The club pounds, damned bass turned all the way to it's max. It's on the verge of glass shattering, chest rattling. Degla isn't a fan of bass in heavy music. Actually, he's not a fan of heavy music at all. Nor clubs, nor dancing in public, nor of people. So why, you may ask, is he in a dance club?

To get drunk. It's entirly possible to get drunk at home away from the music and people and dancing you say? Not to Degla. While the man cares about very little, let me correct that. While the man cares about nothing, he does care about his little sister to whom he now plays daddy over. And he goes out of his way not to badly influance her, thus, he does not talk about work, thus he does not smoke, thus he drinks away from home. And away from home, with alcohol, means club. He can ignore the rest.

Degla is sitting at a corner table, because very rarely does he seat himself at a bar. He's holding a bottle, which he's peeled the label off, though it once claimed it was Anheuser-Busch. He's had five. He's still not buzzed. He's dressed in what he usually wears to go out. It's more classy and dressy then the trash that frequent clubs but not out of place, and it looks good on his slim, lithe body and hides all of his weapons.

His slacks are black leather, fitted to where they are loose but comfortable, over black boots, from waist down, he has hidden four blades, and a pocket knife not hidden at all in his back pocket. His shirt is long sleeved, the wrists opening over his hands. It's white, a button down with a wide, sharp collar and the top few buttons unbuttoned to show his flat, firm chest. A black leather cord is around his neck, tied like a chocker. From waist up he's hiding three blades. His hair is red, tied back with strands hanging loose. It's almost too short to remain tied away from his face.

The eyes, a cerulean blue, empty and deep. They're like looking into the ocean and trying to see the bottom, only to find it's absolutly an impossible task. They seem as if they can look right through the crowd and see to the other side. Glassy, obsidian-like eyes.

She needed to get out and do something. She was still waiting for that damn phone to ring. Greg still hadn’t called her. What the hell was up with that? She needed some excitement in her life. Right now. She sure as hell isn’t going to just sit around her hotel room still and wait for her phone to ring. No way. She’s going out.

She takes a hot shower, gets out and dries off. She pulls on a pair of skin tight black jeans and a light, light blue tube top. She puts her make-up on and fixes her hair. She leaves it down tonight. She likes it better when it’s left down. She thinks it adds to her already stunning looks. And it probably does too.

She struts into the club ‘Dark’ and pauses for a moment to look around. He heads right on over to the bar. “Give me a beer,” she tells the bartender. Now she waits.

((Bleh. It’s shitty.))

Waits for what? Entertainment? Because it won't come from him.

He's like hanging around a styerfoam cup and expecting to have a blast. Not happening.

Degla's glassy eyes roamed over the crowd, if he ever had any facial gestures, he'd be sneering right now. But he didn't, because he scarcly expressed an outward oppinion, scarely showed any emotion at all. He simply sat and let his eyes roam. More often then not, he was looking at tall, dark haired men. Not because it's a preferance but because business is never very far from his mind. And his business right now included a tall, dark haired man named Raven.

One which he'd been after for a very long time. One which he'd watched die in an accident, but couldn't stop thinking about killing because it hadn't been him who'd killed him.

His eyes landed on a dark haired man at the bar, then on the woman beside him. Not Katie. Not Raven. But he stared anyways, his gaze seeming to fall through her. Because he's not looking at her, he's thinking. Remembering that face, Katie. Bitch. Raven's bitch. He wasn't getting payed to kill her too, call it a bonus.

Waits for her beer of course. What else would she be waiting for? It can’t be given to her quick enough in her opinion. When she wants something, she wants it right /now/. Not five minutes from now. Even two minutes from now isn’t soon enough for this stingy bitch. Finally. Her beer is given to her. She throws a couple of bucks on the bar and turns away from it entirely.

An eyebrow lifts as she notices the guy staring at her. No. Not at her. Through her. What’s up with that? She walks over to where he’s sitting. “Hey there,” she says in a charming voice. “Come here often?”

