People Like Myself

February 15, 2018:

Miss Moreau and her White Rose Gang enjoy a night of illicit and drunken revelry at a hidden, rundown bar. Rocket just happens to wander into this particular den.

Bowery, Gotham City


NPCs: Snipe, White Rose Gang



Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

The Bowery is a lovely little piece of Gotham's famous urban decay. The black market thrives here in it's many illicit dealings. And tonight, just past eleven with the moon hanging high, a party is in full swing. Barely advertised, it's in a broken down building that one has to go down a staircase into the ground to find. This is a proper nip joint, drug den, and overall highly illegal bar.

Once inside, those so interested are greeted to ratty carpets, chairs and tables that always seem to lean or sway horribly, a full on fight-slash-stripper pit, and just enough electricity to keep a dim light on the whole thing. Like so much of Gotham, it's cast in shadows and a few neon lights.

The bar looks straight out of a western though. Mirror, useless though it may be in the dark, wooden bar stools, a brass bar to rest feet, and enough soaked-in liquor to reek of inebriation. A few regulars are here, mostly toughs of your various street thug types. A few retired mafia sorts. And a whole host of oddities wearing charcoal grey suits with white roses pinned to their chests.

The White Rose Gang is here in force, at least ten of the madmen and women drinking, carousing, dancing or even working the bar. The real show is that they've somehow gotten a stolen grand piano in here. A suited member is playing a decent rendition of moonlight sonata. But where's the Boss?

Miss Moreau is slightly dressed down today in a black-and-red little number that falls to her knees. Lolita to the core, it has enough dark ruffles and fur lining to drown the somewhat slight woman. Kneesocks and stripes, cute little flats, along with one of those fashionable tiny hats finishes off her ensemble. Oh, and the sword. Moreau is in the fight pit facing off with a gigantic man with a sledgehammer. Keen ears trained, she ducks a swing, turns like a ballerina, and returns the stroke with an almost casual flick of the beautiful steel saber in her hand. There's a moment of motionlessness, and the gigantic man falls howling as scarlet blossoms, cut to the bone just above the elbow. A cheer rises, and the man is being hauled off to get some vague type of back-alley treatment. Moreau doesn't even wipe the blood from her cheek.

Like a serpent, her tongue flicks, licking it. "Mmm! So ferocious! Make sure he lives, I like that beast's fury! Well!? Who next to dance beneath the moon, bathing in crimson!?" No one is yet taking her up on the offer. Sigh.

"Ahhh well. Bartender, your best swill and a towel! Drinks are on us Ladies and Gentlemen! Let us live and howl this night!" Implores the madwoman mage. Many of her minions take up a wolf's howl that's scarily accurate.

Black market dealings, back alley dives, and everything in between- Rocket's considered these to be practically staple in Gotham, and it's not something that's really bothered him. In fact, it's an expected thing, that such a place or another would have to exist. Even out in the wide galaxy, those looking for specific things of interest knew just where to go where Nova Corp either turned a blind eye or hadn't yet found out. It's not that Rocket particularly likes these dark dingy places- it's just that half the time, that's what they were, and where business and entertainment could be conducted without much concern. Well, save for practical concerns like being knifed or shot, but the small Guardian is not an easy target.

He's an unimposing figure, currently wearing a dark blue leather jacket and a hat with a broad brim pulled down slightly over his face. His tail's tucked up under his jacket, partially so as not to get trodden on by some hapless drunks and otherwise to keep from unwanted attention. Anyone knowing Rocket can bet that he's got at least one gun tucked onto his person, and that's not to mention potential explosives.

The raccoonoid looks around, taking quiet catalog of the place before making way straight towards the bar. What's going to a bar if you don't have a drink? Seems he's come at just the right time, given that the lady in fluffy dress is calling for free drinks. Rocket hops up onto a free stool- after helpfully nudging a drunk and dozing previous occupant off. He turns so he can take in the rest of the place, complete with a pit currently a fighter's arena. Oh, this is a classy little place all right.

