It's a good night to be drinking. Sunday is St. Patrick's Day, Friday was a Friday, but tonight? Tonight is a Saturday. And like Saturn and the gods of yesterday, everybody thinks the night could use some fruity white wine. Above the room, the very faint murmurs of the overpopulated Peak are vibrating the building, and the smell of rich food and strong herbs fills the air even a hundred feet underground. Peak is, as always, above maximum capacity. But the Pub is not Peak. The Pub is pretty close to overcapacity too, though - because everybody likes some Pinot Grigio. A garishly dressed bartender slings drinks and makes winks from behind a large oak counter. Most of the thirteen tables are occupied, but the stools around the bar are still open. To the east sit the heroes, to the west, the villains. They take a moment every once in a while to glare at each other, but beyond a few sexually charged grunts and one villain making a tasteless joke to a hero with devil-eyes, not much goes on. Whispers of a third-party metahuman science agenda group meeting tonight have been around town, if you keep your ear to the ground for that sort of thing. The Pub is quiet, most people keeping to themselves. The stools look uncomfortable and the sign above the door reminds you - NO FEUDS NO VILLAINY NO HEROICS.
Someone might ask, "What kind of fruity white wine?" The answer is Maria's, but it's not a suggestion. "You want the des Baumard Chennin Blanc- 2009. It goes well with the sriracha soup." That's not a suggestion, and before the customer can say anything on the matter, the cook has walked off to fetch the bottle of wine. No one would say no to his choice of wine. Anything else would simply be…/wrong/. Shaking his head at the thought, the restaurant owner checks his watch.
She doesn't look uncomfortable on a barstool. It's a look she clearly has worked at over the years. She's sipping something bright, almost radioactive pink because fruity wines be damned, and she twirls her white-blonde hair absently at nobody in particular. Candy Charlemagne's here alone, but based on experience this won't stay that way for long.
"Did we make you the fucking sommelier too, Maria?" Ben Styx's voice is loud. As is his style. In a scarlet peacoat with a lime-green scarf and loafers (no discernible pants adorn his spindly legs) he slams his hand on the bar and reaches under the counter. He pulls out a thin tall tumbler and it is filled with a soup mix. A sriracha soup mix. "Sriracha Bloody Mary's, bitches!" He eyes the girls at the bar around him. "You're getting one?" It is also not a request, but Ben lacks whatever force of personality Maria has. It sounds more like a squeak - the adolescent voice break doesn't help. Or is that an intentional falsetto? "My drinks are Zagat rated." This is a lie.
The sounds of meat being torn and chewed a little too loudly can be heard from the stool Erik Norman decided to claim some dozen minutes ago. He sits relatively quietly, with the exception of the awkward slopping noises he makes each time he slices, stabs, and plops a slab of the incredibly bloody steak in front of him. The meat looks raw, it is no small wonder if the plate of steak was ever introduced to flame ever. Despite the undercookedness of the steak, Erik looks to be enjoying himself in a silent manner. He glances over at Ben Styx, hearing the obnoxiously loud voice and, with a mouth still stuffed with a beyond chewable meat, he takes a swig from his beverage; a warm glass of water.
The Pub is growing louder - not unbearably so, but louder nonetheless. The heroes to the east are getting rambunctious and a few look like they're itching for a good brawl. The villains keep more to themselves (the Human Id is uncharacteristically extroverted tonight) and are eying more than a few of the single ladies and stag boys. Those blessed with ears and further blessed without company can hear the steps above leading down to the Pub squeaking.
"Until we find someone better qualified," Maria replies with a smirk for his business partner- the mixologist. Bottle in hand, he bestows the beverage on the table that 'ordered' it. "I urge you to try the Sriracha ice-cream sandwiches for dessert to round out your 'St. Patrick's Sriracha can be Green' dinner." There's a tight smile, and Maria has moved on to the next table. He almost slaps the patron on the shoulder, and then thinks better of it. Some villains- and heroes, for that matter, don't like to be touched. "Plebes," he mutters under his breath as he eyes the room like a mongoose in a snakehole, intent on overhearing his customer's conversations. That, after all, is why the Pub is worth it. Not the underpriced food. Not the overpriced alcohol. The things one hears.
