A Coffee Shop (Open)

[Jacob Maccabee]

January 13, 2012

Washington D.C., District of Colombia, the capital of the United States of America. On the outside, if one had no idea of the significance of it, it looked like just another big American city, with its tall buildings, its monuments, its capital building...but even then the history of this place seemed to slowly emanate from the stones. The lives given, the sacrifices made throughout every war America fought to keep this city safe, seemed to slowly wisp its way around the entirety of the city like an aura of calm and humbling tranquility.

Jacob took in every breath of it.

The streets were crowded that day, just like they always were. Sidewalks were filled with people coming and going as they pleased, and roads were filled with late noon traffic. The Templar walked among those average ordinary people this day; for once, he was just like them, an average, ordinary Joe enjoying the sights and sounds of the capital city of one of the greatest nations in the world.

If only he were actually that normal.

Jacob had been in Washington for the past three days now, being debriefed for an assignment. He has a plane set up to take him to Rome in about two days time. It'll be his first foreign assignment for the Knights-Templar. He was looking forward to it; he hadn't been overseas since Iraq, and he was looking forward to some time in a Mediterranean country. Even if this was just 'business,' it wouldn't stop him from having a chance to enjoy his time and take in a few sights; maybe get a souvenir or two for his niece and nephew.

That flight was in two days though. Today, it was time for a coffee shop...

[Damon T. Ruger]

Ugh. Coffee.

He hated coffee. Caffeine was on principle a stimulant, yes; but as all stimulants it came with the nature of addiction surrounding it. Addiction was not a habit that the Templar appreciated. Reliance upon anything that wasn't one's own body or equipment that can, at most, jam only obscures the goal, and stops you from being truly efficient. And in the eye of Knight-Templar Damon T. Ruger's mind, efficiency was paramount.

That said, not all Templars were of the same opinion; and numerous other members of the corps smoked and drank as well as indulging in caffeinated vices. This disgusted and estranged the German-Spaniard. At least drug habits were forbidden within the order; other members of GSG 9, whilst it hadn't been blatantly obvious, clearly lived their lives on pill bottles or out of little bags of white powder. The elite forces of the German federal police - hooked on drugs. It was irony at its absolute finest, to Damon. Disgustingly so.

That said, the archer, whilst off-duty, was here with an ulterior motive, dispatched by a commanding officer. The ding of the doorbell rang out loud as he entered the store, barely half a block's walk from the entrance of the complex, and looked for his mark. Yet today, he looked for no target of assassination, no objective to be pursued, no potential Hunter or Ritualist to coldly observe... no, today, he had been dispatched for camaraderie. Of all the things, of all his talents, of all his attributes, today, the marksman had been interrupted during a bout of 6AM training and dispatched to talk with a fresh Templar initiate, and, on the words of his CO, "ensure that things were going to plan".

It was curious and odd that the precision and accuracy considered with weapons over people meant that he was tasked to leave the complex for this exact reason, but, alas, orders were orders. It was not his place to question why, and so he didn't. Loyalty was a true virtue within the Templars; questioning authority got you no shot at the title and no seat by the band. And though realistic ambition had paved his way to this point itself, Mr. Ruger never aimed too high or too low. Fittingly enough for the long-range specialist, he always seemed to manage to score the bullseye in that department.

So here he was, in a place he hated doing the thing he was not fond of for a cause that, well, at the end of the day, he supported with every iota of loyalty in his system. The door hissed shut mechanically behind him and a quick surveillance of the coffee shop lead to an isolation of his target behind square, tinted-rim sunglasses in but a moment. There he was; unkempt hair, staunch and muscular posture, hunched over a bench as the archer sidled in, moving over to the booth across from his would-be comrade and sitting down.

"Guten tag, Herr Maccabee." He begun in a brief German spiel, wearing his usual crescent-moon patterned purple-trimmed suit alongside the Osiris sunglasses and his typical CrossGear Hugo Boss watch. A waiter approached him as he removed the eyewear - sometimes, the lack of an eyepatch in the real world became disorientating - and set it down on the table, still stood up. He held out a hand and gestured over to the counter. "Bottled water with three icecubes, bitte." With that, he gestured to the seat, pleasantries still necessary - of course, still pending for the flight off to his first proper foreign assignment, secrecy agreement aside, he still had to treat this man - this Jacob Maccabee - with something of a polite aura.

"May I sit?" The German accent hung heavy over his every word with the smooth and gentle tones of the Spaniard just so much as rattling underneath. The harsh nature of the first language combined with the soothing tones of the second gave an alarming impression at first followed by an alleviating aural sensation just moments later. An odd combination - to say the very least.

[Jacob Maccabee]

Jacob had walked for a little bit before he found the appropriate coffee shop; a local place, his preferred choice. He had more than enough Starbucks, Moxie Javas, and Dutch Bros. in his life to know that most of them tasted pretty much the same. Once there, he picked a booth towards the back and sat down. As he sat there, warming up in the heat of the shop and waiting for the waiter or waitress to approach him, he took the time to contemplate on his position.

