Post by Khofei Badru on Jul 8, 2008 23:09:23 GMT -5
James Martel nodded his head along with the beat of track five of Paul Oakenfold's <i>Tranceport</i> album, his fingers dancing lightly on the steering wheel of the jet-black Coachman Cross-Country Elite, his eyes darting to and fro from the traffic that surrounded the large vehicle.
"Ah, goddammit! Get outta me way, basta'd!" he yelled as the Chevy in front of him decided to put on the brakes. Martel <i>hated</i> traffic, especially American traffic. It was his opinion that the bastards shouldn't have even been allowed to drive since they couldn't even drive on the proper side of the road.
"That's right! Stay out of the fuckin' way, you cunt!" he yelled, beeping the horn as he passed the Chevy.
It had been several years since he had been in LA... the small cadre of which he was a member made their rounds cross country, and though LA wasn't their exact destination... Jean himself had made it clear that he wished to stop and experience the nightlife. And whatever Jean said went.
Aside from Jean and himself, there were two others that remained of the once-numerous Slayers, Incorporated... Hunter Nekasrof and Karl von Schmid, both of whom were waiting for word from Jean and James in Seattle.
Martel was the thinker of the group... the only human in their ranks, he was often the one looked to whenever technological aptitude was required. He was a certified genius, having graduated with a Ph.D from Oxford at the age of 22. School was always easy for the rebellious youth, however... and now, at 27, he was hunting vampires. Not exactly the most noticeable profession... but it paid well and was <i>never</i> boring.
He sniffled, running a hand over the wrinkled blue "Go Fuck Yourself" teeshirt that he wore, his eyes hidden behind a pair of small Raybans as he watched the traffic before him. Their destination was simple... Jean had called in advance and reserved nearly two months' worth of rooms at the "Majestic Manor" hotel.
James scowled as he glanced to the directions taped to the dashboard, just to the left of the wheel. Jean had written them in that goddamn calligraphic handwriting of his, making the task of even trying to decipher where it was that this Majestic Manor was located a difficult one.
Once he had reassured himself that he was on the proper course, his attention remained undiverted on the road before him, save for the pulsating techno beats that permeated the Coachman. His head continued to nod along with the beat, the light brown spiked hair on his head unwavering. Image was once something that James had cultivated very much, but now a days... he was lucky to even have the time to <b>buy</b> a bottle of hair gel, or to shave on a daily basis. It was a rough life... but as far as he was concerned, he would have it no other way.
The signs scattered throughout the city were simple enough to follow, and soon enough, the RV was pulling into the parking lot. Due to the size of the RV, they had been forced to park in the back, but it was better that way. The onyx-colored vehicle with its darkly tinted windows was certainly not the caravan of a retired couple here in LA to visit their children...
As James turned the keys in the ignition, the loud diesel engine ground to a halt, and the RV was silent once more. The leather seat groaned as the Englishman pushed himself up away from its confines. He grunted with the effort, having been in that same position for several hours now. His legs ached as he moved quickly to the locked door leading to the sleeping quarters at the back of the caravan, his knuckles rapping quickly on the door.
"Oi! Jean!"
<font color="orange">"Enter..."</font> came the deep reply, the word trilling slightly as he finished it. Despite his age, he still carried the accent of his homeland thickly.
James pushed the door open, his eyes immediately falling upon his compatriot. Jean was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed. As usual, the man was dressed to the hilt. His straight black locks were allowed to spill down freely, reaching nearly halfway down his chest. The suit he wore was black, the shirt beneath it black, and the tie a deep crimson... these colors being preferred over most others whenever he found the time to order a new suit from his tailor in Vienna.
He often took time on the road to medidate and contemplate various things, especially during the days. The windows were tinted deeply enough that the sun's rays wouldn't be a problem, but Jean had never really slept during the days. It was something that he didn't really talk about and something that the other Slayers didn't bring up with him, as it never seemed to effect him in a negative way. The man was literally a bubble of fucking energy.
Other times, he would study the martial arts or work on weapons. James knew that it wasn't odd for Jean to spend several hours alone oiling and sharpening the NoDachi which was almost always strapped to his back. It was also not an uncommon sight to see him disassembling and reassembling the gold-plated Colt 1911A1 .45s which he carried. He claimed they were vintage, designed by Browning himself, and James saw no reason to doubt the claim. Jean had told tales of his training in the East, and all three of his allies knew that while Jean was certainly a bon vivant... he didn't mess around when it came to his job. When the time came... no one meant business more than Jean von Esleng.
Jean's near-white eyes rested on James', a questioning eyebrow raised slowly.