As she'd moved, his eyes hadn't. They'd remained on the barstool she'd been sitting at. But the time she was half way to his table, his eyes were once again on her, empty and glassy, endless and not completely there, though remaining very aware of everything happening. Frighteningly aware.

ome here often?

"That's a terrible line." FOr what? Picking people up? No. Just in general.

Now, it's hard to say which is more emotionless, his eyes or his tone. His eyes are empty, but his tone is as well. That is not to say he speaks in a monotone fashion, his pitch rises and falls like every person, but the tone just seems empty. It's not empty as in 'I really don't give a damn.' It's just not emotional at all. His voice is rather a shade deeper then you might expect, but not deep enough to be called 'bass'.

“Mmm... So it is,” she says with a slight laugh in her voice. She helps herself to a seat at the table and takes a swig of her beer. “I saw you looking my direction so wanted to come over and introduce myself.”

((Ew... it sucks ass))

"I look in a lot of people's directions." And currently it isn't hers. He's watching a pair at the very edge of the dance floor now, though, maybe it seems his gaze passes right through them too. He reaches for his beer and takes another drink, tugged down the last of this bottle and setting it at the edge of the table.

He flagged a waitress and she came, he ordered. He didn't seem to mind, or even care, that the woman had seated herself at his table, just like that. "So introduce yourself then." Not that he'll care very much.

She leans back in the chair and crosses one leg over the other. Her foot sways to the beat of the music. “Tina,” she says and reaches forward with an outstretched hand. “You?”

Degla's eye moves to her foot for a very long time, silence. More silence. What is going through that tangled mess of a mind? He stayed quiet as if he hadn't heard her name, or he hadn't heard her ask for his. The waistress brought him another beer and he lifted his eyes to it, watched a drop of condensation roll down it's side.

"Degla." He picked it up and took a long drink. Still not buzzed. Damn it.

Tina finished off her first beer of the night fairly quickly and requested another beer plus a double shot of vodka. She went back to looking around the place while sitting at the table with the very silent guy.

“Nice to meet you, Degla,” she replies. “What brings you here tonight? You don’t seem to be enjoying being here. So why be here?”

The waitress brings Tina her vodka and beer. She slams back the double shot easily and chases it with a swig of beer.

He watched her toss the vodka back, his eyes empty and ruthless. Bottomless. His finger's curled around the beer bottle, flexed his arm, strained it against the leather strap of a knife sheath. Unflexed, his eyes never moving from her. Then he shifts and everything around looks like it's holding still, as he had been before.

When people who seem to move as little as he does suddenly move, it makes everything that had been moving look as though it stopped suddenly. An interesting effect.

"I'm not enjoying myself," he replied, his eyes now on the ignorant crowd. "Drinking brings me here." No explination as to why here particuarily. Again, drinking at home is possible, just not for him in his oppinion.

She shrugs slightly and drinks on her beer. Tipping the bottle back and taking a big swig. Tina can be quite the drinker when she feels the need to be. Quite good at holding her own even. She’s drank many a man under the table every so often even.

She lifts an eyebrow as she listens to him speaking. “You could very easily drink at home, I’m sure,” she says and shakes her head slightly. “And what would it take to make you enjoy yourself?” she asks in a more playful tone. She motions to the waitress to bring her another double shot and slams it back as quickly as she had done the first one, again chasing it with a swig of beer.

“No. I could not.” Still no explination offered as to why, exactly, he couldn’t drink at home. Degla never gives more information then is asked for. He wouldn’t hesitate to say why if she’d asked why. But since she didn’t ask, he didn’t say. It’s just the way he’s always been. Her playful tone was either disregaurded , had gone totally unnoticed, or he simply didn’t respond in a playful manner. My money is on the second, since really, Degla’s mood doesn’t change very often or easily from the one single relaxed and aware state.

“Getting drunk.”

She just shrugs. It’s not her business why he thinks he can’t just drink at home. So she’s not going to bother asking. She’s not here to get into someone else’s business. She’s here to get drunk and maybe find a good time later.