"Another," Candy says suddenly, waving her hand authoritatively. "Watermelon martini. Heavy on the martini. Fluorescent on the watermelon, please." She's still scanning the burgeoning group here and watching the owner with a moderate amount of suspicion."
You, tall guy." Ben gestures toward the man eating the blue-rare steak with a look of carnal appreciation. "This one's on the house." Ben reaches under the counter with both hands and fulfills his bar-tenderly duties, pulling out a glass of still-sloshing red liquid. "A vintage port to top off the meal." He looks to the blonde girl drinking the bright pink drink. "You look like you could use a wink." He obliges, and then sets about making a complex mix of liquids. Ice must be broken.
Erik slides his gaze over to Candy, the girl drinking the incredibly bright drink. Any brighter and it might have started to hurt his eyes. He suddenly wishes to say something to her, not quite sure what, and begins to regret the large chunk of steak still being torn to shreds in his mouth. At Ben, Erik wishes he could properly speak even more, against the idea of being served an alchoholic beverage. That wasn't why he was here, he was not here to get drunk in any fashion. He swallows hard numerous times, like someone struggling to swallow a couple of pills. "Thank you very much, very loud bar-keep." Instead of complaining, he accepts the drink. But doesn't drink it.
The door to the Pub slams open and a man in a ratty, stained lab coat walks in. He looks around and his eyes seem to zero in on the bar. The heroes get louder and the villains get rowdier. The bar is still amiable, however. There is a zero-tolerance policy for violence. In the background, somewhere, a very violent Asian man both the heroes and villains have no small amount of caution around smiles manically. The man in the lab coat, his dark hair covering most of his face in a classic bowl cut, pushes up his glasses and walks toward the bartender. The noise above in Peak seems to have gone down, though it can still be felt in the vibrations of the wood.
Maria stares at the bartender. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six seconds and he's still staring - glaring now, balefully at his partner. "What do you think you're doing!?" The cook stalks toward the bar, leaning forward toward Ben. "Are you SERIOUS?" He pauses, letting the question sink in for a moment. "Are you crazy or something? Do you realize how much MONEY we'll LOSE you economically challenged pothead?" The commotion serves to stop his tirade before it kicks into full swing, and he turns to consider the Pub.
Candy sneaks a sidelong glance of the bloody-steak-eating fellow, who clearly looks as though he might say something if he wasn't stuffing his face with shreds of the steak. "You know, some people jump at the opportunity to drink port on the house."
Ben tries to ignore his business partner's gripes, but as he mixes the blonde's melontini he can't help but "Fuck off, Bamapana." He throws him a wink as well. "I got Force Majeure and The Exclusion Clause to do our taxes - you know they make anything into a profit." Ben finishes the drink in record time and sets it in front of the girl. "Ben Styx, nice to meet you." He's off to another patron as he finishes the greeting. "You know," he calls out, "If my worser half agrees we can write yours off as a charitable donation." The melontini has spontaneously changed into a very delicious looking port.
Erik says, "Perhaps." Erik looks at his free drink, and then back and the lady with the bright drink, and then to his water, and then back to the lady again. "But I'm not much of a drinker, my lady." Of course, that was a lie. He enjoyed a good drink, but simply wasn't up for it today for some reason unknown to even himself. "I very much enjoy the steak here, see.""
The man in the lab coat reaches the bar and immediately grabs up the blond woman's melontini-turned-port and downs it in one heavy chug. He sits on the stool between her and the large blond man chewing over his steak and eyes his port enviously. "Oh, hello." He begins, looking around at the four closest to him: Maria, Ben, Candy, and Erik. His voice is loud and annoying, and it sounds like he is there for a reason.
Maria's temple screws into a sigh of acceptance. "We'll see," he states, leaving it at that. His eyes settle on Erik, then on Candy. Lab coat gets a look. His lips twist in distaste at the man's choice of drink.
"Excuse me?" Candy looks all sorts of offended as she stares daggers at the lab coat. "Was there a sign that said, 'Drink me!' that I didn't see on my drink?" She pouts, and not in an entirely attractive way.
