Ain´t thinkin bout Thursday or Friday cuz tonight´s a Saturday night
It's Saturday night, and as befits a good old Saturday night, the Luna bar is hopping. The bar's near capacity, and it seems anyone and everyone has turned up, whether to just enjoy a drink or three or for more secretive purposes.
Jack Malone is seated at the far end of the bar, his body half-turned toward the crowd. It's force of habit; seated this way, his elbow on the bar next to his scotch on the rocks, he can see just about the entire crowd, and he can monitor the exits.
Somebody? Really doesn't know how to relax.
Dylan Hayes is doing his best to relax, for just an hour or two. He always knew being a guardian angel was going to be a difficult job, but trying to keep tabs on a cat? All kinds of challenging. He's leaning on the near end of the bar because it's close to an exit, should he need to get out of there fast to go find his ward. He's got a draft beer in a glass, which he's nursing, slowly--can't get drunk on the job, after all.
Also vaguely "on the job" tonight is Rafi Navarro--but, really, when is the man not on the job? He's at a table with three other people, but he's not really paying attention to them. (There was an empty seat and they were gracious enough to let him sit there.) He's got a margarita on the rocks in a salt-rimmed glass, and he's got his eyes on the people coming and going and mixing and mingling, just getting the feel of the crowd.
Peter Petrelli is in the thick of the crowd, sprawled on a low couch surrounded by a knot of people he's only just met. He's animatedly making small talk (like he do) with his hands (like he do), which means the imported beer in the green glass bottle that he's got in his right hand is foaming up just a bit due to being waved around so much. He's very much in his element, talking, being social.
Nearby, someone else is merely pretending to be social and in his element. Bruce Wayne is wandering through the crowd in a very practiced show of being casual, but he's really just watching and listening, learning about the people and the establishment. Hopefully he can extrapolate the impressions he gets here into inferences about the city as a whole. He's carrying a glass of draft beer; from time to time he lifts it to his lips, wetting them without actually ingesting any of the alcohol, but if he sees a convenient way to slyly pour out some of the beer, he'll take it.
Ananya Chinnamalai is also seated on one of the bar's low couches, but in contrast to Peter's little impromptu audience, her corner is a little more remote. She's seated square in the center of a cushion while also leaning an elbow on the arm, effectively staking out a good half of her couch. An open bottle of Veuve Cliquot sits on the low table beside her and she has a flute of it in one hand. She surveys each person who passes by with a calculating sweep of her dark eyes, her lips occasionally twitching in bemusement or annoyance.
Perched on a stool near the midpoint of the bar, Rachel Conway leans in a bit over the bar top because she's got her left elbow on the wooden surface. She draws her tongue along the fleshy part of her hand just below her left thumb and then shakes salt onto the spot with her other hand. Before her sit two glass tumblers. One has a measure of clear liquid in the bottom and a slice of lime stuck on the rim; the other is empty save for the chewed-up remnants of the lime it once bore proudly.
Jack Malone is seated at the far end of the bar, his body half-turned toward the crowd. It's force of habit; seated this way, his elbow on the bar next to his scotch on the rocks, he can see just about the entire crowd, and he can monitor the exits.
Somebody? Really doesn't know how to relax.
Dylan Hayes is doing his best to relax, for just an hour or two. He always knew being a guardian angel was going to be a difficult job, but trying to keep tabs on a cat? All kinds of challenging. He's leaning on the near end of the bar because it's close to an exit, should he need to get out of there fast to go find his ward. He's got a draft beer in a glass, which he's nursing, slowly--can't get drunk on the job, after all.
Also vaguely "on the job" tonight is Rafi Navarro--but, really, when is the man not on the job? He's at a table with three other people, but he's not really paying attention to them. (There was an empty seat and they were gracious enough to let him sit there.) He's got a margarita on the rocks in a salt-rimmed glass, and he's got his eyes on the people coming and going and mixing and mingling, just getting the feel of the crowd.
Peter Petrelli is in the thick of the crowd, sprawled on a low couch surrounded by a knot of people he's only just met. He's animatedly making small talk (like he do) with his hands (like he do), which means the imported beer in the green glass bottle that he's got in his right hand is foaming up just a bit due to being waved around so much. He's very much in his element, talking, being social.
Nearby, someone else is merely pretending to be social and in his element. Bruce Wayne is wandering through the crowd in a very practiced show of being casual, but he's really just watching and listening, learning about the people and the establishment. Hopefully he can extrapolate the impressions he gets here into inferences about the city as a whole. He's carrying a glass of draft beer; from time to time he lifts it to his lips, wetting them without actually ingesting any of the alcohol, but if he sees a convenient way to slyly pour out some of the beer, he'll take it.
Ananya Chinnamalai is also seated on one of the bar's low couches, but in contrast to Peter's little impromptu audience, her corner is a little more remote. She's seated square in the center of a cushion while also leaning an elbow on the arm, effectively staking out a good half of her couch. An open bottle of Veuve Cliquot sits on the low table beside her and she has a flute of it in one hand. She surveys each person who passes by with a calculating sweep of her dark eyes, her lips occasionally twitching in bemusement or annoyance.
Perched on a stool near the midpoint of the bar, Rachel Conway leans in a bit over the bar top because she's got her left elbow on the wooden surface. She draws her tongue along the fleshy part of her hand just below her left thumb and then shakes salt onto the spot with her other hand. Before her sit two glass tumblers. One has a measure of clear liquid in the bottom and a slice of lime stuck on the rim; the other is empty save for the chewed-up remnants of the lime it once bore proudly.