((OOC: Another party thread. You know how it goes. And if you don't... ask! ^^ Happy Riftversary! Even if it's two hours until... it's over. :/ I'm sorry I'm slow
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Sark has to wonder what the point of going out in public even is anymore, considering the last few times he's been accosted by Cy, a vampire, and Cy in that order. Chicago pretty much doesn't want to let him be, but as he is also the sort of person who tends to get twitchy if he's cooped up for too long somewhere without a project, he's here, partly out of interest in the shift in the political landscape, and partly because cheap drinks are something that he can get behind considering how lacking in funds he is... even if the wine selection's a little lacking and he's not much for mixed drinks anyway (although he will give the Alimony he's been sipping on for awhile its due
( ... )
Well, if it isn't the kid that looks like Adam. Arlin hasn't actually seen Sark since everyone in the Organization started talking about him (or, rather, since the key players started whispering amongst themselves), so it's a bit weird to see someone that looks like they could be a younger version of his boss sitting at the bar.
After a moment of watching the boy out of the corner of his eye (and who's he calling boy, him who looks to be eighteen himself?), he manages to catch Sark's eye and nod a greeting. "For someone who looks as though he'd rather not be bothered, you've certainly chosen the wrong bar for that," he says idly, as though he hasn't just done the exact same thing. Hey, he has a reason to be here, unlike this 'Sark' fellow.
Sark considers him for a moment- he's keeping his distance, which is a plus. He's paying attention, which is a point off, because he's not particularly doing anything worthy of note, but maybe he just has one of those faces. All in all, there's not enough to either diminish nor raise his credibility as a threat.
Young face, clearly pays attention to his surroundings and company, stoic... Sark doesn't trust easily, but this one gets points in his favor just for have a similar air to him that he has.
"On the contrary, crowded bars are preferable if one doesn't wish to be bothered, provided you can stomach the crowds. The more people there are, the more isolated you are." His expression doesn't shift and his tone is flat. He doesn't like crowds, but he understands the benefit of them. Training doesn't go away just because you're not using it and, for that, he's grateful.
Arlin makes one of those noises that could be a scoff or could be a laugh; a sharp, mirthless exhalation of breath. Smart kid, this one. He tips his head slightly, acknowledging Sark's point. "I was referring more to this specific bar, given the advertisements; crowds are all very well and good to blend into, but this particular crowd doesn't seem like the best for being inconspicuous." He's referring to the wanderers -- hey, he knows Sark is, but he'll let Sark think he's assuming -- as well as the nonhuman natives of this universe.
"Though I'd have to say that if one truly didn't want to be bothered, there are much more secluded places than Chicago to hang out in, but most don't get a choice." There may be an ever-so-slight hint of bitterness at the end of that sentence. Maybe. Arlin totally wants to be here, really.
He sometimes feels more woman than man these days. His second period has yet to end. The jeans that normally fit him a little loosely are tight around the waist, because he is bloated. His uterus is apparently trying to shovel out of his skin. Not to mention, for some reason, his boobs are sore. Of course, there's the blood streaming out of his vagina. It's a real all female party right now, and Casey doesn't consider himself female just yet so he doesn't have his party hat on.
The only reason that he bothered going out at all is because if he stayed much longer in the Tower, he would eat all of the sugar and chocolate available without stop. The only reason he is at this packed bar instead of anywhere else in the entire city is because he isn't exactly rolling in cash right now and the deals seemed right in his alley. Casey even grabbed a flier on his way through the parade to the bar to cut down on the price of this outing.
He is on his third drink and has already told several men, who tried to hit on
( ... )
Others may approach with caution, but caution is kind of a foreign concept for Logan. Much like tact and possibly fear.
She slides into a chair beside Casey just as she's finishing off her drink, close enough to her that her shoulder brushes Casey's. Personal space is also apparently a foreign concept. She raises a hand to flag the bartender over. "Another gin and tonic, if you don't mind, and..." Logan glances over at Casey, grinning. "What're you having, sweetheart?"
Casey tenses. His immediate reaction in this body is to punch anyone that calls him 'sweetheart' or any pet name without his permission (and there is only one woman he ever gave permission to do that). However, this is not the usual cat call.
It's a woman hitting on him. Somehow that makes it worse, because he is not what she expects, not on the inside, anyway, where it fucking counts and he doesn't know how to deal with knowing that no one would actually want him. Just this body, that's not his.
