Encounterlogs
Brians Odd Encounter Sr Sean 240905
Brian's mission to neutralize the young werewolf Allen becomes a covert operation filled with twists and turns in the bustling atmosphere of the Succubus Club. Tasked with calming and capturing Allen without causing a scene, Brian, under the guidance of Chance, a seasoned member of their team, navigates through the thrum of nightlife to engage Allen. They employ a mixture of deception and flirtation, playing roles to blend into the club scene while keeping a keen eye out for any signs of the Order and the Hand, two factions with a stake in the outcome. Their initial plan is interrupted by the presence of Hand agents, leading to a change in strategy that involves causing a diversion on the dance floor.
The operation culminates in a tense encounter in an alleyway outside the club, where Brian and his team confront Allen. Despite the risk of exposure and the potential for violence, they manage to subdue Allen with the help of a neutralizer and some quick thinking. The team's collective effort, including Chance's sharp shooting and Brian's physical intervention, ensures Allen's capture with minimal casualties. The aftermath sees them caring for their wounded and assessing the evening's events, recognizing the complexities of their task and the importance of teamwork. In the end, Brian earns a nod of approval from Chance, signaling his acceptance and the successful conclusion of a challenging but crucial mission in their ongoing efforts to manage supernatural threats.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRSean):SRSean)
[Wed Sep 4 2024]
In a modern bathroom with pale blue walls
It is dusk, about 79F(26C) degrees,
(A young werewolf who has yet to learn control over his transformations has been causing havoc in the town. The characters must find a way to calm him down and teach him to control his abilities without causing more harm.)
A banner call goes out across the Temple communications system. It is a passed-on notice from the White Oak Institute, intercepted by Temple Intelligence as it was projected to the Order and the Hand. It blares three times, before tickering across all active Temple Agents' devices, providing a rough location of the target. The message reads:
Sophomore Allen Henderson - age 20 - suffering from lycanthropy. Recently turned within the past eight months. While Institute Staff were able to contain Allen during the days leading up to the most recent full moon, his mood swings have become more violent as we've approached, and passed, the new moon. At his weakest, and perhaps most volatile, Allen has been struggling to withhold his more violent urges. Several times he has shifted on campus, in the day time. Campus security has been called to withdraw him from participation in various athletic events and he has been temporarily suspended from his position on the White Oak Wildcats.
Order, Hand, please advise. Student's current capabilities are growing beyond the Institute's ability to control and maintain. We have received reports of Allen frequenting night clubs, drinking under age and terrorizing club goers and patrons with his rage.
After that announcement is thrice-blared, and then pushed to all active Temple Agents, there is a follow up message from Branch Headquarters from Jansen, head Geek. His voice is gravelly, his words intercepted and interrupted with the coughing of a long-time smoker. "Alright, listen. We're doing pretty good on Demolishers, but this one's a danger. He's young, so we can likely handle him, but if the Hand get a hold of him, there's going to be all sorts of noise. If you see Orderites, play nice. But grab some neutralizers and get going. We've already had a few admits to the Clinic and if we can't get him under control, the vics'll start coming in dead."
There's an immediate follow-up of a GPS ping, showing the approximate last-known location of this White Oak Werewolf. T.I seems to have tracked him, approximately, to the region surrounding the Succubus Club. Follow-up files get flashed out from Intel Headquarters, Geeks already working on a trace. A few details are immediately evident to Brian
This student does not have a history of lycanthropy, and was turned, or activated, recently.
He's already had a string of disciplinary incidents at the College campus, many of which seem violent, but are otherwise unrelated to the supernatural.
He's recently come away from a bad breakup with his boyfriend, a cheerleader for the White Oak Wildcats and local barista, who the Temple identifies as 'Francis (Fran) Peters'. Files seem to indicate the ex is a Latent, but the Geeks are unable to identify what, specifically, he may be.
Brian grabs a neutralizer and conceals it in the small of his back, under his sweater. He heads towards the Succubus Club, keeping an eye out for any recognizable members of the Order and the Hand. Along the way, he transmits over the radio to let any other Templars in the area know what he's up to.
With the initial details out of the way, Jansen goes quiet on comms and Brian is pushed the details he requires. As is fitting, he reiterates the S.O.S over Temple comms, but time is off the essence, and the Geeks don't have an exact location on Allen yet. Brian heads out towards the Suc, the late, mid-week evening creating a strange miasma of tense quiet, the roads fairly empty, most people being either at home with their families, out on patrols, or otherwise staying inside. The weather and the seasons are turning, but Wednesday evening is not Haven's nightlife peak. This presents a few issues. Firstly, Allen is likely to be far more obvious, meaning containing him will be more challenging. Secondly, given the sparser crowds on the streets as Brian approaches the Club, there will be fewer places for victims to hide, and less people for Brian to work quietly within.
A few Mosquitoes are sent to rendezvous with Brian, pulling up in a dark car with shielded plates and tinted windows. They step out, their suits slightly bulging with the lined kevlar plating beneath it. One of them tosses Brian a magazine - silver bullets - and says "Quick and quiet, but, just in case," before falling in at Brian's flanks as they head towards the frontage of the Club.
Brian taps one of the Mosquitoes on the shoulder and gestures towards the back of the club. "Keep an eye on the back. If you see our guy, call for help." He walks towards the front door of the club, trying to blend in as if he's just there to enjoy himself. Phone in hand, eyes only coming up to scan for women... like most young men his age.
"Got it," says the Strike Force soldier, letting Brian take point. He dips a nod, and then makes a few hand signals to his companion before gesturing down the alleyway. There's a 'chirp-chirp' on the comms as the Strike Force agent switches to a secondary line to reduce chatter to him, Brian, and the second soldier, a brunette woman in her mid-40s holding a small pistol. The male Strike Force soldier darts down the side alley way, moving around to the back doors of the club nearer to the dumpsters, side streets and the woods. There's a few moments of silence, the brief flare of a flashlight, which is quickly quelled beneath a covered hand, and the soldier starts sweeping up and down the block, disappearing from view.
Tucking her gun in beneath her leather jacket, the woman steps in at Brian's side, taking his arm as they enter, putting on a rigid facade of an older woman taking her boy-toy out for a date. As they enter, she leans down to him and says "...You ever dealt with rogue shifters, kid?" Her voice is wire-tight, experienced, and a bit weathered. "This one's young, which means he's skittish. He's likely all piss and vinegar and no self-control. Likely not as powerful as Jodie, but a hell of a lot more reckless. Watch your back and if you see even a squeak, you signal twice. DO NOT," and she smiles, waving familiarly at one of the bartenders, pausing to say "Oh, hey! Johnnie, they got you working a weekday shift?" flashing him a sympathic glance, before wending towards the bar, gently tugging Brian. "...DO NOT corner him alone."
Brian puts on a dopey smile, content to play the older woman's joytoy. He leans in close, as if to whisper something to her, and says, "No. First time. I'm also new to the Temple." He pulls back, with a lascivious grin making it clear to any onlookers what sort of thing he was just whispering. His eyes scan the crowd as they approach the bar, never lingering longer than it would take to confirm a sighting of the target.
