Bar Room Backdown

May 17, 2015:

Alexan, Logan, and Jean were at a bar, and a brawl was… averted?

The Keep

The Keep sits off a side street, smack dab in the middle of an old Irish neighborhood in Queens. The building has a simple concrete look, made to resemble the stone of a middle age castle, with only small arrow slits for windows. In the middle of what look to be battlements, a heavy oak door is closed, with cursive Gaelic writing etched above, reading 'Iontrail'.

INSIDE

Perhaps more comfortable than the pub's exterior might suggest, this tavern is decked out with a splendid arrangement of furniture, all carved from highly prized timber. Each chair to each table has incredibly detailed artwork of the Irish countryside and moments in history, which seem to cover not only the chairs' back and seat, but down on the legs too, an equal level of precision and care.

A huge mahogany bar with a gleaming top runs along the wall, with stools that look to be of the same wood and carving as the furniture. Behind the bar is a huge silver backed mirror, with an engraved image of Ireland's patron saint, St. Patrick, looking over the city of Dublin, a smile set across his ghostlike face. Glasses and pitchers are neatly stacked below the mirror and a large keg of Guinness has recently been opened, a favorite among regulars.

An almost middle-aged, red-haired barkeep keeps a pair of menus on hand, one for the list of drinks and one for a list of finger foods that'll come from the small kitchen in the back. This place smells of old wood, world-renowned beer and chicken fingers, a wonderful mix indeed.

Characters

NPCs: Various

Mentions:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Saturday Evening at the Keep is pretty serene, as a special treat a large table with had been set out with crock pots of Stew, Crazy Cerwen's Mad Mac and Cheese, baked potatoes with the works to put on them, and blackberry cobbler. The meal has most folks in good spirits… or perhaps the spirits have people in good spirits and the meal just adds to that… and it has drawn in a higher attendance then would be usual, from all around. There are construction workers, bikers, a couple frats, some goth punks, a group of hooligans watching rugby, and that is in addition to the usual regulars. The place is full of smells and sounds, all the perfect things to overwhelm the senses. Around the place there are tv screens with various things on, a rugby match on one, pro-wrestling on another, news over the bar, an interactive trivia channel that anyone can grab a remote interface and join in the fun… isn't it grand.


Conduit is at the bar with one of those remotes, playing along while he eats stew and bread and sips his way through a scotch, ratty hoody and worn jeans declaring him to be less interesting than perhaps he ought to seem. Faint bulges at the wrists of his long sleeves could just be bunching of the cloth. For now, he plays, and eats, and relaxes. Important to relax.


Logan's not what you would call a regular. He pops in every so often, going days, weeks, sometimes months between visits, the but staff, especially those who have been around for a while, all seem to know him. He pays with cash, never causes trouble, and always seems to be good with advice. Once, he even helped deliver a baby in here when some poor woman went into labour. But tonight, he's brought one of his fellow mutants. Speaking to his companion, he says, "You ought to try the pulled pork poutine."


It was good to get out of the mansion and away from the noise of the children, even though something like that usually brightens her on occasion, it was nice to be out and away with the rest of the folks within New York. Sure, it smelled like pee, the people were rude and sometimes weird, but it was home.

She was dressed down for this, a pair of slacks with black boots that reach up to the knees; heels that taper and pinch near the end, a green blouse that catches the air just right. Nothing too flashy, all casual. At least her hair was down for this'un, because… why not?

"Pulled pork poutine? Sounds like that'll give someone a heart attack." Jean grins afterwards, her nose soon scrunching as she looks around the place. "Why not. I'll bite."


Sitting in the darkest corner he can find, Simian tries to avoid getting noticed too much. His leather jacket is draped beside him, his biker helmet sits on the table, and he has a large helping of the mac and cheese, a small bowl of the stew, a baked potato loaded down with cheese and sour cream, and a small bit of the cobbler. Sooner or later he may have to try poutine, he's heard about it but never tasted any. He actually looks sort of exhausted, like he'd just spent the last week in Gotham with an idiot Smooth addict cousin, helping the idiot survive going through withdrawal… oh wait, that is exactly what he did for the last week. He does politely greet a Construction worker that recognises him, but otherwise keeps to himself, playing the trivia game with a remote he has under the table.

