Flatfoots, coppertops, boys in blue: the criminal element of this city all had different names for the fuzz. In truth, though, the police were nothing more than high-class security guards; they carried .38s and .45s instead of tasers and nightsticks, switchblades instead of pepper spray. But security guards had an ear to the ground that the police couldn't touch, a way in, access to places the police found to be impenetrable fortresses. People didn't like their business known to the general public and the warehouse had seen its fair share of security guards and cops alike over the years, but now it claimed to be a legitimate nightclub catering to the average joe.

Of course, the underlying truth was that there was no average joe in Bayfield. At least most of the hairs that littered the chin of the true face of the city could seem just like any other so-called 'normal' person, blending in by getting a job and living a life often expected by the rest of the world: a security guard, for example. Some knew how to hide because they had to; others had turned it into an art form. Whatever the reason of each individual, those initiated into the true underworld - many of which were criminals the police had never seen the likes of and probably never would - knew as a whole that a lack of secrecy would mean far more than a little persecution here and there. The darkness held its secrets and secrets were a safe haven for people who had them.

People like Reynaud Beauchene.

Nagas were something right out of a mythologist's dream world, the ideal melding of human and snake that was as much symbolic as it was real. There was no mystical quality to the way they changed; there was only fluid RNA, the kind of stuff that scientists couldn't even dream of at present, which was probably fortunate for initiates and uninitiates alike. As with a chameleon changing its colors, the smooth transition from naga to human had taken only a few seconds and it had taken even less time to throw on some clothes and equipment. It had been another uneventful night for Reynaud, few people prowling about that weren't supposed to be there and even fewer - none tonight, in fact - causing any kind of trouble. There was one guy smoking a little too close to the propane tank over by the southeast corner of the building, but that had been more stupidity than criminal intent.

Now Reynaud slumped into a seat at the far west edge of the bar inside the club, his duties done for the night as the twenty-four-hour club raged on. There wasn't much raging going on right now because of how many people had passed out, left, or decided to slump down where they were and watch the stragglers squirm out the last of their booze and drugs. Reynaud was eager to get out of his work-worn uniform and put a tail under him again, but he was thirsty at the moment and his throat came before his arse at this point.

"The usual," he said to the bartender, a grizzled vet who nodded and headed down the narrow strip of ground between the bar and the shelves of drinks.

Heartstoppers couldn't be handled by anyone with a soft stomach, the german rum too strong and the vodka too potent for a lightweight. It was the cayenne that truly made it dangerous, though, and Reynaud had met more than a few people who were lucky to be alive after coming a little too close to having an acid reflux attack to end all others, and that wasn't even counting the heart attack victims - hence the name of the drink. Fortunately, Reynaud didn't have that problem.

If you're looking for an average Joe, chances are you won't glance twice at Tatters. He looks too exotic. Which is perhaps ironic. In his entire twenty-nine years on this planet, he's never done anything remotely remarkable. Sure, he can juggle okay and pull the odd rabbit out of a hat but... He's nothing special. Some good potential gone to ruin at the inhaling end of a joint. His beloved mother would say he's a waste of human flesh, but that's a little harsh. After all, he looks good on the dance floor... so he can't be all bad.

It's morning now, though. Outside of the Warehouse, in the cold streets of Bayfield, the sky is getting light. Very early morning, not yet sunrise, but morning enough that you could actually call it 'morning' instead of 'so fucking late you're sober again.'

Which is the case with Tatters. He remembers at some point, somewhere much earlier in the blur of the evening, he was blissfully wasted. But he danced it off, apparently, and he can see the club with disconcerting clarity. It looks shabby in the light of sobriety. The clientele is mostly people too drunk to remember to leave, or people who really can't face up to their empty beds. Some people at the bar, people who just got off work and are drinking here because everything else is shut.

Tatters slouches over to the bar. He's tired - any effect that Red Bull he'd had sometime the night before might have had is worn off - and a little disheveled and he's starting to get a headache. He thinks he needs a little hair of the dog that bit him, and then maybe he'll crawl home and die. Or just make coffee and start the process over again.

He sits down at the bar, orders a drink, and then realises he's accidentally sat down next to a guy in a uniform. Oops. Tatter's no fan of anyone who represents law and order. Law and order doesn't sit particularly well with him. But he's not about to get up again, and the guy's kind of hot anyway.

He fidgets with the hem of his skirt, and when his drink comes he takes a big, reassuring gulp of it. The tequila burns his throat, and then his mind.

The night seemed to have drug on this evening. Maybe it was the subtle scent of perfume mixed with the sweat and fear of a robbery gone bad just a few hours before his shift, or perhaps it was the monotony of being in a job that he couldn't appreciate. To Reynaud, it was just another night, another eight hours, another few scents to ponder over a heartstopper and a fresh spleen. But there would be no organs here, nothing that would catch the attention of the uninitiates rushing through the city like madmen trying to keep up with their own heartbeats and failing miserably. In short, he was bored.