“Getting drunk...” she says. “That’s what I’m here for...”

She motions to the waitress yet again for another double shot of vodka. She tells the waitress to just keep them coming. Same with her beers too.

He watched her for a long time, long enough to wonder if he'd actually forgotten she was there. Maybe he had....? No. Degla could never become so carless and so easily forgetful. His eyes flicked downward then and he lifted his beer, taking another long drink and lowering it. He stopped the waitress and ordered another beer, commented that he'd get her next drink for her. Because insane or not, he's gentlemen enough, and horny enough, to care to buy someone a drink. At this point, anyone really.

"You'll likely get to the drunken stuppor I want to be in." Because for some reason alcohol didn't affect him.

“When you’re drinking nothing but beer, yeah it’ll take you longer,” she comments not knowing alcohol didn’t affect him. She grinned as he told the waitress that he’d get her next drink. “Why thank you kindly,” she said to him all sweetly. She’s flirting now. Someone please tell me when Tina isn’t horny? Especially since Greg stopped calling her. She frowned slightly as that thought crept into her mind and slammed another drink back.

He just nodded, without explination to why he was only drinking beer and nothing else. It would not matter how many shots he downed, how many bottles he emptied. Maybe it's the fact that really his mind can't comprehend the difference between drunk and not, because it's always in the focus gear. He can't get drunk because his mind wouldn't allow him to stop focusing. His body could be drunk, but he never actually got there.

"Of course." He watched her throw back another shot and wondered at exactly how many she'd already had. Another beer came with her beer and shot, just as he emptied his um-teenth bottle.

How many had she had? Oh let’s see. Every shot is a double shot. By now she’s probably been brought six or seven. So basically she’s had between twelve and fourteen shots. My, my. And she’s still upright? This girl knows how to pack away the booze though.

“What do you like to do for fun besides try to get drunk?” she asked and flipped her hair. Still flirting. Feeling tipsy. Not fall down, slurring tipsy though. She actually stops herself before she reaches that point.

"Nothing."

That's right. Nothing. This man is a completely emotionless, empty bastard. He doesn't even 'like' to get drunk because he can't. He is purely set on four things. Raising Ronnie was first and foremost. Then came eating. Then came killing for hire. Then sex. That is it. Nothing else. He lives only for his sister. He does only what he wishes, and he wishes to do very little aside from stalk, kill, fuck, and sleep. And do it all again.

"You?"

He doesn't even like having this conversation, it's boring and tedious and entirly pointless because ten days from now, unless you see him again, he won't even remember you.

Nothing? Tina couldn’t fathom the thought really. How could one not enjoy anything? Remember, she knows nothing of this man and such. A lusty glint shown in her eyes as he asked her. Her flirting has just picked up several notices. “Drinking, money and sex,” she says bluntly. “The three things I enjoy in life.”


((Horribly short and shitty O.o))

"Your straight foreward." He commented flatly. That same flatline voice he'd held the entire time. See this...This is Degla suprised. It just doesn't happen. He's learned to expect everything. He took another long drink and set the beer down on the table, folded his hands. She won't be taking his money, it's not an easy task, though he had bought her one drink, and he wasn't short on money in anyway. Killing is a good business. If you can do it right. He stared through/at her again.

She’s not after money from him. No. She gets that from somewhere else. Easy money. At least, that’s how she looks at taking money from Gunn. Tonight, she is out for two things and only two things. Alcohol and sex. “No sense in beating around the bush,” she states in her ever increasing flirty tone.

"No," just a simple agreement and nothing more. Senseless to beat around the bush, it saves time to be entirly direct from the very begining. Is her flirty tone being ignored now? Nope, he's still just not returning the flirtation, but he's noted it, duely noted it. At any rate, this might just be Degla flirting back.

No. Degla doesn't flirt either. But he does make observations and in some way react to them. In her case, it's ordering them both another drink. He's subtle without even being subtle. Yes, Tina, he's responding. Wow.