"You want a drink or you just going to steal from my patrons?" Ben isn't put-off by the larceny. "Anything you want - you get." He looks to be visibly refraining from stroking someone's cheek. "Welcome to the Pub. What brings you out tonight in," he eyes the rancid-looking lab-coat, "That?" Ben is, it should be pointed out, still not wearing any pants. His coat barely covers his best bits.
Watching the new lab coat man intrude, Erik pulls the free Port closer to himself, feeling somewhat protective of the free drink that he probably will end up not drinking. "Excuse me, you said your name was Ben Styx?" He eyes the bartender, stabs the slab of practically raw oxen-flesh with his fork. "Kindly get this lady here another drink." He refers to Candy next, "If you do not mind me purchasing it." He waves the half-eaten steak meat around as he speaks, before finally looking at lab coat man and tearing off a sizable chunk with his teeth. "And you, sir, that seemed rather rude of you." Erik's mouth was quite full of raw meat, but he still manages to speak in an oddly fancy way.
"Oh, I propose an adventure, friend. Five melontinis for the lot, please and thank you. Mr. Bamapana, Mr. Styx - join us, if you will. I meant no harm - all in the game, isn't it. Entrances must flash." The man speaks quickly and with a southern drawl, his words seeping into those around him like water to a sponge. "I assure you, it will be quite beneficial to the each of you." He smiles at each of the four, and his look is surprisingly infectious - though to the especially trained eye it may be a bit too put-on. "Have you ever heard of Asclepius Industries?"
"If you're a fucking health regulator…" Maria begins, his eyes narrowing on the man in the coat. "We're not even registered, so you came to the wrong place. It doesn't exist." He scowls. "And we'd like to keep it that way," he growls- attempting to be intimidating. Much like a miniature pinscher, really, with that narrow lapel linen suit that he's sporting tonight. "Chivalry," he adds as a comment thrown in Erik's direction. "The barbarians still think it makes them civilized." His attention waivers once more, and he's checking the hems of his pants. Never know when a thread comes loose.
"Change that to a screwdriver." The pretense of a pout has disappeared from Candy's face. Her eyes are cold now, and every indicator from her body language implies that she's attempting to shun the labcoat while acting gracious to steak man. "Adventure's a word for the storybooks, mister …." Then again, so's chivalry.
Ben makes five melontinis in as many seconds. It is rather mind-boggling - but transmutation ought to be abused as often as possible, he says. "Here we are - four shitty drinks." One of the melontini's becomes brown and emits red steam, another becomes orange and swirls about in the glass. "And one hot chocolate candy-cane spirit for me." He takes a sip. "What sort of adventure?"
"Whatever you're thinking, adventure sounds odd." He swallows hard once more, having barely even chewed the chunk of steak. "Makes one think we're going to slay dragons. Rescue a princess, maybe on the way." Although, that sounded like it could be worth while. He shrugs at Maria's comment. "Better aPharmaceuticals. Family member gone and injured by some medical mishap? A beloved chimp killed in their laboratories? Don't tell me you're a disgruntled employee who wants revenge."
\\"I'm out, boys and girl. I have customers to ogle and people to serve and miles to go before I stop reciting bad poetry." Ben Styx smiles dazzlingly toward a group of mynx-y villainesses and stalks toward them with his undrunken liquid chocolate elixir. "I'll send a friend when you need him. Have fun." Ben generally emits an aura of stupidity and obfuscation but now he seems to have at least an inkling of what he's talking about. "Ta!" gentleman than some asshole." Erik makes no attempt to hide his grimace as the melontini is presented to him. Instead, he decides to down the free port from earlier, in two large swigs.
"So are men who can fly and women from Venus, m'girl." The man sips his melontini with poise. "But the storybooks look a lot like nonfiction these days." He looks to the man eating steak. "No, my adventure doesn't have many dragons. Asclepius Industries is a small pharmecutical company - and they're dangerous. Evil, even." He takes another sip. "And I want to stop them. Adventurous enough for ya?"
Maria stays silent, seemingly content to actually listen to another person. At least for the next few seconds or so. It doesn't even last that long, though. "Evil. That's a word used by politico professionals and spin men. I don't believe in good and evil, Mr…what was your name?" The arch in his eyebrow is practiced. He hopes perfect, but it's clearly not. "Why should we risk our reputation to 'take down' a company - whether financially, politically, or if you're mad… physically?"