A walking raccoon in a hat and jacket is bound to get attention, even in Gotham. Unfortunately for said behatted procyon this particular band of lowlives keep their eyes sharp for exactly this sort of thing. Namely that Rocket would find eyes on him with keen interest and curiosity. They don't stop the Guardian, and indeed as soon as he shoves over a passed out drunk? A drink is set before the raccoon.

A large one, straight inhibition-devouring moonshine. Lightly flavored with pepper and a single cherry. Rocket could probably use the stuff as fuel if he nicked the stuff. Not that he'd really need to.

One of the suits finally speaks. "Hey Boss, did you lose one?" The big thug gets cuffed by a smaller woman with way too many knives on her. Moreau, for her part, sniffs the air. A hand to her pocket, and a chill runs through the room. Flats tap behind Rocket, a cane whispering by. Dabbing the last of the blood off of her cheek, she sits right beside the little creature.

Moreau's magic is an odd thing. Normally it takes a certain mystic ability or Potential to sense it. But for one like Rocket, right in her purview, he might just feel it in his instincts.

This woman absolutely reeks of being a predator. Not just a single predator, form of danger. All of them. Every single one.

Her sweet words are nothing like the impossibility her magic represents. "My, my! Welcome, little Procyon. Rarely does such beautiful cleverness walk as you do. Can you speak? My name is Miss Moreau. Your night's entertainment is my pleasure, if you would just indulge my curiosity." She actually curtsies the raccoon. There's far too many eyes on Rocket right now.

Rocket eyes the drink that's set in front of him, nose scrunching at the smell. He's probably had worse, and you can't really say no to a free drink, so he takes it in hand and tries a sip. Wow.

Being stared at doesn't go unnoticed. There's really no way that one can ever get used to the sensation in a way that might make him feel comfortable, and even out in worlds beyond, he's more often than not been regarded as an oddity. His ears are perked, his tail tensing as the fur at the back of his neck prickles. The sensation isn't one to ignore, and not one to ever like. But unlike normal creatures, Rocket plays it cool, going so far as to try another mouthful of the stuff in his glass as he listens to the footsteps pick up behind him, that sense of being stared at bumping up times a hundred. Oh, hell no, he does not care for this kind of attention- it usually leads to trouble.

What surprises him is the greeting from the woman who steps up to join him at the bar. Rocket turns to regard her, nudging his hat up slightly. The fancy one in the pit. The boss lady apparent. He quirks a brow.

"Whad'you call me?" he sneers, because he's come to not like the names Terrans have tended to call him, more so because he doesn't know what they're talking about. That about answers Moreau's question of whether he can speak or not. For a moment he glares at her, a default mode to him, to be sure, trying to figure out if she's making fun. No one ever calls him beautiful. Clever, occasionally, but never beautiful.

"Moreau, eh? Well, Miss Moreau, the name's Rocket, and I'm all for entertainment and pleasure, but curiosity's a dangerous line to tread." Undoubtedly the woman's being polite, at least, whether in mockery or sincerity. The raccoonoid throws a look around at the others eyeing him, but he even he figures it's probably bad form to whip out any weapons right now.

Moreau outright giggles. It's a short titter yet somehow stretched far too long. Sightless eyes narrow slightly and she cants her head thoughtfully. A tap to her own chin. She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she crosses her legs daintily and hands feel for the glass before her. She tips it back and drains half of it with only the politest of coughs.

With a small sigh, she lets the booze really soak in. "Dreadful taste. Perfect for a place born out of tragedy and nature's violence."

Then she turns on the barstool. She tenses just a little, training her hearing and her nose sniffs to get a little better read on Rocket. A hand out, palm down like a Lady she so pretends to be. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Rocket. Hah. You smell of gunpowder and chaos if my nose doesn't lie. Smart of you! As much as I hate overused cliches, there is an entire graveyard full of kittens that fell to that, I'm sure. Ah, but I am a glutton for danger. Such a thrill treading that thin line. Exciting, hmm? I know you feel that way, you would not be here if you were one of those filthy little sheep in the 'respectable' portions of this town."