She gladly accepts the drink and slams it back nearly the moment it arrives at the table. She chases it back with a big swig of beer. Fuck this. She downs the rest of the beer and leans forward on the table. “Let’s get out of here,” she comes right out and says. “Go somewhere more... private...”

He stood. Just like that, he's agreed and stood up already, his back to her as he begins to walk, his fresh beer in his hand, towards the exit. He's simply expected her to follow him, the crowd pressing around them. He seems to walk with a steady, even pace, moving as though he owned the place, owned to crowd, owned the very floor they walked on. It's the walk he introduced Jayme too, and now he's giving to her. Though, it may be doubtful he even knows he's doing it at all. It's the 'I am a God' walk. And really, he seems like it.

He's on the side walk opening the passenger door to a black, compact, sporty, and expensive toy before he ever turns to see if she's followed him or not.

Should you really get into a car with a stranger as strange as he?

And she follows him. Like a bitch in heat. Follows him through the crowd. Follows him out the door. For all that she’s had to drink, she’s surprisingly steady on her feet. Stumbles only a couple of times and that’s only because she was bumped into by a couple of people.

She follows him out to the sidewalk and over to his car. Hot damn. Sporty, expensive car. Very nice. She’s got a thing for expensive fast cars. They’re a big turn on for her. She gives his ass a bit of a squeeze as she glides past him and climbs in.

Obviously she doesn't care about strange strangers.

He responds to her squeezing of his ass only by looking down at her and closing the door behind her. He moves around the front of the vehicle and slides in, ignores the seat belt. Theres an algebra book and a hair scrunchy in her floor board, a bunch of jazz CDs in the viser holder and on the back seat a bunch of obnoxious teen-loved pop CDs. In the player, jazz flows out of the speakers.

"Where too?" Because his home is not an option. No one goes back there with him while Ronnie's home. He starts the car. Waits.

Right now, she doesn’t care about anything but getting laid. She’s already had her alcohol. Now she wants laid. She’s never been terribly picky about who with. Just so long as she got her enjoyment out of it.

“My place is just a few blocks away,” she says. “I’m staying in that big fancy hotel.”

Degla isn't picky. He's much like her. If he wants sex, he gets it. If he doesn't then screw everyone else and he does what he pleases. Simple. At her response, he pulls into the street, easily pulling into the flow of traffic. A hotel? Big fancy? Child. He followed her directions in utter silence aside from the jazz flowing over his speakers. When he pulled into the parking lot, ignoring any valet that may be near, he gets out and moves around the car to open her door, pocketing the key to....where? Those pants had no pockets, but the key went somewhere. Right?

"After you," oh what a gentlemen. Or more like he just doesn't know which room.

She slides out of the car and turns to walk towards the hotel. This is where she’s been living since arriving in Bayfield. Why not rent an apartment or something? She likes it here. She likes being waited on. Room service. Maids. All that jazz.

She walks in front of him and glances back every so often just to make sure he’s still following. Her hips are swaying back and forth in a teasing sort of manner. Once inside the building, she leads him to the elevator. Her room is up on the 5th floor.

He's still back there Tina, he's following still with that 'I'm god' impression. How many believe now that he is a god? Quite a few. He gets into the elevator with her and waits paitently, his hands folded in front of him, everything loose about him, cool and calm. While it's obvious this isn't a new thing for her, it's hard to tell if it is or isn't for him. He's terribly unreadable, which makes him a good assassin.

Ding.

Obnoxious sound, he gets out of the elevator. Straightens his button down shirt, waits for her again.

She exits the elevator and strides down the hallway to room number five hundred fifteen. Out comes her key from her back pocket. It’s one of those card type keys. She slides it through the lock. The green light comes on and she pushes open the door.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she says teasingly and heads towards the middle of the room. There’s the usual hotel furniture in the room and a king size bed.

