Encounterlogs
Avriels Odd Encounter Sr Lauren 240430
In the early hours at The Succubus Club, Avriel, a young musician and club employee, experiences a series of unsettling supernatural events. His morning begins with an innocent glass shattering next to him, a phenomenon he is accused of causing. Despite protests of his innocence and clarifications that he, in fact, works at the club, he's met with skepticism from the bartender. The situation quickly escalates when Avriel feels an unseen force physically interacting with him - a tight grip on his shoulder followed by an attempt to snatch away his guitar. These incidents lead him into a conversation with Lilia, a waitress, who shares the troubling news of a coworker's disappearance after leaving with a mysterious man. Avriel's attempts to engage with the situation are interrupted by further manipulations from the unseen force, driving him to leave the club and seek solitude in a dark alleyway. The entity, a ghost with fragmented memories and driven nearly insane, compels him to scream out in a desolate shipping container area, where the spirit's presence abruptly leaves him, hinting at a connection to a tragic mystery needing resolution.
Meanwhile, Lauren finds herself tasked with confronting Antonio Garcia, a gambling-addicted, poorly behaved demigod known for his obnoxious advances towards women. Her mission is to reprimand him following his inappropriate behavior towards Order management during a rescue operation from a Syndicate mishap. The confrontation occurs in Rude Dogg’s Smoke Shack, a dreary gambling hub, where Lauren's approach to the problem is as direct as it is forceful. Garcia’s denials and justifications are met with vehement disdain not only from Lauren but also from an unexpected quarter - a gambling bystander who publicly upbraids Garcia for his habitual misconduct. Despite Lauren's clear disgust and threats of severe retribution should Garcia continue his harassment, he remains unchanged, focusing instead on her hostile remarks as flirtation. Lauren's interactions with Garcia expose the deep-rooted issues of entitlement and disrespect prevalent in him, leaving her frustrated and questioning the effectiveness of her intervention.
(Avriel's odd encounter(SRLauren):SRLauren)
[Mon Apr 29 2024]
At the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is morning, about 47F(8C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
A stark contrast to the vibrancy of its nighttime counterpart, the atmosphere in the club is relatively calm and subdued this early in the morning. The thumping bass of club music is quiet and low enough to let conversations be had, creating a mellow ambiance, while the dim lighting of the bar area casts a warm glow over the space. The bartender moves about with ease behind the counter, expertly pouring out specialty coffee drinks and freshly squeezed juices alongside classic morning libations.
While the morning sun filters through the windows and casts gentle rays of light into the club, a few early risers have found refuge at the plush lounge seating area. There's little bustle to be found where Avriel sits at the bar, the stools next to him empty. It's a relaxing place to be, altogether... until a sudden crash heralds the breaking of glass right next to him. A glass he could've sworn had been sitting innocently upon the counter, and now it's on the floor in a million pieces, shattered to smithereens.
The bartender looks up from across the bar to shoot the fresh-eyed youth an accusing look - there's nobody else around who could've knocked it down, after all. "Don't move, one of the waitresses will clean it up," he tells Avriel, moving closer - the last thing they want is for him to step in glass, after presumably having broken it. "You old enough to drink, kid? How much have you had? Bet it was the folks over in the Nymph who served ya, wasn't it?" Assumptions are being made, and rapidly at that - the bartender sure hadn't serve Avriel, and he doesn't look a day over eighteen, after all.
"Hey, man, I /work/ here," Avriel replies defensively, shooting the bartender a defensive look. How dare his character be impugned solely on the demerit of his apparent youth?
The indignation fades from his face, and he sheepishly adds on, "And, uh, no, I can't drink - but you haven't served me anything yet! I didn't knock it over." He shuffles awkwardly on his barstool. The cumbersome guitar strapped over his back was certainly a possible suspect in knocking shit over - but Avriel knew that his Gibson was innocent!
The mystery of what actually knocked the glass over doesn't seem to prickle the boy's intrigue in the slightest, what with the hurried defense he's having to make for himself. Besides - weirder shit happens all the time. Avriel is absolutely unspooked so far.
The bartender squints at Avriel for long moments, trying to figure out if he's seen the lad before, then just nods his head and goes back to his slow morning routine - he seems barely-awake in this early morning shift, surely he cannot be blamed for not remembering a fellow worker who he doesn't have to serve, thanks to his youthfulness.
