attention-seeking conspiracy theorist or uncooperative and potentially just fucking with him. Over those two weeks, Alastor and Lazarus had gotten along pretty swimmingly. Hunter-to-Hunter, he'd arranged a face-to-face meeting; and two days before he left, the Azarov boy sent him a cryptic message regarding a "plan he'd want to hear". The redhead was often overzealous, but a six hour plane flight was overkill, even for him: yet there had been something in what the Russian had said that implored him to make their face-to-face somewhat quicker.

He'd been in Irkutsk a couple of hours before ringing Alastor. Barely older than him, the Russian had given him a place, a time, and told him that they wouldn't be alone. He knew that much - he was bringing his sister along. Doubling back to take a look at Maeve as the wind snarled around them, he saw she was faring no better. Philadelphia native. She'd be just as cold as he was, if not worse off. How did these Russians manage? He took a few steps forwards - then looked down to see some fresh footprints in the white powder beneath them; snow was still falling gently on the buffets of wind, nothing too heavy. Spring was somewhat less relentless than he'd imagined on that front; but it was still just as freezing as ever.

Lazarus removed the small, folded square of paper with trembling, gloved hands, and unfolded it. Creases through the ballpoint ink marks, he held it up into somewhere he could get better light, against the snow, and sighed, his breath wisps of white smoke on the frigid Siberian air. "Hm," He murmured gently, turning back to face the building they'd arrived at. Store name was the same - Alastor had mentioned the place looked like the shithole, but this was the sort of district where you certainly didn't want to walk into the wrong abandoned house by accident. That was something he'd always had to be wary of, on Earth. Getting into trouble and forgetting he wasn't in Inferis anymore.

With a shrug, he didn't see anywhere else with the same faded paint, and tucked the square back into his coat pocket, turning to Maeve and jerking his head, most of his hair concealed, but a few strands at the front poking down beneath a beanie swaying as he did so, towards the entrance. "In here, I guess," He stated with a shrug, before yanking the door open and stepping in. And, immediately, he was greeted with an all-too-familiar smell. One that reminded him distinctly of being fifteen, sixteen. Standing around the back of Benny's bike shed whilst his parents were out. Bob Marley. Daytime TV. Cheetos. "Christ, this smells like the studio Snoop Dogg records in," He yapped without thinking, looking down through the smoke and the haze to see the Russian seated at a table, with another standing nearby, speaking in the local language.

"Етревен. Я полагаю, вы Аластор? У нас есть о чем поговорить". He grinned down at the pair of them, striding over to the other side of the room as Maeve shut the door behind them. It was still cold, but, nonetheless, the American removed his hat, looking first to the man speaking Russian, and then down to the actual Russian he recognised. This must have been their mystery guest, his mutual friend via the Hunter. With another couple of movements, he dusted the residual snow from his shoulders, inclined his head gently yet awkwardly at his enigmatic newfound acquaintance, and then, finally, grinned at Alastor.

With no ability to do so whatsoever, he broke the common language by moving straight into the only - human, that is - he knew. "A pleasure to finally meet you, Al," First, he initiated a handshake between the two of them; it felt right, for as long as they'd been waiting to meet. He then turned to the older man - significantly so - garbed in what appeared to be... almost military gear, and scratched the back of his head. Templar presence had ingrained a fear of any sort of organised and armed group in him, but all the same, there were plenty of home-defense nuts all around the world, and boots and fatigues could be picked up at any surplus store on the cheap. He figured he'd trust the Russian's judgment, and extend a hand all the same. "My name is Lazarus Carter," The redhead dropped the grin to a simple acquainted smile, talking a little slower, just incase this guy couldn't understand, considering the only language he'd heard him speak. "It is nice to meet you." At the same time, he felt almost a little patronising. And that'd only be furthered if the guy responded by speaking fluent English. Which would be embarrassing.

Knowing Laz's luck, that was exactly what would happen.

[Maeve]

What a fucking shithole. Not just the building that she and her brother stood in front of right now because it was UNDOUBTEDLY the sketchiest fucking place she had been in front of for a really long time. And considering how often she was in some sketchy area's? This was fucking saying something. Her nose was wrinkled up against the cold that pressed down all around them, her red hair mostly hidden beneath one of those big warm fur hats with the flaps. Fuck if she remembered what they were called right now because it was FUCKING COLD. She thought Scotland could get fucking cold in the winter, but they had NOTHING on this complete bullshit that the two of them found themselves in right now. And yet, despite how cold she was, she stood there with a heavy black windproof trench coat that lay perfectly over her frame. One of her leather coats with fleece lining was beneath that and a thick, tightly knit black turtle neck was beneath that. Honestly? She wasn't cold at all except for maybe her face, it was really just the simple fact that it WAS this cold ANYWHERE EVER. You could say her patience limits were running shorter than normal.

