[b][u]Glittering Lights and Sharpened Knives[/u][/b]
((Collab between Ruby and Myself))

The ceaseless chorus of distant sirens over the endless bass rumble of traffic suffused its way across the regimented streets of Downtown LA. Hidden away in a little corner of this Earthly realm of shattered lives and dreams, sat the Sunset Lounge, or simply Sunset, for those acquainted enough to know.

"Meet at Sunset." It was an old pun, used to mislead those not yet established enough to make an easy guess, something the regulars liked to throw at any new game in town until they worked out how the damn to use Google Maps. The Supernatural, it was a lot more high tech and mundane than most gave it credit for. It was a phrase that now meant something more. To meet at Sunset was to meet at the one place in all LA you could assure that you'd be walking out of. What happened on the street outside was your own business, but within these walls, you didn't so much as throw a punch. Well, maybe a few, if it was a slow day.

The overriding reason as to why Sunset had retained its place as the last true neutral ground in a city torn apart by the shadow war of the Kindred, was its owner, and principle bartender; Henry Locke. It was a name that stirred familiarity in elders and new bloods alike. Never one to dabble much in the power plays and politics of the night, many doubted he was even a kindred at all, but he was something, he'd been there long enough. Henry Locke, old as sin, the man who watched Caine fall. Nonsense stories all, but LA had never seen a night without the man. His presence wasn't stamped on it, like the Kid, or Jack, he just drifted through the tapestry of the new born city on the edge of the world.

The Lounge itself had several floors, each catering to a different mood, whim or clientele. For now, only the Sunset Room was open, the main 'bar' so to speak. Polished LA chic, with a full wall of glass doors leading out onto the patio, overlooking a grand view of the city meeting the Sea below. The room was so named for the way the Sun turned the whole place a burnt orange as it made its final home in the Pacific Ocean, not that its predominant patrons would ever learn the truth of that view or not. For now, the man himself, Locke, stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. A few guests mingled about, predominantly ghouls, come to exchange messages between masters too self-important to do it themselves. It mattered not to Locke. For the first time, the Sunset Lounge was truly indispensable to the Kindred elite of the city he called home, and for now, he had the ear of every single one.

A lot a man can do with a gift like that.

But the, Locke wasn't really the kind to seek out change, he let it come to him. Upon that note, his eyes eventually settled upon one of the more interesting occupants of the Room. The most interesting, not that she had a lot of competition at this current time, an undeserving unknowing crowd. Hispanic, with a look taken right from the Anarch cookbook.

"My Chemical Romance finish their set early love?" Locke piped up as he set a glass down, his hands flat on his own bar, cloth still draped over one. Despite his literal centuries in the New World, Locke still spoke with something of a London accent, and if not that, then at least a few mannerisms. At least, he did now, who can tell if the dialect of an immortal is genuine or not.

"What brings Little Miss Monroe here tonight?"

"I came for the bad guesses at what constitutes punk rock, and the casual sexism. Duh."

A melodic voice gone dry could cut deeper than steel, but this dagger was blunted with hints of a smirk at the corner of dark red painted lips, and sarcasm. Not that it was entirely unfair; she wore a black tank top with skinny shoulder straps, and a single strap down the upper back, revealing sun kissed shoulder blades and the neon pink straps of her bra. The neon pink was the only flare of color, though, the jeans were skin tight and ripped at the knees, her feet covered in heavy black boots, black eyeliner, a few skinny black braclets on one wrist, a black leather band on the other wrist. In her hands was a newspaper she had all but torn to pieces upon the counter of the bar; one section here, another there, yet another pushed to the side, the Metro in her hands. 

Brown eyes glittered amber-gold in the lighting of the bar as they peeked over the paper to the bartender and properitier, handsome as he was in the way a London bloke might be. Soon enough those eyes were back on the paper for a beat or two longer, until it was folded and set down casually. "Chillin', mate," the word was over emphasised, yet another bit of dry sass. Whether that was truly her purpose for being at the Sunset Lounge or not was up to his internal debate.

"Not many places a youngin' can get a proper chill at these days, except for your place. Not that you mind, with the boon in business and all."

Sure, Catlin Monroe smiled at him, but that wasn't to say there wasn't the tiniest bit of unspoken accusation of war profiteering in there. 

"You'll forgive an old codger his flaws." Locke responded noting her own little smirk with a grin of his own. The barkeep paused before conversing further, pouring a half-glass of whiskey into the newly polished glass he had set down. Usually he preffered Scottish, but Jack would do fine. A taste in mortal desires, something that perplexed the other ancients of the city. A sip was all he took, before he continued.

"No, I suppose there's not, mummy turn you out into the cold dark night, a safe haven till she calms down?" The glass slid from one hand to the other atop the bar, before another sip was taken, the man taking a long look at the view across the city nightscape, before filtering back to kindred of current note. "Not my fault all your mighty clans decided to up and stick it to one another, sure as hell not going to apologise for staying out of that mess. Old as me, and I reckon I was right up there on Jack's list without even sticking my head in." Locke mused further, in response to her barely unspoken half-accusation. It wasn't that he was particularly put off by people thinking that, more that it was simply a conversation worth having. 