She ponders, and snaps her fingers. "Snipe! Let us allay our newfound friend's fears! A welcoming gift for Mister Rocket, let him know he is welcome among us!" She's just so cheery suddenly. Rocket's presence has put her in a good mood.

'Snipe' seems to be a lanky tanned woman with slicked back hair and far too many guns. She grins, walks to the back, and comes out with a suitcase. Then she puts it on the bar.

"Hah, your lucky day little guy! Just finished this one, custom job! C'mon, open it up!" Eggs on Snipe as she snatches up Moreau's drink. The pair share, Snipe pouring into the lolita woman's mouth rather…decadently. Moreau lovingly lays her head on the taller woman's shoulder. It's be cute if they all weren't so darn weird!

Inside the suitcase should he accept it, is an absolute monster of a double barreled shotgun. It looks like it shoots ammo for an elephant gun. And there's an underslung grenade launcher on it. Much of the stock is carved wood, with images of wolves lovingly etched on it.

Even if Rocket doesn't keep it, this thing is worth a small fortune.

"Care to tread that line, mmm?" Moreau says in between being liquored up by her henchwoman.

Yep. Rocket's definitely pegging this one as a weirdo. That she's blind doesn't go unnoticed as he keeps sharp eyes upon her. He shrugs a bit after her first drink. "Eh, I've had worse."

For a moment he eyes the hand that Moreau holds out to him, and thankfully it's not in the manner that he's seen Terrans offer pet dogs in expectation to shake. That would have really put him in a mood. Since the woman's being nice about it, Rocket takes her proffered hand in his own smaller, and some might say disturbingly human-like clawed hand. Well, if she's playing at being a lady, then he can play at being…whatever. He's watched enough Terran movies and binged enough shows to get the gist, and even up beyond the stars, females seem to eat up this gentlemanly stuff, so he brings her hand up to his furry snout for a kiss.

"Huh. You're an interestin' one. Probably crazy, but I guess you don't hang around Gotham long if you aren't at least a little bit." He sits back, still cautious, still wondering what this woman's playing at, if anything. There's a bit of a teethy grin as she catches such details from, apparently, a whiff, and he snorts.

This is quite the unusual situation, even though he's well aware of how strange those in Peter Quill's birthworld can be, but so far, this has started to top the list for Rocket's personal experiences so far. Not that he's about to turn down any gifts, although there are so many implications that naturally he's more than a little wary. His eyes are averted towards the other woman that Moreau calls, a grin curling out the side of his mouth. Oh, he can always appreciate women with a taste for firearms. Eyeing the two after the case has been set up on the bar, Rocket, shakes his head and then stands up on the stool for better reach as he unlatches the offering and pushes open the lid.

"….." There's a low whistle as he takes in the weapon lying within. It's nice and big, just the way he likes his guns to be. With a grenade launcher? The raccoonoid's grin takes a wicked twist as he sets a foot on the bar counter so he can better ease the shotgun out of its case, but despite the size of it he handles it with ease. "Ooooh…very nice," he says, clawed hand running across the lines and curves, studying the etched imagery on its stock. "A little…antique for my tastes, but even old-fashioned Terran tech can do some nice damage," he says appraisingly.

Again he turns his head towards Moreau and her minion, smirking slightly. "I cross lines all the time, Lady, but you got my attention."

Moreau seems genuinely happy as she gets that little kiss to the hand. Her smile is beaming, and a little bit of that predatory nature of hers seems to calm. For now leaning on good grace, both Snipe and she laugh. It's not mocking. There's a sincerity in this band of oddities.

They act like family, even if twisted by madness and crime.

"Ah, now there is a lost art! Manners! Truly tonight is one for celebration!"

Chin tap. "'Crazy'. Hmph. I merely am in touch with the beast that most humans chain deep down in their hearts with laws and polite social cues. Myself and my Roses…we are true to ourselves. As hunters, thieves, and merchants of miracles."