A waitress finally saunters over to clean up the mess Avriel and/or his Gibson have made, sweeping away the glass with ease. "Heya, Av, how's business?" she asks him - at least /someone/ around here knows him! He might even remember hers too: Lilia, no surname given. "Haven't seen you around in a couple days. Found somewhere new to hang out?"
And then, there's a sudden, dull pain at Avriel's shoulder, as though there's someone squeezing a hand tightly around it. Might have been the waitress, if both her hands weren't so clearly occupied already by cleaning up the mess.
Avriel isn't awkward and scared around girls - /women/. No, really, he's not. It's just difficult to convince a person of this when they call your name and suddenly you shoot a foot in the air because you swear someone just grabbed you by the shoulder and no one's actually there.
"Oh! Um, h-hey Lily," he stammers out, awkward and scared. "I know I missed a gig and I'm /really/ sorry about that, I've just been pretty sick and sleeping it off. They gave me antibiotics so I think it was something serious." He pouts, clearly wronged by whatever bacterial infection had so cruelly set itself upon him. He leans an elbow on the bar counter, shifting his weight to appear more slick (which doesn't work), and reaches up to brush uneasily at his shoulder. 'Better not be no fairy bullshit,' he thinks to himself, confident he knows exactly how Haven's spooky side works. "Hey, um - anything weird going on lately that I should know about?" No telling if his coworker was as aware as he is.
Her eyebrows are lifted in surprise at Avriel's sudden impersonation of the young grasshopper he is, and Lilia pauses mid-sweep to look over his way, concerned. "You okay there? Still under the weather?" she asks, pointing at him jokingly, "Keep your germs away from me, you dastardly villain!" Some more clink-clink-clink of glass shards, and she lets out a little hum of thought while she sweeps. "Oh, weeeell," she says it slowly enough that Avriel knows he's going to be privy to some juicy gossip now.
The woman leans upon her broom while she whispers to Avriel conspiratorially, not wanting to be overhead in what she's about to say next, "You remember Nina? Brown hair, pretty eyes, kinda quiet, yay high?" she holds up a hand in the air to indicate her height - half a foot or so shorter than Avriel is. "Well, last week she went home with this creepy guy after her shift - I guess he was okay-looking, haven't seen him before - but the vibes were all off, you know? You learn to pick up on these things, working in a place like this. Anyway, so, she went home with that guy and she hasn't shown up to work since, and nobody's heard from her at all." Her eyes are a little wide while she tells the story, leaning in close to Avriel, "The guy hasn't shown up either. There's all sorts of rumors floating around about what happened to her, but nothing confirmed yet." She purses her lipsticked lips together for a brief moment in contemplation, before nodding to Avriel, "So be careful who you go home with, okay?"
And then, on cue, there's a tug at Avriel's back, as though someone's trying to wrench his guitar off him, the strap digging into his shoulder painfully.
His features knitting together with concern for poor Nina's safety as Lilia spreads the gossip, Avriel gets halfway to expressing, "That's worrying. Maybe we should -"
Then there's that tug, like someone's trying to rip his beloved guitar away from him, and he wirls around on the spot, letting out a sharp, "Hey!" Alas - he sees nothing and no one who might have been trying to make off with his muse and music. His eyes dart to the bartender - no, wouldn't be him, he wouldn't be able to reach. Another waitress, messing with him? Those were the preferable truths. "Um," he says, not quite turning back to face Lilia yet. "Maybe I /am/ still under the weather. Or just going crazy. Does worker's comp cover that..?"
"The police have been informed already," Lilia is saying even before Avriel's finished his sentence, with a shrug of her shoulders. "You know how the deputies here are. The dude's all but disappeared too, and they can't find anything on either of them." There's a concerned frown on her face too, and she gets lost in thought for but a brief moment until Avriel's letting out the loud 'hey!'. She blinks at him, glancing behind him into thin air where absolutely nothing is, and then back at the young man. "Yeeeeah, you should go rest. Lemme clean up here - you take care, Avvy. Good to see your face again - don't miss your next shift, okay?" She's got a bit of a motherly vibe to her when she ushers him off, getting back to finishing her sweeping before someone unfortunate steps in the glass shards.
