Black Out on White Night [ Open ]

[Anonymous]

It was about three days since Inshabel had returned to Aedolis, and just yesterday had his crew and him managed to wiggle clear of the myriad security checks, cross-referencing of identity papers and cargo searches that came with docking at Haviah. It was a great deal of hassle, and now he needed to blow off some steam.

Ever since skyway 213 had been rerouted, many of its supporting pillars had been drilled out and converted into rough storage space. Big, broad and blocky, they rose in a row from Haviah's mid-level habitat like a set of broken teeth. Most of the property had been bought up by construction companies and turned into large warehouses, but on the bottom floor some enterprising soul had seen the potential for a club. And lo, so The Grind had come to be.

It was a quaint little establishment, or so Inshabel had always thought. Most of the interior was sectioned off with spray-painted flakboard, and the roof had been intentionally lowered to make the whole thing seem cramped and dour. Wire-lights were strung along the floor and ceiling, and they'd been set cunningly to throb in time with the harsh, pounding music which blared from seemingly omnipresent speakers.

The whole thing was a big sham, of course. The Grind was lovingly crafted to seem grimy and sub-level; a watering hole for bored clerks and middle-class kids who wanted to seem rough and rebellious. It was where you brought the pretty secretary from Shipping & Receiving for a secret little tryst. Inshabel had been to real third-caste bars and listened to real third-caste music, and this wasn't it.

Still, it was charming in its own way. Seated at a corner table, a drink in one hand and the other casually draped across the back of his small couch, Inshabel looked out over the locale. It was still early in the evening, and only a few people had bothered to show up. The waitresses were mostly standing around looking bored, picking at their uniformly skimpy clothing and fussing over parts of the interior decoration that didn't look up to spec.

It would be a couple of hours before the place would be jumping. Inshabel was fine with that. It'd give him a bit of time to finish his drink and hit on the waitresses. The redhead on the left looked good. New, too. Could be worth a shot.

[Anonymous]

Being a Mordecai had both its advantages and its disadvantages. An advantage was being able to tax magic off those useless mages (which was an oxymoron in and of itself - a useless mage?) and basically use them like a slave. The cons, in Zeba's opinion, far outweighed the pro's. Being constantly tracked down by various levels of authority at any (and every) hour of the day didn't seem like much of a big deal, until a man in a suit was pulling you out the door at three AM to "see so-and-so about such-and-such."

Yes, being a Mordecai meant you were special. But Zeba was an ordinary dude, and he kept anything out of the ordinary at arm's length. Thus, when the man had been lurking in the Citadel, and some other guy (who was most definitely in the same position as Zeba: not meant to be there) had thrown a stapler at him with some fake order, Zeba was wary. Pinned onto the stapler was a sticky note, and written on the sticky note was the address of The Grind.

Zeba was a cautious man. He didn't usually go to random addresses, because he hated surprises and he suspected that any random address was an ambush waiting to happen. But for some odd reason, the name appealed to him, as did the scrawny kid who'd given it to him. So now, Zeba stood in what appeared to be a little club, drenched in music and beating light. Waitresses in skimpy outfits mulled about with cloths and glasses, not seeming too interested in the newcomer. It was relatively empty, save for a few others at the bar, and one man in particular who caught Zeba's eye.

Under a shock of silver hair were a pair of hazel eyes, and a seemingly amused expression that Zeba wanted to find the source of. He held a drink in one hand and looked utterly relaxed, like he was content to sit there for the rest of eternity. Zeba tore his eyes away from the striking stranger and settled for a seat a few sofa's away from him. After hailing a waitress and ordering something to drink, he let the couch's countours embrace his back, and his eyes slipped shut.

[Anonymous]

"Want another?"

Startled out of his comfortable reverie, Inshabel looked up. Beside his table stood one of the waitresses - a thin, blonde-haired wisp with tired eyes - a bored look on her face and a tray of shot glasses balanced in the palm of one hand. She tilted her head to one side, and her brow knitted in an impatient frown. With her free hand she gestured toward Inshabel's empty glass. "Well?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Taking his arm down off the couch, Inshabel peeled off his leather glove and waited while she drew the credit reader across the microchip in his palm. A happy little ping of satisfied handshaking protocols signified the end of the transaction, and the waitress offered him a fake smile when she slapped another glass onto the table. Inshabel left it there. He didn't really need another drink, just a liquid excuse to stick around.

In addition to being a decent place to put your feet up, The Grind was also one of the Witherlight's more lucrative markets. Nowhere in Aedolis could you find a greater desire for illicit materiel than in the bored middle class, and unlike the third-caste slummers they usually had the hard cash to back their desires up. No one here seemed to be of any particular interest. For a moment his eyes stuck on a red-haired, green-eyed individual who sashayed across the vacant dancefloor and slumped down into a couch.

Didn't look native. Squinting, Inshabel tried to get a good view of the man's palm to spot the distinctive scar tissue of an Aedolian citizen.

[Anonymous]

Despite having his eyes closed, Zeba could clearly tell that the man speaking was the silver-haired stranger, and the woman was a waitress. As she finished perusing him for another drink, a different waitress - a redhead - approached Zeba, and softly cleared her throat. The Mordecai's eyes fluttered open, and the girl placed a wine bottle on the table, along with a tall glass filled with ice.

"Your chip, sir?" she asked softly. Zeba silently offered his hand, the waitress drew the reader over it, and after it beeped an affirmation, she trotted back to the bar. Zeba smiled absentmindedly as he wrapped his hand around the bottle's cap and twisted; alas, apparently had sharp edges, and the cap sliced open his palm. The Mordecai winced and upturned his palm, watching as deep red blood spilled over the folds of the broken skin and trickled down his wrist. He clicked his tongue reprimandingly and stole a heap of tissues from a stand on the table, and stuffed them against his wound.

After he'd (more carefully) opened the wine, Zeba poured himself some and downed it thirstily. It was then that he remembered the stranger, and he glanced quickly over his shoulder in the direction of where he sat. He was mildly surprised to find that the man was squinting at him, as if trying to spot something on his person, but Zeba couldn't scold him, because he was also guilty of curiosity. Still, something about the stranger bothered the Mordecai.

[ ooc : sorry it's so terribly crappy ;__; ]

[Anonymous]

Well, that settled that. Shrugging, Inshabel leaned back into his seat. Maybe he was losing his touch.

A few more people were trickling in from the streets. It was the usual crowd; clerks, programmers, engineers and receptionists who'd taken a quick nip home to dress themselves up and appear more streetwise. One, a young, gaunt-looking man, had even gone to the effort of putting on pasty makeup to give the semblance of sub-level paleness. That kind of dedication was almost admirable.

Inshabel picked his drink back up, and he gave it a little shake to watch the amber liquid slosh from side to side inside its crystal trappings. A rich, fruity fragrance rose from the glass. Amichac Velour - drink blend of choice amongst the 'hot' mid-level clubs. It brought a smile to Inshabel's lips. People would dress, speak and dance in a fashion to make themselves more like someone they were not, but neither hell nor high water could make them drink outside their comfort zone.

But the novelty of his musings wore off quick. Another couple of minutes, and Inshabel had waved at everyone he knew, winked at everyone he wanted to wink at and knocked most of his drink back into his gullet. Time for action, and there was only one person in here so far who looked like he might be thinking outside of the Grind's rather narrow box. With a quick swig he drained the last of the Velour, relishing the sweet burn as it snaked down his throat.

Standing up, the white-haired smuggler turned his steps toward the stranger's table, his hands jammed down his pockets and the long tails of his storm coat trailing behind him.