5/6/07 - Beckah
---
Sunday night is not usually the absolute most hopping night on the club scene, but with the attraction that this particular dance club has picked up lately, it is fairly buy. The throbbing sound of the guitar work on Static-X vampire-themed track called "Cold" pulses through the air, the heavy bass vibrating the floor beneath the feet of the place's patrons. The star of the evening, DJ Kali stands in her booth. The name is far more fitting ever since she outed herself as a mutant and began using all four of her arms to spin records and scratch them to put her own spin on the music she plays. So far, the negative reaction has been minimal, a couple of bomb threats and today, a fresh threat of assassination of the 'mutie bitch'. Nothing serious, of course. Beckah's dreadlocks sway furiously as she moves with the music, taking a pause in the original track and filling it with a rather wild collection of scratching tricks. The crowd approves loudly.
In the bash of bodies and youth choking the hair with their hormones and adrenaline (and noise, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the /noise/) the figure of Det. Chris Rossi stands out. More formally dressed than the average patron, not to mention older, he pushes his way across the dance floor with a professional eye for the mixed crowd. His suit is black, the shirt and tie underneath it black and blue, respectively. He preempts the bruises that a man can get in a place like this. One pale eye gleams under rumpled hair; an eyebrow quizzes up at the DJ, and he angles away. Bar later. DJ now.
The DJ is certainly recognizeable. The nose ring, the wild dreadlocks. The only thing missing is that big leather coat. Instead, Rossi gets to see for his first time what she was hiding beneath it. Her upper arms are tattooed heavily, as is what can be seen of her chest above the collar of her tank-top. The lower arms don't have a mark on them, but they move nimbly anyway as Beckah's head bobs back and forth with the music. When the song comes to it's close, she actually looks up. A man in a suit is a rare sight and she ends up aiming her hazel eyes right down at Detective Rossi's face.
Just in time to see his upraised eyebrows, in fact, unveiled surprise -- and still, professional interest -- taking in the spectacle of all four arms uncovered by the familiar overcoat. Rossi purses his lips into a soundless whistle, his slouched stance betraying nothing of alarm at the crowded floor and its potential hostility towards a boy in (metaphorical) blue. "I'll be damned," he says, and then follows up with a lackadaisical, "Yo. Becks."
Quickly, one finger is held up at Rossi. Not a middle one, either! Instead, one of the index fingers. "Hang on," she calls down to him. Music is quickly slapped on, and her voice comes over top of it, "Break time! Enjoy the music!" The volume on the music is notched up and Beckah dismounts her little stage. "Chris! Hey!" she calls over the volume of her own music, and waves at him with both right arms, "C'mon, come in the back with me!" Eager to get out of the press of bodies herself, especially when some random faceless dancer gets grabby amid all of the motion. Huffing, she leads the way for an 'Employee's Only' door.
Eyebrows lift a little higher at that sine wave of both arms, but Rossi follows without comment, his long stride carrying him after Beckah with very little concern for the inconvenience of others in his path. Broad shoulders. Strong elbows. Absolute indifference. He forges after his guide dog with the barest fishhook of a smile curling the corner of his mouth.
Through the door with a pat on the back from the big burly man guarding it, Beckah turns around to hold it open for Rossi. The big guy gives the detective a long look, a big brotherly sort of 'touch her and die' expression. Beck though, standing back in a hallway far less exciting than the dancefloor, pulls out her earplugs and then grins like an idiot. "Hey! What brings you into my neck of the woods, man?"
"Business," Rossi says by way of simple reply, the dimmer lights of the club briefly casting his face into a diabolical mask before the hallway's less creative ones restore him to his customary, human self. "Professional," he adds, as though that will clarify. "High-profile mutant place, figured I'd check it out. Get my line of travel figured out before I get a call down on something serious. And you know. Community policing, all that shit. --How's it going?"
"It's going great, honestly." She takes a lean against the wall, running both upper hands back through her dreadlocks. She's considerably damp with sweat from her lively performance under hot lights. The lower arms both pat their palms against the wall behind her, keeping time with the music she left play. "Surprise?" She suddenly offers, with a little glance down at herself.
"You registered," Rossi reminds, without the grace to look ashamed at the implied admission. Someone has been doing research. He grins briefly, leaning himself against the opposite wall to bookend the hallway. "I heard some stuff. It's a little different seeing it in person, but what the hey. Handy mutation," he says. And then tacks on, apologetic, "Sorry. That wasn't on purpose."
