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It was a goddamn good thing that Mickey didn't go to church.

Of course, he'd had his stints. Every sonuvabitch found Jesus in prison. They'd find their *** locked up for 3-5 because they tried to rob a convenience store, and that first night, they got real cocky. They could handle themselves. They weren't gonna be nobody's *****. Then, by the end of that first week, their *** hurt from the beating and their knees hurt from the praying, and just like that, a convict found salvation. When all you see is grey bars and ugly mugs in orange jumpsuits, day by day, you start thinking about Jesus. You start thinking you're not like the rest of the punks who are exactly like you, and because you're different, you deserve Ever-After. Hell, you deserve the best of the best. Kingdom of God, and all that. Mansion in the sky, kickin' it beside the Big Guy Himself, smoking weed all day and living the life. At least, that's how Micky imagined it.

And that's why Mickey wasn't never going to Heaven.

That, and maybe because of about a hundred other different reasons. It was just in his blood. Bad blood, his pop used to say, and then he'd smack Mickey across the head, just because. His pop was a real ********, but he's dead now, so Mickey didn't bother thinking about it for too long. That was why he'd packed up his bags, moved the hell out of Chicago, and booked it for the border. Canada was nicer. Sure, he still got in trouble, and those horses scared the **** out of him, but it was easier to slip by unnoticed. In Chicago, any kid like him instantly attracted the attention of the police, especially in the south side. White and dirt poor. Hood trash. Here, if he wore a button-down (red-hot), nobody even looked twice. Which made it easy to do the **** he planned on doing today.

That **** was scoping out a newly opening bar. He figured that nobody would be there, since it was still getting on its feet, still closed for renovations, with a big sign out front that warned him to keep out. But there was probably alcohol inside, which he liked because it was in his blood from his daddy, and he could also get the lay of the land for when business was booming. It was his favorite gig. Find a place, swindle a few people inside, find out where they stashed the cash, steal enough to get by, and never go back again. Greese's was the perfect joint.

It had a 50's vibe, which he dug, but it advertised for some weird ****, like parkour. Mickey didn't know what parkour was, didn't care, but it sounded expensive, and he liked that. The boy edged past the front of the building, hood up over his head. His tattooed arms were covered by a black hoodie, even though it was getting warm outside. Canada was colder than Chicago, and Chicago was cold as Hell frozen over. It wouldn't start really heating up for another month, maybe two. In July, everywhere in the northern hemisphere felt as hot as a Georgia summer, didn't matter where you laid your head down at night. Along the back, there was another door, locked, and a fire escape. Mickey wasn't sure where it led, but a busted window was sure less likely to be noticed away from the ground, so he jumped and pulled down the metal, creaky stairway and hauled himself up it.

There had to be a broken window. It was a necessity. He rested his weight on the window to try and muffle the sound of a crash, then jabbed his elbow hard into the glass. Threw a lonely brick from the landing to crash noisily against a trashcan, to try and hide the sound. Gotta break a little glass if you want a little cash. It was the way of his life of petty thievery. One on one, he'd never get caught, but if he wanted enough to pay his meager rent or eat for the week, he had to take a few risks. Stepping past the window frame, careful not to cut himself on any shards and leave even more evidence of his break-in, Mickey looked around.

He wasn't sure which part of the bar he was in, but after a little snooping, he was sure this wasn't where the majority of the patrons would be. It wasn't even a good cruising spot, which was another way he made some cash, sometimes, when he just couldn't cut it another way. He always had his job as a cashier at the Korean-owned convenience store down the street, but it made barely enough to stuff ramen into his gullet, much less rent, or power, or, Hell, weed. Carefully, though he figured he'd be alone, Mickey Mcintyre slipped down the stairs to the main bar.

It was there that he realized his mistake.

He wasn't alone. Lights were on. He thought, dimly, he could hear muttering. The sounds of life. The owner? Someone else? Had the cops been called because of the glass? Mickey's heart pounded in his ears, thumped up into his mouth, and he could feel the blood rushing against his tongue. Swallowed, tasted iron and spit and the tang of fear. He'd just got out of goddamn jail a few months back, didn't want to land his *** there so soon.

Without going any farther, Mickey turned tail and ran.

It is always just a few last things. The finishing touches seem to be the longest part of the process. Renovations are nearly complete, and there are always just a few finishing touches. The tattoo parlour is all set up and ready to go. Most of the equipment has been installed in the garage, but Jesse has left the finishing touches in there to Grey. Downstairs is complete, bar the wonky plumbing that the plumber is coming to fix in the next few days. The pipework in the bar is working just fine now, though; all the cabinets are gleaming, as are the fridges beneath the counter. There will be no food served at this bar. Just drinks. The regular kind. The good kind. Good beer. Good spirits.