If he's any less than careful while stepping off his stool, Avriel might find himself stepping right on a thick shard of glass that seems to have somehow slid back across the floor towards him. Whoever wants his attention may want it urgently enough to be in painful ways, it would seem.
This one particular trick by pranksters unseen might not be so effective. Avriel's only freshly out of his parents' home, after all - and they'd always been the type to chirp on and on about not stepping into a room with broken glass before it'd been fully swept up. He pays good mind to where he's stepping in the wake of the shattered glass, but he doesn't make right for the exit - instead, he heads in deeper towards the dance floor, and then to Miss Fairfax's office - maybe whichever manager was on shift was using it. He sticks to the walls, avoiding even the morning crowd of bodies, then knocks on the door, not waiting for a response before he starts talking.
"Hey, um, this is Avriel Bachman. Sorry for absences lately, I've been sick. I came in to try and work but I'm not feeling too well again... But I didn't clock in yet so it shouldn't be an issue, right? Can I just go home?" The back of his neck prickles, though. Someone - or maybe something - was messing with him, and he didn't like it at all.
To Miss Fairfax's office? Nope. Avriel's legs keep moving, past the office - whatever manager was on duty was about to reply until he just seemingly walks off, to their gaze. Probably not the best of impressions. There's a slowly-creeping, bone-aching chill that's settled into him, leaving him trembling, and his hands are pushing open the fire exit so he can step out into the back alley behind the club, smelling of unsavory things better left unexplored. Any attempts to re-enter the club would be met with the same, uneasy feeling of having something else in control of his body.
The something else in question wants him to walk off further into the dark alleyway. It's conserving its energy, for now, but he can feel it still, urging him onwards with impatient, single-minded purpose - onwards, or- his hand lifts to smack against the wall of the alley, almost scraping it raw if it struck with any more force.
"Go." The voice is his own. The word, not so much. He better get going, into the seedier depths of Devilwood, towards where the trailers are.
(And by the trailers, the spirit means to urge Avriel towards the shipping containers, obviously.)
Oh, Jesus.
Avriel freaks out just about immediately - internally, at least. Not like he could do much to shake it off while the skinrider was still in control, but when that control falters, he staggers against the alley wall and immediately hunches over to throw up. Apparently, the young man has a sensitivity to these sorts of things.
"Okay," he whispers, shaky and scared. "Okay. I'm going. Don't hurt me." And he does go, true to his word. He doesn't go back for his skateboard around the front entrance, but he's got a very fit, sporty figure, and he puts it to good work as he speeds up to a jog down the street, towards the shipping dock. Fear scrapes down his spine like nails on a chalkboard, nauseous and uncomfortable, but there's nothing he can do about it right now. He's just a normal human being.
It doesn't try to hurt him again, for whatever comfort that may bring him, even if the coldness only grows while he takes his time throwing up in the alleyway. The jogging immediately after may help have helped to appease the spirit somewhat. For now, it only guides him on where to go, correcting him with a sudden jerking of limbs whenever he dares to stray away from the path even a little bit, until he's stood near the docks, amidst a sea of shipping containers. There's momentary silence inside, and a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach as though the spirit isn't quite able to figure out what to do now.
It figures it out soon enough - what there is to do is to scream on the top of his lungs, a loud, piercing, screech that's sure to leave his throat sore as it goes on and on and on:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
"Woah, kid, are you okay?" There's a hand on his shoulder - human, this time, and warm, a passerby who seems to live nearby, a woman in his twenties staring at him with concern.
Avriel way well pass for an angelborn by the way he leaps into the air with the hand on his shoulders, startled out of the spirit's screaming fit. "Oh," he mutters, flushed absolutely pink from fear and mortification. "Uh, yes, sorry, don't mean to bother you, miss. Just a Youtube thing." He smiles nervously at her, shifting his weight. "Sorry. This is a dumb idea. I don't wanna be a nuisance." The nervousness leaves his eyes bright and jittery - it probably wouldn't be so unbelievable to conclude he was probably on drugs. "Thank you for checking, though. That's sweet of you." Okay, so leaning more towards ecstasy than meth - but still. Probably drugs, right?
"Right..." She's certainly decided he's on drugs of /some/ sort, certainly, and there's a sad little shake of her head when the stranger pulls her hand away and walks off after a quick little, "Take care." How they get into it so young...
