Zinda Blake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zerocharliexray) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
milliways_bar2021-07-27 08:45 pm
zerocharliexray) wrote in milliways_bar2021-07-27 08:45 pm
Bartending with a Blackhawk!
Things are a little... strange on the Aerie One.
Maybe strange isn't the right word. Maybe it's more like strained. Helena's taken her belongings and run off God only knows where, and Dinah's on her way to Asia, traveling with Zinda's old bar buddy, Wildcat, and the Skipper...
Well, suffice it to say even Zinda's ever-present cheer has gotten a little dinged, so once she's bedded the Aerie One down for the night and brought the Skipper a sandwich – more out of optimism than realistic expectation – she pats the door to the cockpit and murmurs a few soft and encouraging words.
The door rewards her with the bustle and warmth of Milliways, and Zinda pushes her hand back through her hair and grins and grins and grins.
"Sis," she tells the bar once she makes her way there, "you sure have swell timing."
A napkin appears along with Zinda's cold bottle of beer, and she reads the note on it before laughing. "Whatever you say," she says, and parks her pert bottom on the bartop so she can swing her legs up and over, landing on the other side. She grabs a marker and writes:
Specials
She can be found behind the bar for the rest of the night, cleaning glasses and whistling Andrews Sisters' classics to herself.
C'mon, Milliways. Tell Zinda your troubles. What the heck else is a bartender for?
Maybe strange isn't the right word. Maybe it's more like strained. Helena's taken her belongings and run off God only knows where, and Dinah's on her way to Asia, traveling with Zinda's old bar buddy, Wildcat, and the Skipper...
Well, suffice it to say even Zinda's ever-present cheer has gotten a little dinged, so once she's bedded the Aerie One down for the night and brought the Skipper a sandwich – more out of optimism than realistic expectation – she pats the door to the cockpit and murmurs a few soft and encouraging words.
The door rewards her with the bustle and warmth of Milliways, and Zinda pushes her hand back through her hair and grins and grins and grins.
"Sis," she tells the bar once she makes her way there, "you sure have swell timing."
A napkin appears along with Zinda's cold bottle of beer, and she reads the note on it before laughing. "Whatever you say," she says, and parks her pert bottom on the bartop so she can swing her legs up and over, landing on the other side. She grabs a marker and writes:
Specials
She can be found behind the bar for the rest of the night, cleaning glasses and whistling Andrews Sisters' classics to herself.
C'mon, Milliways. Tell Zinda your troubles. What the heck else is a bartender for?
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And she does indeed look sympathetic, but she shrugs it off with a smile. "Somethin' else, then? Or you just lookin' for some company?"
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"And if there's a bottle labelled TruBlood in the fridge over there, I'll able to enjoy a drink as well."
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Her glance skates over the bottles in the fridge and lands on a row of short, squat ones filled with a viscous red liquid. Zinda pulls one out and puzzles over the label for a second, then looks back over at him.
"Vampire, huh?"
It doesn't seem to bother her. (She's seen stranger.) "There's a few kinds in here; you got a particular type you like?"
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His smile says as much.
"Yes," he says. "Vampire. If there's an O Negative, that'd be great. It's synthetic, but the flavour does improve with a little shy of a minute in the microwave."
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Curiosity drives her to sniff at the cap as the microwave whirs. It smells coppery and salty. Like blood, which she guesses is the main point.
Once the timer dings, she gets the warmed bottle and re-caps it, shaking it up so he doesn't come across any surprising cold spots, and sets it in front of him. "Here y'are," she says. "Synthetic blood; ain't that somethin'? Must be pretty handy for you."
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"It can certainly be drunk cold, but -" he pulls a face.
"And it is very handy. It helped facilitate our move toward citizenship more than anything," he says and then he adds, with a crooked smile, 'Of course, it does take some of the excitement of of it."
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"Y'know, I don't think I've met a real, actual vampire before?" She nocks her hip against the bartop and studies him with interest. He's a tall drink of water and no mistake, but graveyard-pale.
Which makes sense, she supposes. "Anythin' I oughta know before I go puttin' my foot in my mouth?"
Hell, even vampires have feelings... or so she guesses. The last thing she wants to do as bartender tonight is accidentally offend somebody, even if that somebody happens to be a night-walking, fanged predator.
At least he's a polite one.
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He takes a sip from the bottle and licks his lips thoughtfully.
"Some here consider me an animated corpse. I must admit I find that rather offensive. I've even had people refuse me service here for that reason."
His groin turns rakeish.
"Some insist that it has nothing to do with me being a vampire. They just think I'm a bastard."
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She looks a little amused. "Are you?"
He doesn't seem all that bad to her so far, but she's always been inclined to think the best of everyone until proven otherwise.
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"I was a Viking before I became a vampire. That took a certain - assertiveness."
As she might imagine.
"These days I own a nightclub. You don't get ahead by being nice."
He tips his bottle at her.
"Though it seems to work for you. I'm Eric by the way."
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"Zinda Blake. Though I ain't always so nice. Tell you what: you don't be a bastard to me and I'll keep bein' nice to you. Deal?"
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"And if I misbehave, you can go right ahead and be mean. Unless of course, you find yourself enjoy the misbehaving."
You never know.
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"When pigs fly," she tells him, cheerily. "What I wanna know is how a vampire who used to be a viking wound up with a nightclub. Seems like a real change in direction."
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"With the citizenship we can own property, run a business."
Another sip.
"And my establishment cater to vampires and humans who are - fascinated by them."
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The look she gives him is curious. "There a lot of those? Humans who're interested in vampires?"
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"Sailing out, headed for glory. Driving into work to meet with the accountant doesn't really scratch that itch."
As for her other question -
"Oh yes. We're ancient and dangerous. Loads of people find that irrisistable."
His lips quirk.
"It's good for business."
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Ancient and dangerous; she can see how that would be a draw. Humans always have had a fascination for the things that can kill them. "Well, glad to hear you found your niche," she says, supportive.
Vampire or no, the fella deserves to have a solid business. "You like it?"
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"I could do without most of the fangbangers, but I suppose there's are downsides to all jobs."
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She doesn't ask for an explanation. The meaning seems... obvious. "I guess that's so."
She's speaking academically, of course. There aren't any downsides to her job that she can see.
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He does.
He doesn't agree with their own evaluation of course, but most fangbangers are pathetic and that is a definite turnoff.
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"Still, seems you've done pretty well for yourself."
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"And what do you do? When you aren't getting people drinks here?"
And just how friendly are you?
Leaning in a little.
Smiling.
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Bless Todd. He'd tried.
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He sounds approving, not disbelieving.
"That must have been confusing for some of the traditionalists."
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She's not in uniform right now, but the yellow and black Blackhawk logo is printed onto the back of her slim-fitting t-shirt. "Bart – Blackhawk, that is, the leader of my squadron – just about had kittens when I showed up and told him I wanted to fly with him and the boys."
Her smile's fond, though; it all worked out in the end. "I guess you were probably around during the war, too, huh? Seeing as you're..."
Zinda pauses and attempts some quick mental calculation, then shakes her head. "How old are you? If it ain't rude to ask."
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