Reynaud needed something different, something to focus on. This city was suffocating him, strangling the life out of someone whose family was known for wrapping themselves around others and crushing them to death. The irony itself was a staggering thought to someone who wasn't used to it. Reynaud was used to it. Maybe that was the problem. Or, maybe he just needed another drink.

He'd downed the first and he ordered a second without a moment's thought. It was as the bartender went to make another, remarking that he had to crush another cayenne since he was out, when someone else showed up. It was a guy; any idiot could see that. But most guys didn't put on skirts and eyeball security guards like they didn't know whether to stab them or kiss them, unless said security guards happened to be busty females. This one, though, was obviously gay. Clearly, he didn't like cops; the look on his face as he glanced at Reynaud said it all. But he wouldn't have kept looking had if he'd thought the presumed human was ugly. His peripheral vision told him everything he needed to know, shared the tales that others might not want to tell. He was good at reading people - always had been, always would be. It was just the way he was hard-wired, he supposed; maybe that's why he was so good as a security guard: he had an eye for detail and there wasn't much he missed.

The bartender brought him another double, knowing Reynaud's routine like the back of his hand. He'd sit there for a while, maybe a half-hour, having his drink of choice before he took off for the night to who-knew-where for who-knew-what. It was probably better than the bartender didn't know what was beyond his own nose; he probably knew something was odd about Reynaud, but he'd never poked his nose where it didn't belong. Vets knew when to barge in and when to leave well enough alone. In Reynaud's case, it was best for both of them if the bartender did the latter rather than the former.

Tatters is not gay, exactly.

He even has evidence, of sorts, in the form of his adorable little boy - William - and his terrifyingly domestic ex-girlfriend. He tries to avoid them if he can. He doesn't mind them, he feels affectionate about them, he comes round for tea Christmas and birthdays. But he doesn't really like the idea of having a son. He's not even responsible enough for a girlfriend, or a cat, never mind a child. And he's pretty sure his DNA is flawed. It makes crazy people. Crazy not exactly gay people. Yeah. The kid's fucked.

But to get back to Tatters, his half empty glass of tequila, and his mini-skirt.

It's worth noting that it's a fairly fetching mini-skirt, and Tatters is a fairly fetching boy, even at the far end of a long night. His eye make up is a bit smudged, his hair's a mess, he looks tired, but it doesn't detract from the fact that he's pretty. He knows it, too, perched on his bar stool, crossing his legs. He's got black lace tights on, tights that he stole from a girl. His shirt is his own - black, non-descript, a genuine article of men's clothing.

So yes, he's pretty and knows it. But that doesn't mean he's going to say anything whatsoever to the man beside him. He's got more sense to hit on security guards, especially male security guards. They're the type who take it the wrong way, and anyway he doesn't need them remembering his face.

He drains his glass and gives the bartender a crooked smile. They're on good terms. Tatters practically lives at the Warehouse.

"One for the road," Tatters says. He fishes around in his pocket and comes up with money. It's even real money. He likes to keep these people on his good side, so he saves the fake stuff for other clubs. Places with less cagey staff.

Three heartstoppers in all saw Reynaud down the road to a heavy buzz, but he was still totally in control of his mind and senses. Heartstoppers always did weird things to his eyesight if he wasn't in naga form and totally screwed up his hearing if he had more than four, but he could hold his liquor the way crazy glue bound a busted wing to an airplane model. Yeah, he was drunk, but he was sober at the same time, and that was a hard thing to do unless you were an alcoholic by every definition of the word. Nagas were about the only creatures he knew that could handle a few heartstoppers without a problem, and Reynaud himself was no exception. He could even hold a few more than the rest of his family could, but then, they weren't exactly hot sauce devotees.

In truth, it was the buzz that had gotten him hooked on the stuff, just like any other alcoholic. But it was the challenge that had kept him on it more than the buzz; how many could he drink before he got so drunk he couldn't stand either as a human or a naga? He wasn't sure, but he knew he'd had at least six heartstoppers before getting drunk in the past and he was fairly certain he'd had at least nine before he couldn't stand up. Whiskey and vodka were just fine, great for getting drunk quick, but they didn't seem to affect Reynaud much unless he had a good dozen shots or more. But heartstoppers...now, that was one hell of a drink.

He was still far too sober not to realize he'd been eyeballed by the ladyboy sitting next to him more than once, but he wasn't worried about it. If the man came onto him, he'd just ignore him and leave. He was about ready to part company with the bartender anyway, now in the mood to handle just about anything that came his way, what with having a few drinks in his belly an' all. Fortunately, he had a running tab here at the club and a three-drink maximum before that tab started up; he'd gone well past that maximum a few times, but he wasn't so desperate for a drink as to do it all the time. Besides that, he paid his tab once a week and he wasn't due for the next payment until tomorrow night. He could thank the elf for that one, sleazy and outdated though his taste in clothing and music might have been. At least he read a book once in a while, even if it was something by Anne Rice. Reynaud actually perferred the odd biography now and then to accompany his usual history book, but he didn't particularly care what other people had in their collections; he might've had a pretty good collection himself, but he was a reader, not a collector, and he wasn't about to become a literary connoiseur any time soon.

