The Warehouse
A dark womb of black, and purple encompass The Warehouse nightclub. The room is a fair sized club area that has been built out of an old warehouse. Most of the club has been well-lit with neon tubing, but the lighting around the booths and back wall are shadowed to provide some modicum of privacy. Other than the dance area, the floor is a deep mauve, with light patterns displayed haphazardly on it. A ring of black light surrounds the ceiling, causing the lighter colors in both the club and on the patrons to fluoresce.
A catwalk spreads over the dance floor, the black iron rails holding state-of-the-art varilights and floods which reflect off of the large disco ball that dangles from the ceiling, splashing the LED dance floor with light. The dance floor itself flashes and pulses to the beat of the music, continually changing colors in a neonic frenzy. On tall black step-platforms set out randomly throughout the dance floor are black dance cages, roomy enough for two people to bump and grind to the music in them.
The bar matches the rest of the nightclub, tall and black with a strand of purple LED's running along the sides and the outer edges. The stools in front of it are white and chrome, reflecting the purple light that washes over the bar area. Behind the bar is a high-tech, mirrored drink area with glass shelving. Various libations, ranging from alcoholic beverages to fruit juices and sodas line the shelves.
The music here is blisteringly loud, but startlingly clear. Heavy bass notes throb, speakers buzzing slightly when the volume reaches its peak.
The Warehouse is throbbing, tonight, heavy music blaring, young people and people who think they still fit in with the young crowd jump up and down rhythmically on the dance floor. Gregory, for his part, sits at the bar with a bottle of Stella in his hand. There's a pretty blonde a few seats away that's caught his attention. He gives her a smooth smile, eyes half-lidded as he raises his bottle in a silent toast to her before taking a swig.
The girl's not quite sure how to react, whether to flirt back in return or to brush him off as a bothersome drunk.
Such is how it goes at the Warehouse. The drunks and lushes hitting on the sober women, the sober women either playing along with the flirtations or letting it slide and going dancing. This is the Warehouse Chloe knows, and the darkness she can generally feel pulsing in the minds of those in attendance.
Several seats down to the other side of Gregory, the redhead sits. She appears to be deep in conversation with the bartender, laughing graciously at all the bad jokes that are shot in her direction. There is a glass of dark liquid in front of her. Soda. Hard to tell if it's mixed or not.
A few moments later, the blonde is joined by a heavy linebacker of a guy. Gregory knows that, using the right techniques, he could take the guy. But, it's not really worth it. He's not really looking for anything more than a fling for a brief few hours before he has to crash long enough to be able to rise before the dawn and make it over to the Sheriff's estate. Not even a one-night-stand.
More's the pity?
Thus, he turns on his stool to lean both elbows on the bar, back to it, and starts surveying just who else might be about and up for a little fun.
Eventually, the conversation with the bartender dies off and Chloe takes hold of her soda to move on. Bobby is too busy at the back for her to bother, and so she's just mired in the nearby minds. With a snort as she picks up on Gregory's thought, she slips over to sit beside him.
"The woman with the dark hair over beside the dance floor," she says pointing, "is an easy target."
Gregory turns his head as the redhead speaks to him. "She is, huh? And just how d'ya know that?" He takes another swig of his beer and gives her a somewhat evaluating glance. She's cute, in a kind of girl-next-door sort of way. Redheads aren't really his type. And this one's a little milky. Nice enough to look at, not someone he's interested in going to town with. Not tonight, anyway.
There are many ways Chloe knows this, primarily the ever-loud thought from the woman that she's looking to fool around. "She comes in here most every night. My brother's had to toss her out on her behind a few times." Shoulders come up in a shrug, and she sips at the soda through a straw. "Don't sweat it, you're not really my type. I prefer my guys tall fanged and broody. You've got two out of three, but you're missing the fangs."
Gregory arches a brow at that. Of course, he immediately puts her in the 'fangbanger' category. However, since he didn't give his assessment out loud… "I'll keep that in mind," is his response to both pieces of information.
"Into vampires, are you?"
Ideally, Chloe'd say, "Nope, I'm into guys that don't think so bloody loudly."
Instead, she eyes him curiously. "Quick to judge, aren't you? I'm not the one in here looking for a quick and easy mark." The soda is sipped from again, and she shrugs. "A vampire. Besides, witches aren't really my type. You are, aren't you?" The brain pattern does feel similar to that of the Fontanes, the Niveus women, and a few others she's run into.
That takes Gregory by surprise, to be sure. A surge of wariness flashes through him, however, and he looks around to see just what reaction might be had around them. Fortunately, the music's so loud, no one really pays much attention. Noticing it, he takes several moments to immerse himself into the beat of it. That conscious pattern drowns out most of his deeper thoughts, like a sort of mental white noise.
He ignores the question.
"Which vampire?" he asks instead, the question punctuating the white noise of the beat he counts and listens for. He gives her an easy smile that never reaches his eyes and takes another long pull on his Stella.
White noise in the mind can only last so long before one lets it slip away, and the inner voice can be heard again. Chloe can wait it out. She always does. That she managed to catch the man offguard causes her to smile.
"I really think that's none of your concern. You haven't really given me reason to think you friendly toward them." Beat. "And there is nothing wrong with my complexion, I'll have you know. I can't exactly go out sunbathing, I tend to turn tomato red within a matter of minutes."
Gregory gives an almost wolfish grin, now, his free fingers tapping out the beat/off-beat throbbing of the drum and bass. "You're a telepath," he concludes. "No wonder you like 'em dead and kicking."
Witch. Psychic. Figures they'd register with each other.
He shrugs, now. "I work for a vampire."
Again, that sly, wolfish grin. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine."
"You are a predator, witch," she notes of the wolfish grin. Chloe gives no confirmation or denial about her abilities. She does arch her brow a little. "Chances are, you work for someone who could be an enemy. I'd rather play this particular card close to my chest." They're not in Mary's where she'd easily be protected after all.
All that means is that Gregory's focus on the song becomes just that much stronger. He doesn't need the mindwitch walking through his brain, picking up his employer's secrets.
Thus, he sets his Stella aside. No sense muddling his wits further. "Whatever you say, Red," he says with another shrug then, a bit of the music humming under his breath as the sentence finishes.
He looks out across the dance floor at the brunette she indicated before. Pity about that one. But, really, he can't afford to hunt fun in a place where a telepath close to another vampire might also be hunting.
He rises to his feet and reaches for his wallet. Sticking a bill down on the bartop to pay his tab, he gives the telepath a smooth smile.
"Happy hunting," he winks.
"I don't hunt. I'm a one guy kind of woman," she offers. But oh is Chloe trying to break past his mental barrier. You don't just stop thinking because you're focused. A name, a face. That's what she's searching for. To determine if he's friend or foe to Will.
"Don't call me Red," she adds with a bit of a shrill anger to her voice. "Especially considering that red hair is primarily orange in color anyhow."
Oh, Gregory hasn't stopped thinking. He's just learned to put up white noise. It was a trick Julian taught him. It doesn't work for long. Nor would it hold up against a purposeful, deep probe.
But, damned if he's gonna stick around long enough to give her the chance.
Thus, at her shrill reaction, his grin widens.
A thought: Gotcha. Red.
He gives her a jaunty wave and heads for the door.