Rome. It was a place he always wanted to see, even as a kid. He remembered reading history books on the Roman Republic, Julius Caesar's conquests, and the Empire that followed. He had drunk it all in as a kid. There was a lot of history to that place; a lot of influence upon the Western World. He remembered pretending to be a Roman Legionnaire once on Halloween when he was much younger. It was kind of a dream of his to see what it was like; perhaps touch the same stones that hundreds of thousands of lives had touched centuries before his own...

Of course, he never thought this would be how he'd get to Rome, but that was besides the point.

His private musings were interrupted when he heard the mechanical ding of the coffee shop's doorbell. Instinctively his eyes drifted in the direction of the door. He would not deny that he wasn't surprised to see who walked in, though he didn't show it.

Damon T. Ruger. The man was wearing an expensive purple-tinted suit with a crescent moon pattern and a pair of Osiris sunglasses. Jacob had seen him a couple of times back on base; enough at least to know his name and a bit of his reputation. And boy, did he have a reputation. As a former GSG 9 Agent, his marksmanship and ruthelessness on the field was almost unparalleled even before he became a Templar. He was also his senior in rank.

Jacob straightened up a little as Ruger made his way over and sat in the booth across from him. Years in the Marines had taught him the value of rank. This man had been in the secretive order of the Knights-Templar longer than he, and as such had more experience than he combat-wise period. Good impressions with this man was important; after all, they were going to be working together from now on.

"Guten tag, Herr Maccabee," Ruger said in his native German. Jacob nodded his head politely. The waiter, having noticed the guest himself, approached him and took his order. Jacob couldn't help but raise an eyebrow when he heard Ruger request for some water and ice cubes. When he had finished, the man gestured to the seat beside his own.

"May I sit?" he asked. Jacob nodded again. He couldn't help but notice how polite the man was behaving, even while off duty. While he respected that in a man, coming from a superior made him feel just a little bit on edge.

"And what would you like to have?" the waiter asked him. Jacob gave him a grin and said, "House Blend, black with two sugars, make it a medium."

[Reverend Smith]

A coffee shop, eh... Rev liked a nice cup of Joe on the occasion, why not? Coffee was the lifeblood to some, despised to others; it was breakfast for one Mr. Smith, who gave no real opinion in either direction, only that his preferred coffee was black, no sugar, no creamer, with two slices of banana floating in the liquid. As he gave such an order, alongside a small slice of vanilla cake, sitting down with his newspaper, soon after receiving it, he merely waited. What exactly was he waiting for again? Well, he was waiting for Damon Ruger, to put it simply.

Earlier in the morning, he had interrupted the poor man's training regimen to send him out to this coffee shop, for a very special mission. He was to meet and greet one Jacob Maccabee, to ensure that the lad was doing well before his first mission overseas. To ensure things were going according to plan. Honestly, he could have probably done it himself (particularly considering he had nothing to do all day, and was actually IN the coffee shop, before Ruger...), but he had an ulterior motive for sending Ruger. While the somewhat famed eagle-eyed archer was renowned for his skills at completing missions and ripping through demon after demon, he seemed a bit lacking in terms of interpersonal skills. Sure, he had leadership, all that jazz, but even so, Templar assignments were often team assignments (bar a few erm... Exceptions. *coughcough*TheRev,ofcourse*cough*) As such, it was imperative that Rev observed him in casual confrontation with a fellow Templar.

And my, oh my, look at the man's punctuality; right on time, Damon entered, as Rev casually held his newspaper up a bit higher, covering his rather unmistakable face. Peeking over the paper, he heard Ruger greet Jacob, then go to make his order, before going back over to ask if he could be seated. Such a polite person. Well-befitting of one as properly dressed as Damon Ruger! Glancing down, his eyes wandered over his own clothing, a simple gray leisure suit, with a pleasantly light and minty green shirt, complimented nicely with black tie, black shoes, and black cuff links. Not quite as fancy as Ruger, but it was a nice set of businessy attire. Perfect for a nice Friday morning such as this one.