She scoffed. "Your clans?" A few quick tsks, tsks followed. "I don't know about all that--the only clan I've ever known is the Anarchs of Los Angeles." The lie came to her as easy as art. In truth, she was as Toreador as any other, if not more so. Her mentors were fond of calling themselves the most genuine of all Toreador. Their unlives weren't Camarilla or Sabbat politics. In fact, they were so consumed by their art that they left the actual politics of the Anarch Free State to others. Like Smiling Jack. A claim precious few other Elder Toreador in the Masquerade could claim, and not be talking out both sides of their mouths. 

The old as me tag caught her attention, her eyes flashing over the barkeep carefully, before rising to meet his gaze, curiosity still illuminating those big brown eyes. "Why would Jack want you dead? I've met the guy a few times, seems like a friendly enough sort. What'd you do to get on his bad side?...and how old is 'old' for a 'codger' such as you? What are you..." 

Her eyes narrowed, her focus sharpening, her mind working to drum up a good guesstimation of his Generation. "...mm, 9th Generation, maybe? Is that old enough to get capped right now in the current chaos?"

"That's what every Anarch says, but it's still the Brujah who come in here starting the fights." Henry replied, leaning back against the shelves on the reverse side of the bar, mostly containing a variety of liquors. Mostly glass and well lit, it was very 'hip' LA, not his favourite floor of the place, but the most popular among those willing to drop the most cash, or even better, something actually useful. He prompted a glass in her direction, some Kindred still partook, and it would be rude not to offer.

"You didn't notice the elder Anarchs dropping dead on Jack's Night of Long Knives? There's not a soul who knows what it takes to get on the less-smiley side of Smiling Jack but the man himself, and that's not something you just chance up." Locke continued, regardless, taking his eyes away from the pretty Kindred for a moment, once again looking out over night time Los Angeles, cloaked in darkness, but lit up in a billion blazing lights.

When it finally came to the question of his age, the man could only smirk for a minute, turning his focus back on her; "Something like that, darling." It was said with exactly the sort of tone that might suggest absolutely nothing at all.

"They don't come in here to start fights. They come in here to find what they're looking for. If they found it, you'd be out of business. Enjoy the fights."

Her eyes focused on the glass, not the concrete and lights of the city beyond it; for a moment yearning for a reflection like a sailor yearned for a homeshore. The moment passed quickly, the thought passing before her smile, eclipsing her lips in the shadow of thought, before it too passed and returned the small, easy, casual smile on the "young" latinas red lips. For a beat of her unbeating heart she worried. Worried that the old codger would hear wisdom coming from a soul infinitely older than the 12th Generation before him had any right to. That he'd see the ease of her stature, the way it came to her as easy as natural light. 

A beat that passed quicker than the moment before, returning her focus past the glass. To cars stirring upon the street of smooth light gray pavement lined with palm trees standing like sentinels of the sunset city. Her mind refocused, returning to the scene of the crime that hadn't yet happened quite yet. Darkness and the faint filter of L.A. smog, twinkles of lights shining upon the latest billboard of the latest production with the latest star. The faces and the lights changed, but never the pattern. 

Her voice was absent of it's prior mirth, her tone detached, her eyes standing tall on the horizon before they were guided back to the barkeep. They're here, she thought, not sure whether to smile or frown. By chance her lips happened back upon the small smile.

"I noticed. I'm not sure I cared." Her long lashes flickered, breaking from him to the door, determination where once before was simply light in brown eyes. "Looks like it's time for me to go. Good luck, codger." Her body slipped from the bar stole, the remains of the paper left like a blooddoll left to bleed after use, the girl stopping at the door just in time to open it, allowing Elders too concerned with their security to make much of a young Anarch holding a door open because she just happened to get to the door in time for them to enter.

Just in time for her to get a good look at each arriving face. Her last smile came not with her red lips, but the spark of knowing mischief in her eyes with the look she shot to the barkeep in the form of a final farewell.

Locke smiled, tipping an imaginary hat at the passing kindred as she made her way into another warm Hollywood night, before his eyes settled back on the parade of city elders entering his domain. The rest of the crowd knew better than to stay, clearing the room for the night's true aristocracy. Locke himself did the same, although not from any particular sense of respect of self preservation, but for someone living in Los Angeles, he had a low tolerance for posturing. Back through a door behind the bar, he soon found himself in the far more traditional room of his private study, dusty, with low light, it was in sharp contrast to the modernist feel of what lay beyond.

It was only after he sat down at his desk, and turned, that he recognised the figures waiting for him, hidden in the shadow lining every corner of the room.

"So, what is it this time, Jack?"