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Henry's spent the night dancing and doing a little light necking at a Latin dance club, and he's now walking home. It's a dark night, nearly moonless, and the warmth of the day has turned to a pleasant enough night. The Gangrel is dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt and a grey vest, hair pulled back, nice leather shoes on his feet, and he blinks out at the night owlishly behind gold-framed glasses.
As he walks, he can't help but hum to himself, occasionally pausing for a moment of dancing with himself, a cocky little grin on his face.
It's the coppery, distant scent of blood that first tips Henry off that Something's Not Right. One moment, he's dancing his way down the street, and the moment after his nostrils are flaring as the aroma tickles his senses. It won't take much more than a few moments of coming closer before he starts to catch the sound of breaking glass and aggressive voices, mostly masculine, and one particularly angry female coming from inside what's labeled as a dance studio, certainly closed for the night but most assuredly not empty.
Hearing the voices, he makes a slow approach, hugging the side of the nearby buildings rather than being obvious about it. He takes his glasses off, tucking them into an inner pocket of his vest. Yeah, he's pretty sure they'd be in the way for this.
It's not hard to make out the voices once he's closer. The male voices are derisive, aggressive, threatening, save for a couple that are either whispering or sobbing. The female voice, though, is enraged, screaming her head off. "You can't do this! Get out! This is his business, he owns this place, you can't treat them like this!" If Henry sneaks closer to get a look, he can get an eye on a couple of (theoretically) dancers in one corner, one with a broken nose, loomed over by a few of the sources of those derisive voices. The female is penned into a corner and held at gunpoint, a too-skinny, pale thing who seems absolutely fearless in the face of being down the barrel of a gun.
Innocents in the room mean that it's going to be tricky for him to do anything right away. So he continues to make his way closer uncertainly.
There's two of the brutes penning in the furious female, who is about as threatening as a paper bag- she's far too skinny to be dangerous, and already under gunpoint. Four others have the dancers in the corner, one trying to calm and soothe the other while the big, tough men talk smack. Meanwhile, the sound of breaking glass and wood further into the studio means that's not all there is, by a long shot.
Henry slinks along to the side of the building slowly, very careful not to step on any of the glass as he goes. His focus is clear as he reaches into his vest, pulling out a single throwing knife. And then he flings it for all he's worth, aiming for the gun hand.
Henry's plan is eminently successful, and he's rewarded with the vibrant explosion of scent as blood blossoms from the wound as the throwing knife spikes through the brute's hand, rendering him a howling, shocked mess as the gun drops to the floor. "SHE STABBED ME! THE FUCKING CUNT STABBED ME!"
"What?" The woman backs into the corner, shoving her hands behind as if to grab at the wall, for some sort of support. "I didn't stab him, I-"
BANG
The dark-haired thing jerks back against the wall and collapses in a single boneless motion, the sort of fluid collapse that's pretty much impossible for anything alive to mimic.
"Dumb fucking bitch." The smell of blood is enticing, fresh, brilliant, a single note unmarred by any sort of complication or competition- the stabbed guy smells delightful. Henry can almost smell the fear of the dancers.
Carefully, Henry picks his way in. There's some weird shit going on, but right now there's plenty he can do without breaking the Masquerade too loudly. He's...well, not quite as fluid in motion as the possum with the awesome hair in the corner, but he's pretty ninja as he tiptoes his way in.
There's not a lot of attention on Henry- after all, some skinny skank just got shot for stabbing someone. Almost everyone in the room is laser-focused on the woman on the floor, laughing nervously while jokes start to fly again about how dumb their friend was to get stabbed.
Almost everyone.
One of the four watching the dancers notices- barely- Henry's elegant, sneaky move into the room. "Whoa, hey, bro, check this shit out, we got a hero comin' all up in here. You come to get some, bro?" His gun comes up, cocky, high off death. "Tell you what, you leave your wallet and your phone, you can crawl the fuck back out the window you came in. Otherwise, we can dump your dumb ass back through it after we ventilate you a lit-"
CRASH
One of the two standing over where the woman's body is still lying in their shadows is now in a heap across the room. Now there's a new scent of blood, tangy with a hint of exposed marrow. The guy's breathing, but he's sure as fuck not moving.
"wut th'fuk..."
Henry tilts his head to one side. Then he laughs. "Naw, I think you might wanna let these people go. It's only polite. You've had your fun." As he says that, almost as if by magic, another throwing knife appears in his hand. He lowers his chin and smiles.
The five still on their feet look between each other like they're not sure who he's talking to. One breaks off to go check on the sixth. "Man, the fuck happened? He is beat to SHIT. He looks like someone put the boots to him- medium style. Man, keep your guns on this sketchy mother-" The knife appears and one of the guys curses under his breath. "Fuck, man, I don't think the bitch did stab him, that's the same kinda fucking knife."
"Let them go? We got you outnumbered five to one, fucker, and you've got- what? Your flashy knives and your karate gimmicks?"
"bro did u just quote-"
"nobody fucking asked you harold"
Henry is fast and Henry is fluid. And if anyone is looking very, very closely, it's not the hand with the knife that lashes out, but a definite line of blood is left down the front of his shirt. But more than that, as Henry steps in and claws, he also places his foot behind the man's ankle, the force of the blow tripping him right over so he lands flat on his back on the floor.