But as he pondered these things, and particularly wondered why he'd chosen to leave behind his nice pocket square at home, his glasses slipped from his face, leading to a moment of stunned silence, still hiding behind the newspaper. Well... He could pick them up. He couldn't very well see that clearly without them, so they were kinda important. But if he did, his cover would be blown! But if he didn't, how could he observe Ruger anyways!? And even more importantly, what if Ruger came over to help the old man pick up his eyeglasses, such a polite-seeming man he was!?!? It was a risky decision, a very difficult one. But he set his newspaper aside, and reached down to retrieve the eyeglasses. As he sat straight once more, however, he bumped into his newspaper, sending it sailing over to the next table. Hrrrng. "My, oh my, the blunders I make..." Muttering to himself briefly in his native Dutch, he coolly glanced away from the pair of Templars, facing the other direction, to deter suspicion, no matter how much suspicion it probably caused. Well... He wasn't a people person either! Ah well, he thought to himself, as he took a sip of his coffee and a bite of the spongy cake he oh so loved. Can't be avoided!~

(~(Hope you don't much mind me tossing Rev in here, Ay. ^^; Asked Kerian about it in chatbox, but you weren't there, because you and your silly living-in-a-completely-different-timezone thingy. xD)~)

[Damon T. Ruger]

"House Blend, black with two sugars, make it a medium." Damon arched a cynical eyebrow for but a moment, before remembering the orders of his being dispatched. His pallor cleared, and with an abrupt clearing of his throat, the sniper took his seat and glared daggers at the unwitting waiter until he disappeared to fetch their drinks. The marksman removed his hands from his pockets and held them on his lap as the young, stubble-bearing man swiftly vanished out of earshot.

"You know who I am, ja, Herr Maccabee?" The sniper adjusted his tie with a neutral look on his face, devoid of all emotion. "And you know, of course, who sent me to observe you, prior to the dispatch assignment on Sunday, ja?" The faded makings of a smile crept onto his face, if but for satisfaction in their joint occupation. "Our mutual employers?" The Templar Order.

"I am not a complex man, Herr Maccabee." He explained slowly. In but a moment, their drinks arrived; set upon the table, and almost immediately, in a had clad with a fingerless glove, the sniper wreathed his grip around it, grasping the cylinder tight as the condensation trickled about his digits. "So I will not attempt to observe you subtly or without your knowledge." With a quick sip, he tasted the water, swirling it about his mouth. Just cold enough. Soft rather than hard. Acceptable.

"The Order simply wishes me to ensure you are fit to embark. This is no espionage or anything of the sort." Somehow, the German-Spaniard's tones weren't exactly reassuring. Ice-cold, and somewhat above-board and direct, but not so much as a subtle hint of assurance all in all. "And after that is complete, my objective is secured, and I shall leave you to your..." With a contemptuous sneer, he glared for a moment at the steaming black coffee sitting in front of Jacob. "...beverages."

And that was when he caught sight of the tall, stocky, well-built man in a booth behind Jacob, theoretically making his fellow Templar initiate unable to see him. However, this was a man of great reputation within the Order - and his appearance here was, at best, dissuading. Had he not dropped the newspaper to reach for some stupidly dropped spectacles, things would have been utterly ideal. But in that split-second, he saw the man's face, and behind a facade that he held impeccably, as if it were a block of stone or a sheet of metal, but moments later, showing no signs of irritation on his face, he turned back to Maccabee, awaiting answers.

Of course. Observing the observer. The entire Order was founded on ulterior motives underlying ulterior motives themselves. This was no real complication for them; how stupid he had been to not so much as realise the potential for an overlaying operation above the top of his own "personal" tasking. It made so much sense now; and though he could rightly be fuming at the one Reverend Adrianus Smith over on the other side of the store, rank and superiority dictated the way of things within the Order. If that was what the Reverend wished to do, then so be it. He calmed the icy waves within his gut and let the crusaders' hierarchy and promise of further ambition chill whatever rage he could have exposed. Composure was always far more important in these situations, anyway.

[Jacob Maccabee]

Jacob watched as the man took a seat. He had to admit that, deep down, he felt uneasy sitting with the other man. It was apparent that he didn't want to be here; given that he glared daggers at the waiter who went to get their drinks.

"You know who I am, ja, Herr Maccabee?" Ruger asked.

Jacob nodded. "By reputation," he said in reply. The waiter quickly got them their drinks. Jacob took his cup, took off the lid, and took a quick sip as Ruger started adjusting his tie. The warm liquid going down his throat immediately helped ease the tension. Jacob had his own, special reasons for drinking coffee; off in the war, whenever there was a lull in the action, his comrades-in-arms took coffee breaks and he found that it helped him ease the tension. Since then, whenever he felt particularly anxious or nervous about anything, he'd take some coffee, and it eased the feelings down.

"And you know, of course, who sent me to observe you, prior to the dispatch assignment on Sunday, ja?" Kruger said, a smile forming on his face as he did, "Our mutual employers?"

Jacob simply nodded. He had figured as much.

As the discussion continued and they both continued their drinks, Jacob came to realize that it would be a very, very bad idea to upset this man, for any reason. The man's tone was cold, not exactly reassuring; kind of like the water he was drinking. Jacob knew that such a demeanor was not necessarily looked down upon by the Order; after all, their work wasn't exactly for the faint of heart.

"And after that is complete, my objective is secured, and I shall leave you to your...beverages" Ruger said.

