<div class="floatleft">[(http://i.imgur.com/JNiViON.jpg)      </div><hr/>Marie-Eve Tremblay<br/>Club: Nocturne<br/><hr/><br/>In the five unfamiliar blocks between the Metro stop and the front of Nocturne, Mare walks with her hands folded over her closed leather jacket, her leather boots beating a steady tattoo against the sounds of the city... engines buzzing alive with acceleration, the droning hum of fluorescent streetlamps, the thudding of muffled hip-hop, hammered words that fade in and out of reality as a car closes and departs.  A huddle of figures waits at the end of the block, flocking in conversation to a corner store's front.  She passes without incident, barely a look.  No doubt because of her hair, her size, her age.  She doesn't fit this walk.<br/><br/>The homeless on this end of town aren't panhandling... they're staking claims on their sleeping spots for the night, so they leave her alone.  One raises his head as she passes, his eyes shining and sharp from his cardboard mat.  He meets her gaze, she meets it back.  There might have been a mutual recognition... something in her loneliness recognizing his isolation, or there might have just been a moment of surprise at her presence.  All in all, it culminated in a sharp twist of discomfort in her...<i>the wolf</i>must half felt it, and raised<i>its</i>hackles, because the man snapped his gaze away not in shame, but in fear.<br/><br/>The beast had been near the surface for so long... the Xanax usually kept<em>it </em>at bay in public.  That, or the Ativan.  If that wasn't available, good old valium would do it... but lately, since Owen...<em>it </em>wouldn't be satisfied, it wouldn't be sedated.<em>It </em>was ready to hunt, to feed, to mate-- with or without her approval.  The half-hour metro ride, and the fifteen minute walk-- those were allowed to Mare by<i>it</i>because, deep inside her heart,<em>it </em>was at least distracted by the unfamiliar terrain, the prospect that she might be finally doing what<em>it </em>wanted... getting them both closer to a kill.<br/><br/>She could tell by the increase in lighting, the crowded parked cars and the quality of their imported paint-jobs, that she was in the right place, and when she matched the streetsign names, she let out a sigh of fear and anxiety.  In her short life, her teenage years of opportune rebellion and self-exploration behind her, she had never been to anything at all like this place-- not for fun, not for ceremony.  The<i>condition</i>required too much care.  Isolation.  Steel doors.  Black-out windows.   An iron cage...<br/><br/>Silver locks.<br/><br/>Velvet ropes guided the gaggle on the street.  Self-consciously, she paused-- in her worn-out leather jacket, her torn-kneed jeans, and her calf-high boots, she was under-dressed to the point it might make a scene.  But the words of warning drove her on, it seemed... it was easy to recall, and the wound on her shoulder still itched furiously.  It had scabbed over, healed without a stitch, of course... what should have been weeks took place in a couple nights' rest.<br/><br/>She found a place in the back of the line.  She could make out a silhouette of an attendant, or bouncer, or whatever they were called... somebody, like everyone else, dressed much nicer than her.  In a noble effort to look confident, she arched her back a bit, unzipped her leather jacket.  The sequined top underneath was the closest thing to 'club-wear' she had... it once fit her pre-pubescent self in a modest fashion... but now she was grown, in more ways than one, and the loose material was tight over her breasts and tugged up from her waist, flirtatiously revealing the trim ridges of her abdomen, the bold shadowy curves where the thrift-store jeans hung low on her hips.<br/><br/>After a few indecisive moments, Marie-Eve made her way to the main entrance, where a few guests make their way, one-by-one, past the velvet ropes.  Her leather jacket hung loosely from her thin shoulders as she fished into the pocket of her jeans, twisting her tight form to reach the wad of mixed bills she has.  She'd seen credit cards swiped... she could have brought hers-- a meager credit union debit card, devoid of flash or prestige-- but she had decided against it.  They were her pockets' only contents, aside from a couple of apartment keys and a pre-paid flip-phone, and her license-- a thing she never used to actually drive, really, but she'd once been proud to earn and carry as a mark of growing up.  She'd recently had her first five-year renewal, and she could legally drink... not that she did, except rarely, and alone.<br/><br/>She approached the attendant's booth, one thread of silvery hair falling across her face as she  counted over the wrinkled bills.  She placed a few on the counter.  "One night, please," she said softly, her license beside the bills on the windowsill in front of Angelica.  She remained stoic, but she could feel that she was somehow fundamentally different than the others here in the foyer who came and left so casually.<br/><br/>She hoped that she didn't hurt anyone tonight.<br/><br/>Mare opens the door just as the crowd's collective voices rise, their muffled cheers becoming a full chorus mingled with the heavy tones and harmonic buzz in a moment.  The crowd's exuberance seems lost on her, but the distraction is welcomed... her entrance goes unnoticed by most of the revelers, even the singles looking for others going solo.  The surge of adrenaline at the music is still muted by her regular breathing and the numbing load of sedatives in her bloodstream... enough to tranq a horse to the ground, but barely enough to keep her mellow.<br/><br/>She moves through the room to the bar easily, her silvery-blonde hair the only thing to stand out from the crowd just yet.  She certainly doesn't have the "runway walk" of a girl looking for attention, but she manages to look feminine enough with her natural swagger.  There's a gentle roll in her hips, a sturdiness in her posture... half-cowboy, half big-cat.<br/><br/>She asks for a domestic beer, her hands splayed in front of her on the bar top.  She glances over her shoulder, studying the crowd for a moment between picking out the empty tables and booths.