She vaguely motions to the rest of Gotham. "They are the insane ones, Mister Rocket. We, low criminals, are free!" Several glasses are raised to that. The fighting cage is starting up again, that woman with the knives stepping in. Two men, thuggish both, are soon screaming and bleeding while the suited woman kicks them while they're down.

Freaks all, it seems.

"My sweet Snipe knows her guns, don't you?" The woman offers a gentlemanly bow to both. "No one better! Call me, huh? We could do work together!" Wink.

There's a card on the table slid Rocket's way, with a number. Burner no doubt, but the offer is made regardless.

"I thought you might change your tune. I will ask you a question, you will answer, and keep your new toy. Or sell it, as it pleases you."

A hand to her heart, then she clinks glasses.

"On my Pack, I will speak to none outside of it unless you bid it, of what you tell me this eve. Should I fail, may one thousand deaths visit me and may my flesh feed endless devouring ants." A solemn pledge. Rocket and Moreau suddenly have space as some of her goons clear out part of the bar.

"How did you come to be, Mister Rocket, and what skills have you? We may be useful to one another."

A real loon, this one. Rocket keeps that thought to himself. She's hardly the worst he's ever met or been in business with. She just puts an interesting spin on her point of view, as to which the Guardian only shrugs. Crazy is as crazy does, and what's that say about him for hanging around? Well, he's never really pegged himself as fully sane either, but really, who would be, after the things he's been through?

Getting a bit into the spirit of things, Rocket, now sitting on the counter's edge with the shotgun in his lap, picks up his own glass to heft along with the cheers. With people going back to their own business and the attention easing away from him a little, he can try to relax. As much as he'll allow himself to in current company, anyway.

"Heh. I'll think about it," he says, making no promises to Snipe, but no refusal either. He picks up the card with deft fingers, and just as quickly makes it seemingly vanish into an inner pocket of his jacket. Turning, he moves to set the weapon back into its place, giving it a pat before he brings his glass over to meet Moreau's.

Her terms sound simple enough, but even simple things can hold hidden attachments, and questions are limitless for subject. It's only one question, and Rocket decides he'll bite. He might not use this gun, or maybe he will, but if anything, he's always up for making a quick buck.

"That's a pretty…graphic oath," he murmurs, but the woman looks serious as they come. Yep. Definitely weird. Rocket waits for the question to come, draining another sip or two from his glass.

There's another snort, the question not completely unexpected, but never fond a memory to revisit. "I'm assuming you mean more than just arriving from space," he says after fighting the burn of the liquor for his voice. "-also that's technically two questions." It's… a bit before he speaks up again in that one might wonder whether he'll actually answer at all.

"I'll tell you how I came to be, Moreau. Science. Mad, unethical science." He scowls as he says it, closing the gun suitcase so he can lean an elbow over it. "Flarkin' experimentation and enhancement, that's what it was. Got torn up an' put back together again. Better. Smarter. That's what they wanted. That's their mistake." He takes a bigger swallow of his drink, visiously chewing the cherry caught between his teeth. "Anyway, that was a long time ago. Now I'm mostly freelancing. My pal an' I are bounty hunters. Me? I like 'sploding things."

"I am a woman of my word, Mister Rocket." She says, on the oath. The tale is a short one, but Moreau treats it and Rocket as if the rest of the world doesn't exist. The blind woman is an excellent listener, it should be said. It's her turn to swallow more, draining hers. She's a little bit wobbly by now, she is rather slight in frame.

There's a moment of quiet, and then Miss Moreau lets out serpentine hiss of rage that fills the entire bar. All of the Roses look over, alert and more than a little bit worried. The woman's body trembles. She wants to kill someone, every movement and tone of her voice bleeding that singular desire. And all of it directed at those who made Rocket what he is.

Snipe very cautiously walks over. "Hey. Hey, Boss. We'll go out hunting later, cool it. Stay chill. We'd like this bar in one piece." Implores the woman to her superior. Rocket gets an apologetic smile.

Eventually she does, and the party goes back to full swing.

