Open Mic Night

[Riordan Silverlance]

Timeframe: Evening
Date: July 1st, 2030
Place: The Buckhorn Exchange, Denver
Status: Rio, open to whomever!

Crowds were never Rio's favorite. Perhaps it owed to growing up in the base where the quantity of people was never overwhelming, or perhaps it was the ingrained instinct to remain unnoticed. Nevertheless, there were those nights when Rio would hop in a transport heading for Denver and face the crowds if only to get himself lost in them for a short while. Sometimes it was nice to be anonymous, and tonight it sounded far more appealing than usual.

The half-elf's usual haunt was a pre-Ragnarök joint called the Buckhorn Exchange. Though the fallout of the apocalypse had left the bar's taps dry, save for when the proprietors dared to re-appropriate some ethanol or make their own heady booze from their food rations, the Buckhorn had never hurt for popularity. It was one of the first adult establishments that Rio had entered when he came of age earlier this year and couple the interior studded with taxidermied moth-eaten animals and the fact that they often had an open microphone night, the Buck (as Rio affectionately referred to the place) because his favorite place in Denver to waste a night.

It would be some time yet before Rio decided to have a few shots of courage courtesy of the newly-brewed grain alcohol that leaked from the taps, but that didn't stop him from assuming the stage with his guitar when the chance came. His jean-clad legs seemed to burn underneath the glare from a refurbished spotlight, his gray and tassled scarf constricted around his throat like a boa constrictor, and Rio soon feared that his black t-shirt would be plastered to his body from sweat. Nevertheless, Rio's ashen fingers plucked at his guitar strings as beads of sweat populated in the coverage of his hairline. Should have pulled it back, the half-elf thought of his dense and long brown hair. But he couldn't focus on that now.

The young adult warbled through an acoustic version of Elvis Presley's "I'm All Shook Up" to the patrons of the Buck. Were he a braver soul upon the stage, he might have even tried to dance a little, but his legs were shaking and his flip-flops were slick with sweat by the time he hit the first chorus.

Somehow, he soldiered through it and slipped off the stage to a round of smattered applause as the next victim came up on stage. Rio was no Jimi Hendrix, but at least he wasn't booed this time. "I need a drink," the young man murmured to himself, loosening the scarf around his throat as he packed up his guitar.

[Maggie Bruttenholm]

Stomping a heavy boot on the edge of a rock to knock the clumps of mud from it, Maggie straightened and looked across the courtyard at the entryway Buckhorn. People filtered in and out and the heady sound of music could be heard, mixing with the casual bantering of the crowd. Sliding a hand into her duster pocket, she pulled free a flat tin case and popped it open for a hand rolled cigarette. Tapping the end, she slid it between dark red lips and pulled a match out, catching it on the edge of her horn. Curling her hand around the stick to protect it from the wind, it glowed a cherry red as smoke curled from her mouth. The demon closed the case with a snap and slid it back into its pocket before dropping the extinguished match on the ground.

Abe had been getting on her case lately about finishing file work and instead of being the total responsible adult she was and finishing it, she took off for the evening. Dropping by Trevor’s room, he was nowhere to be seen and she scrawled him a quick note where she might be and took off, catching a late transport by climbing the back of it. She didn’t bother worrying about it because really, who was going to say no to her? Maggie had quickly established a reputation of being difficult and most found it was easy just to ignore the big red demon in the room.

Still dressed in her work clothes, sans belt and Betsy, Maggie tugged the duster around the handles of the curved daggers strapped to her thighs and took off. She got the occasional glance, one young man blatantly staring at her the entire time she walked and her tail snapped agitatedly. Taking a long drag of her cigarette, she pivoted suddenly toward the man, “What are you looking at!” Her voice boomed, the smoke pouring from her mouth as she snarled back at him and she couldn’t help but grin as the man all but shrieked as he scurried away.

Chuckling, she chomped on the cigarette, swiveling it to the side of her mouth as she continued on to the Buckhorn. It wasn’t her usual haunt, preferring the more quieter and drunken hobo establishment, the kind no one went to. There she could get a beer, eat some salty hydrated peanuts that weren’t really peanuts as she was pretty sure they were some sort of soybean extract shaped to look like it and not be bothered. It was cheap and easy like a date and just the way she liked it. So she glared heatedly at the Closed sign for several minutes before heading back toward the main courtyard.

Twisting sideways, she shouldered her way through a small group of people blocking the doorway and bent slightly as her horns had a habit of clipping doorframes. Once inside, she took a moment to adjust to the low light and made a beeline for the bar, taking an open stool when it opened up. Tucking a boot around one of the stool legs she leaned forward and studied the sign hanging up above a mirrored wall, the perfectly written script detailing what was on tap that night. Dropping her elbow on the edge of the bar, she cupped her chin and chewed on her cigarette, dropping ash down the front of her navy blue tank top. An old weathered black scarf dangled loosely around her neck, unraveled to drape half way to the floor and the black shorts, speckled with old blood and dirt rode high along a thick red thigh but she paid little attention to it as she stretched a hand out, waving it catch the bartender’s attention.

