[b]Eric O'Hara[/b] by [@Architect]
[b]Catlin Monroe[/b] by [@Ruby]

[hr]

Kindred, ghouls, and freaks. It was the kind of crowd that made Catlin Monroe feel right at home; even though deeper down, under the surface, it made Yanci smirk. Maybe even a little head shake. Push come to shove, it was hard to say which "counter-culture" Yanci preferred most. Flappers were fun, and made inroads most never realized for women. Beatniks were interesting, a thoughtful bunch that hid many a grotesquerie; but the songs were thought provoking, and they had the best literature out of any of them. 

The punks were a different sort, and were quite a deal more world wide than most other North American countercultures. They were also wildly inclusive. Racism had very little context within the group, the genders were even pushed closer together, so long as you were "punk enough"; a metric that varied depending on the group you were near, and one that could be pass or failed by males just as often as females. She wore a grey "Body Count" shirt with jagged holes where sleeves had once been, a white sports bra peeking from under it, black jeans tight enough to cause a few stares, and old black boots that were pridefully denied any sort of polish or upkeep for years and years. 

Catlin's eyes danced left and right as she pushed through the Smell, a Los Angeles landmark that hosted as many of the Kindred, ghouls, and freaks as it did wayward teens and hardened 20 somethings. Rich posers, poor dreamers, all mixed with the stank and the supernatural. Most were careful in their speech, but in a place so skull crushingly loud when the amps and the drums became all a normal person could hear, some lips got loose enough to hear. And hear Catlin did. Sometimes with an eavesdrop, but more often than not because she was pulled in to conversation. Peppered with questions, and offering answers while holding a smile like most held onto beers; warm, easy.  

A strange look on black painted lips. 

Everyone knew Catlin Monroe. She did a million and one "nice" things for anyone, those she knew, and those who knew of her. It didn't seem to matter. Some swore she'd been a fixture in L.A. for decades, some she was merely a recent addition to the L.A. night. The truth was somewhere inbetween, as it so often was. Catlin Monroe had existed as a "cover" since the late 50s. Always into counterculture, always never more than just a "friend of a friend" for the young and disenfranchised of the Los Angeles scene. 

It wasn't even originally her idea; that honor belonged to Eva. It had become a favorite role of Yanci, a character she'd grown with and into over the decades, one crafted carefully with a background that weaved in and out. Tonight was no different. The bloodshed had many scared, or nervous, or anxious, almost all some swirling mixture of one of those. Catlin seemed concerned, but not alarmed. Every group her gravity pulled her into was met with a similar message: "I hear good things from Elders I know, things are beginning to settle, an end game is in sight." 

Who knew if that would be good, or bad, but it at least it would be settled. Worries of Camarilla and Sabbat rule were contradicted with hopes for Camarilla and Sabbat rule. Most, it heartened her to hear, simply wanted the Free State to stay free. When pressed, Catlin could admit she thought it would, but offered nothing to back it up. Tonight it was better to get lost in the hundred and one favors asked of her. That was when a young Toreador and Brujah came up to her, asking her pointed questions. 

Not about herself. About Los Angeles. About the real estate market. Or as the Kindred youth liked to call it, "the Haven market." In her nature, Catlin's questions dug below the surface, prompting for their reasoning, and the source of their queries. Apparently, [i]Hey, I'm fine.....but I need air[/i], wasn't the most convincing or comforting of lines. Rey pointed her towards an exit, and Catlin left the two with a reassurance. 

Whether she was playing tricks of presence, or she just put people at calm with her mixture of knowing more than she let on and pleasantly subdued nature, black lips were turned upwards just-so as Eric turned, and found Catlin Monroe staring at him from a few feet away. "You look anxious. I know the smell really IS that bad in there, but...damn." Laughter followed like a whisper between friends; nothing loud, nothing sharp, nothing that would draw unwanted attention. Just a private moment of humor. 

"Concern like what's on your face ain't punk, my man. What's up?" Her eyes closed for a split second, her right hand leaving her front pocket and lazily going palm out towards him, before eyes opened and hand returned to pocket with the disclaimer: "The non-bullshit version, if you would."

[i]Bullshit ain't punk, either.[/i]

The young vamp paused for a moment as his dark eyes focused on her, before slowly breaking out into a smile, bright white illuminated by the neon night.

"Catlin, right?" he chuckled, shrugging. "Guess everyone was right about you. Miss I-Don't-Take-Shit-Tough-As-Nails. Loving the look, by the way."

"Oh, my nails aren't that tough. They break all. the. fucking. time." It crept onto her lips like a black cloud over a blood moon, that smirk did. "But yes, Catlin Monroe, at your service. I'm known around these parts, something of a Fixer. So why don't you quit stalling and tell me why your friends sent Ms. Fix-It in your direction?"

She wanted to wink. She wanted to wink very badly....but she didn't. No need to rub it in. 

Eric flashed another smile then, genuine and warm.

"Ah, you know how it is," he blew out his breath and waved a hand dismissively. "When the big guys screw up, the little guys have to catch the shit that rolls downhill with open arms."

There was a quiet pause as he looked her up and down again, for the briefest of moments, a flicker of curiosity and warmth passing his expression even faster.

"Barnette, that old prick up in the hills. One of the old blood that was dusted. He was a dick, but he was also in charge of real estate for newcomers and neonates. Those of us without a steady flow of cash to lay low in a Fort Knox haven. Lucky me, I'm one of the guys caught in the sun with no place to stay. Not for long at least."

He shrugged again, as if to mask his concern behind a facade of "cool", like everything was going to be okay. It wasn't.

"Barnette?"

What started as a smile twisting onto black lips ended with her head being thrown back, long shiny black hair trailing after it, and laughter coming loud and quick to the chilly SoCal air around them. And it continued for a good thirty seconds, give or take, before her right hand placed atop her chest and her humor wound down, her head coming back, her eyes settling back on him--trying to contain that, briefly, unbridled humor. 

"I'm sorry. I don't find your situation humorous, just been a solid moon's turn since I heard that name. You don't wanna know. But NOT to worry." She put emphasis on the word 'not', because she could help him in more ways than she had time to count, before a pause got awkward, anyway. "It may take me a few days to find something more permanent for you, but in the meantime I know an Elder who doesn't mind your crashing. I doubt you'll ever see them or theirs, either--it's more of a "backup" Haven for them, one of many. There is security on site, so I'll have to escort you and 'check you in' with them, get you a key, but after that you'll be able to come and go when you want until we can get you something more permanent. I'll even phone the Elder and let them know so there's no surprises on either end, yours or theirs."

Catlin's eyes and lips came to life with the playfulness of a Lost Boy as she took a step forward, and offered young Eric her hand. "Deal?"

A frown found its way on his otherwise smooth, youthful face, his eyes glancing down to the outstretched hand. There was a flicker of hesitation in his posture before his gaze drew up to meet hers, his eyes questioning.

"Not to sound ungrateful. But... Why? What's the catch? You don't find a lot of altruistic types down here."

There was a pause. A long, quiet, awkward pause. And then he broke out in that smile, again, all white, all bright, all warm and genuine. He reached out and took her hand in his, cool and smooth in her grip, and squeezed gently.

"Deal," he looked back at her through the bangs in his eyes, those off-colour circles of restlessness highlighted the dark orbs looking back at her. "I'm Eric, by the way. O'Hara."

A few shakes and she let go, reaching into her back pocket for the small smartphone before formally introducing herself. "Catlin Monroe. And don't worry, Eric; the Uber's on me."