She's experienced, of course, but she's no spy. Her face is a bit too stern to draw too many onlookers to question her, but there are other, young men and women out who look upon Brian with some measure of jealousy, drunk enough to misread his situation. A few White Oak students are out themselves, laughing it up in Letterman jackets and cheers-ing drinks together, celebrating a recent victory at the early start of the season. There's a blip on the comms as a deeper voice comes in, saying, "Miller, Chance, no sign in the back alleys. I'm going to stay posted by the back door, eyes on the woods in case there's any activity. Fan out a bit. He could be inside, but I'd keep eyes on the front door just in case."
The Strike Force soldier-playing-cougar only subtly nods, smart enough not to make noise to draw too much attention. Instead, she guides Brian over to the bar, where the cluster of patrons helps drown out any quiet conversation from normal, mundane prying ears. She makes herself comfortable, peeling off her jacket and slinging it across her lap, such that her gun, and small darts, are easily accessible by a hand. She exposes a smart, crisp, low-cut blouse and tugs at Brian to join her at the stool beside her, her voice lowering. "Shit. Well, welcome," she mutters, flagging down the bartender with a few flickering fingers. "Not the best way to get your feet wet, but I guess jumping right in is better than twiddling your fingers. Chance," she says, mindful of her facade and leaning over to instead brush her lips to Brian's jaw as a 'greeting' rather than to offer him a handshake. "You're Miller, right? New kid?"
Her eyes are everywhere, constant, alert. "They clip you with your full kit yet? You're a rook, so I'm not sure where Cara's intending to place you. Intel? Strike Force? What's your background?"
Brian continues to look at Chance with hungry eyes and a dopey smirk, like a guy who's sure he's going to get laid tonight, and isn't focused on much else. He leans in closer. "Kit? Heh. All I have is what I bought on my own, per Cara. A vest, a concealable Glock, a knife, and a compound bow, because my background... is Eagle Scout." He grins even wider. "She suggested that given my Scout training and facility with a bow, I might look to serve on a Strike Force, but it's not definite yet."
"Shit, well...." She sighs, turning on the bar stool as two glasses of whiskey are rocketed down the bar towards her and Brian. She lifts one, and hands the other to Brian. "Sip," she murmurs, leaning into him as if to whisper something lurid in his ear as a few college students and filtering-in clubgoers look on at Brian with an envy and awareness of his role as Chance's 'pool boy' for the evening. "Lightly. But don't drink. Need your head clear. Werewolves are fast motherfuckers and when they get spooked, shit always goes sideways." She reaches down to her lap, back to the bar, chest out to the club, eyes scanning frequently over the rim of her glass. "Here," she says, fishing down beneath her jacket to pull out a small, expandle silver ring, passing it underhanded to Brian. "Brought a spare naturalizer. DO NOT use it until we've ascertained the threat. Order and Hand fucking hate the things and we'd like to avoid the paperwork if we can."
The evening wiles on and there's no immediate sign of danger. As the hour turns later, the club gets fuller, and the Strike Force soldier in the alley gives periodic updates, every ten minutes. Nothing. No sign. Woods empty. Alleyways are clear. Chance only seems to get irritated more and more by this lack of action, her hackles raised. Alright. Well. Knife and Glock'll be good. Use the silver. It'll hurt, and, if need be, kill, but it'll work better than regular bullets AND lower the risk of friendly fire, if he shifts. Eagle Scout?" She asks, raising a brow in a slight arch of judgment. "God. We must be desperate. You're barely out of high school. No military training? Service? Feds, private sec? Nothing?" She sighs, shaking her head, and then, counter to her advice to Brian, downs half of her glass, turning to plant a kiss on his lips to hide the seethe of whiskey-bite and keep up the facade as a few people start to close in on the bar, one of them a younger redheaded woman, initially looking to approach Brian.
"File says the kid's boyfriend comes here most nights. Moonlights as a DJ and a dancer. Let's give it 30 and if he doesn't show, we'll move to the dance floor. Crowded, sure, but if he's struggling and he's hurting, well, he might be looking for blood." "
Brian goes out of his way to check out some of the other girls, as if to cement his status as a desirable young stud. He places one hand on the older woman's thigh, closer to the knee, when they kiss. Still making his "I'm in there!" face, he replies, "19. Graduated last year. No training other than Scouts, and varsity track and wrestling all through high school. I was recruited because within a day of moving here, I was kidnapped by a werewolf and a guy who can shoot fire out of his hands, and I managed to escape without help." He nods at her dancefloor suggestion, then leans in to plant a kiss on her neck one arm sliding around her shoulder as if to stake his claim. He looks at some of the other nearby young men as if to dare them to approach, occasionally taking a miniscule sip of his whiskey.
Chance manages to actually look somewhat impressed, "Huh. Not even a scratch? Nice." It's high praise coming from the experienced Mosquito, though Brian's youthfulness gives her a bit of pause. Even amongst her facade, the double-decade age difference and more does make the woman flush with some measure of confusion. She eyes the hand climbing up her thigh, flicks Brian a gaze, and masks it with a smile that seems complemented by her flush, leaning in to tightly murmur "...WAY too old for you kid. Hands loose. You'll need them if we don't get the drop on..." And then there comes trouble, a slender man and a solidly-built, androgynous figure pushing through the doors of the Club. Chance seizes, dropping some of her mask as Brian snakes an arm around her neck. She lifts a hand to her ear as if to play with her hair, laughing wittily at some false comment to draw eyes away.
CHIRP-CHIRP go the comms, and her voice comes through reedy, and thing. "Max. We got Hand incoming. Peacekeeper and a Whisperer, looks like. No sign of the kid yet, but if we're going to move, we'd better move fast. They'll make less of a scene, but more of a mess." There's a pause, and then some static, as the other Strike Force soldier replies "...Got it. I'll put down some caltrops to prevent a rear-exit escape and then come in to join you. Woods looking clear. I'm coming in the back way and will scout the dance floor. Rendezvous at the balcony?"
She chirp-chirps her silent agreement, before lifting her throat to let Brian kiss her. Her voice is quiet, steely, as she says "See Doctor Frankenstein and his Monster? At our nine, by the door? Those are Hand agents. They'll play nice till they won't. Here, let's move inwards. Jansen says the kid's ex is DJing tonight, and maybe we can use the boyfriend to draw out the wolf." Another laugh, and Chance slips off her stool, throwing her jacket (and its weapons) over her shoulder and grabbing both of Brian's hands. "Come onnnnn," she slurs, laying it on thick, a woman old enough to handle her liquor and too free to give a fuck. "I wanna dance, Bri-bri...let's go dance!" And she yanks him off of his seat.
Brian half hops off of his stool as he's pulled towards the dancefloor. Following Chase with a roll of his eyes for anyone watching, he scans the crowd by pretending to eyeball pretty much all of the women they pass. Once they get to the dancefloor, he moves up alongside her, dancing close, making it very clear that there is no room for competition here. He murmurs in her ear, "Sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I was just playing along, and part of that is trying to make it seem like I think I know more about what to do with a woman like you than I actually do. Really, my role and I are fairly similar." He grins again, meaning it to be mirthful but still making it look like a self-satisfied smirk.