She pointed at the closest tap, not really caring and held up one finger. When the drink made it’s way to her a few minutes later, she casually opened a tab as she was going to make the owner a rich man tonight. Picking up the glass, she stared at caramel colored drink inside and with a speculative frown, took a sip. She set it down with a grimace and ran her tongue against her teeth to try and scrap off the taste. That was not beer. She wasn’t even sure it was a vague form of alcohol, tasting too much like sweetened cinnamon and horse piss. Maybe they had something better, she hoped at least the food was good.

Shifting in the stool, the noises of the crowd around her blended into a one long drone of annoyance until a single voice rose above it. Maggie lifted her head from staring down at her drink, willing herself to take another sip and searched the crowds for the familiar voice. Yellow eyes landed on the lone figure light up on stage and she opened her mouth to say something, before closing it and watched her old friend make a fool out of himself. He was good, but what kind of friend would she be if she told him.

She sat in relative silence, enjoying the quiet moment listening to him and the round of applause when he finished. She clapped too, muffled by the fingerless gloves and took a big swing from the drink in front of her, not wanting it to go waste. Standing, she adjust the duster briefly, the fraying BPRD patch sewn along the shoulder declaring who she worked for and cupped her hand, not really needing it to project her voice.

“Hey, loser,” she yelled across the room and exactly three people looked up. She waited till Riordan looked her way and threw her hand up, waving it for him to come over and marginally dropped her voice when he was near enough. “Lemme buy you a cinnamon horse piss special. I know you like that kind of stuff.”

[Riordan Silverlance]

It was almost as though there was an imperceptible shift in the air, the slightest change of the surroundings. Rio's ears seemed to itch and then -- then that voice, as subtle as a jackhammer on a bridge made of glass, sliced through the noise of the crowd as though Maggie and the half-elf were the only ones in the room. Riordan straightened up from closing his guitar case, shook his head as he gave a joyful sigh, and then rolled his head to find -- who else? -- his friend seated at the bar. He returned her beckoning wave with his own little wave and finished zipping up his case.

A flush of dark gray passed over his cheeks as he slung his guitar on his back and turned towards the bar. Rio, while having annoyed most of the people at the Bureau with his guitar playing, had hoped that no one he knew would be around for open mix nights, if only to get some performance practice under his belt. Apparently, that wasn't to be, so Riordan braced himself for what could only be an affectionate session of ridicule from one of his best friend's in the world.

"I didn't expect to -- buy me what?" Riordan asked, his yellow eyes widening at Maggie's offer. The demoness stood out starkly amongst the crowd at the bar, though Rio must have as well. His eyes cased to her glass and then back to her face as he gently set his guitar case down. "I'm... I'm good. I hear that cinnamon horse piss, while working wonders for your breath," The half-eff grabbed her glass and gave a sniff, muffling a retch as he replaced it, "Really should not be your beverage of choice. I'll have an iced tea, if they have it."

The ashen skinned man took the seat next to Maggie, gently resting his case against the bar before swiveling his seat towards her. "Aren't you supposed to be doing filing or something? And, while I am bracing for a punched shoulder, let me follow that up with I didn't think the Buck would be your type of scene." Rio sighed and flicked some of his hair over his shoulder. "It must have been my siren song that lured you in. You can admit it."

[Maggie Bruttenholm]

Maggie grinned, her teeth a brilliant white against her ruddy skin as she settled back down, the stool rocking slightly and a long thick tail appeared through a slit of her long coat, the tip curling slightly. She replaced the smoldering cigarette back in her mouth, though it was nearly burned down to the nub and chewed on the end before pushing the empty stool next to her out with a shove of her foot. The demon gave a shrug of her shoulders as her friend spared a sniff and a glance into her mug.

“Eh, it’s startin’ to grow on me. ‘Sides, I’ve had worse.” Another shrug was his answer to ice tea and she made a gesture toward the bartender to get his attention. “Monochrome here,” she jutted her thumb to Riordan. “would like an ice tea if you got it, and you got anything better than this? Something special back behind the bar, price don’t matter.” The stool rocked again as she swiveled, setting a boot atop the foot rest and slowly arched her foot against it.

The hand that was already balled into a fist, instantly relaxed and she flipped it palm up in a not so subtle why gesture as she made no attempt to feign innocence. She narrowed her gaze and her mouth tightened around the white stick before the hand went to pluck it from her teeth and stub it out in a nearby ashtray. She snorted and reached into her coat pocket again, pulling out the flat tin case again.