Jesse has set up at the counter on his laptop, while also on the phone. He’s talking to one of the employees of Arbor Vitae about the stock of blood that he’d like to sell. Being a keeper of the Masquerade, Jesse has questions, of course. How to keep this blood from human knowledge? Hire only vampiric bar staff. Keep the bottles under lock and key, so that anyone who might be working during the day won’t have access. Ariadne, too, is a keeper of the Masquerade; a fellow fighter for the cause. Surely, she wouldn’t be selling the stuff to bars if she didn’t think it would be okay.

Because he’s on the phone and focused on the menu he has up on his screen, he doesn’t hear the breaking of glass. If he doesn’t, it only registers in his brain as a noise from outside, somewhere. It’s only when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him that he pauses; he tells the person on the other end of the call that he’ll call back tomorrow night with the order. As soon as the call has ended, he tosses his phone on the counter and retrieves his Glock from the holster under his arm.

With the recent upheaval between Andras and Fforde, Jesse is paranoid. The death threats haven’t been followed through with, but still. It’s not just Andras, either. For some reason, some person or persons had a problem with Gresse’s, and Jesse wonders whether it’s always going to be something they’re going to have to deal with. Naysayers and riff-raff. Whatever the case, whoever is in the building now hadn’t come through the front doors, and that, to Jesse, screams trouble.

It doesn’t take Jesse long to leap off his stool and follow the sound of retreating footsteps. To follow hastily, his own bare feet silent upon the spotless flooring. He waits until his prey is in a pool of light before he cocks the gun, the sound ominous and echoing. A threat, in and of itself.

”Stop, and turn around,” Jesse says. He doesn’t shout. His voice isn’t exactly loud, either; it is low, husky. Rough. Perhaps as foreboding as the sound of the cocked gun. Not nearly as Jesse’s presence might feel, given that his intruder is very much human. He waits, gun aimed at the head. Ready to shoot, should the intruder decide to keep going.

Jesse has Unnatural Aura: Everywhere you go, humans are immediately put at unease by your presence. Something about you is unnerving, terrifying, or downright creepy. This makes normal interactions with humans very difficult, and stealth is nearly impossible. If you started on the Killer path, your predatory aura also makes humans instinctively repulsed by you, on some subconscious level.

Maybe Mickey Macintyre will live to see another day. Maybe tomorrow, after this mess had been washed from his hands, he'd walk out into the street, singin' and praisin' the Almighty, and he'd get his *** to church. If the church even let him in, at least. Despite all of Jesus' words about love and repentance, most churches sure did like to turn him out on his ***. Didn't want him stinkin' up the place, maybe, or scaring the lil' kids. Probably didn't help that he'd dip his hands in the donation platter as it came around, neither. Probably didn't help one bit.

But if he survived today, he'd try, anyway. Maybe.

Or maybe he'd just celebrate by buying a goddamn pizza.

That is, of course, if he made it out of here alive. Currently, his prospects were slim, but at least the creepy *********** had lowered the gun, a little, aimed instead for Mickey's feet. They were stock-still, too scared to move around, to make a run for it. Something about this cat made Mickey feel as if he'd killed before, which was pretty fuckin' terrifying, since Mickey had only ever beaten the piss out of people before. He'd never even come close to killin', except for that one time, with his pa, but that hardly counted. Everybody wanted to kill their pa, sometimes. Most people got close. Hell, some people succeeded, and at least Mickey didn't have that blood on his hands.

So, this crazy *********** was aiming at his feet, askin' Mickey what he felt about the place, and Mickey just about pissed himself. Something about the kid's voice made him feel like there was a gun at his back, which was ridiculous, because there was a gun at his front, but the feeling was there, just the same. Like he'd walked into some haunted house, and could feel ghost's fingers up and down his spine. His pa had once told him that when he got the shivers, it meant someone was dancing on his grave. And boy, were they dancing now, just livin' it up on poor, dead Mickey Macintyre's grave, wherever it may lay. They were doing the goddamn samba on it, really goin' to town, and every single hair on the back of his neck was raised up like little soldiers.

"Looks good, man," he said, and he tried to straighten out his voice like a freshly-pressed shirt, tried to shake out its wrinkles, make it presentable. But Mickey had never been good 'bout presentations, and so it shook, retained its limp form. It wasn't a voice you'd wear to church. "You're right, though, would look a damn shame with my blood all on it, 'n' ****, y'know? Blood sure is hard to get out." He looked around, finally tearing his gaze away from that gun, saw the boxes, nearly unpacked. Yeah, you dumbass, it sure as hell didn't look like nobody's home. Finally, Mickey gave up on his lie, figured maybe honesty would save his life. Only Heaven knew.

"You know, you're right. I damn lied to ya, man, 'n' I'm sure as Hell sorry. See, I was just scopin' the place out, y'know? I wasn't gonna steal nothin', but I was just lookin' 'round, seein' what there was to see. There ain't nothin' to see. Not that it don't look nice, it do, but I just mean there ain't nothin' here I'm gonna steal, or was gonna steal, or nothin'. So, if ya just let me go, swear to God Above I ain't never gonna set foot in this place never again. Swear on my pa's grave."

