Participants:
| Scene Title | On The Shield |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Magnes stumbles across two soldiers of FRONTLINE, and has questions. |
| Date | October 25, 2009 |
Old Lucy's has a vibrant and lively feel to it, from the dark wooden floors to the shady crimson walls lit up by neon lights and many times, the flashing of cameras from the oft-crowded floor. The mirror behind the bar reflects prices of various drinks, bottles lined up, as well as the entire saloon as seen from the bartenders; bolted-down stools line the other side, and there are loose tables and chairs placed all around, though many times they find themselves pushed back for more space within the center of the saloon. A few speakers are placed at strategic places and around a raised stage to the far corner from the bar. Above the counter, an obviously well-used bar is hung; it is this that the girls working will use should there be dancing, which is one reason many patrons choose to come aside from the drinks. Across the bar and near the back, there is a door that leads to the owner's office and just inside a stairwell that leads a apartment on the floor above the bar.
After a quick flight from picking up Abby, just generally holding her hand through the flight, since it's not as if he has to support her weight, unless of course she herself chose to cling, they discreetly land in the behind Old Lucy's, then make their way around to the door. "So yeah, me, Delilah and this new guy named Kurt, we just all blew. It was a night of mostly gutter balls. But for my first night bowling, it was pretty awesome."
He's wearing an unbuttoned black denim jacket, a dark blue t-shirt with a neon Superman S on the front, some black jeans, and a pair of sneakers. He of course opens the door for her, and when they enter, he stops for a moment, taking in the atmosphere. Isabelle's spirit…
"I could use a night of bowling some day soon" Bubble gum haired, the owner of the bar is coming in with Magnes, backpack hitched over one shoulder. The gold cross glinting in the light of the bar she had certainly not been clinging. At least not after the first minute after being picked up somewhere outside the ruins. No questions asked, he'd been instructed. She needed to pick up food for Alicia and get some changes of clothes for her and for Joseph, grab some frozen goodies from her freezer for the others down in the tunnel and her school supplies. 'Think I can reserve your Taxi services for tomorrow Magnes? I don't think I wanna go park my car down there. Afraid it'll get vandalized"
The bar is it's usual population for a sunday, and the bartenders all glance up at the arrival of Magnes and Abby, offering waves before getting down to business.
Isabelle's spirit doesn't do much for Chester's spirits. This is very much not his scene. Girls on the bar with skimpy clothes and wide bars of flesh squirming around to the subwoofer beat, the smell of beer and deeply organic hygiene stewing warmly between furniture and flesh and compressed by the currents from the heating vents. So many people, so little space. LA was different, you know. Despite the typically warmer climes, easier weather, and notorious friendliness of that state compared to the East Coast, you get more space there, somehow, even in crowds.
Different demarcations of appropriateness. He wonders if Tris even has that word in his vocabulary. Or both. "I never did this in Los Angeles," he mumbles, over the rim of his pint glass. "I had a fiancee. Nearly married. These ones all look the same to me," he says, squinting past the slightly blurred edge of the younger man's scruffy blond head. Someone went a little overboard with the anti-aliasing when they drew Tris, he thinks.
Tris has a beer in his hand so basically his night is pretty good, regardless of whether or not this is his scene. It is, incidentally, fingers tapping against glass to the beat of music as he watches girls dance and flashes a smile whenever someone happens to look his way. He glances to Chester, blue eyes bright, shrugs once enough restlessness that it's a wonder he manages to get sleep ever.
"I dunno, isn't that racist?" A wide, shit-eating grin accompanies that remark, a swig of beer, another shrug. "I did this in Los Angeles. Sounds like you don't go to the right bars, man. You and Michael, swear to God."
"Sure, I've got time lately. I really like your hair by the way, I mean, it's just really awesome. Claire keeps saying she wants to dye her hair, but I think she loves my wigs too much." Magnes says as his eyes give Abby just a quick once over, he can't help it, the hair is awesome! But then there's the guys, and the women, and, hey, he knows those guys! Extensive internet searching, not to mention actually being there when they were introduced, gives them an air of familiarity to him. "Dude, those guys, they're FRONTLINE! I've been trying to track one of them down all week. You uh, mind if I do?" he asks Abby, not sure if she approves of the skimpy clothed women, but he's pretending they don't exist!
The skimpy clothed women will be getting off the bar soon since it's getting to the end of the top of the hour. Abigail cranes her head towards the aforementioned FRONTLINE gentleman and spots Tris and Chester. "Go ahead Magnes" She encourages. Better real life superheroes than ones on paper. She'll follow, curious. SHe was supposed to endorse them and Tracy had said she couldn't meet any of them. But now, supposedly, two of them were in her bar. So when Magnes heads that way, Abigail's going that way too, stopping to grab two fresh rounds for the men.