“You sound like Abe,” she growled, her tone deceptively light. Abe, never uncle in public. Helped keep the questions from strangers down and preserve the hardass attitude she’d formed in the public eye. At least that’s how she saw it. Maggie pulled another cigarette out and offered the tin toward Rio. “It ain’t, I’m more the Shady Lady type, but it was closed. Don’t know what happened.” The Shady Lady had a reputation for not being the most respectable place out there as it tended to attract the less than savory and winos of all nature. Fights happened almost every day but they tended to stay clear of her. Her first time, someone wanted to fight her just because and he ended up in the BPRD infirmary with three broken ribs and a busted jaw. After that, she was left alone.

Siren song. She chuckled, catching a match on her horn again and lit her cigarette, waving the matchstick till it extinguished. Taking one quick drag, she held it between her fingers and picked up her mug again, draining the liquid inside. “Ugh, no, this is just awful,” she muttered darkly and ran her thumb against the edge of her bottom lip, the lighted end of her cigarette dancing fairly close to her face.

“I heard a moose dying, thought someone should put it out of its misery.” She looked up as the bartender appeared, ice tea in one hand and he set it on a coaster in front of Riordan and followed with a small dark green bottle of unidentifiable origins. A label had long since been scrapped off and the man set a small shot glass down in front of Maggie and tipped a fraction of the contents of the bottle into it. The golden eyes lit up and like a refined kid in an alcohol store, she made a quick sound loosely translated as leave the bottle and wagged her hand to back it up. The long tail swept back and forth almost giddily. The hesitation in the man’s eyes quickly lifted when the demon plunked down several crumpled Bureau Bonds.

“I got it.” Maggie waved away Riordan’s money and settled back, stretching her back in a sharp curve until it popped several times in succession. “So,” she let it hang in the air for a few seconds and canted her head toward the guitar case. “This is where you end up on Fridays? It’s Friday, yeah? Wednesday? Today."

[Riordan Silverlance]

A dark and skeptical eyebrow, standing out in stark contrast against the ashen skin of the half-elf, arched. "Worse? Don't even want to know." Rio and Maggie were as close as friends could be, but he was quite confident he would never know everything about the woman. And part of him was vastly comforted by the fact. He didn't have any desire to know even half of the questionable things Maggie might put into her body.

A small half-smile danced on the half-elf's lips at Maggie's impromptu nickname. Should he make a remark that hers was close to a racial slur? No, then he might get kidney punched, and Riordan relished having functioning kidneys. Instead, Rio settled himself into his seat until he was as comfortable as could be, and listened to Maggie's request with a muted expression. Even though Maggie could take care of herself and more, Rio thought that if she did imbibe excess alcohol, he could make sure she caught a transport back home with him. And he could hold the hair out of her face if she puked.

He gave another smile at Maggie's comment about him sounding like Abe, but left it alone for the moment. Yeah, maybe he did... But that was because he had a tendency to get his work done before he played, whereas Maggie just did whatever the hell she wanted. Which wasn't bad, but Riordan didn't want Abe to tell his mother that he was shirking paperwork, and then for his mother to -- well, not say anything, exactly, but give him those disappointed looks. She was good at those.

"Maybe they closed it because it's a hazard to public health. I feel like I need a pre-Ragnarök tetanus shot every time I walk by there." Rio replied. "Who knows, maybe the Buck'll grow on you. I like it -- and I'm far less likely to get shanked here. Still a possibility, of course, but not an inevitability." And really, when your day job already had the risk of severe bodily harm and injury, wasn't it just nice to not worry about losing any blood during a night out?

Letting out an almost "I-told-you-so" chuckle at Maggie's groan of disgust, Rio playfully swiveled around in his seat, taking care not to bump his shins against his guitar case. Dying moose, huh? The smile on his lips stayed as he began spinning back to face the bar and his hands went up to the side of his head and flared, mimicking moose horns. "This moose would have swiveled his hips if he wasn't afraid of falling over. Maybe that would have changed your mind."

The drinks arrived, and Rio stopped playing with his seat long enough to dig into his back pocket, but stopped as he saw Maggie's mystery beverage. "Is that... absinthe?" Rio asked, eyebrow arching. He'd read about it in pre-Ragnarök books and saw it drunk in a few period pieces the Fosters had while watching the kids.

