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hacking.....

"Oh, I don't like it when people cough too much," Leo said.

Leo turned his attention to the booze draining three quarters of the mug almost instantly. He pulled Clarabelle out of his coat, and left the huge fly crawl into the mug with a thirsty buzz. She stuck her proboscis into the liquid and sucked it into her body without much time or trouble. The cup vibrated, as if the fly was........ burping.

Paul: "Thanks."

How he's able to manage saying that one word is a mystery: his drunken condition seems to worsen as he continues to sit...then he tosses back the mixture, still frothy from the blender. As soon as the glass leaves his lips, his eyes begin to flood tears.

Paul: "I'll be okay in a second..."

These words come with a great deal of effort on Paul's part, as he has to avoid swallowing the salty water cascading down his face as he does so. His face reddens from the sheer flavor of what he has just consumed, and his left foot hits the ground repeatedly in anguish-inspired throes. Once his eyes have cleared up, he straightens in his chair and looks absolutely normal and lucid, and not like someone about to pass out from alcohol overdosage.

Paul: "Thank you again, Owle."

Owle's face looked kind of like eek She was staring at Paul, wide-eyed, as though she couldn't quite handle the fact that the drink had had such a violent, and then sobering, effect on him.

"Ah...right," she stammered, trying to recover from her shock. "You're welcome."

She turned to give Leo another one of those wide-eyed stares. "You want that? Well, okay...I guess I'll just...get one then..."

Shakily, she headed back into the kitchen.

The ingredients were already out, so she was able to mix one up for Leo a bit faster. She soon set the odd concoction in front of him, wondering why in the world anyone would want to drink that stuff.

Owle's mood: eek

Doomshot is still sitting in the corner, watching Leo. Is he an idiot? Or is this part of a clever plan to throw us off guard so he can attempt something. I have never met a mentat who also acts as random or idiotic as this guy. he thinks to himself. He starts to rummage through his trenchcoat, and starts placing what looks to be a random assortment of metal and plastic pieces on the table. He does this for a bit and starts fitting together some of the pieces.

Paul's tune suddenly has a persistant rhythm in the base line that resembles the buzzing of..."Clarabelle", he called it...her...whatever. Paul has no knowledge of Terran morse code, so he's oblivious to the fact that it is a distress call of sorts.

And into this chaos, the demoness walked.

In the appropriate setting, Flare would have cut an impressive figure. Her outfit left few of her curves to the imagination, if it did for the most part conceal her flesh. Her midnight black wings and the claws on her hands marked her as something otherworldly, as did the deep red of her eyes. She ruined this, however, by stuffing her spiky silver hair into a ridiculously cute fuzzy hat.

Owle had bought it for her. She was always wearing it just this once to make Owle happy. In any case, it kept her pointed ears warm.

She sat down at the bar, banged her fist on the table, and demanded beer, while at the same time sending a mental message to Owle. We need to talk now. in a tone that brooked no argument.

Kalis didn't drink too much. Technically, he wasn't supposed to. Not being of age and all. Not that that mattered so much. How often did he see kids younger than him with funky hair, over-ornate swords, and weather inappropriate outfits boozing it up? More than enough.

In light of some more recent events, he had taken it upon himself to allow for some amount of breaking the rules every so often. He had a glass of moderate potency wine of middling quality that he was not really nursing, more sitting bored staring out the window as his MP3 player tuned him into the radio, making the drink last.

So, back to hanging out at the Firebrand after it all, sticking out like a sore thumb as much as ever despite his hair being back to brown and lack of widespread bodily decompisition. Not here of course, but most places. He'd grown very used to carry around weapons again, he wasn't shocked by this side of the world anymore, which set him apart firmly from the world he'd used to have been a part of.

He took a sip, as he stared out the window. Clouds got boring after so long. You could count them a lot. But they were just white and fluffy, and honestly never looked like a damn thing really, in the end of it. How entertaining was that?

And suddenly he was intent.

That was an interesting peice of news. And growing more so.

Not that he wasn't ready for it to return to the music again. Even a commercial that might mean something for him wasn't the same as getting some tunes.