milliways_bar | (no subject)

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(no subject)

The door opens, and a woman with long dark hair and a short black dress steps in.

Well, really, that's technically only partly true. But it's probably close enough to accurate. Workable, at any rate.

She stops and looks around. This doesn't feel like any bar she's ever been in before, and, darling, she has been in a lot of bars. Desperate people do like to drink, and a week in a bar here or there, that's like picking ripe fruit off low-hanging branches.

Well, well, well. Isn't this . . . interesting?

[OOC: If you're the sort who's good at recognizing demons, feel free. If you're not, though, chances are she's just going to come off as young human woman. Questions, etc., ping elsinorequeen.]

[tiny tag: the crossroads demon, cerberus]

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X's nostrils flare again, just slightly.

Sulfur is not very pleasant, especially to someone with heightened senses.

"Okay."

Beat.

"I am X-23."

This pause is not quite as long.

"You can call me Laura."

"Laura," she says. "It's very nice to meet you."

Though the other name is noted, too.

It's always good to know who -- or what -- you're dealing with.

"Okay," X says.

She is not sure what else to say to that.

And then--

"You are thirsty?"

Beat.

"The first drink is free."

Isn't Laura just terribly sweet and welcoming?

"That would be very nice.

"Is there anything you'd recommend?"

"I like milk," X offers.

"And root beer floats."

Then she falls silent

"Some people like alcohol, too. Even if it impairs their efficacy."

Root beer floats? Milk?

How . . . cloyingly sweet and digustingly wholesome.

(Alcohol she likes. Especially when other people drink it. It rather increases her efficacy.)

"I haven't had a root beer float in . . . well I don't think I've ever actually had one. I should rememdy that."

If she must.

X shrugs, one-shouldered and quick.

Disgustingly wholesome is a good description for her.

Um.

"You do not have to."

Beat.

While things are being awkward, X will signal a waitrat.

It arrives promptly, chittering at X as it approaches.

"I know," she says.

"But now I'm curious."

About a great many things.

"Okay," X says.

And then she orders two root beer floats.

The waitrat scurries away.

"You do not have any questions?"

There's a badge on X's belt, previously obscured by the fall of her tank top. It says she's on Security.

And that badge does not go unnoticed.

"Laura" certainly doesn't look like the kind of bar security Verity is used to encountering.

"Oh, I wouldn't even begin to know where to start."

She smiles.

"Is there anything you think I should know?"

X considers this. Carefully.

"There are rules."

Beat.

"You are not allowed to have sex downstairs. Or be naked."

Beat.

"You are not allowed to fight inside, or hurt people. And you are not allowed to bring in outside business."

Which is to say 'no grudges'.

. . . so what, exactly, does that leave to do?

"I'll keep all that in mind. Thank you."

"Sex upstairs is okay. There are rooms."

Beat.

"And a brothel."

X is helpful.

"And sometimes people cannot leave. The door does not open."

"I probably shouldn't say this, after all we have juts met, and it's a bit . . . well, forward. Or presumptious, might be a better word. But, Laura, you do seem just a little preoccupied with sex."

X tilts her head, studying Verity.

"Some people think it is important."

Beat.

"It does not make sense."

"Sex? Or people finding it important?"

(Verity finds it important. You'd be amazed what people are willing to give up, when they're thinking with the wrong part of their anatomy.)

"Both," X says after a moment.

"It is not relevant."

"Well, it's relevant if you don't want the species to die out."

And what fun would anyone have, without humans to entertain themselves with?

"I am a mutant," X says.

As if that explains everything.

"There are only two hundred of us left. Sex will not help."

Not that she thinks the same is true for humans. Still.

"Probably wouldn't hurt, either," Verity says.

And this considers this.

"Well, not much, anyway."

X is silent for a second. Or two.

Then--

"I do not think sex is supposed to hurt."

Verity shrugs.

"It's like the difference in vanilla ice cream and your root beer float. The first is fine, I guess, but it gets so much more entertaining when you add something with a little bite."

Or a lot of bite, as the case may be.

"Oh."

X considers that.

"I do not like being hurt."

"Some people do."

She might even go as far as to say that most people do, in some way or another, but then, she doesn't usually deal with the well-adjusted portions of humanity.

"What do you like?"

"I like Westerns. And folk music."

Beat.

"And protecting people."

This pause is longer.

"You like being hurt?"