Only With Less Brick

[The Hermit] The Green Mill Jazz Club in Uptown, on Broadway Avenue. It's the kind of place known by two parties: Locals who give a damn and tourists with a love of Jazz and/or Mafia legend. Once upon a time this little cocktail club was a favourite spot for Al Capone himself, something the management capitalizes on. But beyond that little claim to fame was its boasting of hosting true jazz legends over the years and decades.

It's still small.
You might miss it, really, were it not for that garish neon sign in, of course, garish neon green.
Jazz is not so well loved and well appreciated as it used to be.
But it's a Saturday night and there's only a 5 dollar admission. The place is bustling: Not empty at all but not overcrowded. It isn't the kind of club to be overrun in thunderous noise and overwhelming, ear throbbing basso and drunken co-eds. Instead there's the jazz of the Ari Brown Quartet tonight - Saxophone, Piano, Bass and Drums - and the scents of smoke and old-school cocktails mixed with less flair and more savvy and served up strong.

In a back booth [near the back fire exit if you go through the kitchens. this is intentional] is a man, just as he said he'd be: Waiting. Listening. Drinking. An older man: His late middle years, really. Thinning hair and a receding hairline too boot. Protruding eyes: Googly eyes, buggy eyes. A nice shade of clear blue but the attractiveness of the colour is lost with the unattractiveness of his features. Oh, he isn't horrible to behold but he hit a few branches on the ugly tree, that's for sure. Her teeth could sure use work, detracting away from what might otherwise be nice lips. It's as if every possible high point in appearance he might have had is canceled and scrubbed by something that's not.

And yet as Molly and Nathan make their way in and Molly - who knows who she is looking for [and the man did seem to place himself conveniently at a table with an overhanging light that seems to run just a little brighter than the rest.. enough to make him a touch more easily discerned.. if you know what to look for] - spots him out [unmistakable, really] they'll notice that the busty waitress sliding him another gin and tonic sure doesn't seem deterred in her loose flirtations, ugly mug or no ugly mug. She's leaning in and then laughing at something he says. He swats her bottom lightly [classy] just slightly beneath a short-short skirt and she husky-purrs as she sashays away.

[Molly Quincannon] The flirtation gets a smile before Molly gets anywhere near the gentleman, and she waits politely for it to end before she approaches. She ostensibly spends the time nudging Nathan lightly with her shoulder and giving a discreet tilt of her head towards the man at the back booth. She'd paid both their admission, of course, and dressed semi-classy; good jeans, button-down blouse, black velvet vest, Rat Pack hat over hair now long and brown and kind of wavy. It's a jazz club. There are proprieties. As well as classy, it's sensible - except the hat, and it's a hat well-lost if they have to run.

With Nathan alerted, Molly approaches the man who'd lobbed a Correspondence-fuelled brick through her window and likely saved her life. She tilts her head in his direction, smiles in a wry sort of way and says, "...Hi. I got your letter. Good way of saving on postage."

[Nathan Spriggs] Nathan will never understand the appeal this type of establishment seems to have to some of the underworld, covert types. Always, it seemed they aimed for these sorts of places. Was it a fascination with the Mafioso vibe? Attempts at a poser sort of classy? Or just a botched try at mystique?

Whatever the case, tonight he's quieter than usual in his large, bulky-looking black trenchcoat that covers all of his torso and enough of his lower body so much of his equally dark pants are obscured with a pair of short reddish-brown boots peeking out at the end. He wears black, leather gloves too, perhaps the reason why his hands seem to be digging deep into the coat pockets.

With a nod, he responds to Molly's nod at the flirting man and slowly moves to follow her whilst keeping a small amount of distance.

He is by no means unprepared. Back-up was what Molly had wanted and it was what she'd gotten. Strapped up under the coat was a stock-less rifle, suppressor screwed in and all along with the rest of his picaresque collection of assorted firearms.

World War 3 could happen and he'd never have to stop to reload.

"Hey," is all he gives the man with a nod of acknowledgment soon following in it's trail.

[Molly Quincannon] [[Int + Comp for IP trace. Analysis speciality. WP 'cos she really wants this...]]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 1
to The Hermit

[The Hermit] The mark, the man, is watching Ms. Rack sway on away. Not with any look of depravity or slavering lust, but easy - if tired [he always looks tired, that's the impression you get. always.] appreciation. If the lady was gonna show it off, well, hell, he was gonna enjoy the show, right?