<font color="red">"I'm going to assume that we've arrived."</font> James nodded in response.
"Yeah, we're 'ere. The Majestic Manor, as you requested. Looks fuckin' typical for you."
A boyish grin spread across Jean's features as he pushed himself up from the bed. His hands moved to smooth and straighten out his suit once he was standing, as it was engraved deeply within him to <i>always</i> look his best.
<font color="orange">"Wonderful!"</font>
He clapped his hands together, chuckling as he made his way to the dresser on the righthand side of the room. He picked up a ribbon of the same deep crimson as his tie.
<font color="orange">"It's really been too long, I think. It'll be fun to stir up a bit of trouble here and there, don't you think?"</font> Jean asked as he began to tie his raven locks into a ponytail, his eyes again moving to James.
"Yeah, sure, man... just don't go fuckin' startin' anything big, because we're supposed to be meetin' Hunter and Karl... remember?"
The reminder was met with a smirk, Jean's brow raising once more as his hands slid behind his back to clasp there. The militaristic stance was one he was used to, and it was the most comfortable for him. His suits were always tailored to be tighter in the shoulders, a job which within itself proved difficult for a six-foot-nine-inch man. The feel of the suits mimicked the restrictive wardrobe of the 18th century, the time when Jean had been raised.
<font color="orange">"Now really, Jimmy... what do you think I am? It's not as if old age has made me senile..."</font>
"No, mate, I'm not accusin' you of that. I just know 'ow you are, that's all."
James' words were met with a restrained laugh, Jean shaking his head as he attempted to to find the fedora which matched his black and crimson outfit. The hats hung from a rack of hooks along the wall just above the dresser, coming in a variety of color combinations. All were completely neat, lacking even the barest hint of lint or dust. Jean was meticulous in his wardrobe.
"You want me to go ahead and check us in, or what?" James said, his arms folding over his chest as he allowed the doorframe to support his weight. There were times when he was <i>really</i> annoyed by Jean's obessesion with his appearance...
<font color="orange">"Not necessary, mein freunde. I'll go ahead and take care of it, you just get our things ready, hmm?"</font> The Brujah replied, sliding the selected fedora neatly over his head and adjusting it so that it didn't crush the ponytail or obscure his vision. With a final smile into the mirror, he turned to face James once more... his eyes darkening almost mischeviously.
<font color="orange">"Well, Jimmy... shall we see what sort of a welcome the <b>City of Angels</b> has in store for us?"
"Ah, goddammit! Get outta me way, basta'd!" he yelled as the Chevy in front of him decided to put on the brakes. Martel <i>hated</i> traffic, especially American traffic. It was his opinion that the bastards shouldn't have even been allowed to drive since they couldn't even drive on the proper side of the road.
"That's right! Stay out of the fuckin' way, you cunt!" he yelled, beeping the horn as he passed the Chevy.
It had been several years since he had been in LA... the small cadre of which he was a member made their rounds cross country, and though LA wasn't their exact destination... Jean himself had made it clear that he wished to stop and experience the nightlife. And whatever Jean said went.
Aside from Jean and himself, there were two others that remained of the once-numerous Slayers, Incorporated... Hunter Nekasrof and Karl von Schmid, both of whom were waiting for word from Jean and James in Seattle.
Martel was the thinker of the group... the only human in their ranks, he was often the one looked to whenever technological aptitude was required. He was a certified genius, having graduated with a Ph.D from Oxford at the age of 22. School was always easy for the rebellious youth, however... and now, at 27, he was hunting vampires. Not exactly the most noticeable profession... but it paid well and was <i>never</i> boring.
He sniffled, running a hand over the wrinkled blue "Go Fuck Yourself" teeshirt that he wore, his eyes hidden behind a pair of small Raybans as he watched the traffic before him. Their destination was simple... Jean had called in advance and reserved nearly two months' worth of rooms at the "Majestic Manor" hotel.
James scowled as he glanced to the directions taped to the dashboard, just to the left of the wheel. Jean had written them in that goddamn calligraphic handwriting of his, making the task of even trying to decipher where it was that this Majestic Manor was located a difficult one.
Once he had reassured himself that he was on the proper course, his attention remained undiverted on the road before him, save for the pulsating techno beats that permeated the Coachman. His head continued to nod along with the beat, the light brown spiked hair on his head unwavering. Image was once something that James had cultivated very much, but now a days... he was lucky to even have the time to <b>buy</b> a bottle of hair gel, or to shave on a daily basis. It was a rough life... but as far as he was concerned, he would have it no other way.