Is it racist? Chester's face clouds momentarily at the accusation, except it wasn't really— quite— exactly an accusation, judging from the static, distracted indifference that characterizes Tris' profile upon first pass. "Is this what you'd call one of 'the right bars?'" he asks, the speechmarks audible in the query. He closes dark fingers around the fogged glass of his cup, sits back, swivels his gaze up to the performers once again. He notes with a vague, not quite genteel, but perhaps almost fatherly sort of amusement that there are a not inconsiderate number of glances being fired Tris' way. Benignly, he ignores the few arrayed in his own direction, a remark about Michael dawning on his lips before a shock of pink catches his eye.
"That's… unusual," he observes, turning to blink at Abigail. Chester is new and rare enough a visitor that he doesn't recognize the proprietress for who she is.
"Mm?" Happily skipping over whatever came last in the conversation, Tris darts a look where Chester happens to be staring, and twists his mouth in a smile. "Kids these days," is droll, Tris bringing up a hand to scratch at his unshaven jaw, other hand bringing up his beer to swig from, polish off before setting it down again. "It's kind of hot. Maybe she'll— hey, maybe she's coming this way."
Not that Magnes needs to dye his hair pink or anything to get attention, just maybe if he wants attention first. And be female, in this particular instance. Tris, too, bar-roamer than he may be, isn't yet acquainted with the owner of the establishment.
Magnes and Abigail quickly make their way over to the men, though he doesn't look at the dancing women, or at least tries his best not to. He suddenly stands up straight, then raises a hand to salute. "Sirs!" he says with all the respect of a soldier in his tone. "I'm the cop from Chinatown, Magnes J. Varlane. I'm not sure what I should be saying here, I've been trying to track any of you down, and didn't expect to see you in Old Lucy's. I'm very interested in your fine organization, and I would hope I did a good enough job out there to earn a few minutes of your time!"
Bubblegum pink just sighs at Magnes and the change in his behavior. It's like behaving once your parents are in the room. "Hi" Abigail offers up a grin and her hand to either man from across the bar, her parking behind it with the other bartenders. "Welcome to Old Lucy's" Natasha sidles over there and brings with herself a fresh round and slides it in front of the two soldiers.
"Abigail, or the nun, drinks for frontline are on the house. Money's no good here. Least I can do. I'm glad to have y'all at the bar" Southern to the core, save the curly pink hair. "Try not to break him. If you need anything, just ask the girls for the owner" herself. There's a side glance to Magnes and a shake of her head.
Fel's delighted to be the skeleton at the feast. Though at the moment he just looks like some middle-aged suburban dad who's slipped the chain for the night to have a few drinks - rugby shirt, jeans, hiking boots. He's on one crutch, and that doesn't seem too necessary; the crippled foot is covered by a prosthesis, and that by a boot. He comes stumping in, quietly enough, heading for the bar with the singlemindedness of a sidewinder missile.
Sirs. That would be— or rather, include, him. Chester turns his head to study the colt who just stilted up to them, chattering about Chinatown. Oh, Chinatown. The boy looks vaguely familiar, from television, possibly, if not personal experience; it's difficult for the medical officer to place, exactly. He's been through Chinatown for a variety of reasons a number of times, including the one incident with the Triads, the thrown car, and— that would be it. Striking gold on the deduction brightens the man's features considerably, though he spares a moment's distraction to nod affirmitive at Abigail. "Ah, right.
"Yes, you did good work. I can imagine the NYPD is proud to have such a fine officer in their ranks. I wouldn't mind if you had a seat. We don't interface with the public relations department as often as you'd imagine, so it's always ni— shit. Sorry." There's a jerk of broad wrists and callused hands, a telltale clink of breakage threatening. Hairline cracks have snaked their way over the shape of the glass in Chester's hand, mid-swing. A glistering droplet of amber ale leaks ou, stickies down the curve of his palm. Mumbling apologies, he returns the pintglass to the table's surface, looking up, glancing around.
The amputee's hard to miss, for a medical officer. His lips thin, but he doesn't elaborate, only raises an arm to flag down a waitress' attention. Little accident.
It would be natural for Tris to mock first, think second, but instead his eyes narrow on the small crack in glass before, like Chester, he darts a look around until the resident cripple is identified. Vague, passing interest, before Tris is focusing back on Magnes and Abby, smile bright. "Hey, sure, take a seat, officer," the Californian says, sparing a glance towards where Chester is hailing a waitress, for his own free drink of the evening, with his sitting finished in front of him.