Then there's Molly and Nathan: Mismatched - him with his trench coat and black slacks and leather gloves. Her with her nod to the establishment she finds herself in tonight, walking easier and lighter than he. He eyes them both with one eye seeming a little lazy - still half cocked for the waitress - then shakes his head. "There's a perk to being fugly: Don't let anyone tell ya otherwise. Pretty little thing like that," tug of the chin towards the waitress, "figures someone like me will just eat it up and the tip will prove it." There's no scorn. No sarcasm. Nope, he seems to like the way the world works just fine in these matters. "God bless fugly and the almighty dolla'."

He gestures to the empty boot seat across from him. "Ya liked that, dollie? Well, helps to cull out on the idiots. No guarantee one of you would think to check but, then, if ya hadn't I'd kinda have my answer already." There's a faint trace of Brooklyn in his words; a faintly asthmatic wheeze here and there. His eyes go to Nathan... he chuckles. "Well you certainly ain't the other dollie..." Rest. Rest. Beat. "Too tall."

And then, with a rub of a hand over his face, a hand that has four rings all together, one on each finger save the thumb. Heavy rings; gold and bronze hued with dark stone settings or gold work. A sapphire setting - large and only polished at the very centre - glints in the overhanging lamp. "And armed t'the teeth. All that metal make you feel better? Me, I like t'travel light." He lights up a smoke - Camel, non filtered - and sips his G&T. Smiles, though given his teeth you might wish he hadn't. "This is where we give some names - real or not - kiddos. We're drinking and listening to half decent jazz... we're being real civil."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly sits; he's being friendly and she kind of likes him already. The comment about the fugly gets a smile and "Fugly's in the eye of the beholder. At least you don't look boring; for me, that's worse. As to the other dolly ... well. If you want to meet her, that can be set up, but she's not an easy person to get hold of right now." It's not apologetic - she imagines he knows how hard the other might be to get hold of right now, and why. She also doesn't say that she wanted a friendly meeting to start with because it implies that Ashley would not be friendly. It might be true, but she doesn't have to say it.

"Judging by the flash drive I got last month, I think the name you and yours have for me is Mad Maudlin," she says, "and how you knew to connect that name to a girl in Chicago when most of the planet thinks that entity's a guy in Random City, USA is ... interesting to me; not that I'm not glad, but it's very rare that someone can pin the Maudlin that way." It's amused, but there's an undercurrent there. There aren't many people even in her own Trad who connect Molly to Maudlin. The fact that he can means word has got out, and she mentions this as a lead-in to maybe finding out how far out said word has got. "Anyway, it's a name that'll work for now. Nice to meet you." She lets Nathan handle his own introduction, with a pause to let him fill in whatever blank he chooses and incidentally giving a wry little twist of the mouth at the mention of how armed he is. He said he was armed, had Nathan, but she hadn't known how much. Still didn't, exactly, but this was beyond just a Glock in a shoulder holster. There may be questions later. Or maybe she'll just frisk him under the guise of feeling him up. Not that the feeling him up part would be entirely fake, but ... well.

[Nathan Spriggs] Nathan takes a moment, another glance to the club, to sit down. A wry smile on his face at the man's comment on appearances before he responds in a joking manner, "Yeah, well, if you'd settle at that. Bet you I could get her phone number, though." Whether he's serious or not gets left in the air, probably for the sake of a non-angry!Molly? No one will ever truly know.

There's a subtle, very subtle, shift to his demeanor then, a switch is flipped. This is not the normal Nathan that people are used to seeing, this is him serious. All business. Of course, the sense of friendliness is still there but there's an undercurrent of calm, calculating efficiency to it in comparison to the usual. "Well, traveling light is good too, but not entirely efficient sometimes I've found." It's a cool response, easing into the conversation smoothly as he extends a gloved hand over the table to the man, "James Barsley, but I figure the All Seeing Eye of Hoopla has told you everything you need to know about me already, anyway?"

