Prologue: Heaven's Devils [Scion: Time Of Judgement]

Midboss

Midboss

Two Thousand Club
- Yes ?


- This is Eiffel base. We have a situation.


- Please elaborate.


- We have just confirmed the arrival of three slayers here.


- What ?!


- Our friendly at Roissy noticed one going through passport control because he remembred the face from our watch list.


- This is one... you said...


- We examined recent visas and arrivals and noticed the two others. All yanks.


- I see.


- We fear their presence may be connected to the recent rash of dissappearences. Those are just the tip of the iceberg, if any from the Shengen zone are also here, then we may have even more.


- Understood. Keep them under observation. Any Neals so far ?


- We haven't found any. It doesn't mean there aren't any.


- Switch to orange alert. We will be sending you a troubleshooting team to assist. Good luck.


Unknown transmission.


Paris, city of light, what can be said that hasn't alreasy been repeated ad-noseam in many books, movies and so forth ? All stories must begin some place or another, even if that place is inexistence, barely a concept, or the inside of some unquantifiable entity. This one begins in a small Algerian restaurant, the sort of nice place normal people or families can have a very nice for a fairly reasonable price.


It is a normal october evening (12th 2013 if you want the details) and several people are already in enjoying their meals. Unknown to them, one of the tables is reserved for some unusual guests. All of them had recieved orders from above (some more literaly than others) to be there at this time. Hopefully, they'll be able to make it.
 
It wasn't long before John arrived at the destination, it may have taken a rather awkward taxi ride involving the use of a translation book, but he got there in one piece. Adjusting his Red Sox jacket so that it was at least semi-presentable, he walked up to the man at the front desk.


"Excuse me sir, do you speak English?" John asked with a smile.
 
The man who greets you is a man in his late fifties, early sixties, who despite his age still looks more than well. His behaviour and style suggests he is the owner of the place. He answers with an accent:


"A little bit. Your reserved table is over there. You are first to arrive."


He guides you at a round table on a corner with seven seats and helps you sit down.


"Can I take your coat ?"
 
After being led to the table, John nodded as he shrugged off his jacket, handing it to the man with a smile. "Thank you, sir." Underneath his jacket was a dark blue Boston PD shirt.


Seating himself, John awaits the next to arrive.
 
Tristan steps calmly across the threshold into the building with a weary smile on his face. As if it weren't hard enough to lead a double life on his own, he has to deal with whatever machinations his father saw fit to drag him into. {C'est la vie}, his thinks to himself as he looks around the restaurant. At least the place seemed pleasant enough. Perhaps not what he would have chosen, but it could have easily been much worse.


He walks up to the front desk and calls out softly in french, "Monsieur? I believe there is a table waiting for me." Despite his polite tone, one gets the subtle impression that if he does not get service quickly, someone will be at best greatly inconvenienced -- and it surely would not be Tristan himself.
 
Tristan Follows to the table and takes a seat. As he does so, he pointedly keeps his coat on and John's can catch a glimpse of what could only be called shining darkness as the fabric settles. Now seated comfortably, all hint of a threat leaves Tristan's voice as he turns his head and politely asks the man, <"If you have any, could you send over a bottle of Lillet Blanc once the rest of the party arrives? I would be much obliged."> His business with the man concluded for now, Tristan turns his attention to his fellow guest and spares only half an ear for the man's response.


After a quick glance at John's shirt, Tristan inquires in barely accented English, "Boston. You are . . . American, then, yes? How have you enjoyed the city so far?"
 
John watched the man sit down with a cocked brow. "Why, yes sir, I am American. Born and raised in Boston. And I am enjoying my stay so far, sir." And with a winning smile, he extends his hand for a shake. "My name is John Louis. That's L-O-U-I-S, just in case you were thinking it was the other spelling. I was with the Boston PD until just recently, I... Resigned."
 
Tristan gingerly removes his glove from his right hand and returns a firm shake, "A pleasure to meet you, mister Louis, I am Tristan Lambert." As he leans back and replaces his glove, something seems to hit him and he looks up at John with new respect in his eyes, "PD. You were law enforcement? A noble profession. I myself am a prosecutor here. But it sounds like there were some interesting circumstances regarding your departure? I won't disguise my curiosity, but if you wish to keep to yourself I won't pry."
 
John straightened himself out and continued smiling. "Well, I was in undercover, going to meet with a dealer, found a pretty gruesome scene. Going into details at a resturaunt isn't very...Polite, I guess?" He chuckled quietly. "Long story short, my dad has other plans for me."
 
Belen Mikos


Belen arrives late as always, hands stuffed into the pockets of a fashionable jacket. Dress is casual but stylish, with hints of Doric and Ionic patterns at the cuffs. Nothing ostentatious.


He smiles brightly at the maitre d', and says a little apologetically "I'm afraid I don't speak any French... I'm expected, I think? Belen Mikos."
 