"I'm Tristan Bentley— just Tris works, seriously— and this is," his broad hand comes clapping down on Chester's shoulder, "my man Chester Wade. Don't mind him, he's showing off. Thanks for the drinks," is directed to Abby.
"Hello Chester, Tris. Mr. wade, please, don't worry, you can't fathom i'm sure how many glasses we go through here" Abby's scooping up the glass, turning to transfer it to the waitress who comes running. "I gotta go mags, Fife thirty same place okay?" And like that, a smile for the frontliners, the pinky is heading off to wave some fingers at Felix. "Ivanov. Stick around, I think Brenda's looking for your number. There's some FRONTLINE folks here too, if you're interested"
And like that, the southerner with the shock of strange hair is heading off, disappearing into the back door of the bar into rooms unseen.
"Later Abigail!" Magnes waves her off, smiling, then takes a seat with the FRONTLINE men, watching as if he's expecting something to happen at any moment. When that something doesn't happen, and Felix is given a once over, he decides to start talking. "The NYPD wants to fire me. That stuff I do, with the landing choppers and, y'know, saving people, is apparently bad PR. They're pissed about the Glenn Beck interview too, which I admit was a mistake, but they're not happy about the fact that I'm gonna continue ending up in the news. So, I thought I might look for an alternative, for when I'm out of the NYPD…"
She didn't call him agent. For which Fel gives thanks, really. Those days're over. He nods to Abby, politely. "My number?" he wonders, a little blankly. He eyes Magnes with an increasingly dry expression. "They didn't exactly hire you to wear your briefs over your tights, you know. You're kind of a loose cannon," Fel notes. Mr. Kettle, you have an urgent call from Mr. Pot. He'd like you to know that you're black.
It's probably fortunate that Chester isn't aware that this is the generally notorious Special Agent Ivanov making those detracting sounds at Magnes from where he is.
"That's not very pleasant," he admonishes the cripple, a little tipsily and a little absentmindedly, also, the mainstay of his attention occupied with the nodding and the apologetic smiling at the young proprietress and the removal of his damaged cup and trying to figure out of it would be socially irresponsible to have another. They were going to get a company car to take them back annnnyway, and it's not like he's in danger of accidentally rending its prettily chrome door off its hinges.
Eh. Why not? He raises a hand to request another pint of the same. "I was a mess before I joined the Army, myself." Granted, Chester Wade was also a mess when he left, but that's a story for another bout of drunkenness. "I think it's noble to at least display interest in the state of one's nation."
"Yeah, he talks like this all the time," Tris decides to clarify over his own renewed pint, blue eyes a-twinkling with chemical merriment, taking a deep pull before glancing back to Felix. "I dunno about you, but I could see putting a good word in for our man Varlane," he says, gripping his pint and the corners of his mouth turned up in a fixed smile. His teeth are pearly, and he runs his tongue over them as he shrugs round, broad shoulders. "We don't have briefs over tights, but we got pretty awesome helmets. Did you see the helmets?"
He tips his drink at Magnes, and goes to take another pull from it after stating, "I think it'd suit you."
"The helmets were totally awesome!" Magnes enthusiastically agrees, though his cheeks go red when he comes down from the minor outburst, then frowns and looks over at the cripple. "I'm not a loose cannon. I'll tell you just what I told the IA agent. I don't care if saving people causes bad PR, or ruins my privacy, or even causes people like Glenn Beck to try and make me look bad, what matters are the people. I'm out there to protect them, and no reputation or anything else is gonna stand in the way of that."
IA. Of course. Color Felix less than surprised. Where the hypocrisy is coming from, considering how he got that medal….well, that's a puzzle. "You certainly are rewriting the NYPD rulebook," he observes, though his tone is mild rather than sour. He glances at the FRONTLINE soldiers curiously, and pushes his glasses back up his nose.
Oh. Well. Chester's eyes close and open twice, glassed over from something other than the mere effects of alcohol, his pupils contracting awkwardly on Varlane's face as the content and implications of those. After a conversationally lengthy bar of silence, he says, "There's nothing wrong with the way that I talk. Just because I have multisyllabic words in my vocabulary and am wont to use them. You learn a lot of multisyllabic words at med school." He might be trying to change the subject, except that that would be tactless. Surely not.
A frown notches his mouth, and he glances between Felix and Tris, for a moment, his gaze idling for a significant beat or two on his fellow soldier's, before he adds, with what appears to be great reluctance, "It's a very rigorous selection process. You don't happen to have military experience or equivalent, do you?"