And off the two of them go, deeper into the Club, into the throng of bodies, thinner than normal, perhaps, but still busy. The music is loud and pumping, the DJ's attempt to get some excitement in on a Wednesday before 9pm. Most of the dancers are ravers, club-kids, scene kids and a few older people, predating on the young. Some of them are supernatural, some obvious, from the hunger in their eyes, or the pallor of their skin, but that's not why Brian is here. He has a mission, a target. No immediate sign of Allen, but, at the DJ booth, is his ex. A slender little kid with long blonde hair swept over one eye, bouncing to the music to try to amp up the crowed, wearing a mesh tank top and sweat forming at his brow. "Ignore the sidelines. Let's get in there. Don't get lost, stick by me, and have that naturalizer in your back pocket," Chance says, brushing off the apology. "It's fine," Though her skin is warm, "You've got the masking down good, which is good. Most of this is performance. If things get bloody, usually shit's hit the fan. If we can lure this kid out and get him in nice and quiet, we make less of a mess. You've got a good face-" And it might even be a compliment on his appearance.
She pats his cheek in a somewhat patronizign fashion, before throwing him into the middle of the bodies and prowling at him, in a way that parts the crowd enough to give her room to access her weapons. Mocking playfulness, she throws her jacket, containing one of her sidewarms and a naturalizer, at Brian before taking him by the hands and jumping to the beat and pulse of the music.
Loud though it is, their comms are deep in their ears, chirping as Max slips in from the back and says "...In. Heading up top to get a perch, scan the crowd. Clocked the Muscle and the Freak. We'll play it cool. We came stocked for wolves, not for whatever they are." Chance just swings her head, not acknowledging the comms in this moment to use the arc and sway of her dance with Brian to scan the people cloying to the periphery. "Brunette. 5'10. Thick-set, lineman. You read the file, I'm assuming?" She says to Brian on an in-step, voice level, untouched by the effort. "He's going to be mean to take out even unshifted. Fish my gun out and slip it in my waistband - yes, it's fine, don't get fumbly about touching me. I need it accessible."
Brian plays along, dancing next to Chase, deliberately acting a bit off-balance, just a beat off the pace, as if from drink. He finds the sidearm in the woman's jacket, and pulls her in close into a spin, using the proximity and the movement to slip the gun into her waistband near the small of her back. "I read it yeah." he says. "I've wrestled guys his size, some bigger. As long as he doesn't change, I'm confident."
Frankstein and the Monster do eventually shoulder their way into the dance floor, but the thinner man stays at the edge, the androgynous heavy pushing through the crowd in a much less subtle search for the target. A young werewolf is, of course, a very good prize. Catch them early and train them and they can be some of the most dangerous soldiers in any conflict. Chance tightens at the sight of the Hand Agent, her eyes flitting up to the balcony. "Here," she says, taking Brian into her arms and embracing him, tilting him back to put her lips to his jaw. "...In twenty seconds, we're going to fake a fight. I want you to storm off and go to the edge of the dance floor, Get away from the Hand agent and see if you can try to intercept this kid before he can race to his ex. If Allen's going for anyone, it'll be that boy up there." She pulls back, gnaws at her lip, and scans the dance floor, saying "...Touch that girl's ass," before thrusting Brian at a taut-bodied blonde girl dancing with her hands in the air, lost to the music.
"Big'un," Max says, just as Chance throws Brian at the college girl. "See him from up here. He looks like he's tweaking. I think that's our man. I'll go down to keep an eye on the kid, run interference on the Hand Heavy." And the Soldier disappears from the balcony, moving in a speed-walk along the edge of the dance floor before penetrating inwards, using his body to try to shield the Hand agent's eyes from Allen further back near the bar. "Hey!" he's nowhere near as good an actor as Chance, so he just gets right into it, trying to throw himself at the agent to dance with them and distract them. And Chance gets into Brian's face, pointing and grabbing his collar. "Hey! What the fuck, Bri-bri? I thought tonight was about me?!"
Brian grins unapologetically. "Ass like that, I needed a handful." He shrugs. "You thought tonight was about you, but I never said that." He backs away from the older woman at first, then spins on his heel and heads towards the DJ booth. He looks for a girl, any girl, near the booth and preferably alone, or at least not with a guy, and strolls up to spit game, all the while keeping himself positioned to get to the post haste.
"What the FUCK?!" And Chance goes after Brian, moving in to clock Brian across the face with a slap. He backs away from her and she pursues, grabbing him by the collar in both fists, hauling him to her face, and screaming "...Just...just...fuck off you, you, you,..." And she twists him, going to throw him off of the dance floor. "Lose my number!" And before he's released, Chance leans in and says "At your six, move fast, turn that charm on. If you can keep the kid busy...get him back outside, Max and I can pincer you. If you feel anything awry, don't hesitate. Hit the comms and we'll come running. Better fast and a bit messy, than slow and a nightmare," And then she slaps Brian and throws him back towards the main bar.
Max is busy trying to distract the Hand agent with a dance, his moves a bit too stilted and his forced enthusiasm seeming to confuse them but, for the time being, it does allow Brian a brief moment to intercept the angry-looking Allen before the poor kid is noticed by any of the Hand agents. Or worse. CHIRP-CHIRP "Miller. Get that kid away from the dance floor, now. He looks angry and it's too crowded in here for a fire fight."
Brian uses the momentum of the slap and push to land in front of Allen. He looks at the shorter man and gives a shit-eating grin. "Bitches, am I right? Especially the older ones. They're amazing in bed, but they act like the whole world owes them something." He pauses for a moment, eyes-widening as if with recognition. "Hey, man! I know you. You play for White Oak, don't you? Yeah, you do!" He slaps Allen on the back, but not hard. "Yeah, I've seen you play. You're good man. Come on, let me buy you a beer. Come on!" and starts trying to steer Allen away from the dancefloor and the other agents towards the far end of the bar and, hopefully, the back door.
Allen is PISSED. He's big. He's emotional. It's just past the New moon and so Brian benefits from his weakness, but the lineman, student, werewolf, isn't really in the mood for company or games. When Brian plants himself in front of him, Allen goes to side-step and move out of the way. He's big. He's not graceful. And so he assents, for the moment, as a trickle-stream of club-goers keep him from being able to go around Brian without making a mess. And that's crucial. He doesn't LOOK like he wants to make a mess. He's got his eyes on a target, his boyfriend, deeper into the club. He's upset. He's angry. But he's not murderous. He just looks... "Hey, hey, hands of- Oh." And the kid shuffle-steps back, eyes going to the floor for a moment. He snarls, and then clamps a hand over his mouth, muttering a 'Sorry' that reeks of shitty tequila. He's a tad drunk.
"...O...oh, no, yeah, no. Not...I don't play anymore. I got benched. Coach says I was hitting too rough, or something. And I just..." He fights being steered, because he wants to go deeper, he wants to get to his boyfriend. He wants to do something, but Brian holds him at bay, and Max goes to flank from the front door, briefly giving Brian an upnod.
"Fucking...okay, fine. I could use a beer. I spent all my money on..." And then they get towards the bar, and Allen steps up to a stool, since Brian offered to buy him a drink. "Hey! Two beers!" He's big, and as such, doesn't get a second look as to his age that Brian did, obfuscated only by Chance ordering for him. The bartender clocks his ragged White Oak Letterman, and his size, and decides against making a mess, saying "...Yeah, sure. Stella fine?" And Allen doesn't even register it, saying "Yeah, man. Two beers. Hey..." He flicks his chin at the stool next to him.