Jacques arrives just few seconds after Belen. He's wearing a well madeblack suit, as he always wears in public. Perfectly polite, the undertaker decides to help this stranger.


"If you allow it, I can help you, sir"


He looks to the maitre d'hotel.


"Bonjour, cette personne s'appelle Belen Mikos et il doit être attendu, tout comme moi, Jacques X"
 
(translation convection: < means the person is speaking the local tongue, whatever it may be)


"<Well of course. Interesting coincidence. You are both booked at the same table. This way please.>"


He shows you to your table where others are already waiting.


(ooc: I'll give you a day before posting the next event. Just so your characters can say hello and all that.)
 
Tristan smiles at John and nods, "Of course, of course, decorum must be be observed and, as I said, your story is your own." He echoes John's chuckle and continues, "As for the much vaunted plans of our fathers, I both understand and sympathize. I, for one have lost count of how many times-"


Tristan stops abruptly and looks to where Jacques and Belen are being led over. He offers a quick explanation to John, "It would seem that more of our party has arrived." and turns to greet the newcomers. "Hello and good evening, my friends, I hope this night finds you well?" Once the two are comfortably seated, he introduces himself, "I am Tristan Lambert, and it is a pleasure to meet you, messers . . . ?"
 
John rose from his seat to greet the newcomers. He smiled brightly, waiting for them to answer Tristan's question, as it was the polite thing to do.
 
The newcomers had little time to sit themselves that they were followed by another man. He was a well dressed rastafarian with a small smile and a certain imperceptible dark aura around him. A thought that almost simultaniously comes to your minds is that of the archetypal dark man that many stories about deals with the devil have. He speaks a realy good english, albeit with a small Creole accent.


"Good evening. I see.... most of you have made it on time. No worries, I expect the plane is encountering some mecanical difficulties, or something of the sort. You know how it is."


He sat himself down and began browing the aperitif part of the menu.


"Maybe introductions are in order. I could say I have quite a few names but you can call me Cross for the sake of this conversation. Quite cliché, I admit, but it's always more fun that way. Anyhoo, the higher ups have somehow all agreed to hire me as an intermediary about your little job here. Beofre I begin... can we order drinks ?"
 
The rastaman were impressive with his dark aura. I don't know why, but I couldn't able to not compare his introduction with the introduction of the messenger of my father. Perhaps it's the usual protocol of the messenger to shine when you appear to the recruits. Whatever. The boss decide that it's apero time, so be it.


"I do not drink alcohol so I'll take a coke"
 
"A coke sounds good to me, too." John re-sat himself with a smile. He wasn't quite sure what to think of these men, but at least he wasn't the only American there. "Is everyone here?"
 
Fi O'Neil


Fi was in a bad mood when she landed, a worse mood by the time she'd gotten to her hotel and a dire one by the time she'd found the restaurant. She didn't speak a word of French and every Parisian she'd talked to apparently didn't understand a word of English. "Fucking Paris," she muttered under her breath as she pushed through the door into the restaurant, combat boots making a satisfyingly loud noise on the floor of the quiet eatery. She was dressed in the clothes she'd flown in on, delays had denied her time to change, jeans, a bit on the tight side though not enough to deny movement, a black tank and over it her black leather jacket with a dog's head emblazoned on the right shoulder. "O'Neil," she practically snarled at the man behind the desk.
 
Though Tristan was highly curious about the mysterious meeting his father had insisted he attend and wanted some answers quickly, he was still gratified by the rasta-man's attention to civility. All to often these matters were about business right from the get-go, and it was nice to know that some people still observed the niceties.


With a smile, he says, "I believe they already my order, Mr. Cross, but thank you all the same."
 
Drinks being ordered, the waiter left and you are now all around the table.


"In the meantime, I'd like to know if there are any questions before we get into the meat of the subject. We can discuss in better detail the specifics of this affair."


The waiter comes back with your drinks, serving them in glasses. At the same time, menus are given to each of you.
 
Fi O'Neil


Fi leans back in her chair, silently bemoaning the fact that the restaurant didn't serve Sams, and half dreading whatever beer the man would be bringing her. She looked around the table at the others, eyes keeping coming back to the man in the Sox jacket. He looked worryingly familiar. Oh well. At the intermediary's words she shrugged. "Kinda hard to have specific questions when you were just told 'get your ass to Paris.'"
 
John smiled back at Fi as he caught her looking at him. She looked familiar to him as well, but he couldn't place where. "Like what you see?" Okay, he knew it was a mistake the moment those words left his mouth. A big mistake.
 
Fi O'Neil


Fi raised her eyebrows. "Not particularly, and even if I did I doubt you could handle it." There was something disturbingly cold about her eyes.
 
"Now, you're wrong. I did undercover work up until my visitation." John smirked cockily, he was defending his masculinity, damn it! "I had to steel my nerves while convincing drug lords and mafia bosses alike that I wasn't a cop. It takes a special kind of man to do that."
 
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