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TGI Thaidays was brimming over with jocks. Usually this would have meant avoiding the place, finding somewhere a little less hostile, where there were more vodka tonics and fewer draft beers but -- well, Ilmenite had a quota to fill. He wasn't exactly sure what that quota was, but damnit, he wanted to go above and beyond.

An attempt in a crowded club had gone over pretty well, but extracting himself from the situation had gone just a touch messy. He didn't want to push his luck again, so instead of wading into the crowd and taking the risk of someone remembering him, he waited by the back door.

It was only a matter of time before someone wobbly drunk and shouting back over his shoulder to his friends came stumbling out the back to have a cigarette. Ilmenite's eyes lit on that immediately, before even acknowledging the man, glancing over the pack and deciding it'd serve -- and then he stepped forward with a grin and a wave.

Sober, he might have had a chance. Drunk as the poor frat boy was, not even a glimmer. He stared stupidly at the skinny young man in front of him, digging for a mocking comment, and was still digging when Ilmenite reached out to take the cigarette from his fingers and draw the energy from his body.

He didn't bother to catch the brute, just watched him slump slowly to the floor, expression baffled -- and at that moment he realized exactly what Zac had done to him that night at the bar.

"Son of a b***h." It was a low growl around the cigarette between his lips as he pocketed the energy.

Hardly a boy. Ilmenite, retreating down the alley in a grumpy way, lighting up in uniform [which was probably something that Zink would yell at him for, later, if he ever found out] halfway turned at the sound of the voice behind him, blinking just a little in surprise. They'd covered, to a degree, just how the senshi would mettle and be self-righteous, and his mind ran through everything he'd been told in an attempt to put two and two together.

"...hey yourself." It was spoken around the cigarette in his mouth and, yes, hardly a boy. He was skinny, had that coltish edge, made only worse by the close-fitting jacket and long, duct-tape wrapped legs but -- no, he was definitely an adult. And in this moment, he looked very much the villain, eyes twitching to the unconscious frat boy at Vin's feet and then back up to him.

One quick shake of his head and he kept going. Unintimidated, obviously.

"With what, shortening his evening binge?" Ilmenite seemed more amused than concerned, shaking his head as he flicked a look back over his shoulder at the chasing senshi. This time, he let his eyes linger -- taking in the ridiculous outfit, the flounce of skirt, the hat perched crookedly on his head, the trailing bow.

And he snorted.

"Man, why the hell are you wearing a skirt?" He'd thought the shoes he'd ended up with were bad enough. Ilmenite shook his head and got the cigarette properly lit, still heading toward the end of the alley. He had long legs, covered the distance easily. Vin could just trot a little to keep up.

Ilmenite had been dismissive, cocky, shrugging the senshi off -- and he paid for it with that blow, enough to leave his teeth rattling together, more surprising than truly damaging, but. It got his attention, made him stumble and turn, finally, losing his cigarette and dark eyes gone wider with surprise.

Three older brothers, though, had trained him well for this kind of thing. Instead of flinching and curling, he stumbled back a few steps and brought arms up defensively, the shock of that fading quickly to a bright-eyed, familiar anger. If Vin tried that agan, he'd bite back. "What the hell? Seriously?"

Ilmenite wasn't particularly fit, for his part, but it was an underfed, don't-sleep-enough kind of unfit, leaving him skinny and long and tensed. He'd been in a few fights of his own, but only in civilian garb: brawls with his brothers, driving off handsy strangers, caught up in the moment as a bar exploded into trouble. None of it really counted as training, and most of his ability came from a willingness to ignore the dull throb of pain and swing a punch while someone was caught off guard. In all honesty, he wasn't sure either of those things would apply here.

He watched Vin in an uncertain way, eyebrows knitted together and hands still up, licking his lips as he considered the offer -- or the threat -- or the promise -- or whatever the kid's jittery comment was supposed to be.

"...or we could not?"

A blink at that, a quick look back to the unconscious man by the door, still sprawled in an uncomfortable position that was almost certain to leave cricks and bruises, and then Ilmenite's eyes settled back onto his would-be challenger. Oh. He was supposed to fight these types, wasn't he?

Well. He could play along, to a certain degree. While Vin kept his ready stance, Ilmenite fished down into his pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. He held it up meaningfully, and then tossed it in Vin's direction.

It was meant to distract, giving him the opportunity to run like hell while the kid fumbled for the pack.

Ilmenite wasn't fast. He got halfway down the alley at a mad dash before Vin caught up with him, the smoke in his lungs slowing him down still more. It meant that the wine from the kid's glass hit him in a splatter, and all at once he went into a tumble -- the sudden loss of his balance as the wobbly edge of drunkenness kicked in sending Ilmenite neatly to his knees.

He tumbled well, at least, just skinning his elbows as he fell against the asphalt, cursing his shoes and the way the world shifted and shimmied around him, abruptly. This wasn't an unusual state for Ever, but it was a bit different in uniform and being chased by a crazy terrorist...

He cursed in a slurring sort of way and struggled to get his feet back under him, certain that if he could straighten, he could reacclimatize himself and regain control. It was possible that Ilmenite even could. But it was a big 'if'.

Eventually he'd manage it -- grimacing down at scraped palms and arms, his eyebrows knotted as he tried to get a feel for what had just happened. The smell of wine would almost certainly clarify: Ilmenite was just drunk enough that he'd insist he was totally fine while still wobbling. Unable to walk a straight line. s**t.

"...why's it any of your business?" Okay, maybe he wouldn't insist he was fine, with the way the words stuck on his tongue. And he wasn't about to run again, instead bringing up his hands in front of him and huffing out a breath.