[The Hermit] "Nah, one dolls as good as another to me right now. For now." The hand curled loosely around the glass of gin - slick with condensation - taps slightly, "Eye of the beholder, huh?" His lips curve, but there's no oomph behind any attempt to make it lecherous and so it comes out closer to light banter. Besides which, he's got that lazy seeming eye half set for Nathan and, eh, probably too much trouble there... nope, he lets his gaze slip back over to the waitress. Bet you I could get her phone number, though. And the man snorts, "Son, I've been getting my johnson slick easy-peasy nice and easey since before you knew what your pecker was for. God favours the fugly. Learn it. It'll come in use for ya when you've gotten a few chest hairs and lost your girlie-cuteness."

There are introduction and at these the mans eyebrows notch upwards slightly, especially over Molly's. Notch upwards and then furrow and for the first time there's a gleam of.. not displeasure. Exasperation. "Fer fucks sake you just--" Nope.
Take a draw on the cigarette.
Count to ten.
Think of that fine waitresses ass.
Exhale.
"Christ, you really are dollies." Shaking his head he sets his elbows on the table and leans in slightly. "I can only guess who you think 'me and mine' are and yer wrong. As for Mad Maudlin... honey, I knew jack about that, but now I do. Fuck. Seriously?" Give him another second and he might be rolling his eyes heavenward and asking plaintively 'Why me?' or 'Jesus, kids these days!'

Nope.
Another drag of the smoke.
Another sip of the gin.
Take it easy old timer.
To Nathan, "Everything? Nah. It's a pretty little metal detector but, hey, it works, right? Gotta go with what works....Barsley," companionable that. We're all just liars and thieves, right? "Lucian Anders, kiddos. And that's a name you can take to the bank. Well... one of 'em," he adds, fairly. "Check out my credentials like, Miss Maudlin, though given you're flapping that name around you might wanna think of a new handle or whateverthefuck you computer geeks call it these days. Fuck, as if the world wasn't crazy and small enough you all had to go and contract it. Turing was a fuckin' git."

[Molly Quincannon] Guys. Guys and their banter and (hello feelings of complete inadequacy because frankly, Nathan may be kidding but the waitress is racktastic and Molly's a nerdbomb) Molly's just letting that go to face the supreme exasperation of one Mr Anders. Despite the exasperated semi-dressing-down, Molly's first reaction is a grin and "I have a T-shirt that says 'Team Anders' and now I wish I'd worn it today. You wouldn't get the whole joke, but it amuses the hell out of me. As to the name? Eh, call it a show of trust. You call it 'flapping my gums', I call it the one name I had from someone who sent out a very similar mailer to the one you did. Only with less brick. I could have given something random. But hell, you probably saved my life, so you deserve to know a name that means a thing, instead of getting Elaine Dresden or something." (Yes, she ships it. No, neither man sharing her table is likely to have a clue anyway. Sometimes she can keep her mouth shut.)

"Anyway," she goes on, "moving on from a possible, if debatable, bit of foolishness on my part that I'm in no way powerful enough to take back right now? You said we needed to talk. Which I guess we do. So ... how did you know?"

[Nathan Spriggs] Call it common sense or cynicism, Nathan's eyes dart sideways to Molly for a split second in a faint trace... disappointment, at the fact that she's just given a (potential) opponent a key bit of information that he might not have had before. Factor in what follows of conversation and what Molly says about owing a debt for her life...

Yes, he is not impressed. Tries his best not to show it, but apparently some parts of his untrusting heart have yet to thaw away. No unnecessary conversation, no free information, no slip ups. The three cardinal rules of meeting contacts. With an amused curve of his lips into a small smile, he responds, "I'll try to remember that, Mr. Anders. So as my associate seems to have glossed over, what can we help you with? Or am I to believe you're helping us instead?" It's a calm smile he gives him, by no means hostile, the kind that might seem to follow a question of innocent curiosity.

[The Hermit] Of all the things Anders chooses to respond to first it's... "Elaine Dresden? That a play on Elaine Mallory?"
Yes, lord help us, he seems to know something about the Dresden Files if that is, indeed, what Molly referenced, and for a moment that exasperation melts a little easier and humour flickers in those nicely-coloured, badly-buggy eyes. Irritation is fleeting in the man but oh-so-easily stirred up. All the same at the end of it is Molly who gets a trace of a smile and a glimpse of what might be a mans true good humour... and Nathan gets something decidedly less so, something far more judging. Rueful.

