Death, and three of his friends, ride past the observation window.

On the outside.

He pauses long enough to wave.

As the door swings open the bar is filled with the sound of gun fire. A man screams before being silenced by a grenade shoved into his mouth; an explosion rings out ( Read more... )

Raven Sable pulls out a barstool as if he comes in every day, and takes the slim, black laptop out of his leather (slim, black) briefcase. He places the laptop on the bar, then aligns a (slim, black) iPhone precisely next to it. (It has only one application, something called iDiet.) A napkin appears on the bar's surface ( Read more... )

A booth is suddenly occupied by a good-looking young man--around the age of twenty-five or so--with red hair, shaved in military fashion. He looks exceedingly comfortable in his scuffed brown boots and his dusty red tank-top and worn jeans. The young man sips absently at his beer, looking as if he is waiting for someone to arrive.

Dr. Sable dashes in, clearly expecting to find someplace else behind the bar's door. When he realizes where he is, he merely lifts his narrow eyebrows, straightens his suit jacket, and continues toward the bar. He's soon lounging at a table with a glass of carbonated water and his newest gadget: a slim, black iPhone ( Read more... )

Sable's been around. In and out of the bar, back and forth on business... and somewhere in there he's been talked into doing a comparison taste test between his own nutrient-free Special Thick Whippy Double Chocolate shake and some sort of lowfat frozen concoction of Bar's. With soymilk ( Read more... )

*Out by the lake, Thom is lying in the grass with his arms crossed behind his head. If it weren't for -- presumably -- magic, the delicate white shirt he's wearing would be a very bad idea.*

[OOM: Red and Black are both having bad days. Sometimes, apparently, two wrongs make a right.]

*Weather's looking up, isn't it?

Thom thinks so. He comes into the bar from the back door, collar open, laces hanging, and heads for a table.*

Her high-heeled feet are propped up on a chair across from her, papers scattered on the table she is sitting at. There's a report she's reading in her left hand, a glass of red wine in her right.

She looks bored.

[OOC: Just a small note to let you all know I am going to be a bit slow. Helping mum.]