Everything seemed so peaceful, so relatively normal. It had been a good day for business… in fact it had been a downright great day for business, and then Michael Suggs, Christopher Anderson, and George Blair showed up to meet their mates Clement Wilson and Patrick Mahony. Michael Suggs, more commonly known as Hairbag sniffs the air, the feral looking Trinidad born Mutant says, "Hey mon, I be smellin some real rank runt ovahdare" his clawed finger pointing toward Logan.

Anderson, usually known as Slab, seems to grow from just under 5' tall to towering at 8' tall, his Brooklyn accent hard and oafis, "Where? You mean the guy wit hair funnier den yours Hairbag?" pushing some Bikers aside to lumber over, only to see Jean and give a crooked boyish smile, "Heya sweetie, why you sitting with this Benjamin Button guy?".

Blaire, usually reverse nicknamed Gorgeous George, despite his oozing purple flesh and violet hair, sighs and slithers over to where their other two companions tapping them on the shoulder and gesturing toward Hairbag and Slab's behaviour, getting a face palm from the darker haired of the pair and a scowl from the pink haired taller of them. Looks like things are about to get Nasty.


Conduit looks up at the rough language, and double takes when he realizes where that's being directed. Logan's one of those mutants that EVERYONE knows about, and it's pretty clear that things are gonna go south and fast. He glances around the bar and sighs, then turns in his barstool to face the mess as the room starts to cool, the lighting dims slightly as he siphons ambient heat and light to have -something- to work with if the crowd gets nasty. A single bead of concentrated heat is the least conspicuous way to manage the collection, visible only as a wavering little patch up near the ceiling.

Times like this, one wishes for their suit.


"Never thought about it like that," Logan replies to Jean about the poutine. He burns so many calories doing what he does best that he's never had to worry about it. And with the healing factor, it's even less likely that he'll ever rack on the pounds. "Always good to try new things, ain't it, Jean?"

Moving in, they find a table, and Logan pulls out a chair, though he doesn't sit down on it. The world may have changed around him, but Logan still has the habits that he grew up with. Even on the walk in, he made a point of being between Jean and traffic.

Things go as they normally do, with Logan ordering a Molson and the pulled pork poutine. But before it arrives, this quiet little outing was turned on its head. Logan rose from his chair as the men stood around the table, "who ya calling runt, Trini?"


"Because you don't have to. But yes, always good. Maybe I can learn to make it in case some people need something greasy after their drunken shenannigans." A gloved hand lifts to sweep hair behind her ears, the chair pulled out was obviously meant for her, so she takes a seat sideways, one leg crossing over the other as she rolls her shoulders to get a little relaxed.

Jeans order? Pulled pork poutine, a side of cheese curds and… you guessed it? A pitcher of glass water. No one really, really needs to see Jean get drunk in public. Last time? She missed an -entire- week of her life…

The man's words catch her attention, her brows shooting up as she looks at the ruffians, one gaze gone to Logan and the other towards the two men… and… she disengages. Just like that.

She stands up, pushes her chair in, then takes a couple of steps back. This is going to be good.


The trivia game forgotten, Simeon takes a bite of his mac and cheese, his tail moving towards his jacket. He's less familiar with Logan's rep, but he knows enough that one little skrimmish in a place like this can quickly become a full bar filling brawl. The modular mutli-configuration parts bandoleer he designed after an encounter with Scalphunter thankfully is now integrated into his jacket, so while it isn't as good as having loads of gear, it might allow him some versatility, especially with not really enough room to be swinging 65lbs of sledgehammer in here.