"I'm not your sweetheart," he says flatly with just a hint of a growl and twists to look at her. "...And I'm going to guess you're not Fiona."
Rifts and their look alikes. If it is Fiona, he would be very angry with her.
"Not yet you're not," Logan responds with a slight roll of her eyes - which she's not at all serious about, she mostly just realizes now that saying that is going to grate on the woman's nerves, and she enjoys doing that if the initial reaction she was going for doesn't work out. "Who's Fiona?"
Gene Hunt does not care about parades. He also doesn't care about Superbowls.
What he cares about is there's some soul-sucking monstrosity out there putting good people into comas and he's come no closer to finding it, for all it looked like he had a promising lead.
So right now, he's doing the logical thing to do when he's stuck on a case -- he's drinking. Oh, how he's drinking.
Also, he's muttering under his breath about this shit that Americans call football, and how no country that's not full of girly nancy tossers who might as well be wearing frills and pigtails would invest so much in a game that's basically rugby for sissies.
"Well, there's that," Gene mutters, pointedly not mentioning the fact that, given the time he's from, none of this would count as 'cheap'.
He shakes her hand with his usual firmness. "Gene Hunt," he says. "Good to see another expat around, at least." Because 'expatriate' is at least a somewhat fitting description of what they are. Really. Bloody fucking Rift.
...not that he can complain much, when he's got a Sam. Sort of.
And it really says something about how well he's settled into being an utter fairy that he hasn't bothered to give her a good once-over. Given that apparently no one here cares that much, and he's not a copper anymore anyway, him pretending he's interested does about as much good as tits on a bull.
She doesn't mind the lack of interest as it is pretty much mutual. Not that he's unattractive or anything--just really not her type. "Not here for the 'Superbowl,' then are you here for the parade?"
Of course, he could be here just 'cause, in which case they have something in common already! Besides the whole... British. Thing.
JD is freezing from being outside in the cold to watch the parade. Within two hours, he has tried three drinks and has mingled with everyone from waitresses to the bartender, Eddie. Nice guy! Not bad looking either... not that JD noticed.
"Who is your sugar daddy? Why do you have such funny names for your drinks? How many appletinis do you make in a single night? Huh, funny, thought more straight guys would be ordering them" He is having an in depth conversation with Eddie about very random subjects between Eddie's serving details.
Sometimes Eddie is called away so JD sits on his bar stool looking dejected and pouty so feel free to approach and talk to him at any time. It's likely a little attention will perk him right up, again. Make his metaphorical tail wag (that is not a euphemism).
And here's a Malek, who's just at the tipsy pre-drunken stage that means he's really just a ball of enthusiasm and fun times bouncing around and looking for people to harass enjoy, or possibly for a chance to raptor out. He comes back from getting the cold shoulder from some guy near the door to bounding onto a barstool next to JD, hailing the bartender and ordering "Awt, 'nother Arm Candy, an' one f'th'kid, ja?"
He hasn't actually looked to see whether or not JD has a drink, whether or not he might be Malek's type, anything like that. He's just 6'3" oh happy demonic enthusiasm. You gonna argue?
"Ja!" JD agrees with a grin before he has even looked up to see just who is ordering this drink for him.
Eddie nods. The kid's amusing when he rambles, but Eddie does have a job to do and it's hard to leave him alone without feeling like he's kicked a puppy in the hind leg. He moves away and starts fixing their drink, flagging his backup bartender to cover two more hands going up down the way.
He has finished his last three drinks, determined not to get too drunk for once, but apparently all of his determination melts away when an enthusiastic guy offers to buy him a drink. JD looks up at Malek. Oh, hey, he's tall! And also, attractive in a... women would totally be into his bald head like Mr. Clean sort of way. Yep.
"Haven't tried the Arm Candy before. Is it good? Sounds real good," he says with only a hint of a slur.
"Ach, da," Malek says. "Deleeesh. Wt' ginger beer - best drink 'ere." And then he starts chuckling, 'cause hey, he made a rhyme!
After a moment, he turns to eye JD up and down. Okay, a bit littler than the ones he usually goes for, but good spirits count for a lot, and he is a fan of that hair. Which he reaches out and tousles like this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do to someone you don't even know. (Hey, he bought the kid a drink!)
"What've you been suppin', then?" he asks. "Gotta know t'way 'round t'menu."