Inside, Avriel can feel another rising of emotion - he's going to scream again, or throw up again, one of those two, and then he's going to spontaneously explode into a billion pieces if the spirit has any say in it.
... and then, suddenly, it doesn't. There's a glint of metal that catches Avriel's eye in the distance, a shipping container with the entranced wrapped in thick chains and locked with a heavy padlock. He doesn't need to do any breaking and entering to know what he'll find in there, with the way the spirit inside him shrinks in on itself, all the anger and frustration that had led to the loud screaming now focused internally until it's smaller and smaller and smaller and- she wants to be found, she was so cold and there was so much pain for so long and it went on and on and on and-
... she's gone. He'd better call the police.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Ding, Ding.
Lauren's phone goes off with a couple of small notifications. Texts from higher-up again. What could they want this time? Maybe they were ready to acknowledge her bravery in dealing with that one pot-bellied bastard with the rotten egg breath.
Nope.
She's been given another job. Gotta go wrangle a bad guy, it seems - only this one's being described as only extremely annoying while not being that much of a threat - something appropriate for an arcanist with the free time to fart about in Starbucks rather than doing any real work. Not something she should need combat-ready backup for. His name: Antonio Garcia. Browsing the details on him provides plenty Lauren might wish to know, or to recall later on when actually dealing with the guy, but the broad strokes are that he's a very weak demigod, barely more than human, incredibly proud of his bloodline's ability to keep women young when they make love with him. Unfortunately for Garcia, he's not very attractive, not very smart, and has a terrible gambling addiction that keeps him from being far beyond the poverty line. He could use some serious help, only... he's incredibly annoying, and hits on just about anything that breathes. Probably vampires too, but it's not explicitly stated that he does so in his file, so a generous soul might not condemn him to the status of quasi-corpsefucker just yet.
Lauren's mission: go give him a stern talking-to about flirting with Order management during his recent rescue from a Syndicate operation gone wrong. There were lines of respect to adhere to, particularly regarding one's saviours!
...Someone upstairs must really have it out for Lauren. So many shit jobs with sex pests. What had she done to earn this?
Will almighty HQ know she's looked at her phone and read everything about Antonio Garcia if Lauren just switches it off and pretends she's still in bed? Surely they won't know. How would they know? She considers doing just that while she moves up to the counter and asks for one of those disgustingly sugary, pink drinks that definitely don't count as coffee. Small talk is made with the barista, because of course it is. "Thanks, Berry. Cherry. Jerry. One of those. It's definitely one of those names, right?" she squints at the barista's tag, then simply forgoes correction - they'll write her name wrong too, as is tradition.
Her phone's burning a hole in her pocket, through her skirt. She ignores it for many moments longer, talking to the barista about how yes, the weather's been awful lately with all the rain - yes, she hates rain, it makes her depressed, like seasonal depression but for the rainy season, and yes, you should definitely ask out the other barista who keeps sneaking glances at you and giggling whenever your hands accidentally touch, dear Berry.
Bzzzzz.
Lauren's eye twitches, just faintly. It's killing her vibe. She sighs, gathers her coffee, waves a goodbye to the barista - whose name is not Berry or Cherry or Jerry - and steps out into the open, mumbling something not very nice under her breath about nepotism and how she'll definitely talk to Harry about this and - well, where's one to find an annoying neckbeard with a gambling addiction? Off to the seedy streets of Devilwood she goes.
Locating him physically might be the winning strategy, here. If she were to contact him with the attached phone number in his file, then he'd have /her/ number, and that could lead to all sorts of annoyance. Devilwood Drive's a good starting place for searching for the seedier walks of life - and all signs point to Badwater Quay, just behind the shipping containers, as to where the best gambling happens. Right across from the strip club, of course. The drive's not so bad. There's a sobbing teenager with a guitar and a bunch of deputies poking around one of the containers, but that's not Lauren's problem for today. Left turn! She finds herself outside of Rude Dogg's Smoke Shack. There's definitely gambling going on in there; one of the pokie machines within is playing those tacky jackpot sounds as someone wins probably seven dollars in quarters. Maybe they'd split their fortune with her once she was done with Garcia?
