[b][u]Eric O'Hara[/u][/b][hr]
The sea-salt of sweat. The warmth of gyrating bodies. The thumping of hearts, the noise of applause and raucous screams, all tumbling into a wave of stimulation, overcoming the senses, bringing them to light. To Eric, watching the humans move to the beat of drums and the whine of guitars, it was like he was tasting life again, crashing against him in waves in time to the music. 
That's what he loved about The Smell. 
It represented more to him than a pit stop for momentary rebellion, or a haven for the less compliant. It was a beacon for an unfiltered expression of humanity, of life, that he knew he'd never see again. And he drank it in, every single drop, savouring the sticky warmth in the air, the dimmed lights and sounds. He was swaying, he knew, ever so slightly, to the beat of the song, the harsh guitar cutting through him like a knife, and he loved it.

"Hey, man," comes a voice, smooth and clear above the noise. "Eric, you listening?"

The young Brujah, yanked clean from his trance, blinks before turning his attention back to Reyes, the Toreador with the skin coloured like sunkissed sand.

"Yeah, man, sorry," he clears his throat, leaning back into the seat tucked away in the corner of one of the many rooms housed in the labyrinth of the building. "Just got caught up in the music."

There's a flash of clear white as Rey smiles, a genuine expression, and shakes his head.

"Well, don't let our crumbling world distract you from the good vibes, [i]jefe[/i]."

"O'Hara, stop fucking around," a lean, mousey blonde interjects, sneering. "We're talking serious shit here. Some of us are actually worried about what the fuck is happening."

Janette. A Brujah, like Eric, all sharp angles and a permanent scowl. Always starting fights, always overcompensating.

"Jan, we're all on edge, it's fine," Rey reassures her, placing a hand on her thigh, and Eric can't help but smile as she almost immediately softens at his touch. If she could blush, he had a feeling she'd be blood-red.

"Listen, I know why we're here," Eric motions to the small group secluded away with him, all Kindred, all neonates, all afraid. "But what's this gonna accomplish? We're gonna talk our way out of the fact that we're in the shit?"

"The whole [i]point[/i] of a Rant, O'Hara, is to talk. To come up with solutions, or at the very least, open discussion."

"Yeah, Jan, but what the hell are we gonna [i]do[/i] anyway? Jack sixty-nined the Elders, and no one knows what the fuck to do about it. There's not much a little talk is gonna fix, other than figuring out where to bunk down."

"You really think it was Jack?" asks Benji, a docile Brujah with a shock of black hair and wide, innocent eyes. Eric, like every other neonate in the city, was left almost completely in the dark as to the events that transpired over the last few weeks and months. Shadow wars and backstabbing from private rooms, those were some of the rumours. But everyone knew Smiling Jack. And everyone knew what he was capable of.

"I dunno, man. I've been here, what, a year? Less? I've spoken to the guy twice. Once, when I was welcomed into the city, and another time up at the Last Round. He sat down with me and Jones and Colette, and he bought us all a round. Started talking about where everything was going, the Cam and the Masquerade and all of that. I remember looking him in the eye, and he said he'd do [i]anything[/i] as long as it meant setting us, the humans, everyone, free. And I didn't see a single moment of hesitation, not fear or regret or even anger. Just... Calm."

"Look," Rey cuts in again, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whether or not Jack did or didn't do it, the point is we're all stuck in the middle of it. The elders, whatever's left, they're not gonna be any help. They're all holed up at the Lounge tonight, making friends and kissing ass like the Cam leeches. Right now, we gotta watch out for each other, understand? All of us."

Rey flashed another one of those warming smiles, and Eric knew he had everyone in the palm of his hand. Rey might not have been the oldest, the most influential, or even the most popular Kindred in the city, but to those who knew him, he was a friend. Someone you could trust. It didn't hurt he looked like he walked straight out of a telenovela, either.
The others murmured and nodded in agreement, eyes locked on the young Toreador like he was reaching out and grasping at their minds, their thoughts. He was just that good.

"Eric," the smile disappeared, and his eyes took on a warmer, sincere look. "I know Barnette was one of the guys killed in the crossfire. He was paying for accommodation for a lot of the newcomers, bought up rent for some places Downtown."

"I'm fine, man."

"Come on, O'Hara," his eyes hardened, just for a moment, and Eric felt a pang of hurt. "I have a place. You can hole up with me and Colette for a while. Doesn't gotta be anything permanent, [i]jefe[/i], just until we find you something better, something permanent."

"I'm [i]fine[/i], Rey," Eric waved off his concern, avoiding his eyes. He knew the Toreador was struggling to keep his own haven afloat now, amidst the chaos of the power vacuum, and he wasn't about to add to the burden of a sinking ship. "I have a couple months left until Miss Carlton kicks down my door for cash. Trust me."

There was a moment of quiet, drowned out solely by the band playing behind the group, and Rey's gaze hardened again. Eric thought he'd protest further before the vampire relented with a shrug, and the Brujah felt his cold muscles relax.

"Hey, look, I'm gonna get some fresh air, alright? Don't miss me too much, Jan."

With a wink and flip of the bird, O'Hara lifted himself off the couch and manoeuvred his way through the smokey room, inhaling a dead breath as he felt the thumping bass of the drums slowly pulsate through his body. As he walked passed the hidden rooms and open doors, smelling of piss and sweat and wrapped in a skin of graffiti and vulgar imagery, the dead man felt the thumping in his chest slowly weaken, the music softening, before he found his way to the side entrance of the club.

He stepped out into the alley, cold and dark, and he expected himself to shiver in the frosty wind. He didn't. Old human habits die hard.
Watching as a few clubgoers stumbled around in the dark, illuminated only by the flickering neon writing the spelt out "The Smell" and the moon that hung lazily in the sky, Eric ran a hand through his hair pensively, staring at the wet pavement.
He knew he didn't have a few months left. His rent was already passed due, and he could only ignore the human landlord for so long before she kicked his cashless ass out. And a Kindred without a haven during a time like this was a Kindred that was as good as dead.

Well. [i]Deader.[/i]