"Thanks." He stuffed the neatly folded bills back into his pocket and wiggled his toes down in his flip-flops. Eying Maggie's drink, he took a sip of his iced tea and smacked his lips lightly. Needed a little sweetener, but that stuff was bad for you, which was easy to tell considering thousands (if not millions) of the multicolored packets survived Ragnarök. He took another sip and then spilled a little bit of the iced tea on his scarf when he took the glass away too quickly to answer Maggie. "Dang it..." He murmured, brushing his scarf to reveal his dog tags nestled underneath. "Just now and then." Riordan replied, brushing the last drops of moisture from his scarf and turning back to Maggie, wiping his hand off on his jeans. "But yeah, on Friday, they have open mic night -- and I figured I'd torment the population of Denver instead of those at the Bureau for once." The half-elf gave as sarcastic smile and then leaned in confidentially. "But seriously, I sounded like a dying moose? I've been practicing in the shower for weeks."

[Maggie Bruttenholm]

She quirked a brow at his raised and leaned on the counter, stretching her arm out to tap dark nails against the smooth surface. Her cigarette dangled loosely between fingers as she rested her chin on the top of her hand and side eyed her friend hard. “Where’s your sense of adventure,” she finally said, her mouth already twisted into a wiry grin. Rio could really be a stick in the mud sometimes. “Eh, girl’s gotta have her secrets.” Tucking the white stick between her lips, she blew a stream of smoke away from him and watched it vanish into a low haze.

Rio was looking at her again and not talking, which meant he was thinking an awful lot and she not in the mood for extra thinking. That’s why she came down the mountain. “You should see the inside, real nice place. The dead spider motif goes great with the dead rats. I liked how the owner never cleaned the john, gave it that special touch.” She took another puff, this time attempting a smoke ring with little success. “No one cares who you are, well,” she paused and was rather pleased she didn’t break out into a proud grin. “They do your first time, but once you kill someone and gain their spot in the hierarchy, then no one cares.” She managed the entire thing straight faced but had to casually look away to maintain it. If there wasn’t at least some spilt blood mixed in there, it wasn’t a good night out. “Nah, this isn’t really my type of place.”

She grunted, “You should know by now, man. Stick with me and you’re liable to gain a new scar or two.” Maggie should have sounded a little less haughty and more bothered by the fact her friends could be physically scarred for life just by being in her presence. “It’s going to take a little more than hip shaking to get me to throw money at ya. Don’t think I didn’t notice those group of grannies in the front eyeballing ya. It was like dangling a hunk of meat in front a group of ravenous wolves.” How Riordan stayed her friend, she never knew.

Maggie tipped her head in thanks and set her hands on either side of the small tumbler of green liquor. She stared as if she had been offered the holy messiah and she would follow it into any desert. “Yes,” she replied and picked up the glass, twisted it slightly to catch the light. “You want to try it?” The demon offered the first glass to him. “It’ll grow hair on your chest and possibly fix your moose like qualities.” She couldn’t help herself, breaking the momentary truce with one last jab. “I know, the whole bureau knows. Might I suggest showering down on the 6th level, save us from bleeding ears.”

[Riordan Silverlance]

"It's held intact with my uncirrhosised liver and what's left of my innocence. Which, granted, isn't much... But still." That was mostly a joke. Maggie's tendency of barreling forward and disregarding everything else had flavored Rio's life with experiences he wouldn't have otherwise. And if a little bit of innocence was shattered, that built character. Right?

"...uh-huh." Rio's grunt was an odd mix of careful non-judgment mixed with some concern. The image of curled up dead spiders and the strangely salty idea of a filthy toilet made him cringe on the inside. "You uh... Who'd you kill?" The half-elf whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. It wasn't as surprising as it should have been. "Why didn't you tell me? There's this canyon behind the Bureau, perfect for hiding bodies. I could have helped." Hiding the body, that is. Maggie did not need any help when it came to killing anything.

Rio shrugged and threw his hands up defensively. "I would just like to lessen my chance of catching hepatitis when I get shanked. Or tetanus. I think I'm more liable to get stabbed with a sharpened toothbrush or a dead animal's antlers here rather than some sketchy piece of corroded metal. And hepatitis is not sexy, as far as I can figure out." He laughed at her rebuttal to his hip swiveling comment and added, "No hepatitis would also get me more tips. That, maybe a little bit of ankle." He looked down to his flip-flopped feet and quickly added, "Actually, maybe calf. But you know what they say, no one's gonna want to buy the cow if you're giving the milk away for free."

At her offer, the ashen-skinned man wrinkled his nose. He was going to decline, but her egging him on stirred something in him. One couldn't hurt, and it might shock Maggie, which would be an accomplishment itself. "Sure." He plucked the glass from her fingers before she could think twice and threw it back. "Oh, good gravy!" The half-elf yowled, almost dropping the glass as his entire body wracked with coughs coupled with convulsions as the burning liquor worked its way down his esophagus and into his guy. "Whyyyy -- Why do you drink this stuff for fun?!"