Then he just looks tired again.
"Mary," to Molly. To Mad Maudlin. [and Molly will probably know why he uses 'Mary' instead], "I'm cantankerous and old. And I'm right: Don't do something like that again, no matter what the good intentions. You know the names that you need to keep safe and you do it. But yer sweet. Yer open. Still know you've got lots to learn, right, even if you do take a whack at it all bit to eager, eh? Nah... nah, Mary, that's not so bad at all."

Ashing the cancer-stick he blows smoke upwards, "How about you, Barsley? You got it all figured out? Think you do? Funny, y'know... you'd think if there was anything we learned from waking up it was Holy Fuckin' Christ-- I don't know jack-twat-all about anything. And I guess most of us were like that at first. Then we learned a few tricks. Got some learnin'. Suddenly we start closing up more and more. Nah, you keep good n' open, Mary. 'Sides, ya pretty cute when ya grin. Nose wiggles a little. S'nice."

Then he harrumphs and resumes some of his I'm-so-tired-glower; pulls back up the lapels of his cantankerous asshole jacket, see?
Gets down to business.
"How'd I know? Well, sorry, but I can't tell all. I ain't a tabloid. Let's just say this: I know some people who knows some people who know some things. And some of these people think like me. We like t'keep the back channels open. Shit, that's how a cold war works. We skirmish, we take some good hits and give some, but theres always people somewhere keeping the back channels open."

A beat... his lips purse slightly.
"That and I have a crystal ball."
His eyes glint from Nathan to Molly. Back again. "Don't knock it."

He may, indeed, be just a little mad. "Anyway, truth is I'm in this fuckin' city chasing a woman. Sorta. And she's gonna be causin' a lot of trouble for you all. And, yeah, I'm gonna need help with her because a woman is always a fuckin' handful. But how'd I know and why'd I warn you two dollies?"
The G&T is almost gone and he looks a little forlorn at it for a moment, then back up - a glance at Nathan but mostly, again, to Molly. "It was the decent fuckin' thing t'do."

[Molly Quincannon] Before any further conversation takes place, Molly flags down the waitress again. She orders a coffee - she likes to keep sharp - and another G&T for Mr Anders, and lets Nathan order for himself. (I get more compliments from Random J DresdenFan than I do from people I love and admire. Eff-Em-Ell.) "Yes, it is," she says, with the grin the man complimented earlier. "Yes, I ship it. I always thought the Susan thing was poorly developed at best. But noted. And thanks for the advice." Nathan's look gets ignored, but at least someone got the point across. Bits about crystal balls and apparent madness - that all just gets listened to, and further curiosity. She doesn't think he's mad, anyway - it's not like she doesn't use her computer as more or less the same thing, all the damn time.

The bit about a woman gets a frown, then says, "If it's someone who's been travelling the worlds without a map or a reason, you may be out of luck. If it's someone coaching ten-year-old boys to speak prophesy about the aforementioned mapless, reasonless person doing a double-gainer off South Loop on YouTube? You may be in a bit more luck. But I gotta warn you - we've had some dealings with people looking for people that turned out ugly. Helpful to know what we're dealing with so it doesn't turn into a serious clusterfuck that none of us really want or need." Then she ponders and adds, "Unless of course you do want clusterfuck, which I guess I could kind of get, but..." Eloquent sort of shrug, indicating perhaps that this is a city whose Awakened community has, with exceptions, a streak of self-interest a mile wide and ringed with barbed wire.

[Nathan Spriggs] With his left index finger tapping the table once, Nathan draws a cigarette of his own for a moment, "Oh no, I've hardly got it all figured out. Of course, if we were here to trade thinly veiled insults back and forth, I'd just call one of the city's Hermetics." One in particular, actually.

To the rest of it, the exchange between the man and Molly, he just sits quietly and pays attention. For now, it's the backseat for him, reading the little tells in the man's expressions and actions. What happened in the city recently, short of a very fucked up video, was something he wasn't entirely sure on anyhow. Though the reasoning behind his decided sharing of information gets an admonishing nod before it's all over, "I have nothing to say to that except thank you. It was appreciated."

Of course, if he truly believed it was pure altruism, in lieu of his 'search', was uncertain at best.

