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A wolf has escaped from London Zoo...

At least, that's what the papers are saying. Anyone with half a brain who saw the second victim of this 'wolf' would know that this was the work of no natural creature. All that is left on the murder scene is a piece of scalp with a little blonde hair, a skull with the spinal cord still attached, and huge amounts of blood all over the pavement.

For those in London who knew of such things, the general notion was that a Lycan - or some kind of huge werewolf - was on the loose. Hunters, Assassins... everyone involved in the non-mortal community... they were all worried. The longer this creature was allowed to continue it's rampage, the more the risk of the non-mortal world being unveiled to the general human population.

***
It is dark. Lascell Nisbett creeps forward slowly, one foot at a time softly crunching gritty floor underneath him. His desert eagles point upward, flanking his head, his squinted eyes searching the darkness of the narrow tunnel. In the relative silence is a slow, regular drip of water on some unseen pipe. Lascell had been hunting the succubus known as Lucrecia all day, and finally, this late afternoon, he had tracked it to this underground service tunnel of Barclays Bank.

I won't deny it, am a straight rider...

The Tupac ringtone of Lascell's mobilephone shatters the silence and Lascell looks down to his coat pocket. Suddenly the succubus screeches, diving from the shadows striking Lascell to the ground with a stiff back-hand slap.

"Ugh!" Lascell lands hard on his back, but he quickly lifts his head up to see the fleeing monster. He aims his guns and squeezes the triggers twice each resulting in four loud shots. Sparks and pings tell him he has missed his target, and the monster, along with its shrieking has disappeared into the darkness. "Shit!" he exclaims, the ringtone and vibration of his phone still going strong.

He stands up, holsters one weapon at his back and pulls the phone out of the inside pocket of grey trench-coat. "What?" as soon as he puts the phone to his ear. "I'm kinda in the middle of something..................... alright, whatever....... yeah, on me way."

Lascell hangs up, a little annoyed. After spending a full week tracking Lucrecia, he finally lays his eyes and guns on her and now he is being called back to headquarters for something apparently more important. Now that sudden burst of adrenaline has worn off, he can feel the painful mark on his cheek where he was struck by the succubus. He looks at the phone in his hand, then down the tunnel where his quarry has fled. "Jesus." With that, he headed back to ladder that would take him back to the oblivious 'real world.'

Malcolm Waterfell sat quietly in his studio hotelroom, Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing' rolled out of a cheap stereo, as he poured himself another shot of Jack. He slammed the shot, took a pull from an oversized bottle of Tabasco sauce, and sucked down on his Marlboro. You know, it was strange, no matter what kind of abuse he put his body through, it never really seemed to affect him in the long run. It was all about Bloodlines. Malcolm Waterfell was a direct descendant of the legendary hero of Norse saga, Beowulf. Figured that little tidbit of info out when he was first introduced to the whole 'Mortal-Immortal Balance' thing. Turns out some spooks back in the States had been watching him. He starts to develop some abnormalities and these guys in black suits practically pissed themselves with the chance of recruiting Beowulf's bastard scion.
So that was his introduction to what the Masses called 'The Men in Black', but he soon came to know it as simply 'The Organization'.

That was years ago. He spent time in the Organization, but got out on account of a woman, who ended up breaking his heart and taking his money. Happens to the best. Nowaday, he spent his time freelancing for the Organization. Doing things they couldn't do. Pay was decent, but he just loved the action. This particular trip led him to London. Brief told him that a coven of demons had got a hold of an actual Warhead, however they did that was beyond Waterfell. So he'd spent the last two weeks in England, doing damage to hellspawn. Found the coven, busted up the demons in it, and sent them back to hell. The hard way.

His cellphone went off. He looked at the caller ID. 'MIB'. He chuckled to himself, thinking about Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones. They almost had it right. Left out the part about Demons, Angels, Vampires, Werewolves, Fairies, Trolls, and all the other cool shit. He answered the phone.

