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Not a soul on Dot Ave was sleeping tonight. Even as the hands and LCD digital displays of clocks everywhere ticked away at almost two thirty in the morning, Much of East Boston around Dorchester, Dot, and Old Colony Ave was wide awake and celebrating. Why? For absolutely no good reason what so ever. What better reason was there to celebrate a Friday evening away than to just party and dance till the world ended?

Though, not all partied simply to party. Much of the population actually had a reason to party, and not a great one at that. That same reason was tied to the very focal point of this very near bacchanalia. Not fatr down from the corner of Dot Ave and Old Colony, the House of Wolves Nightclub was in full swing. The brilliantly lit moon sign served as the perfect backdrop for the howling feminine werewolf, the symbol of the club and the hint at it's two other purposes: Modern Cabaret Burlesque and Headquarters of The Pack; a well organized werewolf street gang with Mafia like tactics backing a pack mentality and chaotic attitude. Tonight, they celebrated for a grand reason--the change in Alpha.

Many had deemed Lawrence just far too melancholy for the pack. Ever since Valerie's death, he'd gone soft and prevented the pack from branching out to claim members. In fact, many had seen the faults under his leadership--the loss of their grand slaving operation, Valerie's death, and the loss of territory in the West End, Back Bay, and Allston--as a sign that a need for a change was so greatly needed. When Craig "Jaguar" Gardner had stepped up and challenged him to that fight and won, it was only natural to celebrate the changing of the guard with a grand party where everyone would either get sloshed, get lucky, get bitten, or all of the above.

Craig himself had entered the club but moments earlier. Despite the party having been raging since about seven, he'd been out taking care of business and securing plans to reclaim lost territory and more. He'd even almost nailed down a plan of assault to capture East Boston, Winthrop, and Revere, allowing a foothold towards taking over much of the Bat's land north of the Charles. It was sound, but needed finer details and more of a gang. Heck, it might need a full on army to capture Revere alone. Wonderland's old dog track might not be operational, but even a normal resident knew the Bat's still used that track for training grounds of their shape shifting team. It'd be tough, but capturing it would make a major blow to the Bat's chances at remaining a major power in the Hub.

Still high off the success of winning the Alpha challenge, alongside some lingering effects of a few trees and some shots of tequila, Craig gladly gave a high five to every drunkard, stoner, and partier on his way through the club and up the back stairway to his office, planting his rear into the seat and spinning around slowly to take in that afterglow. He'd sent Catie--his girlfriend of the week and potential new Beta--away for the evening, so he might focus, but in reality, he'd done it so that after getting a few tasks taken care of in the clubs office, he'd get lucky with a few drunk girls on the floor. Perhaps double or triple lucky with a few all at once. Maybe even from behind. Bonus round would be if they weren't infected yet. Adding more to the Pack's ranks by splaying out their victims in bed was often much more successful than trying to bite them and not let them escape or be completely eaten alive.

Leaning forward on his desk and looking out is one way mirrored windows, Craig brushed his blackened hair back. An inch of bangs rolled forward at his widow's peak, curling forward. He flexed his fingers, allowing claws to form and fade with each flex as he licked his lips and savored all the women he spotted down on the dance floor below. There was certainly a nice group of chatty Cathie's down towards the bar. Good friends. Looked like really good friends. Potentially a few were lesbians by the looks of it. Good; he liked a challenge.

As Craig closed his eyes and leaned back, propping feet upon his desk, five dark figures walked up the street from different directions outside. All wore dark clothing, their skins pale even in the dark night lit by the brilliant glowing signs and street lamps. Dark circles under their eyes told of restless sleep and more as they came upon each other across the road from the club's front. People seemed to be coming and going willy nilly, with no bouncers or bodyguards to be seen out front. This party seemed to be one for all groups it seemed, a perfect chance for a little bit of misdirection and blending. As the music turned to a song with a heavier prominent bassline and almost non-existent treble and midlines beyond the remixed lyrics from the DJ, the group made their move. They walked across the late night avenue, unafraid of any cars or trucks that might come and knowing full well they'd be able to sense them before they even turned upon the avenue. Preliminary reports said that the police had been either tipped off to other crimes much further away or paid to ignore this section of South Boston for tonight, allowing the club to function without interruption of any sort of noise complaints. Perfect cover for this group.

