It's All Fun and Games...
| It's All Fun and Games... | |
|---|---|
"Give me a heart attack, damn. What's wrong with you?" | |
| Players |
All Solomon wants is to get drunk and punch people. Why is it so hard?? |
It's a hot Chicago night - and inside the close-packed confines of the Rainbo Club, it's not just hot, it's sweltering. And it smells like spilled drinks and sweat, with just enough space near the stage to wiggle ones way to the bar. The tables are packed, the bar is packed. Music from the stage is making bones and eardrums vibrate as if they were being beaten with nerf bats. It's a good night, in other words. And here's Solomon, clutching his glass with a cheaply-made Old Fashioned, and dressed casual in a t shirt and jeans. This is clearly not his first drink; his eyes are a little bit glassy as he listens to the band, drinks his drink and...is he kicking the ankle of the person in front of him?? Yes, yes he is. Just occasionally, just hard enough to make them jump and look around, and he gives them a blank, uncomprehending look whenever they turn to try and figure out who in the press is DOING that. Apparently anywhere there's some interesting music happening is where Javi is going to be. At least, he's two for two. He's probably not at every single one -- Chicago is big, after all, and he can't be in two places at once. OR CAN HE?! Well, no. He's a mere mortal. Mostly. But in any case, he is here, and he's managed to procure a beer somehow even though the crowd around the bar is at least five or six levels deep. What he has not managed to procure is a seat, but he seems to be fine with standing. He takes a sip from his beer as he looks around, waiting for the act to take the stage -- and that's when he catches sight of Solomon. He doesn't see the kicks, as it's far too tightly packed for that, but he sees the man's face, and he immediately recognizes it. It would be difficult not to. However, after a moment's hesitation, he opts not to go over there immediately. Well, for one, it would take him a while in the crush. But for two, well...who knows what other reasons he has. Whatever they are, he stays put for how. He does cast a glance over there every so often, though, like he's keeping tabs on where the man is. It takes a while. After all, Solomon has one victim already, and the music is pretty damn good (and pretty damn loud), so he's not actively looking for someone else to bother. But as he's taking a drink, and thinking about shimmying his way towards the bar to get another? He catches sight of Javi. And then, Solomon disappears. Of course, what he's actually doing is using the crowd for cover, trying wriggle and writhe his way through the bodies to attempt to come around to behind where Javi's standing. And if he gets that far? To say, right into the man's ear, "Where the hell do you live?" One moment, Solomon is there...and the next he's gone. Those tabs were not kept very well tonight. Maybe Javi's a little drunk, too! Or maybe Sol is just that good. In any case, when his next glance that way does not have him seeing what he want to see, his eyebrows raise, and he turns to scan for him more purposefully. Of course, with Solomon coming up behind him, it doesn't help. "What the fuck!" He only jumps a little bit, but it's enough. He whips around, lurching away and into the guy who's standing basically shoulder to shoulder with him on the opposite side. "Watch it!" the guy says, nudging-slash-shoving him back, and Javi lifts an apologetic hand. "Sorry, man," he replies, since it really was his fault. But actually it was really Solomon's fault, and so when he looks back over again he's scowling. "Give me a heart attack, damn. What's wrong with you?" Solomon laughs with delight when poor Javi jumps and gets shoved back. The glare meets his grin. "You're too young for a heart attack. You're fine, Javi." He takes a drink. "You're really fucking hard to find, you know. Couldn't even find anything about track meets," he claims, with drunken sulkiness. "Where do you live? What's your full name?" Because Javi is definitely gonna give all that information to creepy professor guy who just snuck up on him. Sol's reply has Javi's eyes rolling so hard they threaten to fall right out of his head, but instead of snapping back -- for the moment -- he takes another drink of his beer. A long one this time. If this is anything like the other day, he might end up losing it. "Oh yeah?" He adopts a very surprised expression, though it doesn't quite land, what with the lingering annoyance and some dry amusement that's rising, too. "You didn't find nothing searching up 'Javi track high school?' No way. That's crazy. You musta did it wrong." And no, he does not give out too much more