Jacob nodded. "I'll make sure I don't disappoint, then, Mr. Ruger," he said politely.

But he noticed that Ruger's attention was no longer focused at him. He was looking at someone completely different; someone off towards the back of the room. Jacob, sensing it could potentially danger, turned slightly so that he could appear as if looking at the nearby clock, while letting his peripheral vision take a peek at who could potentially be watching them.

What he caught was quite the eyeful; an older man, picking up his glasses before suddenly bumping aside his newspaper and scattering it on the floor nearby. Speaking in his native Dutch the man looked away before sipping some coffee and eating a sponge cake.

Jacob froze, and for good reason. That man was none other than Reverend Smith. If he hadn't been intimidated before, he certainly was now. The older man had been in the Templar Order for quite an extended amount of time more than even Ruger. He was a skilled combatant, both armed and unarmed, and had served with the Templars for much of his wizened life. He was rumored to also be a little bit more than slightly psychotic...even despite his social functionality.

It then occurred to Jacob that the Reverend was likely sent to this coffee shop for the same reason as Ruger, though judging by Ruger's reaction he either wasn't informed or he was the one being monitored. He let a grin slip on his face before he returned to his coffee, taking a couple of gulps and sighing contentedly.

"So, Mr. Ruger," he said, his voice quieter to ensure nobody else could hear him "Can I expect to see you on the mission?"

[Guest]

How many holy warriors could one fit in a coffee shop? It sounded like the makings of a bad joke, and Laurelei particularly disdained such jokes. As she strode into the room however, her dagger-sharp perception immediately took note of the three others of her order present. She hadn't been expecting three, and she didn't like being confronted with changes of plan. She didn't much care for coffee either, but that was beside the point.

Laurelei Weiss didn't really have a hometown. She spoke Latin with as much ease as her native German, and could flawlessly maneuver through both the American and British dialects of the English language. The young woman of eighteen had lived in Munich, London, even the Vatican for a brief stint, but thus far D.C. had been her most stable home. The reason for that was, ironically, her eccentric mentor. The good Reverend Smith, who had shown her the ins and outs of demonslaying, was sitting not at all inconspicuously in observance of two other men at a nearby table. The Reverend was skilled in a great many areas, but keeping attention off of himself was not one of them. He tended to rely on her for that, which was why she was surprised to find him here alone.

Well, not alone exactly. The two men had become well aware of his presence. Smith was, for all his odd behavior, one of the finest and most revered members of the Templars' American chapter. It was difficult for any dedicated knight not to notice him.

She recognized one of the men as Damon Ruger, the famed "Eagle's Eye" or some scheisse like that. She knew him more by reputation than by person, and could not recall having met with him face to face in the past. He was a skilled assassin, so they said. A man of infinite firepower. Laurelei had never been fond of men who hide behind their bullets and arrows. That was one thing she admired about her teacher. Say what you would about him, the Reverend was never afraid to get his hands dirty.

The other man she did not know. He looked as plain as the common people, but as she picked up bits and pieces of his conversation with Ruger, she quickly concluded that he was one of her kind. That was not what interested her however. It was the scraps of her mother tongue spoken by the Eagle Eye that intrigued her. She hadn't known he spoke German.

Laurelei approached the Reverend with utter nonchalance. She still had not taken more than a passing glance at the other men, but she doubted Ruger would fail to pick up on it. A trained assassin took note of such things. Ignoring him and his friend for the moment, she leaned over her mentor's shoulder and muttered a greeting in his ear.

"I think you've blown your cover, sir," she said coyly. Even after years of separation from her native land, the girl's deathly serious voice was still thick with the German accent. "Part of some plan of yours, or just high jinks?"

[Damon T. Ruger]

"By reputation," Damon nodded. Good. That at least affirmed that the man knew something of him and quite probably his prowess with obliterating Demons from a way away. At the basest level, the German-Spaniard's reputation was going to be as a sniper. A soldier. Not a Templar, not a hardass, not anything else: but a sniper. His body was a tool, a conduit for precision and concentration, a machine that took an input of the same bodily needs as all else, and churned out fifty calibre death sentences from half a mile away.

It was more than likely that Jacob knew Damon by one of his many designations or nicknames. The German-Spaniard was cold and authoritative, but not ignorant; and he knew that behind his back, the abuse he'd receive for his demeanour would be no less in amount than any else. They would call him a hardass and a lapdog for the Paladins. But in this world, ambition and flamboyance got you nowhere, especially with the Templars. Following orders and keeping your mouth made progress. A sharp inclination of his head, and the man rose the glass, clasped still in that fingerless-gloved hand, and sipped gently at the water. "I'll make sure I don't disappoint, then, Mr. Ruger,"

The ex-GSG 9 agent responded mechanically. "That would be in your best interest, Herr Maccabee." And wasn't that the truth? But from what he had seen, this Maccabee had an extensive and distinguished service record. Much like any of their other U.S. army drafts, he stood out, he broke the mold, he was decorated, and he fell in line when asked. The Templars could only pick a relative handful from American forces under their contract before questions started to get asked - the secrecy of the transfers were always paramount, but if people started falling from the army in the thousands, then it was simply asking for the Order to become immediately exposed.