Moreau looks back to Rocket, a tear falling down her cheek. "Butchers. Butchers, all of them. I would like nothing more than to find them, bind them, and throw them to whatever fate you decided for such ruiners of beauty and art. Hmph. Genetic engineering, surgery. Bloody fools. No sense of power or care for what they do with their skills." She trembles again, but doesn't seem to be building up more explosive anger.

"Thank you, Rocket. No more pain tonight. We shall enjoy ourselves! Freelancing. Well, I'm sure I could sweep a few jobs your way, if you return the favor. Ah…"

Her smile grows, and she leans in. A hand and…she tries to boop Rocket on the nose even as she refills his glass.

"I could show you my work. Things that may well interest you, given your…unwanted apotheosis." She dangles the carrot, does this strange mage. And how pleased she looks of herself.

It's a bit unusual that someone might be more angry than he rightfully had been. His anger's not completely dissipated, but it's a simmering thing always in easy reach, better applied to other things. He's moved on because that's about the only direction someone like him can go, and he doesn't like to look back. There always reminders though, always old wounds.

This is new, however, and the quiet is the literal calm before a storm of which the likes Rocket's unsure he wants to know as Moreau hisses, somehow translating anger into the very sound. Rocket can feel it, his fur standing on end, his ears flattening as he once again finds himself tensing, in the presence of a dangerous predator. The only reason he isn't drawing his gun is because he knows that the woman's fury isn't at him.

His eyes flick towards Snipe as she returns to Moreau's side, furry brow furrowing, but the reassurance doesn't put him at ease, even once the intense feeling wafting from Moreau has passed. The sight of a tear startles him almost more than the righteous anger she'd brought to a boil. He says nothing, letting the moment and her words pass, as well as a careful sigh as though the very breath would once again fan the kindling to whatever the woman had against such fiends. It was an impressive display to be sure, and he sort of power Moreau hides aside from ruffles and authority.

At the nose-boop he squints, shaking his head as he draws back, but he scoops up his glass again, taking by far the biggest swig he's had all night. He needs it, being around these people.

"Hey, look. Just 'cuz I drop a few lines don't mean you can make assumptions like that. Maybe I'll be interested, maybe I won't. It's been a weird last couple'a months so I'd like to think I'm bein' generous here." He shrugs as he takes to leaning back again. "So what all is it you do, Miss Moreau? There's more to all this, I'm sure," he says, gesturing loosely at the rest of the underground haven.

Thankfully, it seems that Rocket isn't about to become another one of Moreau's extensive list of victims. No, that wrath has faded…mostly. She seems tense still. That sort of all-consuming rage lives inside of a person, a fire always ready to leap up, a sickness slowly ticking off minutes from a life. It's a simple background smolder. The calm, cool way of Rocket helps let the flames settle down.

"I am being a bit presumptuous, aren't I? My deepest apologies, sweet, dear Procyon. The night's revelries have me in a…" She gently shakes her drink with a dainty wrist as she hunts for the right words.

"Well. An excitable mood. You see, Mister Rocket, you are fascinating! Oh, but I have half a mind to keep you for myself!" A giggling laugh, but she cuts it short. One hand is up defensively!

"Oh, but no no no, that would not do! My greed gets the better of me. No collars for you, promise! Rocket. Again, I am being presumptuous, but please hear me out. You have a fine, savage spirit. You mentioned friends? Never lose that attitude of yours, and never betray your Pack. Both are precious treasures, more than any gun, or any gem you could find." Then she smiles, looking for a moment like a kindly Aunt giving sage advice. The tattoos and her massive facial scarr keep the image from being perfect.

Or maybe not, this is Gotham, where many an Aunt keeps an AK in the closet.

And then he asks a question that this dramatic villain loves to answer. Propping up her head, elbow on the bar, she sips another drink. Slowly this time. Steel eyes close as she ponders. Dainty tongue wets lips.