"Damn sneaky cops," Beckah mutters, shaking her upper-right fist at him with a playful little smirk on her face. The pun makes her groan and lay her head back against the wall. "You and Andre. Between the two of you, I'm going to end up killed by the puns. Everyone's all worried about me getting beat up or something for outing myself. You're the real threat here."
Rossi's eyebrow hikes. "Me?" he asks, quizzical. And then: "Oh. The puns. Didn't mean it." A hand gestures, dismissive. "It just came out wrong. Useful mutation, is what I should've said. Looks a little weird, but I'll get used to it. Funny," he says, slouching a little further down against his wall. He inspects Beckah's arms with dispassionate curiosity, green eyes unblinking. "Couple of years ago, I would've freaked. Crazy, the stuff you'll get used to after a while."
"Yeah," she says with a little laugh. Both lower hands upturn their palms so that she can look down at them. The fingers wiggle at her. "The human brain's got an amazing tolerance for dealing with insanity without snapping if it's fed a steady diet of it. Did you see the police reports and crap about me getting whacked by the crazy mutant chick? D'Arcanto or whatever her name is?"
The cop straightens a little against the wall, his suit hiking against the plaster. Then he subsides. "Sort of," he hedges. A hand unpockets itself and shoves through his hair, rumpling hair that has not fared well through the beatboxing tumult of the dance floor. "Got kept off that one. Conflict of interest. Dating the kid's ex-teacher," he explains, and looks a little sheepish. "That school. You know how it goes."
A brow hikes up on Beckah's forehead. "Oh, uh. Ororo, right?" Her face is shadowed for a moment over something, trouble roaming through her expression for a moment before she shakes her head and dispells it. "What was I just saying about a steady diet of weird shit?"
It is too much to say that Rossi looks /fatuous/ at the mention of his girlfriend. However, a certain lightness crosses his normally harsh face, softening its expression in a yin to Beckah's yang before he shrugs one shoulder. "Welcome to New York City," he quips, drawling the words long in a false Southern accent. "Real weird's the way we get by, 'round here. Keeps the normal people out. Don't want their kind in our city. They can damn well move to-- hell if I know. Oklahoma. Ohio. Whatever."
"Man, I know weird you don't got a clue on, Chris. I'm real New York these days." Her own pretended up Southern drawl appearing for a moment. She chuckles and shakes her head. "I guess from the fact that when I mentioned her name, you actually /glowed/ that you and Ororo are doing good?" Beck asks, her teasing is absolutely unrestrained.
Rossi's brows press down, flattening over a glint of green eyes. "Good enough," he says, a little stiffness creeping into his accent to hem the fabric of Brooklyn close. He shifts a little awkwardly against the wall. "She's busy, I'm busy, you know how it goes. How about you and Andre? Going good?" There is absolutely nothing subtle about the change of subject.
A little glance is taken downward to check for more obvious stiffness. Beckah's mind is in the gutter. She smiles though, at the mention of Andre. "Yeah, things are great. I think he's maybe feeling a little emasculated because I keep buying dinner and all, now that I have this job."
"Sounds rough," Rossi says with uncertain sympathy, a sentiment not untouched by amusement. His hand shoves back into his pocket again, pushing back the wings of his coat. "Tell him to enjoy it while it lasts. Being the boy toy's got its perks, if it's only for a little while. He's got the rest of his life to wave his dick around."
"Chris, man. Please don't put mental images like that in my head." She brings a hand up to her forehead, wincing. "Now I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about Andre running around his apartment singing the Starspangled Banner and..." Beckah trails off and pinches at the bridge of her nose. "God."
Rossi chuckles quietly, the sound a rumble in the back of his throat. Eyes grin brightly through the lace of long lashes. "You got a filthy mind, kid," he accuses. "Me, I never even went there. Too much imagination for a musician. Got to work on that. --How's the club scene going? They got good security for you?"
"Yeah, and I've got myself a private bodyguard. No one's going to pull anything in here without an army." Beck tries to sound confident in that, but there is a certain undertone to it. Luckily, this one is explained: "I hate having to be guarded. I wish I could just be."
"Ain't fun," Rossi says: the voice of experience. Remembered exasperation cuts through it. He waves it off with a squint and rueful crimp of mouth. "Shit happens. Better you have it if you need it. Never know. Had many threats?"