Tris' eyebrows pry up at that look, mouth flattening into a line that would otherwise be a smile if not being actively stifled. His elbow juts out, knocks into Chester's arm in a nudging, too-strong gesture. "Does this look like med school to you? If it does, then, shit." Which is all Tris has to say on the matter for now, turning his gaze up towards where a girl in daisy dukes is shaking it. It gives Magnes the opportunity to respond to the FRONTLINE medic, anyway, as the artillery expert knocks back another mouthful of lager.
"If focusing on saving lives above all else is rewriting the rulebook, then the NYPD wasn't for me to begin with." Magnes casually shoots back, then focuses on Chester's mention of the rigorous selection process. "Well, I might have equivalent experience, but that's kind of a long government story that I'm not at liberty to talk about." Hell, he's not even sure what exactly the implications of what Elisabeth told him are, and the only reason he's not at liberty is because he can't remember. "But I mean, I've been shot four times this year, I've had extensive ability training that was primarily combat oriented, I'm familiar with a few weapons plus I have my police academy training. I mean the stuff I did in Chinatown, that was obviously not stuff I learned at the academy, right?"
"Obviously not," comes the comment from the peanut gallery. Tiny Tim, bringing the sarcasm since 1972. Fel just looks amused, though, as the bartender brings him an ale. Vodka and stereotypes and hard drinking are all for later. "But no, you're right," he adds. "Right there on the shield. Serve and protect, City of New York."
To be honest, Chester has no idea what the kids learn at the academy nowadays. He affords the younger man a fairly diplomatic shrug, as he sips at his own brew at carefully measured intervals. "I like to think that being shot isn't relevant experience, specifically. I would be concerned that your disposition doesn't lend itself to military or law enforcement particularly well. It's unfortunate." The glance he spins over at Felix isn't entirely chastising, but bears a wry edge to it.
Hooking blunt fingernails over his ear, scratching through the black bristle of his close-cropped scalp. "Violence and the Evolved are hot-button issues, and it's very difficult to succeed in a career involving both without also having marked regard for public relations and following the book, so to speak."
"Kershner would shit bricks if you came within an inch of FRONTLINE, Varlane," Tris agrees, with a smile that's just as wry as his companion's tone, surrounded by the grizzle of an unshaven jaw that's too dark for the platinum streaked through his hair. "But hell, Autumn would totally want to shake your hand. It's not like we aren't shortchanged for the amount of enlisted Evolved. Who knows, maybe someone can do something for the kid, right?"
Riiight? Maybe at this point, it's difficult to say if Tris is fucking with Magnes or not, though by rights, he should be more transparent. The smile he deals Magnes is plenty genuine, in any case. "At the end of the day, we save lives, Wade. I sure as shit didn't learn how to move bullets with my mind in bootcamp."
"I can… do a lot, I like to keep most of it a secret, but the fact that my ability was specifically trained up for combat should count for something. And even if I do suck at public relations, I can do things by the book." Magnes sighs slightly, starting to stand from his seat. "I'm willing to do any sort of evaluations or training required to join FRONTLINE. I'm sure my girlfriend's gonna whip out her shotgun if that means I have to join the military, but she'll understand eventually."
Felix has that sphinxish look on, though the pale eyes gleam with amusement behind his glasses. He's nursing that ale like it'll be the only one he gets tonight. Just listening, now, fingers loosely curled around his bottle, shoulders a little slumped in weariness.
There's a sigh, or at least a long exhale, maybe because the last draft of ale Chester had taken was. Really. Big. Burned his lungs or something, you know how that is sometimes. "I certainly didn't— and wouldn't say it was impossible," he offers, kind with all the alcohol in him. He inclines his head, has a little smile at the word about the girlfriend with the shotgun, and asking her first, as if that reminds him of somebody he used to know. "FRONTLINE is military, Mr. Varlane. You should definitely frame it for her in those words if you're serious about trying."
Tris can't object to that, and doesn't try, just lifts his shoulders at Magnes, takes a sip of lager, and directs his gaze back up to the show of long female legs strutting across the bar in heels that seem like a nightmare to be flouncing around in.
"I'll do what I can, I'm definitely willing to get official military training if it's required. I've gone through harsh training three times in my life, so I'm guessing a fourth time can only be a good thing. But no matter what's requested of me to do, it really would mean a lot to me if you put in a good word." Magnes smiles nodding to the men as he starts to head for the door. "Thanks for your time, Sirs. And uh, please don't make passes at the pink haired girl, she's not that kinda girl. Miss Brenda might be though." he teases, flashing a smile back at the woman.