And I've been putting out fire with gasoline
Who: Bela Talbot, Julian Sark, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Irene Adler, presumably.
Where: Bela Talbot's speakeasy.
When: BACKDATED TO PORT GAH I MEANT TO GET THIS UP YESTERDAY. Some time before the arena stuff, though probably not long before.
What: The speakeasy's last night standing.
Warnings: Violence and character death.
Tension in the city was almost bleeding through the walls, despite Irene's nightly efforts and the sale of more liquor that Bela had moved in a year. Whispers, rumors, vanishing customers--it all served to make Bela Talbot want (for the first time in a year, probably) to put aside business for one night completely.
Suits, Bela had long ago decided, were for work. Dresses were for days off. She wore one now, irridescent gray gown, Victorian flower patterns crossed by ribbon flowing into a pleated shirt. Bela sat back, tucked into a nondescript booth rather than occupying her typical corner table. She ran her fingers over the chain of one dangling earring, watching the room and trying to relax. She hadn't yet touched her drink, had told Sark to keep his distance--right now, in her mind, the only tolerable company was Irene, who was busy winding a silken cord of calm through the hive of the room.
Even determined to avoid business as she was, she wouldn't interrupt her friend's performance. Losing herself in the music was the one thing that promised any kind of release.
Where: Bela Talbot's speakeasy.
When: BACKDATED TO PORT GAH I MEANT TO GET THIS UP YESTERDAY. Some time before the arena stuff, though probably not long before.
What: The speakeasy's last night standing.
Warnings: Violence and character death.
Tension in the city was almost bleeding through the walls, despite Irene's nightly efforts and the sale of more liquor that Bela had moved in a year. Whispers, rumors, vanishing customers--it all served to make Bela Talbot want (for the first time in a year, probably) to put aside business for one night completely.
Suits, Bela had long ago decided, were for work. Dresses were for days off. She wore one now, irridescent gray gown, Victorian flower patterns crossed by ribbon flowing into a pleated shirt. Bela sat back, tucked into a nondescript booth rather than occupying her typical corner table. She ran her fingers over the chain of one dangling earring, watching the room and trying to relax. She hadn't yet touched her drink, had told Sark to keep his distance--right now, in her mind, the only tolerable company was Irene, who was busy winding a silken cord of calm through the hive of the room.
Even determined to avoid business as she was, she wouldn't interrupt her friend's performance. Losing herself in the music was the one thing that promised any kind of release.