Brian takes the stool next to the football player and lays some cash down on the bar for the beers. "You got benched? Man, no wonder the team hasn't been doing as well. I haven't made the last few games, been busy working, but bro... you were something else. Maybe the coach'll come to his senses and realize he needs you to win, right?" He glances back as if to scope out more women and subtly returns the upnod from Max.
Praise and shit beer are a dull balm for a young man like Allen. He's carrying around too much pain and anger for it, but he's tipsy, he's sad, and he at least slows down enough to listen to Brian's cajoling about the team. Off in the periphery, Brian can see Max at the door, the man going stiff like a bouncer, while Chance has taken to causing a scene on the dance floor to draw away the Hand Agent. She's likely capable of handling herself. Again. Slow and Quiet is better than Quick and Messy. And Allen rounds on Brian, then, holding up the Stella that the bartender passes him, pushing it against the second. "Hey, hey. Here. You got something to..." He frowns, face wrinkling, youth pouring out of the edges of his features into something sharper. "...Fuck if I know. I was good, too. Got a scholarship, and ... I like my classes, and stuff, but I liked the team. It's how I met my boyf-" He catches himself, face a brief mask of unbridled rage, though a few girls on either side of him sight him, murmur, and walk away out of concern.
And so Allen sighs, slumping, dejected. "...My ex. He was a cheerleader, for the team. He was so nice to me and he's...like...he's the greatest guy. And I sort of fucked it all up. And I've just been so ANGRY since the break up, you know? Like, I don't even know what I did wrong! I'unno why I got benched, or why Fran broke up with me or nothing."
Brian nods, taking a pull off his beer. "I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe Fran will come to his senses, too." he says. "But the coach better. With you out there, we were a lock for the division playoffs, I'm telling you." Suddenly, his eyes widen as if he just thought of something. "Hey, man... could you do me a favor? We can leave our beers, we'll be right back. But I've got a ball out in my car. Would you be willing to come sign it for me? It'll just take a minute, and I'm such a fan." He gives the other man a pleading look, maybe even with an ever-so-slight hint of flirtation to it.
He's a Sophomore, so he's a bit confused, and a D-Lineman at that, but no college kid is immune to flattery, and flirtation. Allen may be on the prowl for his boyfriend, but Brian's cute enough, and enthusiastic enough, that he's briefly charmed away from the hunt. He DOES hold onto his beer, though, and says "...You're paying for those. I spent all my money on..." And as he's led away from the bar, he fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a cheap little velvet bag, likely from some low-end jewelry counter at Narnia. "...I'unno. A gift, or something. To, like, say I was sorry...He'll probably hate it." He's a bit miserly, but he's still uplifted enough to drink his beer and walk out with Brian. "Uh...yeah, sure. You got a pen? I can sign it, I think. I'm just benched, not, like...kicked off the team or nothing."
And they approach the door, and get out to the street. The -actual- bouncer looks sidelong at Max, Brian and Allen, giving a little dip of his chin that is simultaneously an acknowledgment, and an indication that, whatever the three men are going to do, they'd better not do it in front of his fucking club, while he's doing his job.
Brian has one hand on Allen's shoulder as he guides him out the door. "I'm sure he'll love it, man. And if he doesn't, I'll talk some sense into him for you. Come on, my car's right around the corner over here. I really appreciate this. I've got a sharpie, too."
Brian waits until they are around the corner, out of sight of the bouncer, and guides him towards the first car he can see in a darker area. Once he feel confident that there's no one around them, he takes the neutralizer collar from his pocket and in a blur of movement, slaps it around the young man's neck.
"...Yeah, okay, s-sure," And then Allen rounds the corner with Brian, into the dark, away from the front of the club. Max is a shadow on the other side of the street, a few bolting steps away from Brian if need be, but otherwise keeping his distance. He's speaking quietly into his comms and he's disappeared into some of the foot traffic, and Brian can hear the exchange between him and Chance as he moves Allen away.
"Miller's got the target. Outside, back alley near the juncture. He's got him lulled, but not sure how long that'll last. Get out the back door. We're either gonna need another set of hands, or quick feet for the bag-and-tag."
And then Brian lurches to slap a collar on Allen's neck, and that's not going to fly so easily. Lulled and half-drunk, Allen rounds the corner with Brian and chugs half of his beer, burping out loudly and saying "...It's a necklace, with his initials. For his half-birthday-" Fucking teenagers. "I was gonna give it to him tonight, after his set. He's so hot when he's up on the sta- Hey, what the-" And Allen staggers, swinging wildly at Brian and darting out of the way, smashing the bottle against Brian's arm. "What the fuck, man, what're you-" And then Max comes bolting across the street, trying to get low enough to deck Allen at the small of his back. "Miller. FAST." Because Allen's already starting to ripple beneath his Letterman's jacket.
Brian steps forward, trying to slam a fist into Allen's gut, putting all his strength into it, in hopes of stunning the football player, or at least getting him to bend forward so he can get the collar on.
Alone, Brian couldn't take this kid down. Absolutely not. Brian is all slender strength and wiry muscle. Allen is a brick house, all anger and tequila and cheap beer and anger, all wrapping up a young werewolf's strength. He goes for Brian, taking the punch to the gut, and already shifting, fingers extending, claws going for Brian's neck. And then Max hits him in the back and there's Chance's voice from the end of the alley hissing, "Miller, duck!" and then there's the hiss-pop of a silencer as a few silver bullets whiz down to try to clip Allen's sides. Max takes the brunt of the damage, as Allen turns on this new brawler, slamming his hands down in big, battering blows against the Strike Force soldier's back. "N-now," Max groans.
Brian jumps onto Allen and slaps the collar in place.
Brian hammers a shot into the other man's kidney, still preferring it to shooting, especially since his own weapon does not have a silencer.
The Naturalizer slams home, and it's low whine buzzes in the alleyway, before its interior needles pierce Allen's skin and keep him from shifting. He's still mad as all get out, but now he can't shift and kill Max with one blow. He scrambles to his feet, trying to deck Brian, but the punch to his kidney levels the playing field. And then Chance comes down at a combat sprint, pistol-whipping Allen across the temple before tossing Brian a pair of reinforced cuffs. "...fuck." She huffs, looking at Max as he wrestles the fading lineman to the ground. "...Max, you alright?" Max is bruised. Cut. Battered, but he holds up a bloodied, crooked thumb, and looks at Brian. "...Fuck, kid. You've got a mean hook. I felt that one THROUGH this wolf."
Brian cuffs the werewolf, then looks Max over, checking the severity of his wounds to see if he needs urgent treatment. "Thanks. Let's see how you're doing..."
Chane starts binding and dragging Allen down towards the SUV parked in the alley way, though she pauses to guide Brian to help Max to his feet. Max is hurt. Bruised, probably a fractured forearm, but there are no major or deep laceration, AND, because Allen wasn't able to bite, nor is it close to a full moon, and he didn't transform, Max is at no risk of being Turned. Max clamps a shaky hand at Brian's shoulder and says, "I'll be alright. Here, let's get this fucker in the car and you can patch me up on the way to the Clinic."
And the three agents bundle the werewolf into the car. Chance takes the driver's seat, Allen is deposited into the trunk, and Max sits in the rear seats, peeling his suit back for Brian to work on the minor sutures and bandages as they head off into the night. "Quick and messy," Chance tuts, shaking her head, before looking back at Brian in the rearview mirror. "...You're alright kid. Good job."