info. "Why you so interested?" he asks instead. Solomon rolls his eyes, a touch indignantly. "Obviously not. I went to the newspaper, accessed their back issues, cross-referenced the last ten years of high school athletic events and looked through photos for matches. There weren't any," he adds, accusingly. Bad Javi, not leaving an easily accessible paper trail. He drains his drink, gestures at the stage. "You got good taste in bands. And just go along with an impromptu attempted murder investigation. Very rare combination, you know. Why?" He grins, baring his teeth. "You don't think you're interesting?" "What the fuck?" Javi may have briefly relaxed -- or been on his way to it, anyway -- but the extent of Solomon's search has his back up again, and any amusement gives way to a distinct wariness. "You know that's fucking weird, right?" he continues, shaking his head a little bit in disbelief. "You didn't find nothing in there 'cause I ain't from here. Didn't go to school here." Though again, he does not offer where he did go to school. And actually, he takes a moment to locate the nearest exit. Solomon is in between him and it. Shoot. "Not really," he continues in response to whether he thinks he's interesting, holding his ground for now. He can't make a dash for it. Too crowded. "Just over here living my life. You gave me your number anyway, only been a couple days. Maybe give me a minute, Doctor Bug Professor." It's possible he looked up 'entomology.' Solomon thinks about that, then says, "Everyone has to have a hobby, Javi." And apparently Dr. Jessup's is stalking. Stalking Javi. Ain't he lucky? But he does clatter the ice in his glass and give him a tipsy smile. "You sell yourself short. I'm gonna get a refill. What are you drinking? I'll grab you a second." There's a thoughtful pause, before he adds, "I'm not hitting on you, and I'm not gonna spike your drink." Because surely that will be very reassuring. He grins at the 'Doctor Bug Professor'. "Why wait? Time is a finite resource." Yes, none of this is creeping Javi out at all. Except all of it, and very much so. His eyes narrow as he regards the other man, tilting his head up just a bit so he can really meet his eyes, though a moment later he seems as if he wishes he had not. Oh well. He also pretty clearly had been wondering about at least the former, though the assurance is, indeed, not much of one. However, a moment later he lifts the bottle and points to the label in tacit acceptance of the offer -- Pacifico. "Too young to be worrying about that, right?" he throws back, a sort of echo of the other man's previous comment, and he actually smiles, too. Despite that wariness, the smile is bright and wide, and too sweet to look like it belongs in this place, or this conversation. He drains the rest of the bottle in preparation for the next one, threading an arm through to set it down on a table as he says something else. But it's a little strange -- Solomon has already started toward the bar, and the words are quiet, so it's unlikely he's talking to him. But who else would he be talking to? "Man, not now. Go away." It's accompanied by another flick of his hand near his ear. Solomon is OBLIVIOUS. Look, he's had a bit to drink, and the club is very loud. So Javi gets away with his mutter to his invisible friend, and it's only a few minutes before Solomon weaves his way back to Javi, another old fashioned in one hand, and a cold bottle of Pacifico in the other. He offers the latter with a flourish and says, "Youth is no reason to waste time. But," a waggle of his glass, "I concede your point. So. Javi." He twists around to study the crowd. "Who's the asshole in this crowd?" A moment later, he adds, "I don't fucking count." "You ever met a youth before?" Though the point has already been conceded, so Javi leaves it there and takes the beer instead. Now it is the recipient of his wary gaze, and he mutters, "Gonna wake up in a bathtub missing a kidney." However, that doesn't stop him from raising it toward Solomon a moment later with a nod. "Thanks." He takes a sip, turning to look out over the crowd of people. Solomon's comment elicits a snort, and he turns back to eye the man over the sop of the bottle. "Why?" he asks once he's swallowed. "You looking to throw down? Aren't you, like, a professional? Doctor and everything." "I teach youth," Solomon says, with a sniff. "Rumor has it that I even was one, once upon a time." Although really, he only looks in his late thirties, from up close. His eyes sparkle a bit. "I'm very fucking professional, Javi. But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." He takes a drink. "Why? You gotta better idea on how to spend the evening? I mean, fuck, I wasn't gonna interrupt the show." "Oh