"Waterfell"
"Yeah hey man. Good job with the warhead. What'd you do with it, by the way?" It was Operator 9, Waterfell's personal dispatch guy. He liked to be called Operator 9 because it was much more mysterious than Reilly.
"Left it in their little sewer/dungeon/cult/thing, figured you guys'd take care of it"
"Oh yeah, hey whatever, just let me get the fucking Brit embassy on the line and tell them they got a fucking warhead sitting under London. They'll be real fucking stoked to hear that."
"You need somethin' Reilly? Kinda celebratin' right now" Waterfell slammed another shot.
"Yeah. Don't celebrate too hard, bro. Gotta 'nother job. Figured since you were in London, you could take care of it for the Organization. Savvy?"
"Whatever, what's the job?"
"Don't know. Ya gotta find a guy named Lascell. Works for the Brit Organization. They go by the of the Assassins or something. You know where it is?"
"Yeah man, I got it"
"Alright Mal. Hey, you comin' over when you get back to Oregon? Jenny has this super cute friend who wants to meet you. Like's the big strong bad boy type. Sides, I need to reclaim my air hockey championship title from your big dumb ass."
"Yeah, you owe me a fuckin' steak anyways. Later Nine."
"Yeah, peace bro"

Waterfell hung up the phone. Twelve shots of Jack and he was only slightly tipsy. Course, Waterfell was no average human. Besides Beowulf's heroic blood in his veins, he had his own special abilities. Waterfell stood at about 6'8", and weighed around 400 lbs. He wasn't a fat guy, and he wasn't body builder ripped, though he was very built, like, Dwight "The Rock" Johnson built, he just had super dense muscle tissue, and his punches had the effect of getting hit by a Mack Truck with no brakes, and his system was highly resilient to any sort of chemical reaction, which was why 12 shots of Jack barely got him tipsy. He kept his head and face shaved, his skin was a rather pale white, and his eyes were a dark blue. Waterfell stood up and grabbed a violet button up shirt. He threw it on and snatched up his pinstripe suit jacket while tucking in the button up. He put the jacket on, placed a pinstripe fedora on his head, slipped his 45. caliber custom pistol, Hrunting, into his shoulder holster, and walked through the doorway.

"First stop: Assassin HQ." He muttered, making his way to the elevator.

Lascell got off the bus in the city centre, then crossed the road toward the towering building of white brick. It was just starting to get dark, but the streets of London were still packed. He jimmies his way through the crowd and goes up the steps into the lobby.

"Lascell," Sam, the receptionist greets from behind his desk. Lascell throws up a hand in leiu of a wave, but doesn't stop walking toward the elevator. "You lose your bike, again?"

"Sue me."

Sam bursts out laughing and Lascell flashes him a look of mirth mixed with embaressment as he presses the button for the elevator, waits a moment, then walks in.

Arriving on one of the secret higher floors, Lascell walks out and into a chaotic office atmosphere. There are phones going off everywhere, people answering them, or talking to one another. Others are shouting, some are walking about with pump-action shotguns... Lascell is used to it by now. At twenty years old, he has been with the Assassins for nearly two years. It seemed like only yesterday when he had fled Manchester because of a warrant for his arrest, then wound up being attacked by a group of teenage vampires in a London train station. MacKensie Trydant, a badass assassin, had saved his ass, then took him in and trained him.

For a moment, Lascell wonders what she is doing right now.

"Lascell!" Lascell blinks from his reverie and looks at his boss, The Governer, who is stood at the door of his office. "Get your ass in here." With that he disappears and Lascell goes over.

"Alright, Guv."

"No, Lascell. Not really, if I'm totally honest." The Governer fell back into his chair and pulled a thick, brown envelope out from a deskdrawer, chucking it onto the desk in front of Lascell. "We have a serious problem. There is a beast on the loose, tearing seven shades of shit out of Londeners..." Lascell fingered through the papers, mainly looking for a photo. "...the boys think it's a Lycan, but I disagree. Smells like a werewolf to me."