She can only hope. Lauren has been attempting to bolster her courage by belting loud music in the car and drinking her sorry excuse for coffee and pretending she's not going to have an absolutely terrible time where she's heading. It almost feels like she's a prisoner on the death row, with how morose she looks, and she sits in the car for a solid three minutes before sighing and making her way out. Better get on with it, then. Into Rude Dogg's she goes, pushing the door open and making her way in - no, sorry Anton, not here for weed this time, if only - and into the place where the magic happens. Proverbially, of course. There's no magic happening here, only people with gambling problems who need to shower more than once a week all gathered around machines throwing their money away. It's not hard to spot Garcia - of course not, he's a big guy - and she makes her way over without spending too long dilly-dallying and gathering more unwanted attention, to go stand next to him. "Sup, Garcia. Had any kidnappings lately?" Straight to the point.
Garcia's a big boy indeed - the big, swarthy kind of Puerto Rican, and fairly overweight, besides. He has a slight overbite, his nose is crooked, and his eyebrows are like a pair of fat, wriggling caterpillars suffering from partial alopecia. It's impressive, really; demigods trend strongly towards being born beautiful. Perhaps Garcia did have something to be proud of - his non-conforming nature.
When he turns to peer at whoever it is that would speak to him like that, his face lights up. "Oh, hello, sweetheart," he grins, exposing his teeth. His eyes linger for a moment on her society mark, so he definitely knows she's running with them. "Not this week, at least. You know, though, I owe you dolls a drink for gettin' me outta that situation. Real nasty shit. I know it's early and all, but the bar's open - we could do that now while you tell me whatever it is you gotta come out here to see me for, right?" Another gambler just lets out a sigh of quiet exasperation, then mutters - perhaps rather cruelly, as far as Lauren's concerned - "Well, at least you're fishin' in your own damn league this time, Garcia. You should give it a rest 'fore you fumble it again, though."
Lauren heard that. "Hey, what the fuck? You think we're in the same league?!?" She gestures widely between herself - blonde, average, if not a knockout-supermodel kind of pretty, decently well-dressed, definitely showered today - and Garcia - the opposite of all of that - and takes a step towards the other guy with her hands now on her hips, forgetting her assignment back there. "I'm not here to fuck, and even if I /did/ want to fuck, there's about three billion choices I would rather sleep with than /this/ guy," she juts a thumb at the guy in question, before adding, "and no, you're not included in that either. Goddamn, really? I'll show you same fuckin' league..." Huffing out an exasperated breath and muttering some more words under her breath, she turns back to the Puerto Rican, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Great, she hasn't even started talking to the guy yet and she's already annoyed. "Yeah, whatever, I need a drink," she decides, already heading off towards the bar and sitting herself at a stool. "I'll have your strongest whatever that doesn't taste like piss in a glass."
Lauren gets the laziest, least-sexually-charged eyeballing she may have ever received from Gambling Bystander, who is himself almost skeletally thin and peppered with gritty grey stubble that looks rougher than iron wool. After a moment, he just scoffs and turns back to his game. An absolutely withering attack from someone entirely unrelated to the situation, and who had no leg to stand on, but that's just how it goes when you're dealing with Badwater, one supposes. Garcia, on the other hand, is comparatively charismatic, even if it's just to get into Lauren's pants. "No, beautiful, you're well out of my league, don't you worry," he reassures her, attempting to get a nice sultry sparkle in his eyes. Doesn't work, to no surprise. Anton rolls his eyes a little at the display, but proceeds to pour out something strong and unlabeled but which definitely still emits a fragrance curiously similar to piss in a glass. "On the house, love," he smirks, apparently also tossing his hat into the ring. "Jus' 'cuz you don't deserve to have Garcia buy your drinks." He's beaned in the forehead by a well-thrown quarter. One might suppose that's where the demigod genes went into - Garcia has, regrettably, an undeniably impressive aim. "Alright, sweetheart," the sleazy Puerto Rican chuckles, abandoning his one-armed bandit to wander up to the counter. "What is it I can do for you, huh? I hear you. You don't wanna fuck. I hear you. I respect /consent/."
"Thanks Anton, you're a real bro." And boom, bro-zoned just like that. Lauren is an expert at this business, and she's /also/ an expert at downing her entire not-piss-in-a-glass in the span of three seconds, throwing her head back to finish it off all in one go and then sliding the glass back over to the bartender. "Tastes like shit," she tells him, and then, finally, gets around to business, turning in her seat to face Garcia better, and then changing her mind and turning back around to face the bar.
