[Um, mini start, and stuff.] * Marguerite is pulling her Harley up to what is probably the only place to get a steak not well-done in the whole of England, a horribly parodied "Western SteakHaus". She pulls off her sunglasses and eyes the place. Man, this better be worth it. * Marguerite swings off the bike and strides inside, pocketing the glasses and slipping off her gloves. The bike chirps twice. * Frei is standing and arguing with a waitress in full Oktoberfest regalia. He looks about the same as before: tight leather halter, jeans, and black sneakers. The silver hair is about the same, too. They appear to be arguing. "Listen, bitch. If YOU can wear that thing with a straight face, then *I* can be seated even if you can see my damn navel." * Marguerite smirks. "Trouble with the help?" * Frei blinks, then turns around, gets an eyeful of Mad Dog, and grins like the cat who's solved his canary craving. He walks over, grabs her arm, and looks at the waitress. "This is my date. And she's got a GUN. Her gun trumps your health regulation!" Many guns, actually. (Now, who gets to be the poor waitress? ^_^) * Frei nods emphatically. "Big ones. Your boyfriend would be jealous." He pauses, then stares at her chest. "If you had one." [The waitress throws up her hands, and leads the pair to a table! She looks angry but is sad on the inside.] * Frei makes a little 'yay!' noise and pats Mad Dog on the shoulder. "Woo, thank you." Walking! * Marguerite sits down, and without looking at the menu or the waitress, says "Scotch on the rocks, at least 15 years old, the best you've got. Bring the bottle." She looks over at Frei. "You?" * Frei hmmms a little. "Screwdriver. Let's start easy. Plus I like 'em a little tart." [The waitress walks off, huffily.] * Marguerite flips through the menu idly. "Out for a night on the town?" * Frei chuckles faintly, gives the menu an idle flip but doesn't really glance at. "Oh, actually just doing a little recon like a good little stalker. You?" I want a fucking decent steak, not charred to the level of a coaster and smothered in onions and mushrooms. They said this was the place to get it." She frowns. "Stalker?" * Frei nods. "I hadn't run into people like you fascinating folk in a long time." He smiles, a little fangily. "So, I decided to do a little looking- after." * Marguerite scrutinizes a menu item and says, nonchalantly, "How long is a long time?" * Frei shrugs and looks at the wine list. "Approximately 32 years, give or take a month." [The waitress comes back with the drinks and huffily asks about dinner.] A steak, a big as you make them, as rare as you possibly can let them get without offending your delicate English sensibilities, and if you put anything on it but maybe pepper, I'll twist those pigtails till they come off. And I'll take "chips" as my side. * Marguerite busies herself with pouring some scotch, which turns out to be 22. * Frei smiles and practically hurls his menu at the poor girl. "Make that two, though I'll take a baker instead." [The waitress flees!] (we are horrible people.) (We are.) * Marguerite takes a tentative sip of the scotch, then a grin breaks out, and she takes a hearty belt. "32, huh? Quite a few boring years." * Frei grins and has a nice swig of screwdriver in one go that someone his apparent weight could never properly pull off. "Bah, drop in the bucket. Why do you ask, anyway? Do I look like an immortal Anne Rice-ian vampire?" Fang. Sip. No. For one, you look way too... what's the word... fabulous. I doubt Lestat ever thought halter tops were his style. * Frei grins and looks amused. "Lestat... was a pansy-ass little rat-faced bastard." Sip. "I do so enjoy your 'I shot the sherriff' look, though." I just spend a lot of time around supernaturals. You learn to ask that kind of question.... thanks. It gets the point across. * Frei hehs faintly. "I suppose there's no hiding my 'supernaturalness' from you, huh? Ah well. That was a lot of fun. I don't get to do that type of thing very often. Though what WAS a lovely bloodletter like yourself doing with a devil hunter in the middle of London?" You get a knack for telling. Fangs. A peculiar mode of speech. Floating in midair. * Marguerite takes a swig. "I was protecting a decoy. A very odd decoy." * Frei nods matter-of-factly. "Total kneebiter. But, a good kisser." Sip. Just a job. Better coworkers than my last job, though. (*snerk*) (It's true in both game sense AND in meta!) (Indeed.) * Frei oooohs in understanding and sets his glass down, running a finger around the rim idly. "You're a mercenary? Interesting. Don't meet many gun bunnies in the supernatural killing line of work. You usually find the angry American anorexic amazon with sharp pointies or Asian whackjobs who haven't had sex in ever." * Marguerite points to