He was about to get up and leave. He sent a salute the bartender's way and was in the process of standing when the devil himself showed up in red leather cowboy boots, too-bright pants of orange polyester with a suit jacket to match, and an Elvis t-shirt that looked like it'd seen better days. The cowbell in his left lobe gave him away before Reynaud ever tasted the cheap whiskey on the elf's breath or the Old Spice dabbed on under his chin for good luck. Yeah, he was an idiot, for only an idiot would've dressed like a reject from the seventies in a place that was clearly made for the nineties; then again, it was the twenty-first century, which supposedly meant that anything from the twentieth was fair game. It was Reynaud's bad luck that Jonas happened to be his friend.

Loud and annoying as ever, he called out a greeting as he plopped down happily next to the Frenchie, a hideous grin on his face and a too-happy twinkle in his blue-gray eyes. Here he was, asking if he was leaving or if he was gonna stick around for a few more drinks, when all Reynaud wanted to do was get out of his clothes and into his natural body. Maybe he still could, though, if the elf was willing. He shot Jonas a warning glance, but he missed it and went on about some dame he'd met back at the Triskelle a few nights ago who'd given him her phone number. Apparently, it was her real number and she was interested - or so Jonas claimed; Reynaud wasn't so sure, but who was he to judge? He wasn't the sure-shot womanizing slave to the loaded magnum between his legs that Jonas was and he wasn't about to become one, either.

Frankly, he'd never understood human biology below the belt. Sure, he got the details and could figure out how things worked, but the question was why rather than how. It was so much simpler for nagas: a bit of pheromone secreted from under the armpits and a little tongue-rubbing was as good a free-fall from pubic sanity as any one-night stand between Jonas and some blonde he'd met at a local club. So why did humans have to have a whole separate set of organs just to reproduce when all a naga had to do was stimulate a couple of glands no bigger than the heads of a few pins? It made no sense to Reynaud, but he was in no mood to figure it out, either. Maybe he just needed another drink.

Sighing, he plopped back down onto the faded leather-covered stool and ordered another heartstopper. Seeing his friend, the bartender understood at once and had to turn around more to suppress a chuckle and a look of amazement that probably hadn't gone unnoticed by the elf regardless of the preventative measures than to actually get Reynaud his drink. This was going to be a long day, Reynaud knew - a very long day indeed.

Tatters is blithely, strenuously ignoring his fellow customers. Although he does like the jingle bell earring.

He is smoking, in his usual sly way. There is smoke, but no fire (or cigarette) in this instance, although he's holding his fingers almost like there ought to be something between them. The bartender is ignoring the smoke, and the naga is seemingly ignoring Tatters. All is going along much as it should be.

The bartender puts down another shot of tequila in front of Tatters. Rolls his eyes, and says something along the lines of 'can't you do something about the smell for fuck's sake, Tatters' but Tatters just laughs. It's so damn early in the morning that everything seems surreal to him. He should get his sorry ass to home and bed, but that would involve moving. Moving seems like it would take effort. And Di is probably fucking wasted and having a nervous breakdown, or taking up all the bed and all the blankets, or one of twenty-seven other annoying things women do.

So Tatters just sits there and sips his tequila like that's a normal thing to do.

The jingle of the bell swinging around was as annoying as it was quiet, for the ringer inside didn't have much to ring. Still, it was loud enough to break the eerie silence that seemed to have crept into the club in the early-morning hours of a place long-abandoned by the heartiest of partiers. Only a few stragglers remained, die-hard drunks and people with no style or class showing up to see if there was anyone around for a bit of second-rate dancing. Reynaud wasn't much of a dancer himself, but maybe that was because he typically had a tail instead of a pair of jointed toothpicks under him. That's really about all they were, too, for it was all too easy to snap them like twigs, especially in his naga form; that tail of his wasn't just for show, after all - it was a deadly weapon when it needed to be.

The elf's grin was like the sun suddenly peering into a dark alley full of vampires, sending people as far as they could get away from the oddball with the bell on his ear, but he didn't seem to notice as he asked about Reynaud's evening and if he'd met any women he considered worthy of taking home. He wasn't talking about taking them home to mom, either. Reynaud shook his head as he got the next heartstopper, but the bartender had sympathetically placed two before him instead of just one and said there was no charge tonight. Yeah, he was a real prince; actually, he was a bastard half the time, but he was a good guy overall and this proved it: he, too, understood what it meant to be associated with Jonas.

Mostly, it was Jonas doing the talking as the sun slowly poked its way into the city. Technically, the bar closed at three, but the bartender wasn't one to push someone away unless they were causing trouble and he'd serve them drinks if they stuck around and weren't too drunk to see the bill. Reynaud downed his first of the two drinks, a bad idea he should've never had. He knew it the instant it hit him, too. The burning in his chest made him wince and a small cough emanated from between his too-human lips suffered at the hands of a merciless liquid devil with a chopped-up pepper for a tongue and a serious kick to it. Fortunately, the feeling passed quickly, but it gave Reynaud something else to focus on as the elf talked about this, that, and the other thing. He wasn't talking like a raving madman, but he might as well have been for all that the naga was actually listening to him until he said something about the Triskelle and a fire. That caught his attention.