Brian nods at Max. "You have a broken arm, at least. We can splint it. Nothing else looks too serious." He nods again at the compliment from Chase. "Thanks. I could not have done that without your help. You guys know your business."
The operation culminates in a tense encounter in an alleyway outside the club, where Brian and his team confront Allen. Despite the risk of exposure and the potential for violence, they manage to subdue Allen with the help of a neutralizer and some quick thinking. The team's collective effort, including Chance's sharp shooting and Brian's physical intervention, ensures Allen's capture with minimal casualties. The aftermath sees them caring for their wounded and assessing the evening's events, recognizing the complexities of their task and the importance of teamwork. In the end, Brian earns a nod of approval from Chance, signaling his acceptance and the successful conclusion of a challenging but crucial mission in their ongoing efforts to manage supernatural threats.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRSean):SRSean)
[Wed Sep 4 2024]
In a modern bathroom with pale blue walls
It is dusk, about 79F(26C) degrees,
(A young werewolf who has yet to learn control over his transformations has been causing havoc in the town. The characters must find a way to calm him down and teach him to control his abilities without causing more harm.)
A banner call goes out across the Temple communications system. It is a passed-on notice from the White Oak Institute, intercepted by Temple Intelligence as it was projected to the Order and the Hand. It blares three times, before tickering across all active Temple Agents' devices, providing a rough location of the target. The message reads:
Sophomore Allen Henderson - age 20 - suffering from lycanthropy. Recently turned within the past eight months. While Institute Staff were able to contain Allen during the days leading up to the most recent full moon, his mood swings have become more violent as we've approached, and passed, the new moon. At his weakest, and perhaps most volatile, Allen has been struggling to withhold his more violent urges. Several times he has shifted on campus, in the day time. Campus security has been called to withdraw him from participation in various athletic events and he has been temporarily suspended from his position on the White Oak Wildcats.
Order, Hand, please advise. Student's current capabilities are growing beyond the Institute's ability to control and maintain. We have received reports of Allen frequenting night clubs, drinking under age and terrorizing club goers and patrons with his rage.
After that announcement is thrice-blared, and then pushed to all active Temple Agents, there is a follow up message from Branch Headquarters from Jansen, head Geek. His voice is gravelly, his words intercepted and interrupted with the coughing of a long-time smoker. "Alright, listen. We're doing pretty good on Demolishers, but this one's a danger. He's young, so we can likely handle him, but if the Hand get a hold of him, there's going to be all sorts of noise. If you see Orderites, play nice. But grab some neutralizers and get going. We've already had a few admits to the Clinic and if we can't get him under control, the vics'll start coming in dead."
There's an immediate follow-up of a GPS ping, showing the approximate last-known location of this White Oak Werewolf. T.I seems to have tracked him, approximately, to the region surrounding the Succubus Club. Follow-up files get flashed out from Intel Headquarters, Geeks already working on a trace. A few details are immediately evident to Brian
This student does not have a history of lycanthropy, and was turned, or activated, recently.
He's already had a string of disciplinary incidents at the College campus, many of which seem violent, but are otherwise unrelated to the supernatural.
He's recently come away from a bad breakup with his boyfriend, a cheerleader for the White Oak Wildcats and local barista, who the Temple identifies as 'Francis (Fran) Peters'. Files seem to indicate the ex is a Latent, but the Geeks are unable to identify what, specifically, he may be.
Brian grabs a neutralizer and conceals it in the small of his back, under his sweater. He heads towards the Succubus Club, keeping an eye out for any recognizable members of the Order and the Hand. Along the way, he transmits over the radio to let any other Templars in the area know what he's up to.
With the initial details out of the way, Jansen goes quiet on comms and Brian is pushed the details he requires. As is fitting, he reiterates the S.O.S over Temple comms, but time is off the essence, and the Geeks don't have an exact location on Allen yet. Brian heads out towards the Suc, the late, mid-week evening creating a strange miasma of tense quiet, the roads fairly empty, most people being either at home with their families, out on patrols, or otherwise staying inside. The weather and the seasons are turning, but Wednesday evening is not Haven's nightlife peak. This presents a few issues. Firstly, Allen is likely to be far more obvious, meaning containing him will be more challenging. Secondly, given the sparser crowds on the streets as Brian approaches the Club, there will be fewer places for victims to hide, and less people for Brian to work quietly within.
A few Mosquitoes are sent to rendezvous with Brian, pulling up in a dark car with shielded plates and tinted windows. They step out, their suits slightly bulging with the lined kevlar plating beneath it. One of them tosses Brian a magazine - silver bullets - and says "Quick and quiet, but, just in case," before falling in at Brian's flanks as they head towards the frontage of the Club.
Brian taps one of the Mosquitoes on the shoulder and gestures towards the back of the club. "Keep an eye on the back. If you see our guy, call for help." He walks towards the front door of the club, trying to blend in as if he's just there to enjoy himself. Phone in hand, eyes only coming up to scan for women... like most young men his age.
"Got it," says the Strike Force soldier, letting Brian take point. He dips a nod, and then makes a few hand signals to his companion before gesturing down the alleyway. There's a 'chirp-chirp' on the comms as the Strike Force agent switches to a secondary line to reduce chatter to him, Brian, and the second soldier, a brunette woman in her mid-40s holding a small pistol. The male Strike Force soldier darts down the side alley way, moving around to the back doors of the club nearer to the dumpsters, side streets and the woods. There's a few moments of silence, the brief flare of a flashlight, which is quickly quelled beneath a covered hand, and the soldier starts sweeping up and down the block, disappearing from view.
Tucking her gun in beneath her leather jacket, the woman steps in at Brian's side, taking his arm as they enter, putting on a rigid facade of an older woman taking her boy-toy out for a date. As they enter, she leans down to him and says "...You ever dealt with rogue shifters, kid?" Her voice is wire-tight, experienced, and a bit weathered. "This one's young, which means he's skittish. He's likely all piss and vinegar and no self-control. Likely not as powerful as Jodie, but a hell of a lot more reckless. Watch your back and if you see even a squeak, you signal twice. DO NOT," and she smiles, waving familiarly at one of the bartenders, pausing to say "Oh, hey! Johnnie, they got you working a weekday shift?" flashing him a sympathic glance, before wending towards the bar, gently tugging Brian. "...DO NOT corner him alone."
Brian puts on a dopey smile, content to play the older woman's joytoy. He leans in close, as if to whisper something to her, and says, "No. First time. I'm also new to the Temple." He pulls back, with a lascivious grin making it clear to any onlookers what sort of thing he was just whispering. His eyes scan the crowd as they approach the bar, never lingering longer than it would take to confirm a sighting of the target.
She's experienced, of course, but she's no spy. Her face is a bit too stern to draw too many onlookers to question her, but there are other, young men and women out who look upon Brian with some measure of jealousy, drunk enough to misread his situation. A few White Oak students are out themselves, laughing it up in Letterman jackets and cheers-ing drinks together, celebrating a recent victory at the early start of the season. There's a blip on the comms as a deeper voice comes in, saying, "Miller, Chance, no sign in the back alleys. I'm going to stay posted by the back door, eyes on the woods in case there's any activity. Fan out a bit. He could be inside, but I'd keep eyes on the front door just in case."