Hairbag sneers from his safe distance behind Slab, "I be callin joo a Runt… Runt. Slab, no need ta be standin on formalitaes, escort the runt outside, they not be wanting no minors in here riskin dare liquor license." the furry mutant puffing up with confidence thanks to having his massive teammate to back him up… from the front.

Looking at the lady back away, Slab frowns, "Don't be afraid lady, I'm nice. I won't let Hairbag hurt ya. You look like you have pretty hair, can I touch it?" seeming to grow even bigger so his reach migth actually go over the table and make it to Jean's hair as he slowly reaches out. At Hairbag's comment he sighs, "Look mistah runt, I don't want no trouble. Ramrod said there'd be food here and maybe some pretty ladies to look at. Apologise to Hairbag and I'll tell him I don't need to take you outside, cause you're cool for a runt. Okay?"

The other three seem hesitant, perhaps guaging the situation, the pink haired one slowly walking over, the room seeming to quiet some, as if he was somehow sucking the sound out of it, "Is everything ookay, oover here?" his accent obviously that of a French Canadian, "Chris? You're not making a Ruckus are you? Cause you know that is my thing, right?" an almost evil smile crossing his face and he glances back at the other two, who nods as if accepting a silently spoken order to be ready for whatever comes next.


"Gentlemen," comes a raised voice from over by the bar. "There's no need for anybody to go outside. You guys can agree to dislike each other, siddown and tell each other how tiny each other's pud is without messing with the other's night. Nobody goes outside, nobody wakes up in a holding tank, and nobody -doesn't- wake up in a morgue anyplace. If you lot're okay sitting down and cooling off, I'll buy your first round of drinks. Sound like a deal?"

Conduit continues to leave the lights dim and the room cooling off, the wavery haze of heat at the ceiling spreading as more and more energy collects. Keep cool, Alexan. It stings, but this is child's play. You got this.


Logan is a cool customer. He's standing his ground, he ain't backing down, but he hasn't done anything to exacerbate the situation. "You folks want to go outside, that's fine by me. But as the man said," he gives Conduit a simple nod, "you don't want to wake up in a holding cell, or end up in the morgue." He often bites off more than he can chew, and these punks aren't even close to his limit.

"Now, why don't you folks find a table, try the pulled pork poutine, and settle down?" Normally he'd demand that they apologise for disrespecting Jean, but she's a big girl, and he doesn't want to make the situation worse.


Jean's face tenses. She really didn't like someone touching her hair, she had just given it a really great blow out that she learned from some random television show about hair styling. But… she could sense things in the air. Her eyes drawing upright to notice how the lights were dimming, the emergence of the pink-haired one nearly caused her to felt as if her ears were becoming slightly clogged.

The slow extension of the man's arm as well as the back of Logan gained a slight look as she finally puts on a smile. Relaxed, calm. Easy going. That was Jean here, right now. Her hand slowly lifts, touching finger to finger to Slab's own, but she doesn't play any tricks yet. She wanted to play damsel in distress until things had gotten really, really bad. There were, after all, innocents about.

"I'm not afraid. But I'm going to have to request that you do not touch my hair. It cost me close to eighty dollars to get it this good. If you don't mind…" Her smiles grows wider, kinder. "How about having a drink with us? Once, my friend is done speaking to your other friends… we wouldn't mind the company. Would we, Logan?"


Something is real wrong, the room is darker… okay, maybe someone just dimmed the lights, but it is also getting weirdly quiet, there should be much more sound, and everything seems to be converging on the Redhead, the giant guy, the tiny stocky guy near the giant guy, the really hair guy, and the pink haired guy. Simeon's slides his jacket as his helmet seems to slither off the table and slide onto his head, his hand tapping the side of the helmet as if to activate something, and he observes. What he wouldn't give for Canary to be here, or Nitro, or even Constantine… or better yet, all three. And why is his comm not reaching them?