"What happened?"

"At the Triskelle? Oh, just some bloke decided to catch himself on fire and decided to jump out the office window. Fell straight into the bar, 'e did! Cracked his skull wide open and started a bonfire right there between the bar an' the drinks. Ha! I tell ya, they never learn."

Yeah, that's typically what happened when someone other than a wizard tried a wizard's bomb, one of the most volatile alcoholic drinks in existence more because of the explosive nature than the actual alcoholic content. Idiots seemed to show up everywhere these days, even at the Triskelle, but that was nothing new. After all the idiots Reynaud had seen over the years, somehow he just wasn't surprised enough not to down the second heartstopper and ask for another. Yeah, he'd definitely need to get drunk to handle this idiot right now.

There's a saying warning people not to mix business with pleasure. It's not one Thomas William Joyce has ever adhered to. For instance: he likes getting into fights. The rush of it all makes his ears drone. Sometimes people will pay him to get into fights. It’s business but he can still takes pleasure in it.

Whoever came up with that saying must have had a boring job.

Tonight Tam's mixed business and pleasure in a way that's even more obvious than the usual. It’s early in the morning and most of his clientele are coming down, chugging orange juice and trawling home. Not many buyers past one – they're smart enough to want to get their money's worth. The juddering music and flashing strobe lighting drives people to Tam's corner, where he sells the only way possible to appreciate godsawful trance music. He doesn't like to deal while high but there were no customers left and he had a few tabs left over so why not?

At a time when most people were starting to cool off and go to the bar Tam was fascinated by the repetitive motions he could make with glowsticks. Now his Frankie Says Relax shirt is soaked through with sweat, front and back. A pretty girl gave him a beaded necklace and the two of them spent a few minutes touching each other’s faces. She was right – Tam hadn't noticed before how fuzzy his head is.

With the buzz starting to wear off Tam heads towards the bar to get a drink. He’s starting to freak out a little that he hasn’t been drinking enough tonight when from behind he sees Tatters all dolled up with nobody to kiss. Of course Tam is going to rectify that.

"Tatters," he says, drawing out the E (with no pun intended): "Tatters, yeh'ma bes'pal." This is said directly into Tatters’ neck. Tam has come up behind him to snake his arms under his friends' armpits and across his chest, capturing him in a hug. While he talks, he nuzzles his nose into Tatters’ ear.

Touching stuff is fun. He even wants to hug the pissed off looking policeman, but previous experience has taught him what a bad idea that is.

Now finally here is something more exciting than the angry looking security guard who Tatters has been steadfastly ignoring for the past half hour. Something familiar, friendly, and apparently touchable.

"Tam," he says, grinning. He's never quite sure where he stands with Tam. The whole oops-I-got-your-sister-knocked-up thing was a little rough on their fledgling relationship, and Tam has a whole range of moods, most of which involve wanting to break someone's face. Sometime said face it Tatters'.

This Tam is friendly and cuddly, though, and Tatters prefers it. He reaches up to give the boy a reverse hug while pulling him closer. "Sit down man, where you been all night? I'd by you a drink if I wasn't fucking broke..." He's drunk enough to sound British.

He digs around in his pocket and finds a few coins. "Brilliant," he says, grinning. "What are you drinking?"

Over Tam's shoulder, he's still giving the security guard a wary look. Security guards are no fun, not even when they're off duty. Especially not with Tam around. Tam is definitely not on the side of law and order.

Oh, good god. First there was the elf with the bad fashion sense and the worse style, his cheerful attitude welcome on an off day Reynaud was bored and needed something to keep his mind occupied. But tonight, it just wasn't what he needed, not among the kooks and crazies, the drunks and the addicts and the late-night stragglers with their panties all in a bunch if they didn't get what they wanted right then - certainly not after a long night, when all he wanted to do was coil and nap. Aye, he was Reynaud's friend, but Jonas was annoying all the time, not just when it was acceptable, and tonight it most definitely was not acceptable. At least he could tolerate the elf, though.

But now there was some other cheerful idiot who seemed to have no sense of sleep deprivation at all, a fact that seemed to afflict everyone under the age of fifty who didn't have a job. Then again, even the ones that had jobs seemed to like to party a little too much and sleep a little too little. What was it about this town that made people want to waste their entire lives half-drunk and twice as high as the international space station? Give 'em a few years and they'd be in a slow-motion whirlpool, falling like the space station but without anyone to prop them up again.