Sydney was not at the parade so much as passing by, and in Chicago... well. You don't turn down free drinks. So she's ducked inside, and while she's not planning to get extremely drunk... Mostly she just wants to stall before she goes back to the Tower and possibly runs into her father. Because things around him are just... terribly, terribly awkward, especially since that thing with the ring, and...
So there's a (former, dammit) spy at a table in the corner with a Tequila Sunrise in front of her, staring absently at the table like she's contemplating the meaning of life... or the complexities of her life, which is just about as difficult to deal with.
Your life is not going to get any less complex today, Sydney.
Missy's prowling around, having had a few more drinks. The bar's starting to hop a bit more with people filing in from the parade and she's looking for someone, anyone interesting.
And what's this? A doppelganger? Missy's first reaction is to bristle a little bit from across the bar, because how dare someone with her face show up here. That's like showing up to a party in the same dress, only... Worse. And generally more unlikely.
...And then she remembers- didn't her little boy-toy mistake her for some girl? Cindy or something? ...No. Sydney. That was it. Oh, this could be fun and she's been hurting for some payback ever since that ordeal in the park. There's a chance she could be wrong, but Missy likes taking chances and if she isn't the same girl, then... Well, she has her face. That is a very serious crime. (Yeah, like Sydney can help it
( ... )
Sydney does not react well to being surprised, and she especially does not react well to being called by name by someone she doesn't recognize. So she spins around quickly, grabs her arm more on instinct than anything else - she was startled - and then... manages to get a look at her face.
You have got to be kidding me.
"Yeah, and who the hell are you?" Other than someone she's already really not inclined to like.
Missy arches an eyebrow, looks down at Sydney's hand around her arm, and then looks back at Sydney's face like she's possibly contemplating eating it. Startled or not, you just don't go around grabbing demons- what? Didn't her parents teach her any manners?
No, Missy. Sydney's parents taught her how to be a spy... Kinda.
"Missy Ashford, and unless you want to end up like your little boy-toy would've ended up had his guardian angel not gotten in the way, I'd take her your hands off of me."
Thankfully, half the bar's either too drunk or not paying attention to hear that threat and act accordingly.
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After a moment of watching the boy out of the corner of his eye (and who's he calling boy, him who looks to be eighteen himself?), he manages to catch Sark's eye and nod a greeting. "For someone who looks as though he'd rather not be bothered, you've certainly chosen the wrong bar for that," he says idly, as though he hasn't just done the exact same thing. Hey, he has a reason to be here, unlike this 'Sark' fellow.
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Young face, clearly pays attention to his surroundings and company, stoic... Sark doesn't trust easily, but this one gets points in his favor just for have a similar air to him that he has.
"On the contrary, crowded bars are preferable if one doesn't wish to be bothered, provided you can stomach the crowds. The more people there are, the more isolated you are." His expression doesn't shift and his tone is flat. He doesn't like crowds, but he understands the benefit of them. Training doesn't go away just because you're not using it and, for that, he's grateful.
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"Though I'd have to say that if one truly didn't want to be bothered, there are much more secluded places than Chicago to hang out in, but most don't get a choice." There may be an ever-so-slight hint of bitterness at the end of that sentence. Maybe. Arlin totally wants to be here, really.
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He sometimes feels more woman than man these days. His second period has yet to end. The jeans that normally fit him a little loosely are tight around the waist, because he is bloated. His uterus is apparently trying to shovel out of his skin. Not to mention, for some reason, his boobs are sore. Of course, there's the blood streaming out of his vagina. It's a real all female party right now, and Casey doesn't consider himself female just yet so he doesn't have his party hat on.
The only reason that he bothered going out at all is because if he stayed much longer in the Tower, he would eat all of the sugar and chocolate available without stop. The only reason he is at this packed bar instead of anywhere else in the entire city is because he isn't exactly rolling in cash right now and the deals seemed right in his alley. Casey even grabbed a flier on his way through the parade to the bar to cut down on the price of this outing.
He is on his third drink and has already told several men, who tried to hit on ( ... )
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She slides into a chair beside Casey just as she's finishing off her drink, close enough to her that her shoulder brushes Casey's. Personal space is also apparently a foreign concept. She raises a hand to flag the bartender over. "Another gin and tonic, if you don't mind, and..." Logan glances over at Casey, grinning. "What're you having, sweetheart?"
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It's a woman hitting on him. Somehow that makes it worse, because he is not what she expects, not on the inside, anyway, where it fucking counts and he doesn't know how to deal with knowing that no one would actually want him. Just this body, that's not his.