"Bluntly? I steal things of value and sell them to the highest bidder. I hunt with my dear Pack, selling our skills to those who find worth in them. And I offer beautiful creatures, predators, to those who find them rapturous and worthy of being bought. Mmm. Not unlike yourself, though without such…unrefined and cruel ways as your tormentors. Why, you could say that I am an artist in that regard!"

And then she opens her eyes and winks. Her face grows serious. "You mean to tell me that bloodshed, booze, money, and chaos aren't worth living a wild, short life for, oh glorious eared one?" She is absolutely teasing right here. It doesn't last for long. "Correct. Perceptive, good! Or a lucky guess. Either way. No, no dear Procyon, I aim for two things. First, the safety and prosperity of those who have given me such faith and responsibility of leading them…" Her free hand indicates the suited menagerie scattered about the bar.

"And second, Gotham itself. You see, this is a city at war with itself. On one side, the genteel, the proper, those who see order, law, chaining down their urges as right and natural. The GCPD. The politicians. The Chiroptera that aide them in the dark."

Another vague motion. "And people like myself. Beasts. The 'criminally insane'. Outcasts, the lost, the broken and hungry. Something dark beats in Gotham's heart, Rocket. I see nothing with my eyes, but oh are my ears sharp. I can hear it every night when I sleep. Beating, voices crying out. There are many beautiful cities for those that want a bastion of civilization and order. I want to end this back-and-forth for Gotham's soul. A city for those that are rejected, lost, and hated. A city of beasts, where we might hunt freely, without judgement, live, die, and be accepted for who we are!" Her words are passionate, the sound of a true believer in a cause. Miss Moreau might be mad, but her furious heart is entirely in changing the face of Gotham.

She trembles. Ambition, terrible, lurks in her sightless eyes.

Moreau may have caught herself in that, but Rocket all the same bares his teeth with a bit of a growl at the mention of collars. He's savage, all right. He eyes her as she strives to correct herself, but the wariness is stoked once again. "I'll blame that slip on the drinks," he says, sipping at his own, already feeling the fuzziness not his own but brought on by whatever concoction of alcohol he's been given.

"Friends're hard to come by, 'specially when you are what you are." He means it, and not purely because of his origins so much as what he's done. His friends are more than that, though. They're family, although he's not quite drunk yet to go blabbing off such things and getting super sentimental.

"Hm," is the sound he makes as his glass is tipped to his mouth again, hearing Moreau out as she gives her answer to his question. He'd already pegged her as criminal, being here and in charge. It's not really a lawful looking establishment, after all. Sure, not unlike him, although he wonders if she'd object to the damage he can often be responsible for. A harsh laugh escapes him at her teasing. "Well I wouldn't complain on that…" His eyes follow her gesture, taking in the room of criminals as she goes to explain herself, her ambitions. He shivers at her speech, the words of someone brilliant and insane, but the two seem to cross each other quite often. Moreau's passion is unquestionable, even if her motive might be. Not that Rocket can't understand that desire that she has, but he knows it can't possibly be so simple.

"Sounds like a tall order, lady," he mutters. "And if that ever happens, then it's all survival of the fittest or something? I know it blows having the law at your back but then what?"

Rocket's ferocity has Moreau withdrawing her fingers quick as you please. She knows animals, through study and her own magical intuition. Indeed, her beastly instincts are a boon indeed. But she's too much of a showboat to not wiggle them just out of reach of Rocket. A tempting target. She entices, she offers a little shove in her motions.

Miss Moreau can't help but encourage such things, even if it might one day lead to her downfall. "Forgiving the besotted! Such a generous soul, dear Rocket! Truly I am at your mercy!" One part tease, one part teasing mockery. Her smile doesn't drop the entire time. Gothamite madness lends a certain amount of brass iron genitals to even the lesser of such people, nevermind such rare individuals as Moreau. Licking as fire may as well be a pastime for most in various ways.

"'You are what you are'. Ahh! Mister Rocket! I…oh, how to put it?" A pause. She blinks away more tears here. That simple statement seems to have captivated Miss Moreau. One of the White Roses throws her hanky. Miss Moreau politely and gracefully flips them off lovingly. Truly one of manners, this Boss.