"So, Mr. Ruger," Oh? The jarhead had a question, it seemed. Hushed voice. Damon, assured of his senses' prowess regardless, bothered not to lean in towards his "comrade". "Can I expect to see you on the mission?" That was... an interesting question. Not for the motive behind it, the wording, or, really, anything on Jacob's part. Simply for its connotation and what the sniper's reply would be. If was capable of so much of smirking in coincidence, the marksman would have done. However, his pallor remained cold and almost deathly as he replied.

"You will most likely see my work before you see me." The sniper affirmed sternly. "I do not make a habit of becoming detected, and nor should you." Just incase the soldier had any wise ideas or fancied putting the entire team at risk. "But, yes, I will be providing backup and overwatch for the duration of your excursion, if that is what you meant." Now that was something that the sniper was used to.

A girl entered the shop next, and almost thrumming within from anger, he watched as she approached the "incognito" Reverend. Two Templars was acceptable. Three was bad enough. Four in this proximity outside of a home base was through and through a bad idea. Breaking cover and exposing the whole organisation were the only things that could come from a meeting like this. As of her, the Eagle Eye had heard only of her being the Reverend's prodigy, barely an adult but groomed by the Order from birth. In a way, Damon was jealous that she'd received such exceptional training that he'd had to come by over twenty hard years of solid experience. His hair was grey and though he was fit and in shape, his body would grow weary over the next decade. She still had at least another thirty or forty years of spry life to enjoy before she so much as had to consider retirement.

But back to the matter at hand. Now, it was his turn to ask the questions. Though the Templar had chosen weaponry and utilised an assortment of them relatively exceptionally, the Order provided new entries with no aptitude or preference test. And, for some reason, this example had singularly served to pique the attention of the Paladins. Thus they wished to know of Jacob's habits, and beyond what they had seen in operations within their own borders, wanted to know about preferences, tactics, mindset; just about anything. For, when looking through his scope, Damon had a secondary habit; he could analyse just about anything of a target, their weaknesses, their strengths, and, as was given to him as a genetic boon, presumably from his late father, just as cold as he, whom the sniper still resented, he could apply that tactically. "So, tell me, Herr Maccabee,"

It was an inherent skill many Templars possessed, the gift of cold analysis, but a sniper learned at a young age to remain detached from almost everything due to the potential of their becoming a target. That goat farmer you meet on a Pakistani farm? He could be an al-Qaeda informant. That "Russian" convenience store cashier? A Chechen bomber. The twelve-year old boy you come across in a Ugandan village? Officer for the LRA. Anyone and anything could end up on the wrong end of a bullet. It was always just a matter of time and chance. "The Paladins wish to know of how you will choose to fight."

[Reverend Smith]

Hrm. Well, thus far, so good!~ Seemed he remained rather unspotted by either one of them, HAHAHA!~ Erm, wait... No, no, Damon definitely saw him. He saw it in his eyes. And a moment later, Jacob peeked over as well, ever slightly. Well darn. Ah, c'est la vie, c'est la vie. Haha. Story of his life. Well, it certainly couldn't be helped. He'd have to actually make his presence known now, since they ALREADY saw him, but just, well... Didn't acknowledge him. Quite rude, actually. So he adjusted his tie, taking another slice of cake, when a familiar face seemed to enter the room. QUITE a familiar face, in fact; his partner, his protege, his personal prodigy. Laurelei Weiss. He may be old, but his senses were as sharp as ever; he caught a glance of her as soon as she entered, and relaxed into his seat, confident in her skills of observation. If Ruger and Maccabee could spot him with such ease, surely she was also capable of such.

She walked over, rather discreetly and stealthily, being his perfect opposite, and quietly greeted the Dutchman. Smiling cheerfully ot her, he nodded, giving a casual wave. "Hallo, Laurelei, almost a surprise to see you here. My, oh my, we may as well just buy out this shop as a second HQ. Birds of a feather, in a shop together, eh?[/color]" Ah, 'hallo.' Standard greeting of the Rev, but especially so with his young student. It was always nice to be greeted in one's native tongue, he thought, and it always amused him as to how the simple, single, word meant hello in both German and Dutch, sounding like the English "hello" to boot. Worked out for everything!