It's the fall, more than anything else, that gets people's attention. All of a sudden, the loudest, brashest one is in a humiliating pile on the floor. The others take this as an invitation to rush Henry, each of them going for their preferred method of aggression. Those with guns take potshots without moving even a single step back, confident in their ability to hit standing targets. The others rush in fists flying, only to fly through thin air, catching exactly nothing in their attempt to do something- anything to this punk interrupting their fun.
Oh, and the woman in the corner is quietly, casually standing up. Henry's the only one that sees it, and- just...
It looks wrong.
The only thing he could compare it to would be some sort of very, very potent Elder with very, very potent Celerity, and even that wouldn't quite explain the inhuman, fluid grace in that single movement.
Second verse, same as the first. The second one he targets is Harold, who hits on the back with a sharp stab of claws, sending him face first onto the ground. "Really, Harold, you oughta get out of this game. They quote the lamest shit and then get beat up by a nerd like me..."
He spares a glance for the not-Elder, and then for the dancers. "You oughta get out of here. Call the cops." That's directed at the dancers, not the skinny lady who moves like a dream. Though to be fair, Henry's at the absolute peak of humanly possible grace. While he's impressed, definitely, it might be less than some would be; with the application of a little Vitae, he can be that graceful, briefly. Very briefly.
The dancers take the advice and bolt while the thugs rally to try again to do something- anything to Henry, but to be blunt, he completely outclasses their completely plebian offense. He doesn't even have to try, his baseline reflexes put them all to shame. Maybe if the ones with guns were willing to back up, take a moment to aim, and actually try, he'd have to put a little effort in, but this close? They're clowns. Five clowns, one face down, one standing up, and the other three trying their best to look less completely incompetent.
Never mind, the other two. It's not easy to catch- blink and you miss it- but the shadows in the corner ripple across the ground and drag one of the assailants wholesale into the darkened corner, only to come flying back out with a face like a dethroned prize fighter and all the consciousness of one to boot.
That's when the punks pick up on the fact that it was never six on one.
Fact: the first one he knocked down, the one who's just standing up now is the leader.
Fact: He doesn't make it all the way to a proper standing position before Henry's on him again, and there's another stab wound (claw wound, but he's trying to pass it off) on his torso.
"Call your boys off, make tracks, and you won't go home wearing a Chicago overcoat. I can do this all night, and the dame in the corner's not just some moll who you caught by accident."
At first, it very much seems like the four that are still on their feet- well, okay, conscious- are going to call what they think is a bluff, six seconds without getting hit isn't THAT big of a deal, and they ARE big fucking deals themselves, right?- and then Henry calls attention to the woman in the corner, and they all glance her way.
She takes full advantage of the spotlight Henry's afforded her.
She walks calmly across the room to the unconscious fellow with the knife in his hand and pulls it free without hesitation, spinning it into the air in a thoroughly implausible display of grace and precision that ends with it doing three different blindingly quick arcs over her head before getting caught midair between two fingers and rolled into a combat grip.
"Or we can keep going except this time I actually stab someone~"
She smiles. All of them turn immediately to Henry. "We'll just- we'll just take our friends, then." "Nice meeting you." "Thanks, for- for not. Killing us." "We appreciate you." "We would really like it if we never see you again. Have a nice night." "Are you serious?! He fucking stabbed me tw-" Shut the fuck up, Richie. You ever quote a fucking movie on a job again, I swear to god, Harold won't have to call you out." "You guys saw the bullet holes behind him right? How'd we miss that many times?" "You wanna fucking ask him? Fucking ask him." "Have a nice night! Let'sgetthefuckoutofhere."
Henry doesn't hide his admiring grin at the flashy display from the skinny dame, following the knife with his eyes before holding a hand out for it. "I'd like that back, if you don't mind, ma'am."
As the brutes leave, Henry also doesn't bother to stifle his laughter. "Don't fuck with dancers, not in this city. That kinda shit will get you killed by folks who like dancing with knives."
The skinny chick flashes a smirk and hands over the knife, calling over her shoulder, "And I really do love dancing with knives, you're lucky you didn't do worse to those poor gentlemen before we got here~"
They book it, yelling at their crew down the hall, who take one look at the state of their friends and make tracks, leaving the pale gal to heave a sigh. "Well. Not my best work, but I did end up improvising. YOU did rather well for yourself, I should say. You didn't seem particularly concerned about those guns."
"I'm sorry if I interrupted your date, but I didn't realize at first what you were up to. Still, glad to be a distraction." He makes sure to put the claws away before offering a hand to shake. "Henry Moynihan, ma'am. At your service."
Rather, the lady offers her hand delicately, because it amuses her to. "A pleasure, Mister Moynihan. I haven't heard anyone talk like you since I was at the kid's table during my father's dinner parties. Early 20th century afficionado, or a man out of time?" She asks, as if both options are entirely plausible as the other.
He accepts the hand, gently kissing the knuckles. "Says something that you think of dinner parties and not mobster movies. I'm...eh, I been around a bit, you could say. Allow me to escort you out of here before the coppers show up? That may have gone like eggs in coffee, but that doesn't mean we wanna be here still in a minute or two."
The lady is warm to the touch, and no hint of a beast- a curious combination to be sure. "I missed mobster movies. And do, please." She fishes her phone out of her pocket and pokes at it. "You know, I saw something about eggs in coffee lately, I don't recall it being in a good light, exactly..."
Henry laughs as he escorts the dame out of the dance studio and into the night, in the opposite direction from where the gangsters had gone, from the smell of the blood.
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