"Right, thanks bud. Appreciate that you're not a rapist," she tells him with a snap of a finger and a lazy fingergun, but her heart really isn't in it. "I'll cut straight to the chase, Garcia, 'cause there's some weird smell in here that's giving me a migraine." One can only wonder what that may be. "News on the street - well, proverbial, this isn't street news, this is society news- anyway, the point is, THE NEWS IS that you've been annoying as shit, and you gotta stop that. And get help for your gambling problem while you're at it." Why did they send Lauren for this? "So this is your wakeup call to act like a fuckin' human being, I guess."
Well, Lauren had been sent initially to reprimand the fellow for inappropriate conduct during his recent rescue from the syndicate, but it would probably be hard to get into the details of it while in the public setting. Anton has a bit of chip on his shoulder over having his Premium Alcoholic Beverage insulted, but he at least has the modicum of professionalism to not launch into a rant or anything like that. Garcia, though, flips to the defensive immediately, providing justifications that prove, in fact, that his unwanted flirtations were in fact morally correct.
"There is no crime greater in life than to let beauty pass without appreciation," he informs Lauren, the dance of his eyes along the silhouette of her figure implying just which beauty he was trying to appreciate. "And I don't know if you've heard, but sleeping with us - uh, /Puerto Ricans/, it's real good for your skin." Both Anton and Gambling Bystander groan quietly on hearing this, but the fat man goes on unperturbed. "So, really, you know, I'm basically offering a /favour/, aren't I? It's just words, sweetheart, I never touched a woman who didn't want it, so what have I really done wrong? This is America, right? Can't a man enjoy his free speech?" The defenses pile on and on. This is not the first time he has had this conversation.
"Oh my fucking God," Lauren whispers quietly in lamentation of her own poor fate. What has she done to deserve this? Absolutely nothing, is what. She has never annoyed a single person in her life. In fact, she's going to swear a vow of silence right now for the rest of her life, and live out the rest of her days in a monastery where she has to interact with nobody at all, which is better than interacting with the world just in case she runs into another person like fucking Antonio Garcia in her life. If it happens one more time, it will be way too soon. In fact, she's quitting the Order, Haven, and life while she's at it this very day. Goodbye, world.
By the time she's finished with her internal diatribe, Garcia's finished with his external diatribe, which means it's prime opportunity for Lauren to tell him, "Okay, first off, shut up." She inhales. If he can go on a rant, she can go on a bigger, better rant.
"Second of all, fuck you, and fuck your mom, and fuck your mom's mom, and fuck your dog, and your dog's mom while you're at it. See how I didn't have to say any of that, and yet I still did? That's my free speech, if we're all going off your logic. Free fuckin' speech doesn't mean there aren't fuckin' /consequences/ to your actions when you go around spouting bullshit and making people uncomfortable, Antonio," Are they on first name basis? They are now. She doesn't even give him a nickname, that's how riled up she is. "And the next time you decide to hit on the people who're saving you from dying - or worse -" she's exaggerating, just a teeny bit. He won't mind, right? Surely not. "- they might just decide that instead of saving you and sending someone to talk with you, maybe it's better to just let you stay fuckin' kidnapped so you can have your organs harvested."
... she's finished. Probably. Lauren exhales out a slow, deep breath, then tells Anton, "I'll have another drink, thanks. Not the one that tastes like piss this time, for real." She might go on another rant if she gets another piss-smelling drink.
"All our drinks taste like piss," Anton warns Lauren, but he's pouring out another nonetheless. It's the same one as last time. He's not actually a bartender - he sells weed. This is apparently just the leftover stock from when this place was a pub.
Unfortunately, Garcia has an annoyingly thick skin, and the words bounce off him like nothing. He hears her, certainly, and raises his hands consolingly, but making a point of insulting him to demonstrate her free speech doesn't do much. He probably tells his mum to fuck off from time to time as well. Charming guy.
"Hey, hey," he says, "You need to slow down, sweetheart, I'm not that bad. It's just flirting. I don't see why you're in such a fuss." Playing dumb will surely be a winning strategy for him. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, okay? I apologise. Easy as that." Even Anton shoots him an annoyed look for that, but he doesn't say anything yet. Garcia's probably paying half the rent with the way he feeds those machines his money. Thankfully, there's one man left in the room with a more acerbic tongue than even Lauren's.