"Jesus christ," Lascell exclaimed as he finally finds a photo. It's not a photo of the beast though. It's a picture of the first victim... or rather, what was left of the first victim. "A werewolf couldn't have done this. Surely?"

"It seems a bit much for a were doesn't it, but I don't know. I think we may have something big on our hands here. It's already drawn international attention."

Lascell looked up from the photos. "Vatican?"

"The Organization." The Governer corrected. "They've sent someone over to assist in the operation. See that it is taken care of quickly. He'll be here shortly."

"Nah man, I don't need no help. If this is my assignment, then it's mine alone, Guv."
"You think I would put a novice on an assignment like this alone. Hell, you of all people!?" The Governer stands up, pointing at Lascell. "Jesus, Lascell, you are a walking catastrophe. You wind up in jail nearly every week, you cost the company a few hundred grand last month after demolishing that shopping centre..."

"How can you blame that on me. I was chasing a schizophrenic vampire."

"...you have lost seven motorcyles this year..."

"Erm... eight. Yeah, I need a new bike, Guv. It wasn't my fault this time, though."

The Governer shakes his head. "It never is, is it." Turning his back on Lascell, he looks out of his window. "You have 48 hours to stop this thing, Lascell. Everyone's eyes are on London, waiting to see if the Assassins fuck this thing up. We cannot fail."

Waterfell stepped out of his 2009 Cadillac XLR-V rental, top down, system slamming the sick beats of the new Killswitch Engage album. He locked the doors, more for effect than practicality. He walked through the evening light and opened the door to Assassin HQ. Sam leaned forward with interest.

"Appointment?" Sam asked, looking through a docket.
"Yeah maybe. Malcolm Waterfell. U.S. Paranormal and Occult Department" He said, walking to the the desk and placing his hands on it.
"Waterfell... Waterfell... Yeah. You're looking for Lascell. How long you been working for the Organization?"
"Oh, worked for 'em for 6 years. Been freelancing for 'em for the last 5" Waterfell pointed to the elevator. "This the way?"
"Yes sir. Gotta hit the 7th button twice, then the 6th one."

Water waved goodbye and pushed the elevator button. The doors opened and he stepped inside. While in he primped up. Tucking in his shirt, buttoning up his jacket, straightening his fedora and, as cliche as it was, brushing imaginary dirt from his shoulders. The door opened to the all to familiar scene of people around heavily armed, and the general office atmosphere. He polietly asked a passing person with a stack of folders where to find Lascell. She casually pointed to the office where Lascell was getting reamed by the Governer. He decided to wait till Lascell was done, and casually began chatting with a cute girl at the water fountain.

Lascell walked out of the Governer's office a little annoyed. It wasn't the scolding, no, Lascell is used to that by now. It was the fact that the succubus, Lucrecia was going to be someone elses 'win.' All Lascell wanted to do was catch his old master MacKensie in kills. Of course, it wouldn't be an overnight thing considering she was heading toward the big 1000, while Lascell himself sits on a grand total of 4. Still, a kill was a kill and Lascell had been so close to adding Lucrecia to his trophies.

Joe pops his head out of a cubicle. "Yes, Lascell, what's happening?"

"Alright,Joe, nothing much, mate. Apparently, I'll be giving some American prick the guided tour of London."

"Yeah, I heard about that."

Lascell walks around the office cubicles as he talks, tipping his head to Rebecca as he passed her at the water fountain. He doesn't know the mountain of a man she is talking to, so he makes no effort to greet him. "Yeah," he continues loudly on to Joe across the office. "Who do these yanks think they are, coming over the pond to make sure we're doing our jobs? Fucking muppets."

Lascell heads into the break room and hits 'tea' on the hot-drinks machine. The little room itself is a kitchen-like setup, with a sink, kettle, a microwave and a cupboard. It was pretty ordinary considering this was the headquarters for one of the most secret, important companies in Britain.