Reynaud didn't have a stick up his ass and he wasn't a brick wall, but he was tired and he wanted to relax. He didn't want to stick around here, but he'd be getting the third degree if he didn't and he wasn't in the mood for that tonight. Hell, it seemed he wasn't in the mood for much of anything tonight...no, this morning. Of course, it was this morning, not tonight. It was...what time was it anyway? How much - nay, how many had he had? Eight? Yeah; he was pretty sure it was eight. He could feel his heart pounding; his lungs itched real bad, like they had athlete's foot, but he couldn't exactly reach into his own chest or down his own throat to scratch them. Oh, well. He cleared his throat and shook his head a bit. He said something about heading to the bathroom, and his friend said that was all right, that he needed another drink anyway; he'd wait.

Reynaud got up and headed for the sign that he couldn't really see anymore; it was just a door now, no white-on-black stick figure to distract him. It took him a moment to find the doorknob, but that was normal; he'd be semi-half-sober in a few minutes.

"Mmmp," says Tam, trying to cling on to Tatters while the man gets his money and turns to the bar. Tatters doesn't seem to mind that Tam is drenched in sweat. "Toni' people ha'been coming to see me, no' me goin' tae see other people. Ah've no' been chattin' tae friends. This..." and he does a stage glance to make sure the fuzz have left, not really wary but knowing how much trouble he could be in, "this guy ah know gave me some ex to trundle on."

Tam has never been very good with the law and it's a good thing it left before he started chatting to Tatters. He comes from a part of town where pigs are scum, to be either avoided or assaulted, depending.

"Ta-atters," Tam whines, snaking a hand through Mark's hair, "Jessie said ah weren't allowed ta'be drinkin' t'night." She tried to know as little as possible about Tam's activities while still being able to look after him. Her best move is a deliberate look away from where the rent money is coming from.

"But," he adds, eyes wide, pupils pinpricks, "there's oneormaybetwo left. Yeh can have one if yeh like, they're good."

This claim is substantiated by the fact Tam is braiding his friend's hair while gawping at the flashing lights instead of trying to punch - well, anyone, really. Tam is a walking purity testing kit; the less punchy he gets, the better whatever he's selling must be.

Tatters leans into his friend a bit. The boy is drenched in sweat, smells of humanity and other people's perfume. Tatters doesn't mind, almost likes it. He presses his lips to Tam's neck, and the faded remains of his lipstick leave a tiny red smudge across the boy's skin.

"Oh, working then..."

Tatters isn't sure about the moral viability of drug dealing, but he accepts it as necessary. It's like politicians. Undesirable, inherently unclean, but things would go to fuck without them. And he's not about to begrudge his son's family their income. He tries to give Jessie some money once in a while but there never seems to be much. Of course, if he put what he spends on booze and drugs towards his kid...

Anyway, now is not a moment for guilt or responsibility.

"How about I buy you a coke?" Tatters suggests, half teasing, relishing the feeling of fingers in his hair. He means Coca-Cola for once.

"Sure, why not..."

Well, because he should be sobering up and going to work like a functional human being. But maybe that's not how it's gonna go down.

Among the dark, dank floorboards of the warehouse and the smells of booze and cheap cigarettes, it was impressive to find some semblance of artificial sanitation. The soap smelled like it was made out of something that had only just died and the water was anything but clean; the bathroom itself was dingy and smelled of urine and a myriad of other scents that seemed to want nothing more than to make others add to it with their lunch. But wrinkled though his nose had first been when he'd set foot into the club some months ago, his intent anything but honest as he sat down in a cheaply furnished office with a manager desperate enough to hire anyone for the security job Reynaud now held, he'd gotten used to the smell and the writing on the wall.

Fortunately, the blood money he was being paid to infest this little joint was more than worth the strays that wandered in for anything from a drink to a back room; the idiots drugging themselves up the best way they knew how in the darker corners; the younger generation that had a little too much interest in their modern version of dancing to what they called music; and the brawls he'd broken up and violent murders he'd prevented since he'd started this low-end job. The sooner he got out of it, the better, though his friend Jonas seemed to thrive in places like this. It was Jonas that had gotten him into this in the first place and that alone should've warned Reynaud that this was no place for anyone who wanted to keep their head facing any kind of natural direction while sitting firmly on his shoulders, but the work wasn't too bad and the money was excellent despite the blue-collar nature of the employment. The only hazard were the detailed reports on all that went on in and around the club, but that was hardly a hazard so much as it was a speed bump that he had to roll over on his way out of the place one morning a week. He had excellent recall and was thus perfect for the job, but it was only the money that kept him around - and that was saying something considering what most security jobs paid.

It was a good ten minutes or so before he walked out of that restroom, the buzz strong enough to kill a weaker man but his sense now fully in Reynaud's control once more. He was still uncomfortable that he had to stay in his human form, but at least he could handle himself now. Maybe he shouldn't drink anything else tonight, or maybe he should just have a gin instead of his usual. No, he'd have a Pepsi. He wasn't too fond of most soft drinks, but he liked the taste of Pepsi well enough and it seemed to do wonders for his drunkenness, though how that worked was beyond him. All he knew is that it counteracted the effects of the heartstoppers real well; how it did it was irrelevant.