Ah, and she questioned his intent. Well... "Hmm... Little'a both, actually, I suppose, haha~ At any rate, I do think it's high-time I go to plan B." As such, he finished off his cake with a last delicious bite, and drank the rest of his coffee. Not a bad snack, in the least. Rising to his feet, he became even more obvious, his powerful presence taking up the whole building, metaphorically, of course. Six-seven, well-toned and well-muscled, he was a prime example of a battle-trained warrior; but the cross pendant around his neck, tucked neatly behind his tie, which itself was black with a gold cross running its length, said different. The Smith family had, after a few generations, mastered this combination of primal warrior and man of the cloth, and he was the result, though a bit twisted from the years and years of high octane nightmare fuel. He also lacked social skills, alas...

He briefly waited for a break in their conversation, after whatever answer Jacob gave to Damon's question as to what his fighting skills were, or whatnot, before striding over, beckoning Laurelei to follow, the cheery smile never seeming to leave his face. That was where he and Ruger differed most; there was the friendly man, who seemed to take everything in stride, everything with a smile, and then there was the man of ice, coldly efficient, always precise in all he did. Quite a stark contrast, really. "G'day gentlemen." He spoke in that voice of his, oddly soft, oddly quiet, and hypnotically deep and smooth, as he extended his hand to shake, to Damon, then to Jacob, pausing briefly to flash Maccabee a wink. "Heard about Rome, 'grats. This seat taken?" He knew it wasn't, he sat in it almost immediately after asking.

"And I think I can even skip the intros for once, pretty handy, eh? I know you, you know me, before we even met. A pleasure." He turned then to Damon, and gave a small chuckle. "And as for you, I think I understand why you 'will not attempt to observe you subtly or without your knowledge.' Or at least why I should do the same, ehehe~" Hmmm... YEP. Subtlety wasn't his strong-suit anyways, but blunt and obvious observations seemed to be succeeding thus far!

[Jacob Maccabee]

Ruger's response to his question wasn't exactly the response he was looking for at first, but it was to be expected. Jacob had a feeling that he was going to appreciate this man's help on the battlefield. While he himself was a good marksman, he could never perform the cold, calculated duties a Sniper had while on the battlefield. He was more of a front-liner kind of guy, facing the enemy as close as guns today often allowed. It was there, on the front lines, he felt that he could do the most good.

"So, tell me, Herr Maccabee," Ruger said, "The Paladins wish to know of how you will choose to fight."

Jacob lifted an eyebrow. The Paladins wanted to know? Kind of a surprise that he'd attract their attention. He took another swig of his coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin before he responded in kind.

"Well, I guess you could say that I'm the kind of guy that tries to fit whatever role is necessary," he began, making sure his voice is quiet in case if anyone else was overhearing "Depending upon the mission and the team, I can fit whatever role is needed. If the team needs someone in the front of the line, delivering a fast, calculated response, I can fit that role. If the team needs heavy support, laying a constant stream of suppression, I can fit that role too. And if our enemy gets close enough that guns alone can't drive them away, and we need close combatants...I can fit that role as well. Again, it depends on our team once we get there."

As he took another sip of his coffee, he noticed Reverend Smith get up. He was talking to a girl that he had never seen before. She was pretty young, young enough that she could very well be the man's youngest daughter. He watched as the older of the two approached their table, his hand gesturing for the girl to follow. Jacob's instincts kicked in and he politely stood up as the older man approached them and offered them his hand to shake.

"G'day gentlemen," the old man said, "Heard about Rome, 'grats. This seat taken?"

Jacob accepted the man's hand and shook it, taking note of his strong grip. "Go right ahead, sir," he said before sitting down again. He also pulled aside the last remaining seat so that their last guest could join them.

"And I think I can even skip the intros for once," the older man continued, a smile on his face, "pretty handy, eh? I know you, you know me, before we even met. A pleasure."

Jacob returned the smile. "Your reputation precedes you, sir. The pleasure is mine."

[Guest]

Laurelei sighed as her mentor lead her over to the table. She had little interest in socializing with others, even if they were of her order. Planning a mission was one thing, but why on earth did they have to do it in a verdammt coffee shop? Demon worshippers or worse, demons could be around any corner, spying on them this very moment. A bit of extra security wouldn't have hurt anyone.

All the same, she was intrigued when the Reverend brought up Rome. Only the most esteemed Templars were generally called in that close to the Vatican. Perhaps this was some sort of test for the new recruit, who apparently showed more promise than she'd originally anticipated.

"Guten Tag," the girl nodded politely, taking the last empty seat beside the Eagle Eye. "Herr Ruger, I was not aware you spoke German. Es tut mir gut, meine Muttersprache zu hören."

She trusted that Damon knew her by reputation at least, if not by the few times they'd been in the same room together in years passed. The new recruit however, was another story. Laurelei's reputation was known mostly by the higher ups in the order, and she assumed this man had never heard of her before.