[The Hermit] This time around Nathan - Barsley - gets the initial response: A dry, faintly weezed chuckle... eyes drifting along once more as Ms. Racksome comes by for Molly's order [a chin up kinda salute for the nerdbomb who he dubs with a new name and a nice grin], rubbing one earlobe faintly with that easy appreciation. "Thinly vield? Must be losin' my touch... Hermetics are awesome for it though. 'Specially those House Rambo types. Dish it out left and right, fuck yeah, but they can't really take it. Wooo-hooo... always good times." His flexed grin is as tired-laced as anything else but the spark-glimmer in buggy-blue eyes is genuine. Good times, indeed.

Words of thanks from both of them are met with shifting-shrugs, eager to move on from gratitude [he's got a rep to maintain, right?] and instead focuses on Molly's response and here they can both read some measure of... not surprise, no. But that the words of 'without a map or a reason' and kid prophets certainly hold his interest and are at least not intimately known to him but.. connected? Like he sees a possible connection. Like it makes sense. "Dunno. But probably tied in. Either of you or yours started hearing about strange going ons? People using the Craft - or something like it - out in the open, like? Causin' a stir? That's Her call sign. She's here alright, I'm sure of it. As for what we're dealin' with..."
He's lighting another smoke [if he's an all-the-time chain smoker it explains the slight asthmatic wheeze here and there], brows knit-furrowed... "Both'a you might be too young to know what the fuck I'm talkin' about -- no offense there, seriously, but yer dollies, still. But I had to make contact somewhere and sometimes dollies are easier to get through to than High and Mighty and Hoighty Toighty. How much do either of you know about the shit that went down after we lost Hori--"

Stop.
Stop stock still.
He releases his breath in a woosh: Carbon Dioxide and Carbon Monoxide.

"Shit."
That's spoken a half-beat before the lights in the club flicker noticeably. Enough to cause a lull in the music and background chatter and clamour all around them. That universal disquiet humans feel when plunged into sudden darkness, no matter how brief.
"She's coming."
The tone he speaks in isn't panic or horror but... regret? Frustration. Urgency.
"Gotta call this meeting short, kiddos. Some other time." He is standing, pulling his coat more snugly around him. "Some place warded."

The lights flicker out again, a longer pulse this time and when they come back on several of the overhanging lamps burst with the energy surge.
"Get out. Now. Y'can't help these people."
Urgent. Frustrated. Pissed.
Weary.

Blink
[Nathan will notice the surge of activated Quintessence in one of the other rings on his fingers.]
He's gone.

[Molly Quincannon] ".............Maybe it should've been Alice, that he called me," is Molly's remark when the man vanishes. "People come and go so quickly here."

No, Molly's not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway. Right now, she wants to know what the hell is going on with the lights. Thus she yanks up a shirt sleeve and starts hitting buttons on the bit of kit she calls her 'Prime-piece'. If the whole electrical surge thing is Forces-related, then maybe she can help these people. She doesn't give up easily, after all.

[The Hermit] With their Watch the Weaving activated they get.... little. It isn't nothing. There's almost an encroaching fog filling the place metaphysically speaking, tendrils of it stretching in fast. Definitely of a supernatural nature, no doubt about it. And Nathan, with his bare understanding of the Sphere [the wretched sphere he hates so much] has the best chance of identifying the most likely culprit.

This is Spirit hoo-doo. Umbral madness.
FML, right Nate?
to Molly Quincannon, Nathan Spriggs

[Nathan Spriggs] [Fuuuuck my life indeed; WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 8, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] It happens almost instantly, reflex kicking in, when the trace of Quintessence appears in a flash and the man disappears. A quick twist to leap on his feet from the cushions at his side while his left hand makes a grab for the collar on Molly's jacket with a nice, strong tug towards him. The sort of thing you see in the movies when the bodyguards need to pull their clients close to them and protect them, but more important, when they need to get them the hell out.

This was why he was here, after all, the back-up. Armed to the teeth, when things went to shit that was his cue. "I need to get you out of here, now. No time to wait, let's go."

With that choice of words, he tries to move towards the nearest exit as his right hand disappears under the coat, tightly holding onto the rifle's grip though it's not drawn. Not yet. No need to incite a panic on pure instinct. It's all made worse by the nature of it, a moment of hesitance gripping him as he's unsure of where to go. Almost wants to run and hide, maybe even leave Molly behind.