And yet she would chose to be nowhere else considering what Lazarus had told her about this meeting. Her green eyes examined the facade of the wreck and sighed, her breath steaming while it was whipped away by the air. Man were they lucky that shit was so lax in the former USSR… She had listened while her brother told her about this character that he had found while looking for more Hunters for them to recruit, and she had to admit she was also curious for her own reasons (not just concerned-big-sis-reasons). There was something that was eating at the edges of her about this plan, not that she had any idea what it could be. Maybe that was also why she was so short tempered too… She hadn't snapped at any of the airport people or anything, no, why would you ever imply that… Nor would she have had a bit of vodka on the plane either. No that was COMPLETELY out of the question… Anyways, all sarcasms and words aside, there was something twitching in her gut and that was something she hadn't told Lazarus at all. The pair were just lucky they had done so well on their jobs lately to have earned enough to buy plane tickets and still have enough extra cash to feel comfortable. Or as comfortable as was possible in a country like this.

"In here, I guess," Maeve nodded once as she followed him inside, starting to pull off her hat as she closed the door behind them. Right when the door clicked, the hairs on the back of her neck shot up at that smell, emerald eyes immediately focusing upon the source. "Christ, this smells like the studio Snoop Dogg records in," She snorted, laughing softly to herself while her hands began to at least unbutton the heavy outdoor coat. It was a bit warmer in here, though not by much, in the end deciding to forgo the coat altogether and stand there in her leather jacket instead. You could see the turtle neck peaking up about her neck, her long red tresses finally exposed to the dimly lit room. Ohhhh did the sketch factor just increase dramatically. She was feeling more reassured every second about the fact that she had come along on this little "meet-up."

FOREIGN TONGUE. Russian probably. Her eyes turned towards the source, narrowing her eyes at the military dressed man that was holding out his hand towards the other man sitting at the desk. The man enjoying some Reefer madness. What the hell was some member of the military doing here? She laid her coat over her arm with her hat stuffed into one of the spacious pockets, her other hand remaining in her jackets pocket, expression rather neutral as she took in the scene before them. This may as well have been some mob meeting or some shit. Her boots thudded softly as she strode forward after her brother, standing off to the side diagonally behind him, just observing the others while Laz spoke, "A pleasure to finally meet you, Al." The two shook hands, and yet she didn't step forward to shake anyones hands, her free hand coming out to brush some strands of hair from her features, the cold seeping into the scar on her face. Probably the ONLY thin spot where she couldn't feel the old as much. Now she leaned forward and extended her hand to him with a slight smirk, "Pleasure. I'm Maeve if he didn't mention me."

Maeve now turned, the smirk fading entirely as she stared at the gentleman that was closer to her in age, at least if she was any fucking guess. There it was again. That feeling in her gut. Lazarus may trust Alastor's unspoken vouching for this guy, but she didn't like him. He hadn't been mentioned in the message as far as she was aware, which made him an unknown entity entirely. He had to be some part of whatever this "big plan" was that Alastor had. But what part of the plan, whatever it was to begin with? Her brother might have smiled pleasantly, but she was back to that impassive expression, for the moment continuing to ignore the feeling in her gut. "My name is Lazarus Carter, it is nice to meet you." Man, this meeting better be in fucking english or she and Laz were screwed. Argh, she had to remember to be pleasant, she was probably making a shitty first impression right now.

She slowly extended her hand towards the military man, but she didn't even try to call up some phony facade of friendliness. "Maeve." She kept the shake short and shifted where she stood, an antsyness starting to kick in. Ok they were all here, now what?

[Alastor]

"Christ, this smells like the studio Snoop Dogg records in," It was apparent by such an unthoughtful blabbed remark that the Brit American exchange student was here. The average dude might of taken that as an insult in some way or form, but the thing was, Alastor just couldn't see it in that nature. It was a compliment, if anything, because there was just simply no way anybody could foul mouth him. Man, speaking of which, Snoop Dogg had some pretty rad stuff out. The Demon Hunter became lost in thought for a second while thinking about the wicked sick beats presented in Snoop's Doggystyle album, which he had ironically just recently listened to.

Right, back up there a second, the narrator totally forgot the order that people entered in and he doesn't feel like editing, so back in the past, but not all that long ago...

"I think you have yourself to thank for that.  You did a surprisingly good job of hiding this little meeting place.  And personally I'd rather be late than unsafe." Through shades, which he decided to take off at this time to get a better view of the person now speaking to him, the Russian recognized his tone as at least somewhat similar to his own. Ah, the second invited individual tot his little shindig, and a Ritualist, well, at least Al knew that already. Ritualists didn't really bother him, in fact, one his his childhood friends turned out to be one. They could be pretty cool. He guessed that some people couldn't really get around the whole "psychologically bonded with demonic forces" thing, though. And black magic could get a little weird. The hunter tended to stay clear of that shit, at least as much as he could. "Thanks." All he had to say to that, really. A hand came extended to him, and the hunter met this with a firm handshake. Never cool to leave someone hanging, man. "Etreven.  I presume you are Alastor?  We have much to discuss." Just as short as before, the yellow eyed man responded, "Yeah, that's me. We do. Let's wait a minute-" It was at that very moment the red haired English born hunter had walked through the door, and not alone, either. Well that wasn't cool, man, at least give some people a little foresight. "I'm here, I guess."