yeah, I bet you were." Javi's not running yet, at least not until he finishes his beer -- and he does look a bit less on edge, despite this professional adult who's apparently going to kick someone's ass. "You better fucking not, man," he continues. "Been looking forward to this for a minute so you make me waste the cover charge and I'm gonna be pissed." He takes another pull, returning to his scan of the crowd, though a little more purposefully this time. "Probably that guy," he eventually decides, nodding to a decidedly former-frat-turned-probable-hedge-fund-manager-looking guy who's standing a few rows of people in front of them. "But you better watch out 'cause those assholes are like fucking ants. You squash one and they come crawling out of the woodwork." He obviously does not think Solomon is actually going to do it. "I didn't grow out of a cabbage patch, Javi." Solomon grins cheerfully. His eyes flick towards the Chosen Asshole, then to the band, who are rocking pretty hard, and back to Asshole and His Friends. "Oooh, rich and pissy. Annnnd," his eyes flick back and forth through the crowd until he makes a pleased sound, and says, "Look at that. You're right. He brought friends." His fingers flick out to point out Hedge Fund Douche 2 and 3, and posssibly 4. He hums along with the melody line for a moment, then says, "Should be the end of the set in a couple minutes. This'll be fun. In the meantime, Javi, tell me what you do with yourself." "Hm." Javi doesn't argue -- not out loud, anyway. Instead, he looks around at the entourage when Solomon points them out, then nods. "Yep. You see 'em in here all the fucking time," he confirms. "This place's gonna be a fucking food tour stop before long." It's said with just a hint of disgust, but also plenty of resignation. After all, what's he going to do about it? He turns back to the stage, nodding along with the rhythm of the song, too, before he casts another glance to Solomon. "Not a lot," he replies with a shrug. "Just hang out. Work. Not, like, interesting work. Just dumb shit. Kinda looking for something more serious, I guess." A beat; then: "What kinda stuff you teach? Like real bugs?" "Very real bugs. Right now, not teaching anything; summer. But I teach freshman biology, and several entomology classes. Including a couple of forensic entomology classes; that's using bugs to give time of death for corpses, or figure out where the body was originally stored or killed. It's fun," Solomon says, cheerfully. He makes a thoughtful and pleased noise at the idea that Javi has nothing keeping him from being fun with Solomon. Probably should have invented a highly demanding and time-consuming career. TOO LATE NOW. The set is winding down, and Sol makes a low chuckle as the music winds down. "Best thing about douchebags? They tend to react to fear with swagger. Watch this." And then? ...he starts to stare at the Chosen douche. It's a very marked stare, even through the crowd. It tends to penetrate, but it takes a few minutes for the twitchy being-watched-feeling to really SINK IN. "Oh yeah." Javi has obviously forgotten about summer. Well, he's been out of high school for at least some amount of time, even if he still looks pretty young, and he's not going to college or he probably would have said so. Maybe. Who knows! However, he does add, almost grudgingly, "That's kinda cool. Gross, but yeah." Semi-cool. He doesn't seem to pick up on his misstep yet, at least -- he's busy listening to the music, and also now watching Sol. It seems things are progressing now. "Oh yeah?" He watches expectantly for something to happen...but it's just a stare. At first, he snorts again, looking skeptical. But as it goes on, he starts looking a little uneasy again. And then more so, because there really is something about that stare. Eventually, he even leans a tiny bit away himself. It's not a flashy way of starting a fight. But when you pick the right target, the guy looks back, realizes this creepy guy is staring at him. First he rolls his eyes, jokes to a friend about drunks, goes back to listening. But as the band goes silent to get their drinks, and Solomon doesn't stop staring, there's something that just...becomes hard to ignore. He scowls, flips Sol the finger. Sol just smiles, takes a drink, and keeps staring. He does a slow up and down with obvious contempt on his face And that's it. The combination of unrelenting stare and challenge is impossible to ignore. The douche mutters something, then pushes through the crowd towards Solomon and Javi. "What the FUCK is your problem, man?" he says, just as tipsy as Solomon, and all puffed up like a bantam. Sol grins and says to Javi, "See? Works every fucking time." And then? Then he finishes off