"What've they done to you?" Candy throws back at least half her drink before staring down the lab coat. "Let's see. Pharmaceuticals. Family member gone and injured by some medical mishap? A beloved chimp killed in their laboratories? Don't tell me you're a disgruntled employee who wants revenge."
"I'm out, boys and girl. I have customers to ogle and people to serve and miles to go before I stop reciting bad poetry." Ben Styx smiles dazzlingly toward a group of mynx-y villainesses and stalks toward them with his undrunken liquid chocolate elixir. "I'll send a friend when you need him. Have fun." Ben generally emits an aura of stupidity and obfuscation but now he seems to have at least an inkling of what he's talking about. "Ta!"
"Evil, you say?" At that, a fire was sparked inside of Erik that has yet to be lit in some time. "If the cause is actually worthwhile, and you are not like the lady says, a disgrunteled employee, I would consider lending you a hand." He takes a smaller, much more chewable bite from his steak. "If it turns out that you are doing this for the wrong reasons, you will regret it dearly, sir."
"Oh," the man in the lab coat begins. "It's Gil, brother." He finishes his melontini and glares at Erik's, wishing for spontaneous alcoholikinesis but lacking the will. "And Asclepius hasn't killed my chimp. They kidnapped my girlfriend. And they're making a retrovirus that will turn everyone who hasn't gone through puberty into a drone. Unless you're into that kind of thing." He looks between the remaining three. "We hit them hard, take out the virus, and leave no casualties. This is a humanitarian mission. I need people who want to make a difference. If we let them get away with this…" He doesn't need to finish his sentence.
"Why did they kidnap your girlfriend?" Maria frowns. "And more importantly, why not recruit from over there? Why…/us/?" He gestures toward the hero side of the pub. "Also, how do we know what you say is true? You'll have to forgive me, but I have a hard time believing you'd want two wash outs, a random woman at a bar, and some man meat to save the day."
There it is. That offended look again after being called 'a random woman'. Candy sticks out her lower lip before turning the full force of her pout towards the lab coat. "And then there's the issue of your girlfriend being kidnapped. Why do they need her? Unless she's prepubescent I shouldn't think you have much to worry about them testing it on her." She gives a vaguely endearing snort of a laugh at her own joke.
Ben soundly ignores the racket for a moment. "Don't be such a prick, Maria. Always knew you were a pedophile… but you, blond-who-hasn't-given-anyone-her-name - you're alright with letting the children be used?"
"…Did you just refer to me as man meat?" Erik puts his fork down, and raises in eyebrow. "Actually, I don't care, don't answer that." He turns back to coat man, "All jokes aside from these two, I'm in as long as you speak true, lab coat man."
"Oh, no, I have a great reason for recruiting you." He looks toward Maria. "I remember a time when Marduk was a fine hero. And Candy? Well, every group worth its salt needs a lady." The man in the lab coat ignores the growing din of the Pub. "Your man's right, pretty boy - this isn't some petty vendetta. Unless you really are a man of the cloth." The man looks toward Erik. "I don't tell lies, that's the truth. Tomorrow night - I'll meet you there. Asclepius Industries headquarters. Bring your A-game, heroes." The man sits up from the bar stool and drops a wad of cash on the bar counter.
"Fine. You clearly believe we can pull this off," Maria begins as he slides a plate filled with pesto-tortilla cake squares toward Gil. "The question is…how?" The glass on the bartop is his, and it's got something pale and vaguely green in it. Pear cider with mint, perhaps? "Whatever. I'll bring some tapas to snack on. We can take the company van, Ben."
Candy doesn't look so much startled that he knows her name as pleased. And she nods in agreement. "I don't bring anything but my A-game," she remarks before turning her full attention back to her drink.
Ben Styx is three sheets to the wind and two steps past caring. "SHOTS!" He eyes the wad of hundreds the lab-coat man left. "Drinks are on that guy!"
"Very well, lab coat man, or rather, Gil." Erik stands up from his stool, clearly having no intention of finishing his steak or even touching that melontini. "Well, friends, you may call me Erik. The pleasure is not mine. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, when the villains play hero."