She'd only slow him down, and make good bait, no?

It's time like these that make a person's true character show, the little bits of themselves they try to hide away and change.

[Molly Quincannon] [[He's got Phobia. She's got Curiosity. THEY FIGHT CRIME.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[The Hermit] This is how it goes, here and now.

Nothing.
What are you panicing about, darlings? There's nothing wrong here. Nothing at all. The flickering lights cease. The music goes on, the chatting, the drinking, the cat calls, the laughter, the good times, let 'em roll...

Except....
...except.

Visions of quintessence laced tendrils [for everything and all is tied there, don't you know? the Choir might be the loudest proponents of the One but all of the Traditions have their own understanding of Quintessence as the building block in some way or another] cease. They don't fade out - no slow dissipation, no. They just. Cut. Off.

And they can both feel it. How their Magic, their Will, their Art, their Awakened Wonder... cuts off. Like someone - something - just drove an invisible but heavy [almost painful] wedge between their Being and their Avatar.

Get out, he'd said. Now.
And maybe, just maybe, he knew was he was talking about when he took his own advice.

[Molly Quincannon] Molly's curious. Oh hell yes, she's curious. She would like to stay, strangled or not by Nathan's dragging her by the collar (to the tune of gagging-wheezing attempts at speech as he makes for the door) because holy hell, this is weird and reminiscent of the things that go on in Undertown, those creepy tunnels and disused basements under the city. She's curious. She wants to know.

...At least, she wants to know right up until her magic cuts off. She's had something similar done to her once before, just before the pain started, down in a certain basement. Mini-Gilgul has been discussed more than once in her presence. "..........Shit" is about all she can manage owing to the death grip on her collar, but she goes. Reluctant? Maybe a little, but at least she's more or less going of her own free will.

[[Yes, we are blowing WP to stamp out the Curiosity, in a good cause because ... well. Shit.]]

[Nathan Spriggs] [Let's do this shit; WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 7)

[Nathan Spriggs] He's been here before, at this very spot, so far away from Himself and in the midst of something that feels unreal. This time it isn't Winter in New York, though, and he isn't homeless. This time is as close to reality as he can truly get.

Doesn't make him feel better in the slightest, that realization. Yet Nathan presses forth, not giving up on the pressure against Molly's collar for even a moment, safety was the number one concern here. He'd have failed if something happened to her.

Through the back and into the kitchen without skipping a beat as he feels naked without a Part of him, some might call it his Soul. "When we're out, I'll flag a taxi and you get in alone. I'll follow you in a next one, we need to separate for safety. Head to Israel's, I'll meet you there almost immediately."

He's lying, of course. In truth, he can't walk away from this, much as he wants to. In many ways because he wants to. It isn't just Purpose or morality pushing him forward to at least try, it's the regret over, even for an instant, considering leaving Molly and running. He's better than that, or so people tried to tell him, and it's time to make up for that little thought.

But Molly doesn't need to know that. She needs to get out safe, she was the most important thing right now. Her safety before theirs, then it was right back to the frying pan.

Words in Latin whispered to himself like a prayer of self assurance, long spoken and reminding him of an oath he'd made.

Remember and know all that you have seen.

Edom Basileous and other unclean things walk Creation, not only in spirit and by proxy but physically. See the Fallen and the Barrabbi that plot to extinguish All of God's light until Creation is no more than darkness. This is the world we live in, and a world you can no longer ignore. We call ourselves the Awakened and yet it holds true only a singular aspect. Eyes, opened to such things, can never be shut again.

[The Hermit] That was the respite. That was the lull; the cusp of the time between then and now like twilight's grey cast shadows.

Then comes night and soon, the Witching Hour.

They are in the kitchens and the small area if bustling. They are getting looks, thats for sure, and someone is opening their mouth to tell them they can't fucking well be back here when...