Stopping just before the doors after a drunk couple staggered out sucking face and with their pants in the initial steps to being half off, the group turned to face one another and nodded. Lawrence had been a pain in their side, but he'd always been someone respectable. This Craig was a nuisance beyond reason. His goals were too ambitious, too out there, and focused less on a pack order and more on simply fucking shit up. They wouldn't stand for this, nor would their boss who had sent them their as a preliminary present for the newly appointed alpha and his Pack.

The thumbing beat and gaseous atmosphere of ecstasy and weed helped to hide the smell of undeath as the five entered the doors and stepped into the club. Three reached into their coats to grasp upon a hard metallic object, while the two on the ends of the five man line brought their hands before them, rubbing their arms inches before their stomachs as they brought their power to fruition. Fire and electricity bubbled and crackled in their palms as they raised their arms high, with the other three pulling forth blacked weapons of devastating power. In the briefest of lines, the first few guards and patrons of the club saw the line of five at the door. Two majik users, three submachine guns, and a shotgun were pointed at the crowd and cocked. The club was about to blow, but not in a way even Ke$ha's song, remixed upon the DJ turntables could have predicted.

Screams erupted mixed with the sounds of the weaponry launched. The ball of lightning and fire was launched up towards the scaffolding whilst the weapons fired into the crowd. The five men set up worked perfectly towards crowd control and keeping every patron who dared celebrate this stupid event within, while the broken and damaged scaffolding shot sparks and flames down into the crowd below, eventually crumbling under weight from the attack and falling. Bullet casings and blood began littering the dance floor as the five pushed an advance, the majik users upon the end opting to throw back a line of fire and electricity over the doorways, forcing anyone who did think to try and escape to risk severe electrical and fire burns.

The screams and bullets had alerted Craig to the attempt at an assault and brought anger to his eyes, the iris of his eyes thinning his pupil into vertical slits. A Jungle roar escaped his angered mouth as he slammed his fist upon the desk and the alarm. An assault upon the very headquarters of their base? An assault upon their valued patrons? An assault upon the PACK?! This would not go over lightly, and these five would pay dearly. Grabbing the microphone that had fallen onto his desk and overriding the music that billowed throughout the club and the labyrinth of basement tunnels below, Craig roared his orders loud and clear. "Whoever can capture; better yet KILL these hickey lovers who dare try and crash our party gets to utilize our finest dancers at the club for any purpose or desire they wish for a full week; no strings attached! KILL THEM!"

He had no actual proof these five were vamps. For all he knew they could have been the Irish or Italian mob. Maybe even sympathizers of that weird majik cult that dwelled in the sewers. But being honest: There's no one else stupid enough to try an assault like this. It took cold dead balls of steel to do this, and no one's balls were deader or colder than the Bat's north of the Charles. Clearly they had to have opted to try their hand at a hostile takeover with a new Alpha in charge. Craig wasn't Lawrence though, and he wouldn't sit and just let something like this happen, Something he no doubt imagined Lawrence would have done.

Doors opened on all sides of the main central dance floor, and even Craig hopped into the mix by jumping out and through the mirrored glass pane of his office. Most had taken a half stage, hair longer and coarser on their body but no new growth yet, while fangs and eyes took on different colors and lengths. Craig himself had his golden yellow eyes at the ready, his nails having turned into sharpened claws of steel as he ducked about on the dance floor. Him and his Pack warriors didn't give a shit about the dancers right now. It was their fault if they got hurt, not the Pack's. With a quick left dodge and a shove of some red-head bimbo to the right, Craig lead an impromptu charge to shove these assailants out of their den. One of the Pack members, a skinny red-head with toxic green eyes took to some higher ground and began unloading an automatic rifle upon the five assailants, acting as covering fire to disrupt their assault and break their line. A pause in fire allowed a wave of people to force themselves out of the club, a stampede. Dot Ave became a flood with people as they exited, the streets empty of traffic as the crowd swarmed it.