Beckah says, "A few. Had a fresh one today," she admits. Beckah upturns four palms in a shrug. "I'm kind of getting used to it, as sick as that kind of a thing is to say."""
Rossi grins at Beckah, though the lazy eyes are sharp. "They spelled right, at least?"
"They're all about Kali, or 'the mutie' or the cream of the crop, 'Forearm Girl'." Beckah rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "It takes a special kind of ignorant to do something like that."
"Forearm's a pretty limited part of your arm." This is important. Rossi shakes his head with disapproval. "Christ, man. The quality of death threats lately--"
"You want to volunteer to write me some quality fanmail, then?" Beck asks him, with a sharpness to her grin. "I think you're probably a man who knows how to tell someone he's going to kill them."
The cop cracks his jaw, shifting it from side to side with an absent-minded grimace for the pop. "The hell do I know," he manages, the words emerging somewhat muffled. More clearly, he finishes, "Not my field. We got shrinks specializing in that shit. I figure I'm threatening enough by myself. Who the fuck needs to put it on paper?"
"You got shrinks specializing in writing death threats?" Beckah asks, deliberately misinterpreting him with a little grin on her face. "So I'm part of your pig-territory now, huh?"
"Always were," Rossi says, the barest flick of a finger (yes, the middle one) answering the question about the psychologists. He slouches further still. "Consider yourself protected and served. Nothing but the best the NYPD has to offer, princess. Your place ever blows up, I'll come running."
Beck grins for just a moment and clasps both pairs of hands under her chin. "You flatter me, good sir knight. When in peril, it shall be your white horse that I look for on the horizon."
Rossi says, "Fuck," and adds in the same voice, "Horses. Stinking sacks of crap--" Deep disfavor glares at Beckah from across the hall. More cheerfully, he tells her, "My girlfriend flies."
"Jesus Christ, Chris. I've never heard someone so pissed in general over horses. What happened? Did one of the horse-cops from Central Park make his four-legged cop car shit on your shoes?" Beckah laughs, caught off-guard by the absolute venom over horses. The next bit makes Beckah's brows go up. "She /flies?/ What the fuck? Why do all the other mutants in the world get awesome superpowers and I get to flip four people off at once?"
Teeth flash in a sharp-edged grin. "You were destined to be a New Yorker," Rossi tells Beckah, and there's satisfaction in his voice, not entirely innocent of mockery. "Some people are just meant to be here. Lucky bitch. I don't got enough hands for the amount of flipping off I have to do in a day." The subject of horses is neatly bypassed.
For a moment, Beckah narrows her eyes at Rossi as he squirms away from the horses. Curiousity is seeded in her. "You can borrow a couple of mine for some proxy flipping off when you're really in a bind?"
"You come in an easily transportable travel size?"
"I'm releasing my own line of dildos?"
Rossi pauses. His gaze slips a little. "The fuck?"
Beckah grins massively for a moment at getting that reaction out of him. "Hello Kitty," she notes. It's all come back to that first weird conversation. Beck gives a nod to the door, "I should get back out in the booth before the natives get restless, Chris. It's great talking to you, though. Drop by whenever. Hell, show up at my apartment. I keep good booze now!"
"Jesus Christ," Rossi curses, pushing off the wall in preparation. "Don't scare me like that, you little shit. That image was going to end up haunting me. --I'll check out the rest of the club, have a word with the manager, look over your security before I leave. See you on the floor."
There is a big grin and Beckah heads back for the door to get back to work, "See ya! You got any requests?" She asks quickly.
Rossi pauses in mid-step, already following Beckah out the door. A look crosses his face, too swift to be read. "You know that mutant musician who got outed a little while back?" he asks. "Some foreign kid. Young. Jackass. One of his fans shot him."
"I'll duck," Beckah calls over her shoulder before she heads back up to her booth. The crowd seems pleased to have their mutant spectacle back up in her place, and she seems happy to be back in charge.
Rossi's baritone lifts after her -- "That was a /request/, you twit," -- but the fond reply is washed back down the hall by the furor from outside. He shakes his head, the old lamenting the failures of the young, and backhands an insolent salute to the bouncer outside the door. Yo, man. Where's the manager? NYPD. Want a word. The club swallows the detective whole.
[Log ends]
Rossi checks out the newest mutant club scene, and has a word with his personal four-armed DJ. Everybody's got one.