The signs scattered throughout the city were simple enough to follow, and soon enough, the RV was pulling into the parking lot. Due to the size of the RV, they had been forced to park in the back, but it was better that way. The onyx-colored vehicle with its darkly tinted windows was certainly not the caravan of a retired couple here in LA to visit their children...
As James turned the keys in the ignition, the loud diesel engine ground to a halt, and the RV was silent once more. The leather seat groaned as the Englishman pushed himself up away from its confines. He grunted with the effort, having been in that same position for several hours now. His legs ached as he moved quickly to the locked door leading to the sleeping quarters at the back of the caravan, his knuckles rapping quickly on the door.
"Oi! Jean!"
<font color="orange">"Enter..."</font> came the deep reply, the word trilling slightly as he finished it. Despite his age, he still carried the accent of his homeland thickly.
James pushed the door open, his eyes immediately falling upon his compatriot. Jean was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed. As usual, the man was dressed to the hilt. His straight black locks were allowed to spill down freely, reaching nearly halfway down his chest. The suit he wore was black, the shirt beneath it black, and the tie a deep crimson... these colors being preferred over most others whenever he found the time to order a new suit from his tailor in Vienna.
He often took time on the road to medidate and contemplate various things, especially during the days. The windows were tinted deeply enough that the sun's rays wouldn't be a problem, but Jean had never really slept during the days. It was something that he didn't really talk about and something that the other Slayers didn't bring up with him, as it never seemed to effect him in a negative way. The man was literally a bubble of fucking energy.
Other times, he would study the martial arts or work on weapons. James knew that it wasn't odd for Jean to spend several hours alone oiling and sharpening the NoDachi which was almost always strapped to his back. It was also not an uncommon sight to see him disassembling and reassembling the gold-plated Colt 1911A1 .45s which he carried. He claimed they were vintage, designed by Browning himself, and James saw no reason to doubt the claim. Jean had told tales of his training in the East, and all three of his allies knew that while Jean was certainly a bon vivant... he didn't mess around when it came to his job. When the time came... no one meant business more than Jean von Esleng.
Jean's near-white eyes rested on James', a questioning eyebrow raised slowly.
<font color="red">"I'm going to assume that we've arrived."</font> James nodded in response.
"Yeah, we're 'ere. The Majestic Manor, as you requested. Looks fuckin' typical for you."
A boyish grin spread across Jean's features as he pushed himself up from the bed. His hands moved to smooth and straighten out his suit once he was standing, as it was engraved deeply within him to <i>always</i> look his best.
<font color="orange">"Wonderful!"</font>
He clapped his hands together, chuckling as he made his way to the dresser on the righthand side of the room. He picked up a ribbon of the same deep crimson as his tie.
<font color="orange">"It's really been too long, I think. It'll be fun to stir up a bit of trouble here and there, don't you think?"</font> Jean asked as he began to tie his raven locks into a ponytail, his eyes again moving to James.
"Yeah, sure, man... just don't go fuckin' startin' anything big, because we're supposed to be meetin' Hunter and Karl... remember?"
The reminder was met with a smirk, Jean's brow raising once more as his hands slid behind his back to clasp there. The militaristic stance was one he was used to, and it was the most comfortable for him. His suits were always tailored to be tighter in the shoulders, a job which within itself proved difficult for a six-foot-nine-inch man. The feel of the suits mimicked the restrictive wardrobe of the 18th century, the time when Jean had been raised.
<font color="orange">"Now really, Jimmy... what do you think I am? It's not as if old age has made me senile..."</font>
"No, mate, I'm not accusin' you of that. I just know 'ow you are, that's all."
James' words were met with a restrained laugh, Jean shaking his head as he attempted to to find the fedora which matched his black and crimson outfit. The hats hung from a rack of hooks along the wall just above the dresser, coming in a variety of color combinations. All were completely neat, lacking even the barest hint of lint or dust. Jean was meticulous in his wardrobe.
"You want me to go ahead and check us in, or what?" James said, his arms folding over his chest as he allowed the doorframe to support his weight. There were times when he was <i>really</i> annoyed by Jean's obessesion with his appearance...
<font color="orange">"Not necessary, mein freunde. I'll go ahead and take care of it, you just get our things ready, hmm?"</font> The Brujah replied, sliding the selected fedora neatly over his head and adjusting it so that it didn't crush the ponytail or obscure his vision. With a final smile into the mirror, he turned to face James once more... his eyes darkening almost mischeviously.
<font color="orange">"Well, Jimmy... shall we see what sort of a welcome the <b>City of Angels</b> has in store for us?"