his drink and sets the glass down on some random table, ignoring the indignant protest. When he turns back, it's with a punch ready, popping the guy right in the nose with excellent form and no hesitation. His grin is wide and a little mad. The small and scrawny form of a wispy little woman makes her way through the crowded bar room with her hands tucked in to the front joined pocket of her faded 'Harvard' hoody, just another figure that is hard to notice in the crowd. Mae Duponte's hood is pulled up and her unkempt, dark brown hair frames her face which rests in an expression that is halfway vacant and halfway aloof. Just like that, little Mae ends up at Javi's elbow just as Solomon is throwing that punch. Yes, Javi is really exceedingly creeped out now. This is not what he'd expected when he'd come out tonight, and while it might have been fun to imagine the douchebros getting knocked around a little bit, he didn't actually think Solomon was going to do it. It is becoming increasingly clear that not only is he going to do it, but that it's quite possibly going to turn into something very different than a typical bar fight. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to articulate why he feels that way -- it's just a feeling. But he has had experience knowing that when he gets that sort of feeling, it's correct more often than not. So, when Solomon turns to address him again, the smile is nowhere to be seen. He just murmurs something unintelligible but vaguely affirmative, and right about when the man throws that punch, he just melts into the crowd and disappears. Not in any supernatural way. Just like he's had a whole lot of practice disappearing in exactly that way. In fact he does it so well that if Solomon looks back for him, it may seem like he's actually turned into Mae right in front of his eyes. He will not be returning to this spot tonight. So much for the cover charge. Did Solomon just ruin Javi's perfectly normal night? Maybe so. When Javi's face isn't smiling, Solomon might have a moment of hesitation...but the die is cast. So he pops the douche one and the douche's head rocks back...but then he comes back with a decent punch of his own. Solomon flails back and instead of reaching for Javi, like he intended, he grabs out and touches Mae instead. He blinks in surprise. "Mae? Whatever are you--wait a sec!" That's because he's trying to punch the guy back, but it's handily blocked. The guy screams something with a lot of curse words, and it is on, as his friends make their way through the crowd (who is alternative clearing out or starting to cheer). "C'mon, Mae," Solomon calls with a wild grin. "Let's play! Don't eat anyone!" Mae sniffs at the FEAR that emanates from Javi as he makes that quick escape before Solomon's grabbing touch has her head snapping back toward him. She stares at him with those dull, milky-white eyes before offering him a filthy, sharp-toothed smile. The hood falls from the gollum-like creature's head as she turns to face the first guy even as his friends run in to back him up. Solomon's drink is snatched up from the table and Mae uses her bare hands, lethal claws unseen by the mortals, to smash the glass between her palms while staring at that poor soul. The douchebag may not see beyond the small woman's mask but he is affected by the contract all the same. The taste of fear fills the room mixed with the smell of sweat and urine as he loses it and turns to run, leaving his approaching friends confused as they alternate between watching the man flee and looking back to the pair of eager Lost. Solomon is bouncing one his feet, ready to punch! When Mae's smashing glass and supernatural creepiness sends his target fleeing back into the crowd. A look of //inexpressible// disappointment crosses Sol's face. Then it turns into reluctant amusement as he considers the spreading stain on the guy's designer jeans as he disappears into the press. He snickers. He grins at douche-friends, and taunts them. "What, you guys gonna turn tail and run like your coward of a friend?" No, no they are not. They come in punching at Solomon and Mae, but their drunken swings are easily deflected. Solomon is laughing as he punches back, even if his blows are just glancing. He's notably NOT using his own lethal claws, nor is there the whiff of active glamour about him as he pivots and punches. Mae? Mae is not as gentle. The normally quiet woman's soft and pretty little voice may sound comical when she lets out a high-pitched roar before she lunges at the second of the friends and latches on to his throat with both of her lethal hands. The two immediately fall to the floor and the small gollum-like creature straddles her 'prey' and begins to strangle him. There is something