Sunday night is not usually the absolute most hopping night on the club scene, but with the attraction that this particular dance club has picked up lately, it is fairly buy. The throbbing sound of the guitar work on Static-X vampire-themed track called "Cold" pulses through the air, the heavy bass vibrating the floor beneath the feet of the place's patrons. The star of the evening, DJ Kali stands in her booth. The name is far more fitting ever since she outed herself as a mutant and began using all four of her arms to spin records and scratch them to put her own spin on the music she plays. So far, the negative reaction has been minimal, a couple of bomb threats and today, a fresh threat of assassination of the 'mutie bitch'. Nothing serious, of course. Beckah's dreadlocks sway furiously as she moves with the music, taking a pause in the original track and filling it with a rather wild collection of scratching tricks. The crowd approves loudly.
In the bash of bodies and youth choking the hair with their hormones and adrenaline (and noise, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the /noise/) the figure of Det. Chris Rossi stands out. More formally dressed than the average patron, not to mention older, he pushes his way across the dance floor with a professional eye for the mixed crowd. His suit is black, the shirt and tie underneath it black and blue, respectively. He preempts the bruises that a man can get in a place like this. One pale eye gleams under rumpled hair; an eyebrow quizzes up at the DJ, and he angles away. Bar later. DJ now.
The DJ is certainly recognizeable. The nose ring, the wild dreadlocks. The only thing missing is that big leather coat. Instead, Rossi gets to see for his first time what she was hiding beneath it. Her upper arms are tattooed heavily, as is what can be seen of her chest above the collar of her tank-top. The lower arms don't have a mark on them, but they move nimbly anyway as Beckah's head bobs back and forth with the music. When the song comes to it's close, she actually looks up. A man in a suit is a rare sight and she ends up aiming her hazel eyes right down at Detective Rossi's face.
Just in time to see his upraised eyebrows, in fact, unveiled surprise -- and still, professional interest -- taking in the spectacle of all four arms uncovered by the familiar overcoat. Rossi purses his lips into a soundless whistle, his slouched stance betraying nothing of alarm at the crowded floor and its potential hostility towards a boy in (metaphorical) blue. "I'll be damned," he says, and then follows up with a lackadaisical, "Yo. Becks."
Quickly, one finger is held up at Rossi. Not a middle one, either! Instead, one of the index fingers. "Hang on," she calls down to him. Music is quickly slapped on, and her voice comes over top of it, "Break time! Enjoy the music!" The volume on the music is notched up and Beckah dismounts her little stage. "Chris! Hey!" she calls over the volume of her own music, and waves at him with both right arms, "C'mon, come in the back with me!" Eager to get out of the press of bodies herself, especially when some random faceless dancer gets grabby amid all of the motion. Huffing, she leads the way for an 'Employee's Only' door.
Eyebrows lift a little higher at that sine wave of both arms, but Rossi follows without comment, his long stride carrying him after Beckah with very little concern for the inconvenience of others in his path. Broad shoulders. Strong elbows. Absolute indifference. He forges after his guide dog with the barest fishhook of a smile curling the corner of his mouth.
Through the door with a pat on the back from the big burly man guarding it, Beckah turns around to hold it open for Rossi. The big guy gives the detective a long look, a big brotherly sort of 'touch her and die' expression. Beck though, standing back in a hallway far less exciting than the dancefloor, pulls out her earplugs and then grins like an idiot. "Hey! What brings you into my neck of the woods, man?"
"Business," Rossi says by way of simple reply, the dimmer lights of the club briefly casting his face into a diabolical mask before the hallway's less creative ones restore him to his customary, human self. "Professional," he adds, as though that will clarify. "High-profile mutant place, figured I'd check it out. Get my line of travel figured out before I get a call down on something serious. And you know. Community policing, all that shit. --How's it going?"
"It's going great, honestly." She takes a lean against the wall, running both upper hands back through her dreadlocks. She's considerably damp with sweat from her lively performance under hot lights. The lower arms both pat their palms against the wall behind her, keeping time with the music she left play. "Surprise?" She suddenly offers, with a little glance down at herself.
"You registered," Rossi reminds, without the grace to look ashamed at the implied admission. Someone has been doing research. He grins briefly, leaning himself against the opposite wall to bookend the hallway. "I heard some stuff. It's a little different seeing it in person, but what the hey. Handy mutation," he says. And then tacks on, apologetic, "Sorry. That wasn't on purpose."