Yeah, Mickey was gettin' the feeling that he wasn't going nowhere. This cat, this creepy fuckin' cat, wasn't gonna let him. Not with the way he looked, the way his eyes shone like someone had spit-rubbed them bright and new, or how pale he was -- Christ, don't you ever see the sun? No, Mickey wasn't going anywhere, and he gave up that fight, since this guy was about two steps away from sinking a bullet into his skull, and he followed along.

See, the thing of it was -- Mickey was a coward. Sure, he'd beat your skull in if you ever called him that to his face, and he could fight all day. But he was a coward when it came to death, which was somethin' he wanted to avoid for as long as fuckin' possible. He'd almost died a few times in his life, and every time he went under, there were no angels singin' Hallelujah, no Big Guy in the Sky welcoming Mickey Macintyre like His son. Naw, nothin' like that. Hell, there ain't even 40 virgins waiting for him, so even the Muslims got it all mixed up. No, there was nothing. Nada. Zilch. A big, fat, black, blank space that stretched on for just about forever, and was cold as ice, and got into your spine, but you don't have no spine, and so it just sits in the whole of you, like a black hole, spreading out and engulfing and devouring and there's no end, no escape, nowhere. That's death. Mickey saw it with his own eyes. And when he'd come back to life, it was he who was singin' Hallelujah, because he'd made it back, and Mickey vowed to chase Death with his own goddamn scythe before he ever went back.

This guy coulda been death himself, the way he made Mickey feel, when his arm came 'round his shoulders, brotherly-hug. Nothin' brotherly about it. Was this what they meant by sixth sense? Was this *********** a serial killer? They always looked pretty, serial killers, the smart ones. Like Bundy. Handsome, twisted, fucks, this like this guy. Mickey's spine felt like a rod of steel as he tried not to stumble, to walk straight and narrow beside this stranger as he showed him the place. Play along, Mick, and you'll get outta this. That's what they say, right? When you're being robbed and for sure gonna die? Give 'em your money. When you're caught by a killer and he wants you to paint his toenails before he chops off your head? You bide time. You ask him which color of ******* pink he'd prefer.

Mickey bought time.

The gym was well-built, sprawling, impressive. Mickey whistled, low, tried to sound impressed rather than fuckin' terrified. "Wow, looks great, boss," he said. "I don't wanna steal no cash, or no beer. Really. I was just, uh, y'know, lookin' 'round. I was just curious 'bout the place, and see, I look like a criminal, so nobody let's me in they bar, but I'm not, really. So I gotta sneak 'round. Y'know. Live vicariously." ********, all of it was ********, but maybe if he kept talking, someone else would walk through those doors, take pity on his sorry ***, and he could bolt. Not even a crazy guy would shoot a man down with witnesses.

The boy was led up to the bar. He could see, now, the doors that he should have fuckin' came through. Should'a done the smart thing, said he was lookin' 'round 'cause he was interested in the place, when it opens, asked for a tour, or some ****. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Keep talking. Hold fast. Stay alive. "This a nice place ya got here, man. Really nice."

You're gonna walk outta this damn building alive, Mick. You're gonna walk home, and maybe get your goddamn life together. You graduated high school -- Hell, ya aren't even an idiot. Teachers always said you were smart, just fuckin' lazy. Go to college, Mickey. Get a job. Don't look back at this God-forsaken bar ever again. The little thief was led downstairs, to the actual bar-room area, glistening with lack of use. Brand spankin' new, and Mickey Macintyre had thought it was a good idea to get his *** caught in it. By some crazy dude, no less. Poor Mick had no idea just how crazy his life was 'bout to become, though. This was nothin'. That **** was about to be turned upside-down.

Today, Mickey Murtagh Macintyre was gonna learn that some monsters that go bump in the night are real.

"My name's Mickey," he said, when they stopped around the bar. He could see the front door, now, could bolt for it, but Mick decided to be smart, for the first time in his goddamn life, and not push his luck. The dude seemed a little more friendly now, though there was still a terrifying gleam in his eyes and every time Mick so much as glanced his way, all the hairs on the backs of his arms stood up. "Mickey Macintyre." Be honest. Give him what he wants. Take my money, good sir, just don't blow my brains out.

"I don't, uh, really got a story. Came from Chicago, couple'a years back. I just live a few blocks away, work at a convenience store, couple'a days a week." He scratched his jaw, his beard. Sweat beaded down his neck. Mick could heart his heart beat just patterin' away under his skin, hard enough it felt like the damn muscle was trying to break out of his chest. It was hard to lie to the sonuvabitch, since he'd already caught him at it a couple of times, and the first time he'd lied, Mickey had gotten a gun leveled at his pretty little face. "I don't really do nothin' else, boss. Not much t' know."

He hadn't a fuckin' clue where the hell this conversation could be goin', what with the questions this guy kept firing at him. And he kept looking at him crazy, too, like he wanted to rip off his head and then pour what came out into a chalice and summon the Devil with it. It was a real crazy look, and it made Mickey tenser than ever, his back straight, his booted feet turned slightly to the door, poised to bolt like a rabbit on the run.