Hairbag snarls at Conduit's comment, "You tink I be afraid of some pigs showing up? I eat police for tree square meals a day, mon, and use their badges to pick my teeth." perhaps the fact that Slab and Ruckus are both there helps fuel his confidence, cause Hairbag looks ready to take Logan on, puffing up, curling his lip, and strutting forward.

There is a look of disappointment on Slab's face, but he pulls his hand back, "I don't want ta ruin no pretty $80 do. Yeah, drinks sound nice." Slightly perking up as he shrinks down some, still close to the 7' mark, but no longer outside of human limits. He looks over at Ruckus, "Nah, I was just trying ta be friendly Ruckus. I didn't even play dominos with them motorcycles outside like you told me not to. George made sure I behaved real good, Ruckus. We don't want to mess anything up before the Bosses plan is ready, I remember good." He looks back, "Hairbag just had too much of them Monster drinks he likes, he drank eight while we waited for George. I just sat in the bed of the truck and talked to Kristi on that Starkphone Ramrod jacked for me." then looking over Ruckus shoulder he shouts, "Kristi said to say Hi Roddy… she wants to snugglems and kissyface with you all night long."

There is a moment when Ruckus looks between the others, then slaps Logan on the back, "Hey, if the fellow at the bar's buying a round, who are we to pass it up." Some of the sound sort of seeping back into the world, but not totally. He starts to gesture for George and Roddy to join them, giving Hairbag a cold stare as if to warn against starting anything, despite Hairbag's posturing.

There is a moment of red-face embarrassment on Ramrod as Slab air's to the world the remarks from Slab's little sister to him, but downing a beer he just facepalms as George stifles a laugh and pushes the shillelagh carrying dark haired Irish mutant forward. George's High British Accent crisp, "Well, looks like Ruck handled matters, no need for me to drown anyone, no need for you to bring the place to life to hurt anyone. Better yet, we get a round of drinks and don't have to pay. Isn't that all lovely."


"Barkeep!" The guy in the ratty old hoody is quick to turn to the bartender and wave him over. "Whatever the guys at the table want for their next round, tack it onto my tab. I'll take care of it, you take care of my new friends, alright?" He throws a grin at the group settling down, and the light in the room relaxes, filling back up. The heat at the ceiling stays, though. Just in case.


"You always look good Jean. You don't need to spend eighty bucks fer it to be true." It's odd to see someone ready to fight a bar room brawl say that while hardly looking in the direction of the woman, but Logan manages it. And he adds, "No, of course we wouldn't. In fact, a round is on me." Sometimes it's best to just treat these kinds of guys with kid gloves. There are a lot of innocents around, and besides, beer is so cheap in this country.

He gestures to one of the staff that they'll need another table and some more chairs, like six more of them. "Glad ta hear you didn't domino the bikes. With this crowd, yer chances of getting out o' here alive would be slim to none." Reaching onto the table, where there was some complimentary bread, sort of a cinnamon garlic twisty hybrid with his weird spread on it, but it was delicious. "Be sure to try the Keepers Bread."


"See?" Jean says to slap, taking a few steps forward to join the group. Slab was tall, but she still manages to reach up to give him a light, friendly pat upon the shoulder. While they busy themselves with conversation, Jean takes the moment to allow herself to be relieved. There wasn't a need to fight, and she wasn't going to be the first one to strike the blow. Thank goodness. That's the last thing she needs before she leaves the country.

The chair that she once sat in is pulled out again and settled in, one leg crossing over the other as she gives a smile towards Logan. "Why thank you." And a call out towards Conduit as well. "And thank you muchly for the drinks!" Which, Jean wou.. oh hell. Why not. "Two shots of tequila for me!" She calls out towards the barkeep. Tequila, beer, poutine… yeah. She's going to arrange for a ride.

Her phone was soon pulled out from her pocket as she puts in a text. Pick up in an two hours. Thankfully, the local cab service allows for such a thing.