in the Wyrd, though. An ignition of glamour as a contract is invoked. To Solomon, the little woman's muscles seem to be growing while her own prey is weakened. Solomon staggers to a halt as Mae goes for the throat. Literally. His eyes widen. "Jesus-fuck, Mae," he shouts, "Let him go!" And now Sol is reaching out to try and grab her hands and pull them away from the guy's throat before she can do some real damage. Mae lets out a throaty hiss and bares those terribly sharp teeth at Solomon when he moves to grab her hands as she properly throttles the poor man. Everyone is watching, now. In addition to strangling his throat by cutting off his airway and esophagus, the small creature begins to bash the back of his head into the floor while hissing toward the nearby crowd. It's going to take more than a little grab to stop her. Solomon snarls back at the hiss, and in the dim light and chaos of the club, mortals aren't likely to notice that his fingernails suddenly seem to sport ragged claws. To Lost eyes, of course, it's just a lengthening and sharpening of already sharp claws to something that could rip through flesh with devastating force. Since Mae's hands are occupied, he simply settles his claws against her throat. There's no pleasure in his face; that's all gone. There's only cold fury. "Let him the fuck go, Mae, or I'm going to tear your throat out." And to ensure that she understands how serious he is, there's the ping of Glamour as he seals his own words. Mae's lips press together and form a tight, thin line while her nose and forehead scrunch into an expression of fury and disobedience. The poor man receives one last throttling that has his head smashing against the floor and then the darkling is releasing his throat and lifting her own hands up, fingers and sharp talons splayed out. Her glare for Solomon is cold and furious. The small darkling draws more than one 'What the fuck?!'s when she bends down and brings her face and mouth close to her victim's own gasping and blubbering mouth, then licks him from chin to nose before inhaling the scent with a quick, sharp intake of her nostrils. Cold fury is met stare for stare. This time, Solomon has clearly run out of his patience with his fellow Lost, and his faceted green eyes are the embodiment of merciless, primal predation. "Back the fuck off," he tells Mae, and his voice is low enough that it's more the shape of his lips and the intensity of his stare that convey it. There's no _or else_, no suggestion from the Hunterheart that failure to comply is even an option. Then he looks away, to the reeling mortals. He makes a noise, and says more loudly, to the guy left standing, "Take your friend. Get him some medical attention. We're done." Now he's turning away, and the crowd moves away from his stare as he stalks to the exit. Mae scrambles off of the man in a quick and perhaps creepy manner, then almost immediately uses the sleeve at her wrist to wipe at the tears that are immediately starting to roll down her cheeks. It's not clear whether her actions or Solomon's terrifying stare down are the source of those tears, though, and Mae doesn't stick around long enough to offer any more clues. She turns even as Solomon is addressing the group and stalks toward the door. One poor soul steps in to try to block her, mumbling something about '...wait for the cops...' but Mae sends him sprawling with a shove that is fueled by uncanny strength. The small darkling is out the door and gone from sight almost immediately. Solomon is sorely tempted to just let Mae go, his own seething anger still in the forefront of his mind. But once he hits the muggy air, and takes a breath, he mutters something to himself, shakes his head. In the distance, there's a call; a guy walking down the street, selling tamales to the drunk and drugged from a small cooler. Solomon flags the guy down, and buys six tamales, stuffing them in a small plastic bag the guy gives him. And then he goes looking for the other Autumn, stalking through the darkness, sniffing and peeking into the alleyways, to see if he can find her or if she's gone well and truly to ground. It isn't very long before Solomon finds the little gristlegrinder squatting atop a closed dumpster that is adjacent to the rear entrance of a small, walk-in eatery. Her hood has been pulled up over her head and her face is mostly obscured by the unkempt, dark brown hair that spills out on either side. Her mouth twists as she bites her lip in a show of stubbornness and frustration. Solomon stops when he catches sight of her. He huffs out a breath, then walks up to her. He doesn't really say anything. He just dips his hand into the bag, pulls out a tamale, still wrapped and steaming, and offers it up to her