The Strike Force soldier-playing-cougar only subtly nods, smart enough not to make noise to draw too much attention. Instead, she guides Brian over to the bar, where the cluster of patrons helps drown out any quiet conversation from normal, mundane prying ears. She makes herself comfortable, peeling off her jacket and slinging it across her lap, such that her gun, and small darts, are easily accessible by a hand. She exposes a smart, crisp, low-cut blouse and tugs at Brian to join her at the stool beside her, her voice lowering. "Shit. Well, welcome," she mutters, flagging down the bartender with a few flickering fingers. "Not the best way to get your feet wet, but I guess jumping right in is better than twiddling your fingers. Chance," she says, mindful of her facade and leaning over to instead brush her lips to Brian's jaw as a 'greeting' rather than to offer him a handshake. "You're Miller, right? New kid?"
Her eyes are everywhere, constant, alert. "They clip you with your full kit yet? You're a rook, so I'm not sure where Cara's intending to place you. Intel? Strike Force? What's your background?"
Brian continues to look at Chance with hungry eyes and a dopey smirk, like a guy who's sure he's going to get laid tonight, and isn't focused on much else. He leans in closer. "Kit? Heh. All I have is what I bought on my own, per Cara. A vest, a concealable Glock, a knife, and a compound bow, because my background... is Eagle Scout." He grins even wider. "She suggested that given my Scout training and facility with a bow, I might look to serve on a Strike Force, but it's not definite yet."
"Shit, well...." She sighs, turning on the bar stool as two glasses of whiskey are rocketed down the bar towards her and Brian. She lifts one, and hands the other to Brian. "Sip," she murmurs, leaning into him as if to whisper something lurid in his ear as a few college students and filtering-in clubgoers look on at Brian with an envy and awareness of his role as Chance's 'pool boy' for the evening. "Lightly. But don't drink. Need your head clear. Werewolves are fast motherfuckers and when they get spooked, shit always goes sideways." She reaches down to her lap, back to the bar, chest out to the club, eyes scanning frequently over the rim of her glass. "Here," she says, fishing down beneath her jacket to pull out a small, expandle silver ring, passing it underhanded to Brian. "Brought a spare naturalizer. DO NOT use it until we've ascertained the threat. Order and Hand fucking hate the things and we'd like to avoid the paperwork if we can."
The evening wiles on and there's no immediate sign of danger. As the hour turns later, the club gets fuller, and the Strike Force soldier in the alley gives periodic updates, every ten minutes. Nothing. No sign. Woods empty. Alleyways are clear. Chance only seems to get irritated more and more by this lack of action, her hackles raised. Alright. Well. Knife and Glock'll be good. Use the silver. It'll hurt, and, if need be, kill, but it'll work better than regular bullets AND lower the risk of friendly fire, if he shifts. Eagle Scout?" She asks, raising a brow in a slight arch of judgment. "God. We must be desperate. You're barely out of high school. No military training? Service? Feds, private sec? Nothing?" She sighs, shaking her head, and then, counter to her advice to Brian, downs half of her glass, turning to plant a kiss on his lips to hide the seethe of whiskey-bite and keep up the facade as a few people start to close in on the bar, one of them a younger redheaded woman, initially looking to approach Brian.
"File says the kid's boyfriend comes here most nights. Moonlights as a DJ and a dancer. Let's give it 30 and if he doesn't show, we'll move to the dance floor. Crowded, sure, but if he's struggling and he's hurting, well, he might be looking for blood." "
Brian goes out of his way to check out some of the other girls, as if to cement his status as a desirable young stud. He places one hand on the older woman's thigh, closer to the knee, when they kiss. Still making his "I'm in there!" face, he replies, "19. Graduated last year. No training other than Scouts, and varsity track and wrestling all through high school. I was recruited because within a day of moving here, I was kidnapped by a werewolf and a guy who can shoot fire out of his hands, and I managed to escape without help." He nods at her dancefloor suggestion, then leans in to plant a kiss on her neck one arm sliding around her shoulder as if to stake his claim. He looks at some of the other nearby young men as if to dare them to approach, occasionally taking a miniscule sip of his whiskey.
Chance manages to actually look somewhat impressed, "Huh. Not even a scratch? Nice." It's high praise coming from the experienced Mosquito, though Brian's youthfulness gives her a bit of pause. Even amongst her facade, the double-decade age difference and more does make the woman flush with some measure of confusion. She eyes the hand climbing up her thigh, flicks Brian a gaze, and masks it with a smile that seems complemented by her flush, leaning in to tightly murmur "...WAY too old for you kid. Hands loose. You'll need them if we don't get the drop on..." And then there comes trouble, a slender man and a solidly-built, androgynous figure pushing through the doors of the Club. Chance seizes, dropping some of her mask as Brian snakes an arm around her neck. She lifts a hand to her ear as if to play with her hair, laughing wittily at some false comment to draw eyes away.
CHIRP-CHIRP go the comms, and her voice comes through reedy, and thing. "Max. We got Hand incoming. Peacekeeper and a Whisperer, looks like. No sign of the kid yet, but if we're going to move, we'd better move fast. They'll make less of a scene, but more of a mess." There's a pause, and then some static, as the other Strike Force soldier replies "...Got it. I'll put down some caltrops to prevent a rear-exit escape and then come in to join you. Woods looking clear. I'm coming in the back way and will scout the dance floor. Rendezvous at the balcony?"
She chirp-chirps her silent agreement, before lifting her throat to let Brian kiss her. Her voice is quiet, steely, as she says "See Doctor Frankenstein and his Monster? At our nine, by the door? Those are Hand agents. They'll play nice till they won't. Here, let's move inwards. Jansen says the kid's ex is DJing tonight, and maybe we can use the boyfriend to draw out the wolf." Another laugh, and Chance slips off her stool, throwing her jacket (and its weapons) over her shoulder and grabbing both of Brian's hands. "Come onnnnn," she slurs, laying it on thick, a woman old enough to handle her liquor and too free to give a fuck. "I wanna dance, Bri-bri...let's go dance!" And she yanks him off of his seat.
Brian half hops off of his stool as he's pulled towards the dancefloor. Following Chase with a roll of his eyes for anyone watching, he scans the crowd by pretending to eyeball pretty much all of the women they pass. Once they get to the dancefloor, he moves up alongside her, dancing close, making it very clear that there is no room for competition here. He murmurs in her ear, "Sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I was just playing along, and part of that is trying to make it seem like I think I know more about what to do with a woman like you than I actually do. Really, my role and I are fairly similar." He grins again, meaning it to be mirthful but still making it look like a self-satisfied smirk.
And off the two of them go, deeper into the Club, into the throng of bodies, thinner than normal, perhaps, but still busy. The music is loud and pumping, the DJ's attempt to get some excitement in on a Wednesday before 9pm. Most of the dancers are ravers, club-kids, scene kids and a few older people, predating on the young. Some of them are supernatural, some obvious, from the hunger in their eyes, or the pallor of their skin, but that's not why Brian is here. He has a mission, a target. No immediate sign of Allen, but, at the DJ booth, is his ex. A slender little kid with long blonde hair swept over one eye, bouncing to the music to try to amp up the crowed, wearing a mesh tank top and sweat forming at his brow. "Ignore the sidelines. Let's get in there. Don't get lost, stick by me, and have that naturalizer in your back pocket," Chance says, brushing off the apology. "It's fine," Though her skin is warm, "You've got the masking down good, which is good. Most of this is performance. If things get bloody, usually shit's hit the fan. If we can lure this kid out and get him in nice and quiet, we make less of a mess. You've got a good face-" And it might even be a compliment on his appearance.