"Damn sneaky cops," Beckah mutters, shaking her upper-right fist at him with a playful little smirk on her face. The pun makes her groan and lay her head back against the wall. "You and Andre. Between the two of you, I'm going to end up killed by the puns. Everyone's all worried about me getting beat up or something for outing myself. You're the real threat here."
Rossi's eyebrow hikes. "Me?" he asks, quizzical. And then: "Oh. The puns. Didn't mean it." A hand gestures, dismissive. "It just came out wrong. Useful mutation, is what I should've said. Looks a little weird, but I'll get used to it. Funny," he says, slouching a little further down against his wall. He inspects Beckah's arms with dispassionate curiosity, green eyes unblinking. "Couple of years ago, I would've freaked. Crazy, the stuff you'll get used to after a while."
"Yeah," she says with a little laugh. Both lower hands upturn their palms so that she can look down at them. The fingers wiggle at her. "The human brain's got an amazing tolerance for dealing with insanity without snapping if it's fed a steady diet of it. Did you see the police reports and crap about me getting whacked by the crazy mutant chick? D'Arcanto or whatever her name is?"
The cop straightens a little against the wall, his suit hiking against the plaster. Then he subsides. "Sort of," he hedges. A hand unpockets itself and shoves through his hair, rumpling hair that has not fared well through the beatboxing tumult of the dance floor. "Got kept off that one. Conflict of interest. Dating the kid's ex-teacher," he explains, and looks a little sheepish. "That school. You know how it goes."
A brow hikes up on Beckah's forehead. "Oh, uh. Ororo, right?" Her face is shadowed for a moment over something, trouble roaming through her expression for a moment before she shakes her head and dispells it. "What was I just saying about a steady diet of weird shit?"
It is too much to say that Rossi looks /fatuous/ at the mention of his girlfriend. However, a certain lightness crosses his normally harsh face, softening its expression in a yin to Beckah's yang before he shrugs one shoulder. "Welcome to New York City," he quips, drawling the words long in a false Southern accent. "Real weird's the way we get by, 'round here. Keeps the normal people out. Don't want their kind in our city. They can damn well move to-- hell if I know. Oklahoma. Ohio. Whatever."
"Man, I know weird you don't got a clue on, Chris. I'm real New York these days." Her own pretended up Southern drawl appearing for a moment. She chuckles and shakes her head. "I guess from the fact that when I mentioned her name, you actually /glowed/ that you and Ororo are doing good?" Beck asks, her teasing is absolutely unrestrained.
Rossi's brows press down, flattening over a glint of green eyes. "Good enough," he says, a little stiffness creeping into his accent to hem the fabric of Brooklyn close. He shifts a little awkwardly against the wall. "She's busy, I'm busy, you know how it goes. How about you and Andre? Going good?" There is absolutely nothing subtle about the change of subject.
A little glance is taken downward to check for more obvious stiffness. Beckah's mind is in the gutter. She smiles though, at the mention of Andre. "Yeah, things are great. I think he's maybe feeling a little emasculated because I keep buying dinner and all, now that I have this job."
"Sounds rough," Rossi says with uncertain sympathy, a sentiment not untouched by amusement. His hand shoves back into his pocket again, pushing back the wings of his coat. "Tell him to enjoy it while it lasts. Being the boy toy's got its perks, if it's only for a little while. He's got the rest of his life to wave his dick around."
"Chris, man. Please don't put mental images like that in my head." She brings a hand up to her forehead, wincing. "Now I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about Andre running around his apartment singing the Starspangled Banner and..." Beckah trails off and pinches at the bridge of her nose. "God."
Rossi chuckles quietly, the sound a rumble in the back of his throat. Eyes grin brightly through the lace of long lashes. "You got a filthy mind, kid," he accuses. "Me, I never even went there. Too much imagination for a musician. Got to work on that. --How's the club scene going? They got good security for you?"
"Yeah, and I've got myself a private bodyguard. No one's going to pull anything in here without an army." Beck tries to sound confident in that, but there is a certain undertone to it. Luckily, this one is explained: "I hate having to be guarded. I wish I could just be."
"Ain't fun," Rossi says: the voice of experience. Remembered exasperation cuts through it. He waves it off with a squint and rueful crimp of mouth. "Shit happens. Better you have it if you need it. Never know. Had many threats?"