"I will be stealing that phrase, Mister Rocket. As the millenials say, 'no takebacksies'." A swift, self assured nod. For all that she plays, she seems to be taking those words to heart. She wobbles a bit. And only one-thirds due to the extreme amount of alcohol and adrenaline in her system.

A chuckle. "No ambition is ever worth doing if it does not make at least a single city tremble in it's enactment, warm beast of cleverness and silken fluff. Tall order indeed! Perhaps one I shall die howling and screaming, failing utterly. Ah! But to try at something so uncommon…now that is worthy of a predator if you ask me!" She sits up here, spins in an expert ballerina rotation, and then bows in a dancer's salute.

All that grace melts away as she crawls back to the bar seat, a beer set before her. She looks near to reaching her limit of revelry, she slumps on the bar like a proper booze-devouring fiend. Vaguely on the periphery, there's White Rose members circling. Protectively, like a pack, indulging their Alpha her sins and weaknesses. Perhaps for a moment, Rocket might seem to be within that rare, loving circle.

"'But then what'? A question that haunts me every night. Frankly? Sometimes I think I'm ill suited to what comes after. Assuming I succeed, will I fail at leading the pack? To guarding the walls that shall spring forth from a city of so-called madmen and women!?" Tears fall freely here, at such a possibility.

Teeth grit. She forces herself up, and off the bar stool. She stumbles, but only once. A big, bald, Russian man catches her and rights her as if he's done this a thousand times over. He probably has.

"Knowledge is power, Mister Rocket. And so I seek to steal it from any corner, and gather hunting hearts to my side! And perhaps, enough that I can keep such a city together if my aim is achieved! Wish me luck, oh savage heart! Should all fall to ashes, and nothing is left to you…"

A pause. She's led over to the piano, and she sits. Dainty pianist's fingers are cracked.

"You could easily pass my Tests to join the White Roses. Maybe you and yours. Consider my offers…open. Bartender! See that Mister Rocket has his fill of revelry, and is seen safely to what passes for a home! May serpents take you if you fail!" That last sentence is teasing, but not nearly enough.

Miss Moreau is, amongst her many talents, a musician. She plays a haunting bit of Bach, soon self absorbed. Rocket has a number though.

Surely nothing good will ever come of calling it. But an advantage all the same.

He snaps his teeth at those tantalizing, teasing fingers, just to show he's not afraid to make that move. He doubts that Moreau will actually let herself be within his range, but either way, he doesn't take kindly to being toyed with. Call it a warning.

At least she can't see him roll his eyes at her mocking words. He wasn't necessarily being forgiving so much as making a point of letting herself slide, even if he's pretty sure that the woman, alcohol or not, knew full well what she was saying at the time.

Declining a refill on his near-fuel swill, Rocket finishes off what's left of the glass, the buzz and warmth of the alcohol settling in enough that he lets his tail relax from beneath his coat, flopping across the bar. Welcoming, inviting as Moreau has been, it's someone's den all the same, and he's still the stranger here, though he'll schmooze on what hospitality he's given while it's given.

The questions he'd posed had been honest ones. He's never had such ambitions, but then he's more selfish when it comes to things to be achieved, only recently spread out to encompass more than himself and his tree friend. Hearing Moreau's responses, he can only nod, even though she can't see the gesture. If she's faking it, then she's an amazing actress, but it seems she's just really genuinely emotional. Maybe it's the booze. Rocket can get that way with enough alcohol, but that's not something he intends to allow while he's here.

"You've been very generous, Miss Moreau. I've got a few things on my plate at the moment but I'll keep you in mind." He can practically feel that business card burning in his pocket, but he's not sure if it'll ever be a number he calls.

There's some relief in being left to his own means once the leader of the White Roses excuses herself to assist in providing entertainment of the musical sort. He snaps his fingers at the bartender for a beer as he slips down off the counter and back onto the stool, determined, it seems to have at least one semi-decent drink out of this night before he'll make his way home.

And at least he's got a new toy out of it.

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