He sat back down and ordered a Pepsi and a couple of hot dogs for breakfast, what for him was actually dinner. If he was going to have to stay a human for a while, he should at least get some solid food in him. Strangely enough, stomach acid seemed to pretty much dissolve everything in his system when he changed, thereby making him have to shed skins more often but also negating the necessity for the restroom on a regular basis, a necessity most humans couldn't live without. Reynaud could live without it since he spent so much time as a human. Frankly, he wished he could just tell the world to fuck off and show everyone what he was, but there were too many people that would hate him or try to study him to make it worth it. There were reasons for being anonymous, and damn good ones at that.

If Tam had been to college - if he'd even stayed at school past sixteen - he might have been a Marxist. Maybe, instead of punching and fucking his way through society's underbelly, he would have gone on protest rallies, and all the rage he felt would have found an outlet in political speeches. He's got the passion for it but not the direction. When he's not on drugs, he's got the anger. Nothing irritates him more than sanctimonious morons who have no idea what it's like to struggle, really struggle, for money to feed your kid. The ones who look down on Tam and his 'type'. A very quiet roar of a buzz beats in the back of Tam's skull when the glorified security guard sits himself back down. Ecstasy is the only barrier that stops him from picking a fight with the fuzz. Sober or inebriated, he knows it's not a good idea. Make love, not war. Etcetera.

"Aye," he tells his friend, distracted and trying to not let it get to him, "coke'd be good ta."

As though he's moving through a dream, Tam lifts a hand up to his neck to feel the grease of the lipstick left there. Tatters and Diane are living together now and probably sharing make-up kits. Even if Tam wasn't dosed up to the gills and in love with everyone, Tatters' face paint wouldn't be enough to surprise him. Right now he's filled with strange thoughts about how to get through it. The solution, he decides, is to take the last remaining tab from his pocket, put it on the tip of his tongue, and press it into Tatters' mouth.

Tatters cannot be said to fall into the same category as Tam, really. He's the over educated only child of an upper-middle-class family with a tendency towards moderate political girls. At the end of the day he could always go running back to Virginia. Unfortunately, while he's willing to swallow all kinds of things, his pride isn't one of them. He's not Tam, though, and he's more lost than angry.

He gives the security guard - who gives off a strong impression of being a glorified attack dog, to Tatter's mind - a side long look, but says nothing. He doesn't need to get into a fight just now. He's not sure his nose can stand up to any more breaking.

"Hey, honey, get us a coke would ya," he drawls at the bartender. The guy's straight like a fucking ruler but nonetheless used to Tatter's persistent flirtations. Tatters doesn't think anyone should be straight. It's so boring.

On that note, Tam is kissing him and it's drugged and good so never mind that bartender. Tatters pulls his friend closer to him, threading his hands through the ragged mop of hair. Tam still seems to think he's too masculine to put effort into his appearance but Tatters doesn't really mind. He's only really obsessed with his own looks, and other people may do as they please.

The hot dogs were of low-quality, but at least they were edible - almost. The cheese tasted like it had been laid out for days before being refrigerated and the ice-cold ketchup didn't seem to agree with the heat of the bun very much; why did people put condiments in the fridge? Reynaud had never understood that. It didn't keep them fresh any longer than sticking them on a shelf did and it made things taste bad besides. Then again, most condiments made things taste bad, but in this case Reynaud was forced to either make an exception or head to the bathroom again. Overall, the taste was like some dead alien after having been gutted and cooked; maybe they'd left the brain in when they'd cooked the damn thing. What was in a hot dog, anyway? Did the makers even know?

But the Pepsi washed it down well enough and a second helped finish the disgusting meal off. He sat there sipping it, his plate at the other edge of the bar just waiting to be picked up, as his friend sipped his martini and went on about this thing and that thing and the other thing. He wasn't really paying attention, instead thinking about how he was going to handle his next ritual. He was supposed to be leading this one and he wasn't sure how to handle it. He knew the ritual well enough, but he'd never called on Athanasius himself before. Besides that, he was supposed to make some kind of inspirational speech before the ritual, and this one happened to comprise a larger number of nagas than usual. Apparently, it was the first-ever meeting of more than one group of worshippers at a time, all calling on the god of death and dreams at the same time in the hopes that it would be made easier and wouldn't take as long. Why anyone was worried about it in the first place was beyond Reynaud, since they'd never changed things up and they'd been doing the ritual for thousands of years.

No pressure.

The coke comes with a curly red straw and a slice of lemon that was cut a couple of hours ago. Tatters was right to order it; although the caffeine isn't what Tam needs right now, the bubbles feel great. He's finally dragged a bar stool next to his friend's. It's close enough that Tam can still play with Tatters' hair, nuzzle into his side, and trace a finger up and down his arm.

It's a little cooler here than it was on the dance floor. Tam keeps his wet shirt on anyway. He's not tarted up like Tatters. Today it's black trousers that flare at the knee and his big stompy boots underneath them. He's got a couple of glowsticks strung about his waist, and the thick beaded necklace about his neck that a girl gave him earlier. The glowsticks, he decides, need sharing. The blue one is plaited gently into Tatters' hair.