"Maaaan," sighs Gambling Bystander, "Would you just shut the fuck up? You're like this /every day/. A pair of tits walks into the room and suddenly you're humping their fucking leg, man. It's sexual harrassment and I don't give a shit if you're playing along nicely cause it'll get you out of trouble, 'cause you're a real fuckin' creep, Garcia. Just fucking listen to her and maybe let some of it /sink in/ this time before you wash it all away with whatever cheap shit you can find to drink."
God damn. Man must have had that bottled up - oh no, he's turning his attention back to Lauren.
A moment passes, then another, before he eventually snaps, "You're still a fucking femoid. A woman with tattoos or piercings is just a whore." He scowls and gets up to storm out of the room, but that does put him dangerously within Lauren's swinging range as he passes her. Looks like he just couldn't let himself do something nice on a /woman's/ behalf.
(re) "All our drinks taste like piss," Anton warns Lauren, but he's pouring out another nonetheless. It's the same one as last time. He's not actually a bartender - he sells weed. This is apparently just the leftover stock from when this place was a pub.
Unfortunately, Garcia has an annoyingly thick skin, and the words bounce off him like nothing. He hears her, certainly, and raises his hands consolingly, but making a point of insulting him to demonstrate her free speech doesn't do much. He probably tells his mum to fuck off from time to time as well. Charming guy.
"Hey, hey," he says, "You need to slow down, sweetheart, I'm not that bad. It's just flirting. I don't see why you're in such a fuss." Playing dumb will surely be a winning strategy for him. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, okay? I apologise. Easy as that." Even Anton shoots him an annoyed look for that, but he doesn't say anything yet. Garcia's probably paying half the rent with the way he feeds those machines his money. Thankfully, there's one man left in the room with a more acerbic tongue than even Lauren's.
"Maaaan," sighs Gambling Bystander, "Would you just shut the fuck up? You're like this /every day/. A pair of tits walks into the room and suddenly you're humping their fucking leg, man. It's sexual harrassment and I don't give a shit if you're playing along nicely cause it'll get you out of trouble, 'cause you're a real fuckin' creep, Garcia. Just fucking listen to her and maybe let some of it /sink in/ this time before you wash it all away with whatever cheap shit you can find to drink."
God damn. Man must have had that bottled up - oh no, he's turning his attention back to Lauren.
A moment passes, then another, before he eventually snaps, "You're still a fucking femoid. A woman with tattoos or piercings is just a whore." He scowls and gets up to storm out of the room, but that does put him dangerously within Lauren's swinging range as he passes her. Looks like he just couldn't let himself do something nice on a /woman's/ behalf.
THUNK.
Hear that? That's the sound of Lauren's forehead hitting the surface of the bar with full force. It's going to leave a bright red mark. She only dares to lift her head when Gambling Bystander - the unlikeliest hero of this day - begins to speak, and that's only so she can figure out if literally any of that is sinking in for Garcia. For a moment, she sees him with metaphorical stars in her eyes - only for a moment though. Only up until he's speaking those last words and making Lauren's eyebrows lift up, way up in surprise.
Lauren rises from her seat, calmly, and then, disregarding her main mission here, decks Gambling Bystander in the jaw. Only, of course, it wasn't /her/ who did that, but Garcia, because Lauren's been sitting in her seat the entire time, of course. Wow, who would have thought Garcia would have had it in him to punch that other guy straight in the face? She is entirely shooketh.
Somebody ring in Lauren as a one-hit wonder, because Gambling Bystander is down and OUT. Seriously, he must be like sixty years old and walking around with the equivalent of a single hit point at all times. Anton looks kinda incredulously at Garcia, but this is the seediest part of Devilwood, so he's not even that bothered. Garcia just watched himself drop a man on his ass, too, but that really doesn't seem to bother him as much as it should. He probably has an idea of what's going on. "/Never/," he says, picking up where Lauren left off, "Talk to a lady that way in my company, Frank," he sneers, looking down at the collapsed figure on the floor. He sniffs dusts, off his knuckles - on the wrong hand - and leans against the counter once more, directing hooded eyes Lauren's way. "Okay," he says. "I won't push you right after you just had to hear that. But, eh, I do something nice for you, you do something nice for me some time? I'd love to see you again."