Waterfell watched Lascell walk from the office. He shook Rebecca's hand in farewell and was about to introduce himself to Lascell when the Assassin went off on Americans. He was a little taken aback by Lascell's hostile attitude. He made a few assumptions about Lascell on the spot. Immature, hot-headed, temperamental, and most importantly, a rookie. After he passed by and into the break room, Waterfell turned back to the cute girl, Rebecca.

"Givin' me the guided tour, huh? I'm gonna be changin' this little guy's diaper as soon as he sees whatever we're fightin'." He chuckled lightly. Rebecca didn't think it was that funny.
"He's got kills. I mean, he hasn't been here that long, but he's seen some action" She said politely, before turning and hurriedly walking off to some cubicle on the other side of the office.

Waterfell assumed that the woman had developed a crush on the rookie. He shrugged lightly. Brits weren't exactly his favorite people. He thought they were sorta stuck up. He walked from the water fountain and into the break room, silently chuckling at the fact that Lascell was drinking tea. Just like in the movies. Brits drinking tea. He wondered if Brits laughed when they saw Americans drinking coffee, just like on TV.

He threw on a mock, high-class English accent as he walked in, speaking to Lascell.
"Who do these yanks think they are, coming over the pond ton make sure we're doing our jobs. Fucking muppets" He laughed at his own joke, placing a rather enormous hand on a soda machine and leaned against it, which pushed the fiberglass cover in a bit.
"What's up man? Name's Malcolm Waterfell, the American Prick you're showin' around. Still pissed about losin' that revolutionary war? You don't seem that happy America?" He kept a light smile on his face, to convey that he wasn't upset about the insults Lascell was throwing around.

A double-beep from the machine and Lascell grabs his tea and takes a sip.

"Who do these yanks think they are..."

The huge man appears in the doorway and Lascell, a little slow to the draw, does not have any idea what he is talking about. It is only when the man abandons his impression of a posh englishman that Lascell realises this is the guy from the Organization. The young Assassin doesn't understand the reference to the war, having never really been interested in history at school. In fact, Lascell never paid much attention to school at all. It was in fact his delinquent, gang-life approach to his teenage years that had led Lascell to London and vampire hunting in the first place. Point being, Lascell is a little embaressed that he doesn't follow this Malcom character and so chooses to completely ignore his comments. Instead, he simly leans back against the counter with his tea and crosses one foot over the other, studying his new partner. Malcom is a giant, standing 6' 6" at the very least, built like a brick wall too. It occurs to Lascell that it is probably isn't the best idea to antagonise such a man, but the fact that he will not be able to finish Lucrecia off is still reigning over his mood.

"Walking the streets of London with the BFG," he says, almost to himself. "Proper subtle." Lascell slurps his tea. "Listen, if you want to tag along on this mission, I can't argue, but try not to get in my way. Name's Lascell, by the way," he adds.

It is funny that Lascell comments on the appearance of his partner considering that he himself is wearing a big, grey trenchcoat over his get-up, and usually tops off his look with a pair of silver shades. Add that to the trail of destruction that this rookie can easily leave behind himself on a hunt, and 'subtle' is the last thing anyone him.

{The thread said jump right in, I will totally delete this if you don't want me here. Just PM me and this is gone like the freaking wind. whooosh~}

Malaika pulled her leather coat about her a bit tighter as she roamed through the darkened streets. Every muscle in her body was taut with anticipation, excitement, and the tiniest twinge of fear. This city was black, metal, and cold to her: the moon and stars clouded by thick smog and smoke and buzzing neon from the bar she strode past. This was not her home, the sun kissed dunes replaced with hard concrete, and the bright sun replaced with a 24/7 rain cloud, and the beautiful, brick and mortar home built by her great great grandfather had suddenly become a seedy apartment over a smelly deli with peeling walls.

But some things remained the same.

The tangy scent of blood and darkness mixed together in the dark alley lead her to her quarry. At the end of the alley lays a monstrosity: its a woman, very attractive, albeit the leathery tail and wings. Crumpled in a heap, she smells like a sewer and is bleeding from a graze across her arm, obviously tired and weakened. Her senses tingled at the monster she had been trained from birth to track, now so close. Expert work no doubt, with a strong monster like this one.