the bandage on her cheek. There's stitches undeneath it. "For instance... the snipers? Ex co-workers..." It's a job. I happen to be well suited to it. * Marguerite drains the glass and pours another. * Frei winces. "Sorry to hear that. It really is a pain in the ass to have to roast somebody you used to work with. Unless that person is, like, Torquemada." * Marguerite chuckles into her scotch. "Oh, I dunno. I got a couple I wished I could char. Not this guy, though." * Frei hehs. "True enough. So what's your name?" Marguerite Fionnaghal McLochlane. Mad Dog, or Maggie. And you're lucky. Only people who drink with me get the middle name. * Marguerite takes a swig. "You?" * Frei hehs and sips, nodding. "Frei Wrenneth. And you're also lucky. Most people don't get my name at all." Strange. You seem like the personable type. * Marguerite grins. * Frei shrugs. "I am. Usually I just don't get to the 'name' stage." * Frei grins and sips. "Or the 'talking' stage. Well, not a LOT of it, anyway. Kind of a shame." Yeah. So, you know my job. Only fair I know yours. Vampire, succubus, fae? * Frei raises an eyebrow. "Nothing so grandiose. Let's just call me a 'supernatural dilletante' and leave it at that. I mostly concern myself with having fun." (Translation: If I told you the truth, you'd explode!) * Marguerite nods. "Fair enough. We're the latest fun around?" Actually, we just sort of ran into each other. But I can't help myself. Something gets interesting and I get involved. S'the only way to live. [The food arriveth, two huge steaming steaks. And because they're British they couldn't actually not do the sauteed onion/mushroom bit, and they put it in bowls on the side so as not to get de-braided. Or shot.] Thank god. My stomach thought my throat'd been cut. * Frei grins and rubs his hands together. "Really. And you just can't beat a nice big piece of meat." He grabs a knife, then blinks. "Well, actually, you probably can, but that's irrelevant." * Marguerite digs in, and says between bites, "Supernatural playboy, huh? Gotta be nice." * Frei shrugs and cuts open the potato, throwing in a slab of butter with his fork. "Only when you have something to do." He takes a bite. "Mmmstarch. So, are you full-time bodyguards for the fae girly?" Fuck no. Just a one-time gig. We're kinda all-around supernatural janitors. Stuff happens, we deal with it. * Frei spears a way-too-large-for-that-shirt chunk of steak and practically sucks it off the fork. "Oh really? Who do you work for? Or is that strictly merc-fae bitch privilege?" It's probably supposed to be secret but you know what it is anyhow. 's a government-funded gig. Great benefits. * Marguerite bites, swallows, chugs. Mmm. * Frei ahs and nods. Of course he knew that. "Seems like every country's got one of those lately. Though nowadays it's all study study study, learn control ensnare." He munches on another bite of steak, talking with his mouth full a bit. "I miss the old days of burn rape inquisit. THAT was a party." I'm really kinda big on the burnin' myself. Well, the rape SOUNDS good on paper but it's actually quite stupid. Never have seen what people thought was good about it, but I don't have that whole personal power issue to get in the way. Don't knock inquisit until you've tried it, though. Yeah, well, that's next on the menu. Got a live one of the snipers to grill later. Oooh, that DOES sound exciting. Got any plans, or just gonna wing it? * Marguerite muses. "Which is probably secret, but what the fuck. You could probably just teleport in, couldn't you?" * Frei pffts in derision and makes a face. "I try not to do that too often. It's rude. That one time it was warranted because people had guns and all that." Everyone's got guns anymore. Good for the soul. * Marguerite takes a swig. "As for the grilling, I'm gonna wing it. I don't know what they're wanting me to ask anyhow." * Frei nods approvingly. "I like a girl who's into improv." He looks down at his plate in disappointment. "Man, I always eat too damn fast." He spears a mushroom out of the bowl and eats it, then makes another face. "God, that's nasty." * Marguerite polishes off her steak. "Ya get used to 't. Helps if ya get one of the normal shitty cuts of beef, covers th' taste pretty well." SHe takes a huge chug of scotch and breathes out. "Aaaah, damn that's good stuff." * Frei snickers, reaching into his pocket. "You're a lusty wench, Mad Dog. I like it. You *interest* me." He slaps a £100 on the table and gets up. "Keep the change. Was worth every penny." * Marguerite nearly chokes on her scotch. "HEM. Hoo. Uh, thanks, I think. See you later?" * Frei smiles, and it's pleasant, even if a tiny big fang-y (he's only a little fangy to begin with). "I do hope so. Ciao, bella." * Marguerite waves over her scotch. [Mini ende!]