"You," she started, turning to him. "You probably don't know me, and I'll forgive that for now." She extended a hand that, for anyone who didn't know her, might have looked delicate. "Laurelei Weiss. Youngest woman ever to become a knight, and one of the few privileged to train at the Vatican. You are new to this, I presume, so I will be brief. I don't know what they want with you in Rome, but you had best remember that the Templars do not tolerate incompetence. I trust you will put the job first and foremost, and see it done at any and all costs. If not, you have no place among us."

She fixed him with a gaze as unyielding as stone, as if measuring the man for all his worth. Finally, somehow deciding her test was completed and he had, for now, passed, she visibly relaxed in her chair. "I hope you do well, Kamerad."

[Damon T. Ruger]

"Depending upon the mission and the team, I can fit whatever role is needed. If the team needs someone in the front of the line, delivering a fast, calculated response, I can fit that role. If the team needs heavy support, laying a constant stream of suppression, I can fit that role too. And if our enemy gets close enough that guns alone can't drive them away, and we need close combatants...I can fit that role as well. Again, it depends on our team once we get there." Ah, so now he would speak in full. Sehr gut. The German-Spaniard listened astutely; and to him, it seemed like this man was one of two things. Either, he was versatile, or he had not truly found his calling and his specialty yet. Perhaps he was simply not divulging the full extent of his skills to Damon; but he had no reason not to, considering the Templars' ability to access the record of just about every bullet that Herr Maccabee had ever fired.

"A jack of all trades, Herr Maccabee." Damon snorted and nodded slowly. "A most difficult role to fulfill effectively. I am sure your fellow soldiers in Iraq would agree." There was an influx of combatants from the second Gulf War over the past few months or so. It was strange. So many jingoistic Americans and British who thought themselves God's good grace of the world. Maccabee was different, from Ruger's assessment of his case file, but still an American. The sniper did not like Americans. Nor the British.

"G'day gentlemen," The sniper grimaced, having seen the Reverend advance from afar, his prodigal apprentice in tow, watching the pair of them as a hawk. The Eagle Eye so much as bobbed his head as a sign of respect to the pastor, and simply glared at Frau Weiss. "Heard about Rome, 'grats. This seat taken?" Subtlety. Apparently not the good Reverend's calling card. Stoically, he kept his unbroken mask upon his face, and shuffled up, gesturing silently for the older gentleman to take the seat next to Jacob, as another by him was pulled out for the girl. "And as for you, I think I understand why you 'will not attempt to observe you subtly or without your knowledge.' Or at least why I should do the same, ehehe~"

What was that supposed to mean? The sniper fought back a scowl, and inclined his head; instead choosing to respond politely, but in kind. "Herr Smith, I would prefer it if you did not doubt my methods." The Eagle Eye finished the last of his drink, before raising his hand to the waitress and gesturing for her to fetch another. She obliged soon enough, scurrying off with his empty glass to fill it up again. "If you wish for me to complete a task in a manner of your choosing, then I would prefer you brief me on it prior to dispatching me on the objective, but, this is your operation to do with as you please." The "good" Reverend frustrated him. Rumours of psychosis, over-the-top stupidity, antics that deserved over twenty court-martials for single instances alone. Working in his cell was a deathwish.

"Guten Tag. Herr Ruger, I was not aware you spoke German. Es tut mir gut, meine Muttersprache zu hören." Coldly, Damon tilted his head and looked at her. She had complimented him and such, but it was clear she had not studied his dossier as astutely as she should have. Had the tables been turned in this scenario, the Eagle Eye would have wished to know all he could of Miss Weiss.

"Vielleicht sollten Sie meine Datei näher studiert haben, Frau Weiss." A vindictive smile, and the sniper continued in his mother tongue. "Du weißt, ich war ein Teil der GSG-9 für einige Zeit, ja?" Silly child. Getting involved in an adults' game. She was young. She was thus emotional. Groomed by the Order or not, prodigal or not, she was still but a child, and but a child she would remain in his eyes until she proved herself differently. And until then, Damon hoped that the Reverend or the Russian would not partner with him lest it was absolutely necessary.

With that, he turned back to Smith. "My flight to Irkutsk leaves soon, Herr Smith." With a brief, cold, smile stretching across his face, the sniper continued. "And you do know how Frau Vladimirovna despises delays in her operations, no?" Surely the Reverend would not want to be responsible for evoking even the minor irritation of the good Paladin; even a senior Knight-Templar such as he knew that her wrath was not something to be toyed with jokingly.

[Reverend Smith]

Ahhhh, but Jacob was too correct, too correct indeed. His reputation did indeed precede him; most knew him not even by name, but by his kill-count, by his recklessness, and by the sheer level of efficiency he proved time and time again. That efficiency, in fact, was likely the sole reason he was not only still a Templar, but still alive, given the amount of times his actions had caused massive collateral, including injuries on his own side, if not the rare, but occasional, accidental death. There was a reason he often rode solo. Alas, they did occasionally send him with a team, and it just... Well, didn't end well. Possibly just a matter of background, though; he and Laurelei got along fine working together, as both had been born, bred, and raised as Templars. Many others, if not the majority of others, were taken into the job. They had much stricter, more formal training, more tactical training, especially; Rev had never been taught tactics, nor had he needed them. He disregarded the rules of war, and wrote his own.