The half empty beverage, starting to pespire, makes Tam's hands wet when he picks it up again. Being unable to properly judge his own strength, he holds the glass too firmly, so that his fingers turn white. After a couple of sips he turns to Tatters to ask in a stage whisper: "the fuck are les flics doing here?"

Tam sucks at whispering, so maybe he's trying to start a fight. Which would of course be completely out of character.

Tatters finishes his drink and gives the security guard and his somewhat more flamboyant associate another sidelong look. "I think," he hypothesises, "that he works here." He doesn't think anyone but the staff would actually be as stupid as to eat a hot dog from the bar. That's just asking for some unpleasant disease, and even people who are as fucked up as Tam know not to do it. "Dunno 'bout Tinkerbell though." He kind of likes Jonas' bell but not his friend. "Maybe the muscle's rent boy?"

As a general rule Tatters believes in freedom and thinks anyone can sit anywhere they damn please. This does not however apply to anyone in a uniform. They make him nervous.

The glowstick is a nice touch, illuminating his shiny sweat stuck hair. He smiles. He can feel his perception starting to slide already and he doesn't really mind about the uniform or anything. It's just too bad he doesn't have any more money cause he could do with anything shot of tequila.

Mind, he's never gonna get to work at this rate.

Yeah, he's stupid. That's what he gets for ordering the hot dog. Trying to blend into a low-class joint like this one is hardly something anyone would want to do, but being the furthest thing from his mind doesn't always mean it's something he wouldn't do if he had to. Again, it all came down to the money. If it weren't for that, he'd be gone in a heartbeat. Besides, the stupidest tourists often notice the most about a new place and someone that appeared to be an idiot tended to get information someone a little more intelligent in the public eye couldn't get.

He finished the hot dog as quickly as possible, letting it slide down like some rainsoaked balloon greased with roadkill. The Pepsi was a welcomed addition to the so-called food that was now slowly rotting in his seemingly lead-lined stomach. By the third Pepsi, he was almost feeling halfway normal again among the weirdo, the transgendered boy, and the idiotic elf he couldn't help but get along with. Regardless of the oddities of the crowd he was in and the paranoid glances he was getting from his companions at the bar, he was comfortable enough to stick around for a while without too much complaining a whole hell of a lot.

"You know, what you need," Jonas was saying as Reynaud suddenly tuned back into the bell-adorned living talk radio station sitting next to him, "is a girl. Seriously, man...you should find some pretty little thing, charm her up and down the road, get her to fall madly in love with you, and live happily ever after. I suppose it's different for you - ah, people like you, of course."

A warning glance was all it took, but it wasn't needed as the elf cleared his throat and looked about nervously. He knew full well the risks associated with even hinting at what he was and he knew he'd almost fucked up real bad, but at least he'd stopped himself and had enough gray matter between the ears to be able to grin and move on like he'd made no such mistake. He was covering his tracks and Reynaud was fairly certain it wouldn't happen again, at least not tonight - not here in this club - so Reynaud let it go without saying a word.

"Anyway, maybe you can find your own little Medusa to tame, huh? And if she's rich, you're set for life, brother."

Medusa. Yeah, that was Jonas' own private joke, one that never went over too well with him or any of the other nagas. Reynaud let it go most times as it made for a good cover as a quirky joke that no one else got, but the fact was that it was quite an insult to any naga with half a brain and a mythology book close at hand. Still, the elf had a point. Maybe he did need a girl to keep him sane. For now, though, he was satisfied with a Pepsi and a stool. He didn't need some woman telling him how to run his life, especially since naga women were anything but honest when it came to long-term relationships. The old wives' tale about a beautiful woman marrying a rich man only to poison him and take his money, revealing that she was actually a naga in the last moments of his life, wasn't so much an old wives' tale as it was a truth-based parable. No, Reynaud could do without a woman for the present.

And the morning dragged on...

Ideally Tam would have a bumbag to keep all the toonies and loonies of this night in. It's the sort of thing his sister, in her infinite sensibility, would do. She was also round the prices up or down so people didn't have an excuse to offload all their change. Tam hasn't, so his pockets clink with currency. He's not very good at this gig. "Tats, ahshu' give yeh some money," Tam theorises. He doesn't say what for. Logically it would be for the coke but it's just as likely Tam has decided 'spread the love' should include financial transactions, and has declared their little corner of the bar a communist micronation.

The right pocket of his jeans. That's where most of the money is. The pocket's tight and full and Tam has to pinch his fingers when he goes to retrieve some coins. Somehow, it doesn't work, and he pulls on the fabric, and then there's the noise of metal on metal and the coins and flying everywhere.

Tam follows them, swearing loudly and stooping. His head is reeling from hopping down off the barstool. Without the glare of the bar lights, it's dark, and he manages to bang his head on le flic's side.

That, of course, leads to more swearing.

"No no man," Tatters says. "'S cool man."