Things seem to settle, so Simeon settles back into his seat, his thoughts like an open book to a receptive enough mind. He inwardly sighs, thinking about how his mutantcy has for now been dismissed as a publicity stunt by most people, which makes it easier to live among normal humans. His tail removes his helmet and he goes back to finishing his meal, his lower hands retrieving the remote to resume trivia play. Maybe he'll actually try something alcoholic, as long as he eats enough and doesn't drink more than one drink, he should be okay to drive in a few hours.

There is a moment of disdain as Hairbag seems like he might press the matter, but between Slab shrinking down, Ruckus' glare, the double offer of free drinks, and the annoying cordiality, he grumbles and sulks into a seat, "Whatevs, I be taken a Morgan's Milk, or two." Crossing his hairy arms across his chest and not looking at anyone.

The sullen mood from Hairbag is counterpointed by Slab's cheerful, almost childlike exuberance as he shrinks down to a stocky 5' even and plops himself in a chair, the room shaking slightly. He look at Logan and Jean and extends a large hand to Logan, "I'm Cristopher 'Slab' Anderson, the big oozy guy is Gorgeous George, the Irish bloke with the stick is Roddy, fuzzy here is Hairbag, and our Pink Hair pack leader is Ruckus. It's nice to meet yous both." he looks toward the server, "I want one of them Shirley Temples, with extra cherries on top, and a twisted orange slice instead of a lemon slice."

With Slab making introductions, Ruckus slides into a seat and props his feet up, lounging back and letting the sound seep back into the room more fully, ordering a pint of ale. Ruckus spins a seat around and sits backwards in it, his shillelagh seeming to shrink into his jacket, as he orders a Guinness Float. George seems to sort of just ooze onto a pair of seats and after some pondering says, "If it's not a bother, I'l like some Hot Tea with a nip of Brandy in it." then looking to Jean, "Miss, I have to agree with your friend, your lovely continence and magnificent crimson locks are dazzling enough without the need squander money on trying to improve on them, it would be a futile task." Before offering his hand with his pal turned upward toward Jean.


Conduit makes sure to nod to the bartender to approve the drinks as requested, sliding a palmed card across the bar to cover the tab as he finishes his own whisky and stew. He's keeping an eye on things, but all is going well and he's pleased to see it so.


There's always a reason for a fight, but there's often a reason not to fight. Logan can go either way, but given the company, and the other patrons, he tries to keep things civil. When Jean orders two shots of Tequila, Logan says, "we'll take a bottle and…" looking around, enough shot glasses for each of them. But then he has to lean in and remind Jean, "you know I can't get drunk, right?" He'll be fine to drive no matter how much he drinks. And when he does get drunk, as difficult as it is, he usually sobers up pretty fast.

Logan eyes Hairbag, glad that the Trinidadian has calmed down, but ready in case he changes his mind. When a server comes by, Logan says, "been a while since I had one of those. Why don't you bring me a Morgan's Milk too?" He shakes the extended hand, his grip firm and old fashioned, like what you might expect of a lumberjack or someone else who is used to a hard day's work. "Nice ta meet you, Slab. Name's Logan, and the lady is Jean."


The introductions were made, and Jean repeats their name in kind, her head bobbing in a slight bow and a smile towards each member presented. The drinks were brought to the table quick like to keep the peace, and Jean partakes by pouring herself a nice, healthy heaping of tequila, which was soon… sipped.

George however, receives the first blush of the night, her hand drawing up to cover her face to hide the grin that was presented. "You, are very lovely yourself." She murmurs, that was such a compliment, she hadn't heard such in a very long time. "And I thank you." Talk about putting on the flattery.

As she was introduced, she nods her head once more in greeting, saving the handshakes for the men as she offers a tiny finger wave. "Pleasure to meet you all. It's a rarity when cooler heads happen to prevail." Yeah, this could have gone bad.

But for now? She was drinking her drink… for simple sips turn into a downing of the glass, and a gripping of the bottle to pour more, at least to show some solidarity towards the crew.

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