Turning to Damon, he smiled with a wink. "Ahh, but I didn't, Ruger, not at all; rather the opposite, I'd say. I don't quite have the stealth for observing from afar, as you could see, and your straight-forward method worked much better, hehe. Think of it as a compliment." And indeed, it was a compliment, and his genuine compliments weren't to be taken lightly; albeit, this was a bit more of a joke, if anything, though he doubted that his fellow Templar quite got the humour. Or had a sense of humour at all, for that matter... Oy. He had to give a light chuckle at Damon's next, rather cold, statement, seeming to barely contain open hostility. He shrugged it off with a casual wave of the hand. "Ahh, but I did brief you! I said to go meet with the good Meneer Maccabee here, and you did such, A plus plus! Though I did ehh... forget to tell you about the fact you were being observed observing him, ja. Admittedly, I probably could've forgone all this by just asking you how well you played nicely with others, but eh. C'est la vie, c'est la vie." He paused briefly, glancing at Jacob momentarily as his protegee and Damon spoke amongst one another in German. Casually, he nodded at the man's cup, pointing with both index fingers as he did. "So, Maccabee. How do you take your coffee?" Ahh, small talk. Kept idle tongues active, it did.

Speaking of activity, he picked up a bit of what the two were discussing and turned back to Damon. "Ahhh, yes, you were in GSG-9, weren't you. Heard you were pretty top-notch over there, though that's fairly obvious, given you're here now. May have to hit the range with you one day, see you in action." Though not in the field; a good man like Damon was hard to come by, you see, and the old man was a human hazard, a disaster waiting to happen. He was the golden ticket to a hospital bed, at the very least, and he tried not to put people in that spot; specifically, in the spot between his chainsaw and a demon. But shooting ranges were nice, shooting ranges he could handle.

Glancing at Laurelei, he listened as she gave her introduction, internally tutting to himself, tsk, tsk, tsk... One should never introduce themselves with a list of accomplishments and esteems, it was just so... Improper. Arrogant, a bit, but she did come off as blunt quite often, so he didn't say anything. He'd have to make better note of that, in future though; particularly because were HE to list HIS reputation following his name, he'd sound more like a real-life Call of Duty fragger than he would prefer...

SPEAKING OF FRAGGERS, Rev laughed as Damon mentioned a flight to tha Mothaland, and the good miss Vladimirovna. Indeed, were he the cause of Damon's lateness, she'd ensure that he exploded at least once, probably in a room filled with diesel and fireworks. "Ahhh, yes, yes, Ms. Vladimirovna. A good woman, she is, and I'm quite glad she's on our side. " He gave another chuckle, a bit more nervous-sounding than before, as he thought of the damage that his fellow Templar was capable of. "Yeah, I definitely won't be holding you, then, hehe~ Though when you go, toss Taty a privyet for me, ja?"

[Jacob Maccabee]

Jacob was a little taken aback at the forwardness of the girl. The way she spoke seemed arrogant and a bit over the top, but then she mentioned her name...and part of him understood why she seemed so high and mighty.

Laurelei Weiss was a bit of an actual legend among the Templars. As the youngest Templar to ever be selected to join, she was practically raised in the Order. She was also one of the Order's most formidable fighters. Realization sort of hit Jacob right then and there that he was talking to three of some of the most well known agents working in the Knights-Templar...in the same coffee shop...out in public.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Weiss," he said, "It's an honor. Rest assured, I won't disappoint. I do have a record of slaying demons here on my home country, you know..."

Jacob looked over at Ruger and nodded. "It's a difficult role, yes. But I find it's better to go in fully prepared than to be a couple cards short of a full deck, if you know what I mean."

He watched for a moment as the three continued having their discussions with one another. He couldn't help but smile at the good Reverend's rather pleasant demeanor. The man was quite amusing, in a good way at that. If it weren't for his rumored insanity and for the fact that all four of them were a part of a secret organization, he'd almost call his manner comical. Even the way he tutted at Laurelei for introducing herself and her merits seemed like something out of a cartoon. It lightened the mood a little.

It was then that Jacob began to notice something odd. Something about the good Reverend seemed familiar. He didn't know how; he had never seen the man before. But there was something about his voice, perhaps his brow, maybe the position of his eyes, or his accent...

"So, Maccabee. How do you take your coffee?" the Reverend asked him.

Jacob looked up. "Hmm? Oh, it depends. I usually take it black with two sugars...but if it's a particularly interesting day I sometimes have a cappuccino...I'm not that hard to please, Mr. Smith. Why'd you ask?"

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