He bought Tam the coke because they're mates, and Tam's pretty anyway. And Tam gave him the ex anyway so really it's Tatters in debt here.

Tam ignores this, though, and Tatters' protest and the next thing you know there's money everywhere and Tam has somehow managed to run into the stuck-up rented muscle. Tatters mentally swears, and hopes the security guard doesn't have some sort of vendetta against druggies. Or faggots.

"Sorry man," he says, apologising on Tam's behalf.

Jonas kept on talking like there was nothing better to do in the world than sit and chat. By now, Reynaud was getting used to the idea that he wasn't going to be a naga again any time soon, at least not this morning, and so sat idly sipping his Pepsi. He mostly tuned out the elf as he stared into space, thinking about what he was gonna do once this job was over and done with. He suppose he could take up bartending, though where he'd be able to bartend was beyond him. He didn't want another job he had to hide himself as a human in. Maybe he could take up chemistry; he understood the elf was pretty good at that even if he was a bit off his rocker.

In any event, the morning couldn't have gotten any more displeasing - or so he thought. That's when all hell broke loose right next to him. One of the people next to him was reaching into the pocket of the other when it all went down. The next thing he knew, Reynaud's feeling a head-butt to his hip. It didn't really hurt him all that much, but neither was it exactly a sunny day in the park. He found himself glaring at the person without thinking about it, a cold stare that was as hard as a diamond. Any eagle would've been proud to have been associated with Reynaud in that moment, for such was the eyeballing he was doing that the look would've been right on par with the eagle's.

But then the ladyboy was apologizing to him on behalf of his friend, the briefest of statements but certainly honest enough by the look in the ladyboy's pretty eyes. Not that he was gay, but even he had to admit that the eyes looked good. You could tell a lot about a person with just a single glance into their eyes. There was apology in those eyes right now, regret, and a sort of desperation. The ladyboy seemed to be hoping that a fight wasn't about to ensue; it was clear he didn't like anyone with a badge, hence the swift apology.

Clearing his throat slightly, Reynaud mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, "Don't worry 'bout it." He watched as the ladyboy's friend continued trying to pick up the change, cursing in the process, and then turned around to check out what remained of the contents of the club's clientelle. There wasn't much left - just a couple of people wanting a party but not having anyone to start it up with. Maybe he should just quit this dead-end job. He wasn't much the partying type, but he could have a good time when he wanted to.

At least Reynaud's not bony. If he was skinny like Tatters, Tam would be swearing at having hurt his head. This morning he's content to let Tatters apologise for him; such is the magic of MDMA. He doesn't notice Reynaud's haughty glare and even if he did, it wouldn't bother him. Tam has received a thousand snooty glances from a thousand mall cops and community support officers and when he was up close to the naga at the bar, he saw the man's uniform and noticed he was a security guard. About the same level as a mall cop, then. Absolutely nothing to be afraid of, just a grumpy middle-aged man stuck in a dead end job. It might be the realisation or it might be the lightheadedness that makes Tam start to laugh.

He keeps laughing after he finishes picking up all the change. Then he puts an arm round Tatters and hauls himself up. There wasn't even any need for Tatters to apologise in the first place. Tam pulls him closer and whispers hoarsely in his ear: "il n'est pas un flic, il est un putain de sécurité." His French is as terrible as it comes. That's what happens when you pick a language up from street punks and other undesirables. If the security guard could hear them over the thumping beats - and if the security guard could speak Québécois - well then. The two of them might have a problem. The odds are so astronomically against it that Tam thinks nothing of continuing to nuzzle into Tatters', well, everything.

"Ah've go'ma bike with me an' Jessie's staying at a mate's house toni't," Tam mumbles. Because riding on the back of a motorbike being driven by a sweaty, drugged up Scotsman is always an attractive proposition. "If yeh wants tae stay over. We could have a sleepo'er, an' do each other's hair an' paint each other's nails." He grins lazily with his eyelids half closed.

Tatters is almost too distracted by Tam's lips against his ear to notice what the boy is saying, and then it takes a moment for him to translate the whatever-the-hell-Tam-is-speaking. French was never a good subject for Tatters. He gets it after a moment, though, and then he's laughingly giddily into Tam's neck. Not so much out of relief, but just because he can, and it vibrates against Tam's throat. He runs his hands all over the boy's body, delighting in the lineation of it. Fuck reality. Fuck homophobic rent-a-cops. Or rather, don't. Tatters has much better things to fuck, things that are right under his hands.

He bites Tam's ear. "I'd love to do your nails," Tatters tells him. His accent has gotten almost as incomprehensibly Glasweigan as Tam's by now. "But, I'm not sure what can be done about your hair." He runs a hand through it, mussing it up further. Yup. Looks like a lost cause. "But I s'ppose there's no harm in trying..."

No harm in trying lots of different things, right?

"Let's go," he says.

Although honestly, letting Tam drive is probably going to be the death of them both. But they're apparently both a little beyond worrying about anything so trivial as their lives.