Could even the card key have fit into the pocket of those skin tight jeans? It suprised Delga that it could. He'd not thought there was any room for that. Inside the room his eyes swept everything quickly while shutting the door behind him, then again slower this time. Now he knew where every potential hiding place was, where the most stratigic kill points were, and every possible escape from the room. Yes, his eyes and mind had figured all of this out in a matter of seconds.

There's a fine line between insanity and genius. It's hard to tell with Degla. He moved forward into the room, turned to her and waited. He's almost like a zombie.

Strategic kill points? Damn. She’s just out to get laid. Not killed. Down boy.

This is odd. Slightly odd. Why’s the guy not all over her like most other guys? Why’s he just standing there? Maybe he’s shy? Ha. Not hardly.

She walks over to him and leans her head up to kiss him.

Not kill points for her. For anyone stupid enough to have followed him. It wouldn't be a first. This is his usual routine. And this is him being careless too. Can you imagine?

His head tilts down and takes her lips the moment she leans up to kiss him. His lips are soft, seem like they may never have been kissed, has much practice kissing. For someone that seems so terribly empty, his kiss seems full enough of something. I wouldn't call it passion, and probably not even lust, but something. Something most can't seem to resist. It's the 'God' thing again.

His fingers play on the beer bottle that he carried up. His tongue tastes like the beer.

If everything he does feels like this, she’ll gladly call him ‘God’.

Her hands come up and start working on getting his shirt off. Not once removing her lips from his.

Removing his shirt might bring a...subtle....surpise. First of all, what looks to be thin and possibly boney with a shirt over it is actually thin but lean with muscle, not toned, just barely noteable layers of muscle. The second is the leather stip around his neck hangs down his back, a short dagger tied to it. Also, along his upper right arm is a sheathed dagger, a similar one along his left forearm.

His lips not leaving hers, he sets aside the beer, shrugs the shirt off, unties the strap from his neck and lets it and it's knife fall to the floor, then works the sheaths off. Taking her hands and pressing one to his flat chest, the other to his lower back above the low pant line. His fingers play at her shirt, slip beneath the hem and run upward.

It's hard to believe he's still aware of everything else too.

Mmm... yes. Quite a surprise actually. But not enough to get her to pull away. Why would she want to do that? She’s out to get laid. She moans against his lips as he moves her hands. One on his chest. The other on the lower part of his back. Her eyes are closed. She leans into him as she feels his fingers slide up her shirt. The hand on his back starting to slowly run up and down his back. Dipping down slightly into the top of his pants. Her other hand running over his chest and stomach.

This even interests him slightly, that a woman competely ignored the fact that the strangest of strangers that she wanted to fuck right now was armed with (so far revealed) four knives, three of which were daggers and had been concealed in his clothing.

He removes her hands, pushes them off of him to pull her shirt over her head and lay it over the back of a chair. Then his hands are running the circle of her waist and upward along her back. He's still gained no emotion, still seems to be entirly here but not here, completely sensual without showing any passion. He's still kissing her like he had, moveing down her neck with gentle bites of dull teeth, almost all of his near-shoulder length hair coming loose to tickle her chest.

Go ahead, call him God, Tina.

Yes. She is completely ignoring that fact. She /had/ noticed but is ignoring it. Remember, she had how many double shots? Seven? Eight? Possibly nine? That would mean she would have had between 14 and 18 single shots if she drank them that way. Plus the several beers to chase back those shots. Yes. She’s drunk. More than she lets on even. Now, all she can think about is getting laid.

Her shirt is easily stripped away. Reveling that she is wearing no bra under it. She doesn’t have huge breasts. If she wore a bra, they would be a ‘B’ cup. But they are soft and perky. Anything more than a mouthful is a waste anyway.

She moans and tilts her head back as he kisses down her neck. Her lower half has very nearly melted against him. If he were to let go and step back right now, she would fall to the ground. But he’s not going to do that, right? Her hands come up and touch his arms. Running over them. Around to his back. Nearly holding on so she doesn’t fall over.

She’s starting to wonder if she perhaps has died and gone to heaven. Is he a God? Mmm....