BANG!
That would be a gunshot.
And a man screams into the split-second silence, "OH MY GOD, ANGIE! ANGIE! WHY!??!"
[anguish. panic. a second ago he'd wished her dead the nagging, jealous, leeching little bitch but ohgod ohgod ohfuck she shot herself.]
Other yells now, ladies screams, the mans wail keens over it all.. over most of it...
...a Saxophone plays on and holy shit, it is gorgeous. Such music as none has ever heard, ever known. Listen. Listen to the clarity, the exquisite tone, the glorious pitch and treble.
Then it cuts off with a rude, dissonant blast.
[and they cannot see this but the player - whose eyes had shown with the wonder he knew he was creating in that music - is choking now. choking and going red, then purple, then blue and spazzing on the floor and the bassist is wide-eyed and hyperventilating because ohgod ohgod ohgod he'd just wished that fucking show off would fucking choke on it...]

In the kitchen [this rolls and roils like a tidal wave] the man who was about to ask the two Magi [cut off. cut off. sundered.] what the hell they thought they were doing stops on his own words. Eyes wide. Convulse. He clutches his left arm and doubles over... he's a big man, a fat man, an older man. Heart attacks just happen, right?
[the younger Hispanic looking kid who was standing nearby at the salad line swallows hard. sure, he's hated fat man for a while now. sure he wished the fat fuck would have a heart attack and get it over with but.. ohgod... ohgod... what's happening?]

And the grill - the sizzling grill - bursts into the flame...
...and the thunderous panic int he club is swelling, swelling, swelling and the sound of panicked footfall and...

Chaos.
The Witching Hour.

[Molly Quincannon] "...........Why? No; just ... that's stupid and insane." No, Molly doesn't know Nathan's lying, trying to get her clear. She doesn't have to know. They came in together, but are leaving separately? That's just asking for suspicion. It sits wrong, particularly with muttered Latin involved (no, she does not know Latin, but she at least recognises the sound). Besides, not only might something bad happen to Nathan between the wait for her cab and the one for his ... well, if he's not there with her, likelihood is that her curiosity will get the best of her and she'll stop the cab around the corner and sneak back anyway. She knows herself well. "I go when you go. Not a second sooner or later. Live with it!"

And there's the Chaos, and like hell Molly's leaving now. It's plain in her face, and she sets her feet. "Oh, no fucking way." Magic or no magic, she's going in there and trying to help, eyes seeking a mop or a broom or something she can use as a quarterstaff. She doesn't have the Oaths that Nathan does, but there's her Nature, and her killing Curiosity, and a certain song where some lyrics ring far more true than others. In the Tarot deck, Lucian's the Hermit, Nathan's the lightning-struck Tower ... and Molly's the Fool, endlessly Questing, eyes on the sky and heedless of the drop at her feet.

[Nathan Spriggs] Everything they do is crazy, but that's not a valid argument he can take in this case. Nathan knows this, and he also knows that Molly needs to get out here. Something that's suddenly made harder by the Chaos all around them. A grit of his teeth at the scene, he stops for a moment.

A quick pivot as the woman tries to struggle against his grip to search for a weapon. Some choices are harder than others, and it pains him to some extent to have to resort to this... But when the cards are down, he acts upon it.

Better to have to apologize than regret doing nothing.

Letting go of the collar momentarily, his right hand swings forward at the side of her head with the rifle in hand, stock-less at it is though far from painless. No, you didn't need a stock to give it all the umph it might need. You just needed to aim right.

[Dex, +1 diff for no melee, +1 diff for aimed shot]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8) [WP]

[Molly Quincannon] [[Soak, please?]]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] [Str 2 + 1 + 2 suxx + 1 aimed shot]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Molly Quincannon] [[Yay for having upped Dodge recently?]]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Nathan Spriggs] [Dex + Dodge]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Molly Quincannon] [[Here we go again...]]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 6 (Failure at target 6)

[Nathan Spriggs] [Stam + 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[The Hermit] Someone hits the firealarm and its resound blare fills the space, adding the resounding dissonance of violence, panic, pain, screaming, anguish, hysteria. People are flooding through doors now, the front exit and the back exit. This is no orderly evacuation that is for sure and it gives just credence to why it is illegal to shout 'Fire!' in a public space or pull fire alarms without due reason. People react like beasts in these situations, becoming little more than a surging stampede for survival.