Beckah says, "A few. Had a fresh one today," she admits. Beckah upturns four palms in a shrug. "I'm kind of getting used to it, as sick as that kind of a thing is to say."""
Rossi grins at Beckah, though the lazy eyes are sharp. "They spelled right, at least?"
"They're all about Kali, or 'the mutie' or the cream of the crop, 'Forearm Girl'." Beckah rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "It takes a special kind of ignorant to do something like that."
"Forearm's a pretty limited part of your arm." This is important. Rossi shakes his head with disapproval. "Christ, man. The quality of death threats lately--"
"You want to volunteer to write me some quality fanmail, then?" Beck asks him, with a sharpness to her grin. "I think you're probably a man who knows how to tell someone he's going to kill them."
The cop cracks his jaw, shifting it from side to side with an absent-minded grimace for the pop. "The hell do I know," he manages, the words emerging somewhat muffled. More clearly, he finishes, "Not my field. We got shrinks specializing in that shit. I figure I'm threatening enough by myself. Who the fuck needs to put it on paper?"
"You got shrinks specializing in writing death threats?" Beckah asks, deliberately misinterpreting him with a little grin on her face. "So I'm part of your pig-territory now, huh?"
"Always were," Rossi says, the barest flick of a finger (yes, the middle one) answering the question about the psychologists. He slouches further still. "Consider yourself protected and served. Nothing but the best the NYPD has to offer, princess. Your place ever blows up, I'll come running."
Beck grins for just a moment and clasps both pairs of hands under her chin. "You flatter me, good sir knight. When in peril, it shall be your white horse that I look for on the horizon."
Rossi says, "Fuck," and adds in the same voice, "Horses. Stinking sacks of crap--" Deep disfavor glares at Beckah from across the hall. More cheerfully, he tells her, "My girlfriend flies."
"Jesus Christ, Chris. I've never heard someone so pissed in general over horses. What happened? Did one of the horse-cops from Central Park make his four-legged cop car shit on your shoes?" Beckah laughs, caught off-guard by the absolute venom over horses. The next bit makes Beckah's brows go up. "She /flies?/ What the fuck? Why do all the other mutants in the world get awesome superpowers and I get to flip four people off at once?"
Teeth flash in a sharp-edged grin. "You were destined to be a New Yorker," Rossi tells Beckah, and there's satisfaction in his voice, not entirely innocent of mockery. "Some people are just meant to be here. Lucky bitch. I don't got enough hands for the amount of flipping off I have to do in a day." The subject of horses is neatly bypassed.
For a moment, Beckah narrows her eyes at Rossi as he squirms away from the horses. Curiousity is seeded in her. "You can borrow a couple of mine for some proxy flipping off when you're really in a bind?"
"You come in an easily transportable travel size?"
"I'm releasing my own line of dildos?"
Rossi pauses. His gaze slips a little. "The fuck?"
Beckah grins massively for a moment at getting that reaction out of him. "Hello Kitty," she notes. It's all come back to that first weird conversation. Beck gives a nod to the door, "I should get back out in the booth before the natives get restless, Chris. It's great talking to you, though. Drop by whenever. Hell, show up at my apartment. I keep good booze now!"
"Jesus Christ," Rossi curses, pushing off the wall in preparation. "Don't scare me like that, you little shit. That image was going to end up haunting me. --I'll check out the rest of the club, have a word with the manager, look over your security before I leave. See you on the floor."
There is a big grin and Beckah heads back for the door to get back to work, "See ya! You got any requests?" She asks quickly.
Rossi pauses in mid-step, already following Beckah out the door. A look crosses his face, too swift to be read. "You know that mutant musician who got outed a little while back?" he asks. "Some foreign kid. Young. Jackass. One of his fans shot him."
"I'll duck," Beckah calls over her shoulder before she heads back up to her booth. The crowd seems pleased to have their mutant spectacle back up in her place, and she seems happy to be back in charge.
Rossi's baritone lifts after her -- "That was a /request/, you twit," -- but the fond reply is washed back down the hall by the furor from outside. He shakes his head, the old lamenting the failures of the young, and backhands an insolent salute to the bouncer outside the door. Yo, man. Where's the manager? NYPD. Want a word. The club swallows the detective whole.
[Log ends]
Rossi checks out the newest mutant club scene, and has a word with his personal four-armed DJ. Everybody's got one.