"Tell me, beast." She spoke to the feminine monster in a heavy accent. "Who did this to you, and I shall let you pray before you die."

Waterfell laughed a deep rumbling laugh and pushed himself from the vending machine. He clapped his hands together, and walked toward Lascell. He always got 'kid-in-a-candy-store' excited before a mission. Just the way it was. He gave Lascell a one over. He seemed athletic, looked like he could keep up. He was young, which meant he was impatient. And his clothing choice made him look like he just walked out of the Matrix. But Waterfell couldn't talk, his clothing choice made it look like he just walked out of a 40's gangster movie.

"Right man, sweet. I'll 'tag along', if you don't mind. So tell me, man. What's the job?"

There is something about Malcom; a disarming charm that, despite Lascell's cheap-shots, makes the young assassin actually like the big ogre. Lascell narrows his eyes for a moment, then seems to give up his angry defensiveness.

"Alright, sweet," he replied, then put his half-drunk tea down and grabs the brown envelope off the counter. "I'll tell you as we go. It's getting dark out."At the lift, Lascell unecassarily punches the button, and in a few moments, the doors open with a 'ding don.' "Apparently we're after some loosed, maniacal monster that is going around tearing the shit out of innocent people. No one knows what it is, Lycan, werewolf..." fishing through the papers in the envelope, Lascell finds that crime-scene photo again, although one could hardly call it a scene. All there that it showed was a skull and spinal cord, a peice of bloodied scalp with some blonde hair. "Whatever it is, it can do this to people."
He hands Malcom the photo nonchalantly, then checks the progress of the lift. It hits the ground floor shortly after and the two are walking through the lobby. Lascell raises a hand in a silent farewell to Sam, the receptionist, and goes outside, then suddenly realises that they have no wheels. "Right, errrr..." he scratches the back of his head. "...we're gonna have to get the tube or the bus around the city. My bike is in service right now."If Lascell had better observational skills, he might have noticed the topless cadillac might be well-suited to an american in a pinstripe suit-jacket and fedora. Well, English logic might have pout the two and two together, anyway. Still, it is lost on the young assassin, who begins to walk off, expecting Malcom to follow. "I reckon we go to Club Brood. I know a guy there who might be able to help."


**********


"Excuse me, sir, spare some change?"

The man walked right past the twelve year old girl, seeming not to hear her. Penny scrunched up her brow in a scowl, then tried again.

"Excuse me... miss... spare some change."

This time the woman looked, but shrugged her shoulders helplessly and continued to walk. This was not going well and little Penny Brice was hungry. She decided to be a little more agressive this time. "Sir," she called out, tottering up to another passer-by and tugging his coat. "Sir, spare some change."

"Get off me you little rat," the man wrenches away from Penny, shoots her a glare of contempt and then is on his way.

Penny growls low in her throat. Ignorance was one thing, but insults. Penny did not like to be called names. She begins to march after him in her little black shoes. The rest of her attire is a dirty, flowery dress with a red cardigan over the top. Her little face might be cute if it was cleaner and she didn't have that angry, vengeful look in her eyes. Through the light crowd she follows the oblivious man, her fists balled at her sides as her little legs march hard to keep up with her quarry. It is getting late and she wanted to go home with a nice McDonalds or something, but no, instead it would have to be a proper meal.

The man turns down an alley and it is not until he hears Penny's voice again that he turns around.

"How dare you..." He turns about to see Penny is stood with her feet planted shoulder width apart. "...you ignore the pleas of a starving twelve year old girl. Have you no heart?" She walks forward slowly and the man backs away a step more in confusion than anything else. But then outright fear strikes him when Penny's eyes, even the whites of her eyes, become blood-red.

"What on earth..."

Penny convulses and her form grows, black fur sprouts quickly all over body and her nose elongates. The childs clothing begins to rip as she grows and within seconds Penny is a five foot werewolf, lunging at the shrieking man..............