The fire on the grill is blazing and spreading and the kitchen staff and the clubbers opting for the back door are thrown even more into chaos trying to steer clear of the burgeoning inferno and keep their eyes on the red-glow exit, double doors that the staff nearest have already thrown open. Some brave soul is trying to fight the fire with an extinguisher but it is doing jack-all [its fuel is far and beyond that of mere oil or grease].

"I've gotta get out! Shit shit shit I've gotta, I've gotta, LET ME OUT!"
It's an older Asian woman: Middle aged maybe in her slinky-sequence skirt, dressed up for her first real date since her husband passed away three years ago. You can't see it but there are old burn scars on her upper thigh and hip from a childhood incident. She needs out. She wants out. She Will. Get. Out.
And so she does: She leaps with superhuman strength and agility and begins bounding over the rush of people flooding through, looking for a way out. Using the people like car hoods or hurdles and she's wearing heels to boot, with people crying out in pain as weight and heels grind and stab here and there. Molly and Nathan are lucky: They get only the resultant push-shover-elbow-knee of the panicked around them but that hurst like a bitch in Molly's case when someone shoves her hard against a counter edge to get past her.

Leaping woman wants out. She's too high now to get through the open doors easy but that won't stop her, oh no. She needs out. She Will. Get. Out. All she needs is for those doors to be higher, for the wall above them to crumbled, for the hole to get bigger....
...pure white bolts [Quintessence. Yes, Molly and Nathan can see it. Taste it. But not use it. It's dead to them right now. Barred and aching and they can feel their Avatars shifting, shuddering, clawing at whatever shields them.] erupt forth and that wall is laid to waste...

...it makes it easier to get out. And the woman is free. And others are following suit, too driven by sheer adrenaline to question.
But the fire is raging and that blown out wall just fucked over the buildings integrity.

[Molly Quincannon] Ah, being trampled. She knows it well. This would probably bring back some truly horrific memories if it weren't for the fact that, when the trampling takes place, Molly's ears are ringing and her head is reeling from pain and shock as... "What the fuck are you hitting me for? Fucking ow..."

And probably part of the reason she gets shoved and battered so badly is that she's trying to move against the tide of people trying to get out, trying to get back to the main room so she can see what the fuck is going on (and maybe to get its jackboot off the neck of her Avatar; that'd be nice). At least Nathan let her go so she can actually move...

[Nathan Spriggs] It's not easy, pushing against a panicking crowd that's kicking and screaming all around. Nathan takes a good few kicks and elbow blows in his effort to go after Molly, but he doesn't let the pain stop him. No, he's not going to fucking fail. Not now. "Because you won't leave! The reason I'm here is to make sure YOU get out safely! NOW LET'S GO, DAMMIT!"

Seen enough people die because of failures, Molly wasn't to be one of them. Even if that meant hurting her a little to avoid a worse fate. That's how he justifies it to himself, anyhow. How he has to justify it so he doesn't follow suit with her and just check it out.

If he can manage to close the distance enough, to get behind her and find the space, it's another headbutt. If not, he'll quietly go after her while he can.

[The Hermit] Here is the bitch of it: With her 'Mojo' there is every chance Molly could have handled that fire. Countered it somehow. Or, given its very nature, there's every chance Molly and Nathan combined could have sucked the Quintessential fuel right out of it. But they haven't their Arts now. They can feel it, oh yes, but it is like feel heat through a wall that neither of them can burst through.

They need to get out. The fire is spreading to encompass the wall that holds the door between kitchen and club, the door choked with people trying to get through though it is alleviating rapidly as most chose the front exit and those in the back are not so crazed that they cannot respond to the threat of burning to death by running in the fucking opposite direction.

And Molly and Nathan are not without a way to help even now: Now that the heartiest, the most desperate have pushed, shoved and trampled and, well, in one instance, crowd-bounded out the now wide-open wall at the back, those left are the sort who fall to uncertainty and frozen fear at the worst of it. Those who are injured and limping or trying to stand up. Some on the floor won't be getting up: The fat man. The racktastic waitress with blood pouring from her skull [being trampled is lethal] and further away a body that had been writhing in the fire is still now, burning, kindling...
...but there are some they might grab or push to get moving or help limp out if they move quickly. Some lives they can save if they choose on their own way out...

Before the Green Mill goes up in flames and chaos and Witches Brew.
Before a Chicago landmark is laid to waste and ruin.
Wonder and Horror.