In Disguises, No-One Knows [Maisie/Lazarus]

3:04PM
FEBRUARY 17TH, 2012
BEER GARDEN
THE MARQUIS
SOUTH LONDON

"Boilin' heat..." The redhead murmured idly to himself as he pulled the cellophane from a fresh Marlboro packet. Fucking expensive here. "Summer steeench..." Idly flicking it away and picking up a shiny, fresh lighter, he sighed; the last pack he'd bought was New Year's. Rome with Cael. But seeing as the amber nectar glistened still in the half-empty pint glass in front of him, he thought he'd allow himself a treat. Additionally he was far enough from the apartment that Yuuko wouldn't fucking sniff him out; and consequently chew him out for "damaging his body" and "welcoming Death" or whatever overly dramatic line she'd come out with in retaliation.

He was half a pint down on a Friday afternoon and scheduled to meet an old friend here - someone from uni, another who affectionately referred to the redhead as "The Yank" - in about twenty minutes or so, and for the Hell of it, he figured he'd arrive at the pub half an hour before chalked up and get a head start. For February, even though it was a tad bitter outside, it was far from intolerable; and as he rose the first of many cigarettes to his lips and cradled the button lighter with a sigh, he figured this would warm him up somewhat, too. What, six weeks? The nicotine was probably going to hit him like a fucking sledgehammer.

Still humming fragmented song lyrics with the cigarette sat casually between his lips, he pressed down on the lighter at the end and waited for the welcome frame to spring up and provide his body with a source of momentary heat, and the butt with some form of ignition. "Underneath the black, the sky looks deaaaaaad," No-one else was fearless enough to brave the beer garden in February. And the place was relatively dead - and would continue to be, 'til about five at least. So he had nothing to worry about being watched from outside; and with his body, shrouded in the Superdry bomber as he glanced up at the miserable and yet notorious English grey sky, turned away from the back exit, he could sing and idly remain a Chris Cornell sycophant in peace for now.

Things had been quiet. For the most part. Obviously a few days back, he'd had the run-in with... her. That had been all-too surreal. And any spare time he had between running Nephilim, organising things, trying fruitlessly to study, and working out future travel arrangements had, for the past five days, been wasted almost entirely dwelling on that corner of his mind. Maeve. He figured this was the first time he'd sat spending hours - fuck, even minutes - idly wondering about a female that he didn't want to bang. But caught up in all the adrenaline, the smear of Demon blood, the stench of cordite in the air; the whole thing had felt like a mixture between a bad trip and a good dream.

Needless to say, it was nice to sit down and think about another avenue of his affairs, even if it was just for an afternoon. Visiting old acquaintances who'd been a big part of his life prior to the whole "Hell is an alternate dimension" shebang allowed him to... well, just get his mind off things. A pack of cigarettes and a few cheap pints of lager didn't disagree with that principle, either. He could think about the Maeve thing later. He had her number and a way to get in contact with her; and though the facts had been aligned, the whole thing had happened in something of a sarcastic, motionless blur. It was still somewhat illusory to him. Felt transient. And by fuck it was hard to accept such a large part of his life he'd ignored with a complete lack of candor for nineteen years now.

Laz wondered how Jinhong and Pulean were doing. And... fuck, Jerome. Ol' whip-boy had been M.I.A. for three weeks now. Templar bastards. It was kind of upsetting; and the teen took some responsibility, but their erstwhile comrade had brought the entire thing on himself by playing the hero and forgetting to fucking run. Of course he felt guilty for it; and just wished and prayed that under the "good" Reverend's imprisonment he was still alive - partly for the Cajun's actual wellbeing, and partly to just... keep himself in balance. But him, a schoolgirl, and the twins couldn't take on the Order alone. And they couldn't break him out on their own. So, for now, they could just hope to whatever sick fuck of a deity was out there that he was being kept alive - and bolster their numbers until the time was right.

Then they'd strike.