She pats his cheek in a somewhat patronizign fashion, before throwing him into the middle of the bodies and prowling at him, in a way that parts the crowd enough to give her room to access her weapons. Mocking playfulness, she throws her jacket, containing one of her sidewarms and a naturalizer, at Brian before taking him by the hands and jumping to the beat and pulse of the music.
Loud though it is, their comms are deep in their ears, chirping as Max slips in from the back and says "...In. Heading up top to get a perch, scan the crowd. Clocked the Muscle and the Freak. We'll play it cool. We came stocked for wolves, not for whatever they are." Chance just swings her head, not acknowledging the comms in this moment to use the arc and sway of her dance with Brian to scan the people cloying to the periphery. "Brunette. 5'10. Thick-set, lineman. You read the file, I'm assuming?" She says to Brian on an in-step, voice level, untouched by the effort. "He's going to be mean to take out even unshifted. Fish my gun out and slip it in my waistband - yes, it's fine, don't get fumbly about touching me. I need it accessible."
Brian plays along, dancing next to Chase, deliberately acting a bit off-balance, just a beat off the pace, as if from drink. He finds the sidearm in the woman's jacket, and pulls her in close into a spin, using the proximity and the movement to slip the gun into her waistband near the small of her back. "I read it yeah." he says. "I've wrestled guys his size, some bigger. As long as he doesn't change, I'm confident."
Frankstein and the Monster do eventually shoulder their way into the dance floor, but the thinner man stays at the edge, the androgynous heavy pushing through the crowd in a much less subtle search for the target. A young werewolf is, of course, a very good prize. Catch them early and train them and they can be some of the most dangerous soldiers in any conflict. Chance tightens at the sight of the Hand Agent, her eyes flitting up to the balcony. "Here," she says, taking Brian into her arms and embracing him, tilting him back to put her lips to his jaw. "...In twenty seconds, we're going to fake a fight. I want you to storm off and go to the edge of the dance floor, Get away from the Hand agent and see if you can try to intercept this kid before he can race to his ex. If Allen's going for anyone, it'll be that boy up there." She pulls back, gnaws at her lip, and scans the dance floor, saying "...Touch that girl's ass," before thrusting Brian at a taut-bodied blonde girl dancing with her hands in the air, lost to the music.
"Big'un," Max says, just as Chance throws Brian at the college girl. "See him from up here. He looks like he's tweaking. I think that's our man. I'll go down to keep an eye on the kid, run interference on the Hand Heavy." And the Soldier disappears from the balcony, moving in a speed-walk along the edge of the dance floor before penetrating inwards, using his body to try to shield the Hand agent's eyes from Allen further back near the bar. "Hey!" he's nowhere near as good an actor as Chance, so he just gets right into it, trying to throw himself at the agent to dance with them and distract them. And Chance gets into Brian's face, pointing and grabbing his collar. "Hey! What the fuck, Bri-bri? I thought tonight was about me?!"
Brian grins unapologetically. "Ass like that, I needed a handful." He shrugs. "You thought tonight was about you, but I never said that." He backs away from the older woman at first, then spins on his heel and heads towards the DJ booth. He looks for a girl, any girl, near the booth and preferably alone, or at least not with a guy, and strolls up to spit game, all the while keeping himself positioned to get to the post haste.
"What the FUCK?!" And Chance goes after Brian, moving in to clock Brian across the face with a slap. He backs away from her and she pursues, grabbing him by the collar in both fists, hauling him to her face, and screaming "...Just...just...fuck off you, you, you,..." And she twists him, going to throw him off of the dance floor. "Lose my number!" And before he's released, Chance leans in and says "At your six, move fast, turn that charm on. If you can keep the kid busy...get him back outside, Max and I can pincer you. If you feel anything awry, don't hesitate. Hit the comms and we'll come running. Better fast and a bit messy, than slow and a nightmare," And then she slaps Brian and throws him back towards the main bar.
Max is busy trying to distract the Hand agent with a dance, his moves a bit too stilted and his forced enthusiasm seeming to confuse them but, for the time being, it does allow Brian a brief moment to intercept the angry-looking Allen before the poor kid is noticed by any of the Hand agents. Or worse. CHIRP-CHIRP "Miller. Get that kid away from the dance floor, now. He looks angry and it's too crowded in here for a fire fight."
Brian uses the momentum of the slap and push to land in front of Allen. He looks at the shorter man and gives a shit-eating grin. "Bitches, am I right? Especially the older ones. They're amazing in bed, but they act like the whole world owes them something." He pauses for a moment, eyes-widening as if with recognition. "Hey, man! I know you. You play for White Oak, don't you? Yeah, you do!" He slaps Allen on the back, but not hard. "Yeah, I've seen you play. You're good man. Come on, let me buy you a beer. Come on!" and starts trying to steer Allen away from the dancefloor and the other agents towards the far end of the bar and, hopefully, the back door.
Allen is PISSED. He's big. He's emotional. It's just past the New moon and so Brian benefits from his weakness, but the lineman, student, werewolf, isn't really in the mood for company or games. When Brian plants himself in front of him, Allen goes to side-step and move out of the way. He's big. He's not graceful. And so he assents, for the moment, as a trickle-stream of club-goers keep him from being able to go around Brian without making a mess. And that's crucial. He doesn't LOOK like he wants to make a mess. He's got his eyes on a target, his boyfriend, deeper into the club. He's upset. He's angry. But he's not murderous. He just looks... "Hey, hey, hands of- Oh." And the kid shuffle-steps back, eyes going to the floor for a moment. He snarls, and then clamps a hand over his mouth, muttering a 'Sorry' that reeks of shitty tequila. He's a tad drunk.
"...O...oh, no, yeah, no. Not...I don't play anymore. I got benched. Coach says I was hitting too rough, or something. And I just..." He fights being steered, because he wants to go deeper, he wants to get to his boyfriend. He wants to do something, but Brian holds him at bay, and Max goes to flank from the front door, briefly giving Brian an upnod.
"Fucking...okay, fine. I could use a beer. I spent all my money on..." And then they get towards the bar, and Allen steps up to a stool, since Brian offered to buy him a drink. "Hey! Two beers!" He's big, and as such, doesn't get a second look as to his age that Brian did, obfuscated only by Chance ordering for him. The bartender clocks his ragged White Oak Letterman, and his size, and decides against making a mess, saying "...Yeah, sure. Stella fine?" And Allen doesn't even register it, saying "Yeah, man. Two beers. Hey..." He flicks his chin at the stool next to him.
Brian takes the stool next to the football player and lays some cash down on the bar for the beers. "You got benched? Man, no wonder the team hasn't been doing as well. I haven't made the last few games, been busy working, but bro... you were something else. Maybe the coach'll come to his senses and realize he needs you to win, right?" He glances back as if to scope out more women and subtly returns the upnod from Max.
