Slithering Names

From the moment Aroces Secora saw the desolate warehouse, a stain even in the dirty neighborhood of the Tenth Arrondissement, she began to wonder if following Brian’s instructions was a good idea after all. Nonetheless she parked the car just in front of the entrance and stepped out of the silver Porsche, followed quickly by Traywick and a fat suitcase.

“Is this it?” she asked her assistant. From her tone of voice it was more of a rhetorical question. Mathew Traywick didn’t answer—he and Secora went straight for the rusty double door.

Once the handle was pulled down, the door groveled open with a displacing, grinding sound that quickly brought silence upon the room full with a crowd of about twenty people. Secora’s steps acidly resounded across the room as she made her way towards a man surrounded by four bodyguards. He didn’t look very well, Secora observed.

The room, albeit being a large storehouse, was stuffy, and the air in it was stale and sharp. Questionable industrial containers littered the place, and shelves upon shelves containing nothing towered over the people sitting pell-mell on backpacks or crates. Large imposing fans attached on the ceiling, surely having worked once, now rusted with decay. Everything led to the assumption that the warehouse hadn’t been used for decades.

As for Secora, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like they would be hunting demons in this mess—she knew already that ‘Mr. Johansson’ had dealt with any apparent threats in the area already. Who she was concerned with were the pathetic hunters already gathered.

“Alright, Brian,—if that’s what you’re being called as of right now—I think you have gathered enough people for your plans. Might as well explain what you have in store.” Aroces Secora briefly gazed upon the several gathering religious fanatics, and then at the other two Equivoques seated a distance away from the rest of the people.

A metallic chuckle resonated across the room. Secora took a moment to realize that it was coming from ‘H.H.’, who was getting up from his makeshift seating. The longcoat he was wearing concealed most of his body, but his face betrayed some sort of sick amusement. “Yeah, Brian’s okay,” he said after a moment in surprisingly… middle-class English. “I thought it was about time we talked, all of us.” He paused for breath, something Secora noted.

“The night’s still young, we might start by introducing ourselves,” the gathering’s host continued. “Let me start. I am Brian Johansson, and I am one of the six Equivoques. I’m here to kill demons.”

*Valentin rode up on a black, slightly rusted motorcycle. The license plate read D3M-0NX.
Taking out the key, V got off the vehicle, and rose his hoodie. Across the back of the hoodie was a large red anarchy sign.
Clutching his pure silver gun, he pushed open the door to the decriept warehouse.

A masked man in a pope-like outfit got out of a black car. Mass was over for Aleksandar. He was happy to get out of the Hagia Varvara that day. There were so many people he couldn't breathe. Right now he was feeling sane, having done some homework last night. However, he was worried, knwoing he may need to get rid of some people here.

His car was bordered by 2 armored SUVs, property of the rebellious Zealots. Two of them, dressed in their fine standard issue red uniforms (think Quebec City fort regiment without the hats) with red body armor vests. Why they wore that color was something Aleksandar was oblivious to. Wasn't his choice. The Zealots were a bunch of Orthodox recruits and, when you navigated your way up to the Cavalry regiment, Cossacks finely imported from Ukraine and Russia.

Vastovan, a 40 year old man who could pass as 50 exited the car with an elaborate officer uniform and a Russian hat. As soon as he did, another 8 zealots exited, their FNFALs ready for conflict. Vastovan K. Vaklovich was the leader of these zealots. They lived on the large upper floors of the Hagia and operated a few bases in Paris, and were financed by the Church's immense revenues, but, aside from that, had almost no reliance on anyone but Vastovan. He was probably the person in Paris with the most nicknames. 121 commonly used, in fact. The most common of which was a mutilation of his name, 'Vakav'.

The zealots were ready for what they usually did. Professionally marched into an Atheist stronghold like elite units, then turned on the enemy, shooting anyone, any age, that they saw, then waiting for the Cossacks to charge into the streets on horseback and eliminate stragglers with cavalry carbines, and, if it was called for, rocket launchers. After that they would all have some good vodka and pretend nobody noticed. Well, yeah. Nobody would notice, because the second Achzarits with the symbol of the Orthodox Patriarch drove by, people knew it wasn't a good idea to stick around.

"Vakav , licentia vestri men hic. HH no amo lemma cursor a tumultus." Aleksandar said to Vakav as the man drew his pistol and the Zealots prepared to bust the place.

"I don't give a shit. There's like 3 equivoques in there. Fuck you." Vakav responded. Aleksandar pulled open the doors and just walked in, letting Vakav know that there was no chance of making a bust now. Vakav stood outside, looking in and taking a puff of his cigar. Aleksandar took his seat and waited for an elaborate speech to happen.

*V stood in the corner, hoodie up over his face,
" So I assume you were invited here too?" He questioned the others, in a deep, dramatic like voice.

Aleksandar stayed silent. He had a seat conveniently in speech distance from HH, which he was kind of lucky to have. HH was the one he probably least hated, mainly because he was more of a puzzle game you had to solve rather than a button masher or a combo-memorizer. His train of thought didn't make sense to him. Maybe when you're used to being insane being sane isn't right anymore.

Secora cleared her throat at the interruption, giving Shane an acid look.

"Transient guests, are we?" H.H. asked almost immediately, more in Vastovan's direction than anybody else's. "Sir, take a seat. There aren't only atheists in here."

The commotion quickly died down as Secora took up speech. "I'm one of the four equivoques in this building, Aroces Secora. By the end of this trip you might figure out what my abilities are." She turned around and in a comedically dramatic way jabbed her finger at her assistant. "This is Mathew Traywick. He isn't important."

Bitch, please Aleksandar thought. This was going to be a very disorganized and jumbled 'meeting'. Personally he'd prefer to be in a random other meeting so long as it wasn't to plan a pride march of any sort. Why he didn't arrive in a more violent way he was oblivious to. Vakav would have been happy to comply for once. He silently sat and watched over the meeting, examining Secora. He wondered, if everyone here was invited, why the hell HH would chose this bunch to be part of his demon fighting crew.

Traywick sighed, used to the usual berating of his significance. he only sorted all the papers and cleaned up after all the messes Aroces got into, after all--nothing much, especially in real society. He just nodded and took the insult.

A few people stood up and introduced themselves, one by one. There were religious representatives, mostly from the Church of France, and a few freelancers, as well as a couple cocky-looking devils. All led to believe that even when brought together the lines between the parties were clearly drawn.

"How about you?" Brian's interest was moreso directed at Aleksandar than anybody else in the whole room, much to Secora's discontent.

"Aleksandar II, Protodeacon of Paris. I hope we can cooperate." Aleksandar said, standing up. That was a lie. He really hoped these people would all perish from a demon attack on the hall. As he sat down, he 'accidentally' twisted part of his staff formerly thought to be unmovable. Nothing happened, however.