Craig himself ducked low and then leapt, using his improved leg muscles to bound high into the air and come down upon one of the punks. He swiped at his face with claws, glasses dislodging o show the empty pale red of Vampire eyes. He was right, these guys had to be with the Bats. "Fucking Straw-fangs," he grumbled as dug his claws into the chest of the vampire and twisted, his hardned supernatural claws tearing into flesh bone and muscle. A quick up slice to dig into the fresh incision brought his claws in contact with the cold beating heart, piercing it's toughed walls and putting this Wing-fucker out of business. Eyes jolted up to the left and right. His fellow packmates had taken their chumps as well and dispatched them, though it seemed one of the chumps had disappeared. More screams were erupting from outside. Something was up, he could smell it. There was just an off scent to the air.

Craig pounced again, thrusting his way past the crowd with his packmates behind him, more and more coming up from back. "NO! Get this stampede under control!" He ordered to them. They unquestionably nodded, running back inside and working to get the crowd under wraps. His attention then turned back to the front, letting his animal side relax and brushing past the crowd in human form again. It didn't take long to see the commotion. The crowd was literally diverting left and right down the streets, away from the adjacent sidewalk across the ave. Why? Because parked across it was that Black Dusenburg Model J, the very car owned by Charles O'Maon. Entrepreneur, Business Exec, CEO, and Gang Leader incarnate. Parked on either side of it was various black SUVs and sedans, and a line of suits was perfectly arranged in front of them. This was a death sentence for sure, but Craig couldn't let this stop him. If he shifted quick he could take a few bullets for sure, but at this point none of them seemed armed. Why?

"TOO CHICKENSHIT TO SHOW YOURSELF CHUCKIE FUCKIE? WHY DON'T YOU SHOW THAT CAVED IN PIT YOU CALL A FACE?!" Crag barked into the night, his roars erupting over the screams of the crowd. There was no vocal response, but a bright spark of orange glow erupted from behind the screen of the Dusenburg, Followed shortly by small amber glows along the entire line. Stepping between the suits were other suits, carrying bottles of beer from the looks of it, but with sticks of cloth poking out. Moltovs. And then it hit Craig.

That smell was gas.

One of the chumps had gone missing.

They were lighting cocktails.

It happened to fast for Craig to realize. Ten different bottles of liquid fire were chucked at the club at different points. Some hit the roof, others hit the windows and went in. Some were thrown inside the doors. But it wasn't any of the actual cocktails that did the worst.

The one who had gone missing was the one who had created that line of fire.

Craig had already begun shifting to full form to Roar out the command to duck and cover and high tail it out of there, but it was too late. The Bat's had one up's him because he hadn't done what Lawrence always did: Never get too cocky and safe.

As his eyes fell upon the club, he was forced backwards from the shockwave as a massive fireball erupted from within. Bodies flew out from the entrance of the club, many on fire. Craig's back hit the pavement hard and knocked his shifting out of whack, stopping him from completion and temporarily paralyzing him from the hard blow to his tailbone from the pavement. His yellow eyes looked on as horrified slits as the club went up in flames. A blacked cloud of smoke and fire rose, surely alerting the cops as well as most of the residents of Boston that something major had just gone down.

Time seemed to slow, his eyes watching as the line of suits one by one rushed past him, running into the fire and adding only more screams. He could only imagine what they were doing. Vamp claws were as strong as Therin claws, and sharper to boot. They were probably using them like daggers, cutting up whatever patrons were left inside as well as his fellow pack members.

He rolled onto his stomach, still unable to fully move beyond a few light arm flails and lifting his head. He watched the suits run past him back to the cars, departing slowly after their mission seemed completely. All that became left as the sirens finally reached the area was the Dusenburg, the bright orange glow brightening for but a moment as it slowly rolled off into parts unknown.

Craig wanted to cry. Not of sadness, but of anger. They'd attacked and destroyed their very base! They cut off the head of the damn pack! He'd have potentially given in to defeat if it hadn't been for a half-signed, bleeding therin bear that grabbed him and dragged his limp body into the shadows of the alley and away.

"They... they've gone bolder..." Craig whimpered.

"They have Alpha, and cut off the head figure of our gang with that club." The bear replied, ducking into a few more alleys and sticking to the shadows when the sirens got louder.

Craig closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. "What to we do?" he heard the bear ask, and he had to wonder. Just what would they do?

"Simple..." Craig began, "They may have cut off the figure head, but they left me alive and have angered the wolves. And we know what happens when you anger the wolves..."

Craig looked up as he watched the dark alleys flow past, his eyes glowing a brilliant yellow of anger. "The wolves bite back. Hard."