"Christ, this smells like the studio Snoop Dogg records in," It was apparent by such an unthoughtful blabbed remark that the Brit American exchange student was here. The average dude might of taken that as an insult in some way or form, but the thing was, Alastor just couldn't see it in that nature. It was a compliment, if anything, because there was just simply no way anybody could foul mouth him. Man, speaking of which, Snoop Dogg had some pretty rad stuff out. The Demon Hunter became lost in thought for a second while thinking about the wicked sick beats presented in Snoop's Doggystyle album, which he had ironically just recently listened to. Something snapped him out of his daze, what, a second handshake? He firmly represented his status with an astounding grip, a shake of all shakes, one that would make others tremble in their wake.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Al." This dude was obviously cold. Right, he forgot how harsh the climate could get for some people. For him, it just made sense to be in the coolest place, as it's the only place that got him. "Right back at you, man, it's nice to not do this over some shitty instant messenger for once." For you see, Alastor previously sought out after other people with experiences with him on the world wide web, which is actually much easier done than said, and yes, in that order. "Pleasure. I'm Maeve if he didn't mention me." With a stone cold glare, or at least what Al thought it was, he looked over the woman up and down. This must've been Laz's sister or something, he didn't wanna assume the most extreme, as that could potentially lead up to an extremely uncool situation. "No. He didn't." Short, but not exactly hostile. He didn't have time to be hostile. Then came of course everybody that was not him introducing themselves to each other. Okay. Now stuff could get started. They were probably relying on him to get said things started, as typical, but truth be told, he didn't really know where to start. And stuttering around tended to make one look like an idiot. Alastor did not want to look like an idiot, especially with the added factor of female presence.

"So, I got some ideas, but let's hear what you got first. I can probably incorporate mine into yours." Good save, smooth as ever. The dark haired hunter leaned back in his chair, and though he didn't say it directly, gestured for everybody to have a seat upon explaining their plans.

[Etreven]

The spry young Demon Hunter returned the extended handshake, a good starting point.  What mattered in this particular exchange more than anything was establishing a good rapport.  Mutual respect, even trust.  In this case it wasn't as much of an uphill road as it might have been, but then again Alastor wasn't the head of this particular organization.  That honor went to the gentleman who next entered the frigid space, interrupting Alastor as he came in.  The wiry, red haired young man was instantly recognizable, after all he'd made sure to have tabs placed on him once he'd tracked him down as the head of the Nephilim.  Short on words, which was to be expected, and just a bit awkward with those he didn't know.  "My name is Lazarus Carter, it is nice to meet you."

For a brief moment Etreven was distracted, as right behind the young Nephilim leader entered a slightly older woman sporting the same flame red hair as Lazarus.  A momentary informational disorientation followed, because he absolutely hadn't expected a fourth party involved in this particular discussion.  It…changed certain important variables.  The adjustment was quick enough for Etreven, who's homework had of course turned up the young Lazarus' estranged sister and their relatively recent reconnection.  This was no doubt that girl, the familial resemblance too strong and her presence at this meeting too telling.  She represented the greatest unknown quantity in this particular meeting, a fact that would have made someone capable of nervousness think twice.

Etreven, however, lacked that capacity and simply adjusted the framework of his character to address the evolving scenario.  But before addressing the fourth wheel he briefly and respectfully mimicked the act of sizing up a potential ally before donning his best business smile and extending a hand to Lazarus.  His face had dropped it's cover for the briefest of moments when Maeve had entered, but he was back on now.  In clear, unaccented (even British-colored) English, Etreven spoke to the young man.  "You must be Lazarus then.  It's a pleasure to meet the man behind the Nephilim."  A well crafted facade, but trust was required here above all other things, which meant keeping everyone at ease.

The girl made her own introductions and Etreven flipped a pleasant smile at her as he returned the handshake.  Looking at both of the newcomers he repeated his introduction.  "The name is Etreven.  Hopefully Alastor has briefed you to some extent on the nature of my organization and the role we hope to play in this prospective alliance."  Looking to Lazarus, he picked a useful probing point and set himself up as the unknowing innocent regarding Maeve.  "Your sister, is she?  Such a strong familial resemblance.  My own sister…well, that's a story for another time."  Establish common ground, mirror the actions of those around you, careful use of eye contact and body language…he was thinking through his tool bag as his minds eye reassessed the playing field in light of this new piece.  Simply put, more information was needed.

Alastor, however, seemed eager to jump into the discussion.  "So, I got some ideas, but let's hear what you got first. I can probably incorporate mine into yours."  And far be it for him not to give the man what he asked for.  It was time to begin.  "Well, before I dig too deep into planning, it's useful to let all of you know where I believe I will be of use.  My personal expertise is in intelligence and tactics, and the organization I direct involves a great deal of military might, particularly where Inferis is concerned.  But I'd like to know what assets you think we'll have to work with in this assault."

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