once he's moved so that she can see him. There's no visible sign of fear when Mae sees Solomon but there is a clear demonstration of muted anger. The tamale gives her pause, but then she is pulling off her hood and rising to her feet on top of that dumper so she can glare down at him from above. A fist raises and she jabs her finger out at him, indicating him before turning to point in the general direction of the bar. Both hands come together as she punches the palm of her other hand, then she points at Solomon again before slapping her own breasts through the thick cotton of her 'Harvard' sweater. Mae snarls quietly and shakes her head before she crouches down and bats at the offered tamale. The batting is half-hearted compared to her previous show. Solomon keeps holding the tamale. When she bats at it, he just brings it back to the same position. "Don't you even start," he says, and there's an edge of simmering anger still in his own voice. "You could have killed that man. You may be a Clarity disaster, but surely you're not that far gone?" He doesn't sound entirely certain of that, and his gaze on her is assessing, weighing. The small creature crouches down and snatches the tamale with a forceful grip that reveals the lingering strength provided by the Wyrd. That poor man is probably struggling to lift his own body weight after having his strength stolen from him during that terrible grapple. Mae sniffs at the tamale before tearing into it with her teeth and she chews while ignoring Solomon's question, milky-eyes finding some spot that is clearly 'not him' where they can settle and stare. Solomon doesn't demand she look at him. He just reaches into the bag and lifts another tamale. He does say, very dry, "You don't usually eat the wrapping." But he's not going to stop her from chasing her joy in that regard. "Mae. You shouldn't just tear into people who can't fight back. Not over a bar brawl. You've got a lot of power. It's the Gentry who just use power however they like, and make everyone else take it. We're not them. We may not be them, either," he waves back towards the bar and its human crowds, "but we still have boundaries. We choose them, and they are ours. But we have to be more than just predators." That tamale never stood a chance, wrapper and all. Mae's chin wears the glories of that 'battle' and she doesn't bother to wipe it away before she reaches out and snatches the second tamale from Solomon's hand. Her voice is small, pretty sounding, and laced with anger and frustration. "Yooooooou. Maaaaaade. Meeeeee. Doooooo. IT!" She coughs once as if her throat is bothering her, tears a bite of that fresh tamale with her sharp teeth, and then speaks while her mouth is full in what is a feeble but semi-accurate attempt to mimic Solomon's voice and mannerisms. - "C'mon, Mae." "Let's play! Don't eat anyone!" Solomon's eyebrows go up. He looks momentarily impressed at the adept mimicry. "I said _play_. Not _kill_." His lips press together. "You don't go full out against mortals, Mae. Not over a bit of fun. Fists and feet, not to do major damage, just a bit of a tussle, then you run away when the police get close." He sighs. "And I didn't make you do anything. I invited you to play. I thought you knew what that meant. But I do apologize that I got that wrong." A hand dips into the bag, and there's a third tamale lifted up. Mae finishes that second tamale and reaches for the first. It's less of a snatch and more of a regular grab. She still won't look Solomon in the eyes, though. The darkling also offers no more verbal replies to him but just rubs at her throat while remaining crouched, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She tears into tamale #3 with a little less enthusiasm.
Solomon reaches for another tamale. But this one, he doesn't offer to Mae. Instead, he wanders to the other side of the alley where he can lean his back against the bricks, and unwraps the tamale for his own enjoyment. "This fucking guy," he says, waggling the tamal, "he just walks in the night, selling tamales out of this cooler. And they're amazing. He must spend all day making them, and then most of the night, walking and getting drunks to pay for food they'll barely remember in the morning. I gotta admire that." He takes a bite. "Delicious food." "Yeeeeah." Mae's small voice barely reaches Solomon across the alleyway. "Delicccccciousssssss." and then she is scarfing down the rest of the tamale before hopping off of the dumper and stalking off, deeper into the darkness and away from the Lost behind her. This time, Solomon doesn't follow her. He watches her go, sighs, and then wanders off himself, taking morose bites of the tamale and watching the people who drift through the night. | |