Praise and shit beer are a dull balm for a young man like Allen. He's carrying around too much pain and anger for it, but he's tipsy, he's sad, and he at least slows down enough to listen to Brian's cajoling about the team. Off in the periphery, Brian can see Max at the door, the man going stiff like a bouncer, while Chance has taken to causing a scene on the dance floor to draw away the Hand Agent. She's likely capable of handling herself. Again. Slow and Quiet is better than Quick and Messy. And Allen rounds on Brian, then, holding up the Stella that the bartender passes him, pushing it against the second. "Hey, hey. Here. You got something to..." He frowns, face wrinkling, youth pouring out of the edges of his features into something sharper. "...Fuck if I know. I was good, too. Got a scholarship, and ... I like my classes, and stuff, but I liked the team. It's how I met my boyf-" He catches himself, face a brief mask of unbridled rage, though a few girls on either side of him sight him, murmur, and walk away out of concern.
And so Allen sighs, slumping, dejected. "...My ex. He was a cheerleader, for the team. He was so nice to me and he's...like...he's the greatest guy. And I sort of fucked it all up. And I've just been so ANGRY since the break up, you know? Like, I don't even know what I did wrong! I'unno why I got benched, or why Fran broke up with me or nothing."
Brian nods, taking a pull off his beer. "I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe Fran will come to his senses, too." he says. "But the coach better. With you out there, we were a lock for the division playoffs, I'm telling you." Suddenly, his eyes widen as if he just thought of something. "Hey, man... could you do me a favor? We can leave our beers, we'll be right back. But I've got a ball out in my car. Would you be willing to come sign it for me? It'll just take a minute, and I'm such a fan." He gives the other man a pleading look, maybe even with an ever-so-slight hint of flirtation to it.
He's a Sophomore, so he's a bit confused, and a D-Lineman at that, but no college kid is immune to flattery, and flirtation. Allen may be on the prowl for his boyfriend, but Brian's cute enough, and enthusiastic enough, that he's briefly charmed away from the hunt. He DOES hold onto his beer, though, and says "...You're paying for those. I spent all my money on..." And as he's led away from the bar, he fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a cheap little velvet bag, likely from some low-end jewelry counter at Narnia. "...I'unno. A gift, or something. To, like, say I was sorry...He'll probably hate it." He's a bit miserly, but he's still uplifted enough to drink his beer and walk out with Brian. "Uh...yeah, sure. You got a pen? I can sign it, I think. I'm just benched, not, like...kicked off the team or nothing."
And they approach the door, and get out to the street. The -actual- bouncer looks sidelong at Max, Brian and Allen, giving a little dip of his chin that is simultaneously an acknowledgment, and an indication that, whatever the three men are going to do, they'd better not do it in front of his fucking club, while he's doing his job.
Brian has one hand on Allen's shoulder as he guides him out the door. "I'm sure he'll love it, man. And if he doesn't, I'll talk some sense into him for you. Come on, my car's right around the corner over here. I really appreciate this. I've got a sharpie, too."
Brian waits until they are around the corner, out of sight of the bouncer, and guides him towards the first car he can see in a darker area. Once he feel confident that there's no one around them, he takes the neutralizer collar from his pocket and in a blur of movement, slaps it around the young man's neck.
"...Yeah, okay, s-sure," And then Allen rounds the corner with Brian, into the dark, away from the front of the club. Max is a shadow on the other side of the street, a few bolting steps away from Brian if need be, but otherwise keeping his distance. He's speaking quietly into his comms and he's disappeared into some of the foot traffic, and Brian can hear the exchange between him and Chance as he moves Allen away.
"Miller's got the target. Outside, back alley near the juncture. He's got him lulled, but not sure how long that'll last. Get out the back door. We're either gonna need another set of hands, or quick feet for the bag-and-tag."
And then Brian lurches to slap a collar on Allen's neck, and that's not going to fly so easily. Lulled and half-drunk, Allen rounds the corner with Brian and chugs half of his beer, burping out loudly and saying "...It's a necklace, with his initials. For his half-birthday-" Fucking teenagers. "I was gonna give it to him tonight, after his set. He's so hot when he's up on the sta- Hey, what the-" And Allen staggers, swinging wildly at Brian and darting out of the way, smashing the bottle against Brian's arm. "What the fuck, man, what're you-" And then Max comes bolting across the street, trying to get low enough to deck Allen at the small of his back. "Miller. FAST." Because Allen's already starting to ripple beneath his Letterman's jacket.
Brian steps forward, trying to slam a fist into Allen's gut, putting all his strength into it, in hopes of stunning the football player, or at least getting him to bend forward so he can get the collar on.
Alone, Brian couldn't take this kid down. Absolutely not. Brian is all slender strength and wiry muscle. Allen is a brick house, all anger and tequila and cheap beer and anger, all wrapping up a young werewolf's strength. He goes for Brian, taking the punch to the gut, and already shifting, fingers extending, claws going for Brian's neck. And then Max hits him in the back and there's Chance's voice from the end of the alley hissing, "Miller, duck!" and then there's the hiss-pop of a silencer as a few silver bullets whiz down to try to clip Allen's sides. Max takes the brunt of the damage, as Allen turns on this new brawler, slamming his hands down in big, battering blows against the Strike Force soldier's back. "N-now," Max groans.
Brian jumps onto Allen and slaps the collar in place.
Brian hammers a shot into the other man's kidney, still preferring it to shooting, especially since his own weapon does not have a silencer.
The Naturalizer slams home, and it's low whine buzzes in the alleyway, before its interior needles pierce Allen's skin and keep him from shifting. He's still mad as all get out, but now he can't shift and kill Max with one blow. He scrambles to his feet, trying to deck Brian, but the punch to his kidney levels the playing field. And then Chance comes down at a combat sprint, pistol-whipping Allen across the temple before tossing Brian a pair of reinforced cuffs. "...fuck." She huffs, looking at Max as he wrestles the fading lineman to the ground. "...Max, you alright?" Max is bruised. Cut. Battered, but he holds up a bloodied, crooked thumb, and looks at Brian. "...Fuck, kid. You've got a mean hook. I felt that one THROUGH this wolf."
Brian cuffs the werewolf, then looks Max over, checking the severity of his wounds to see if he needs urgent treatment. "Thanks. Let's see how you're doing..."
Chane starts binding and dragging Allen down towards the SUV parked in the alley way, though she pauses to guide Brian to help Max to his feet. Max is hurt. Bruised, probably a fractured forearm, but there are no major or deep laceration, AND, because Allen wasn't able to bite, nor is it close to a full moon, and he didn't transform, Max is at no risk of being Turned. Max clamps a shaky hand at Brian's shoulder and says, "I'll be alright. Here, let's get this fucker in the car and you can patch me up on the way to the Clinic."
And the three agents bundle the werewolf into the car. Chance takes the driver's seat, Allen is deposited into the trunk, and Max sits in the rear seats, peeling his suit back for Brian to work on the minor sutures and bandages as they head off into the night. "Quick and messy," Chance tuts, shaking her head, before looking back at Brian in the rearview mirror. "...You're alright kid. Good job."
Brian nods at Max. "You have a broken arm, at least. We can splint it. Nothing else looks too serious." He nods again at the compliment from Chase. "Thanks. I could not have done that without your help. You guys know your business."