"I'm not your sweetheart," he says flatly with just a hint of a growl and twists to look at her. "...And I'm going to guess you're not Fiona."
Rifts and their look alikes. If it is Fiona, he would be very angry with her.
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What he cares about is there's some soul-sucking monstrosity out there putting good people into comas and he's come no closer to finding it, for all it looked like he had a promising lead.
So right now, he's doing the logical thing to do when he's stuck on a case -- he's drinking. Oh, how he's drinking.
Also, he's muttering under his breath about this shit that Americans call football, and how no country that's not full of girly nancy tossers who might as well be wearing frills and pigtails would invest so much in a game that's basically rugby for sissies.
...Someone just might take offense to this.
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She shifts a couple of stools so she sitting next to him and extends a hand. "Abby Maitland, apparently a tosser-in-training at the moment."
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He shakes her hand with his usual firmness. "Gene Hunt," he says. "Good to see another expat around, at least." Because 'expatriate' is at least a somewhat fitting description of what they are. Really. Bloody fucking Rift.
...not that he can complain much, when he's got a Sam. Sort of.
And it really says something about how well he's settled into being an utter fairy that he hasn't bothered to give her a good once-over. Given that apparently no one here cares that much, and he's not a copper anymore anyway, him pretending he's interested does about as much good as tits on a bull.
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Of course, he could be here just 'cause, in which case they have something in common already! Besides the whole... British. Thing.
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"Who is your sugar daddy? Why do you have such funny names for your drinks? How many appletinis do you make in a single night? Huh, funny, thought more straight guys would be ordering them" He is having an in depth conversation with Eddie about very random subjects between Eddie's serving details.
Sometimes Eddie is called away so JD sits on his bar stool looking dejected and pouty so feel free to approach and talk to him at any time. It's likely a little attention will perk him right up, again. Make his metaphorical tail wag (that is not a euphemism).
Yes, he's a lot like a puppy.
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He hasn't actually looked to see whether or not JD has a drink, whether or not he might be Malek's type, anything like that. He's just 6'3" oh happy demonic enthusiasm. You gonna argue?
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Eddie nods. The kid's amusing when he rambles, but Eddie does have a job to do and it's hard to leave him alone without feeling like he's kicked a puppy in the hind leg. He moves away and starts fixing their drink, flagging his backup bartender to cover two more hands going up down the way.
He has finished his last three drinks, determined not to get too drunk for once, but apparently all of his determination melts away when an enthusiastic guy offers to buy him a drink. JD looks up at Malek. Oh, hey, he's tall! And also, attractive in a... women would totally be into his bald head like Mr. Clean sort of way. Yep.
"Haven't tried the Arm Candy before. Is it good? Sounds real good," he says with only a hint of a slur.
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After a moment, he turns to eye JD up and down. Okay, a bit littler than the ones he usually goes for, but good spirits count for a lot, and he is a fan of that hair. Which he reaches out and tousles like this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do to someone you don't even know. (Hey, he bought the kid a drink!)
"What've you been suppin', then?" he asks. "Gotta know t'way 'round t'menu."
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So there's a (former, dammit) spy at a table in the corner with a Tequila Sunrise in front of her, staring absently at the table like she's contemplating the meaning of life... or the complexities of her life, which is just about as difficult to deal with.
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Missy's prowling around, having had a few more drinks. The bar's starting to hop a bit more with people filing in from the parade and she's looking for someone, anyone interesting.
And what's this? A doppelganger? Missy's first reaction is to bristle a little bit from across the bar, because how dare someone with her face show up here. That's like showing up to a party in the same dress, only... Worse. And generally more unlikely.
...And then she remembers- didn't her little boy-toy mistake her for some girl? Cindy or something? ...No. Sydney. That was it. Oh, this could be fun and she's been hurting for some payback ever since that ordeal in the park. There's a chance she could be wrong, but Missy likes taking chances and if she isn't the same girl, then... Well, she has her face. That is a very serious crime. (Yeah, like Sydney can help it ( ... )
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You have got to be kidding me.
"Yeah, and who the hell are you?" Other than someone she's already really not inclined to like.
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No, Missy. Sydney's parents taught her how to be a spy... Kinda.
"Missy Ashford, and unless you want to end up like your little boy-toy would've ended up had his guardian angel not gotten in the way, I'd take her your hands off of me."
Thankfully, half the bar's either too drunk or not paying attention to hear that threat and act accordingly.
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