Is that really the right thing to say to someone who just knocked a man out cold, Garcia? Is it really?! Lauren considers him right back, going to nurse her new piss-drink and taking a sip without breaking eye contact so Garcia can see the murder in her eyes. Hopefully he doesn't mistake them for bedroom eyes, but who is she kidding? "If I hear about you sexually harassing one more woman, regardless of association, I'm going to fuck you just so I can chop you up into itty bitty pieces and throw you into the fucking ocean, and I'll keep your severed off dick taxidermied as a souvenir on my nightstand," she tells him, ice-cold. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, he's right, get a hint." What has her life come to, when she has to tell the incel that the other incel has a point? "I'm done here." She lingers for a couple seconds longer, just to finish her drink and also just in case the man has a sudden change of heart and wants to evolve from his garbage status to turn into a functioning member of society.
As much as Lauren's got a great point, and her threat is seriously something to pay heed to - saying 'I'm going to fuck you' to a man like Garcia simply washes away all other context like blood on sand. He looks Lauren up and down, real slow-like, and nods his head in affected understanding. "I hear you," he says, and his voice is disgustingly sensual. He's almost purring. "Look, it's a heated moment, and a woman like you doesn't deserve to be made so upset. You should go home, treat yourself nicely, do something fun to take your mind off things." He wets his lips, then murmurs, "I'll be here if you ever decide you'd like to follow through on your teasing, huh? But I hear you. No pushing. I hear you." He pauses - then asks, "What was your name again, beautiful?"
"Oh my God," Lauren's going to find whichever God sired Garcia's ancestors all those years ago which led to her this day having to put up with this piece of shit and then she's going to kill God. "I'm going to namedrop you in my suicide note," she tells the man with utmost seriousness, and then walks off without giving him a name - after turning herself invisible to his eyes, of course, because she /does not/ want him to watch her go.
Meanwhile, Lauren finds herself tasked with confronting Antonio Garcia, a gambling-addicted, poorly behaved demigod known for his obnoxious advances towards women. Her mission is to reprimand him following his inappropriate behavior towards Order management during a rescue operation from a Syndicate mishap. The confrontation occurs in Rude Dogg’s Smoke Shack, a dreary gambling hub, where Lauren's approach to the problem is as direct as it is forceful. Garcia’s denials and justifications are met with vehement disdain not only from Lauren but also from an unexpected quarter - a gambling bystander who publicly upbraids Garcia for his habitual misconduct. Despite Lauren's clear disgust and threats of severe retribution should Garcia continue his harassment, he remains unchanged, focusing instead on her hostile remarks as flirtation. Lauren's interactions with Garcia expose the deep-rooted issues of entitlement and disrespect prevalent in him, leaving her frustrated and questioning the effectiveness of her intervention.
(Avriel's odd encounter(SRLauren):SRLauren)
[Mon Apr 29 2024]
At the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is morning, about 47F(8C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
A stark contrast to the vibrancy of its nighttime counterpart, the atmosphere in the club is relatively calm and subdued this early in the morning. The thumping bass of club music is quiet and low enough to let conversations be had, creating a mellow ambiance, while the dim lighting of the bar area casts a warm glow over the space. The bartender moves about with ease behind the counter, expertly pouring out specialty coffee drinks and freshly squeezed juices alongside classic morning libations.
While the morning sun filters through the windows and casts gentle rays of light into the club, a few early risers have found refuge at the plush lounge seating area. There's little bustle to be found where Avriel sits at the bar, the stools next to him empty. It's a relaxing place to be, altogether... until a sudden crash heralds the breaking of glass right next to him. A glass he could've sworn had been sitting innocently upon the counter, and now it's on the floor in a million pieces, shattered to smithereens.
The bartender looks up from across the bar to shoot the fresh-eyed youth an accusing look - there's nobody else around who could've knocked it down, after all. "Don't move, one of the waitresses will clean it up," he tells Avriel, moving closer - the last thing they want is for him to step in glass, after presumably having broken it. "You old enough to drink, kid? How much have you had? Bet it was the folks over in the Nymph who served ya, wasn't it?" Assumptions are being made, and rapidly at that - the bartender sure hadn't serve Avriel, and he doesn't look a day over eighteen, after all.
"Hey, man, I /work/ here," Avriel replies defensively, shooting the bartender a defensive look. How dare his character be impugned solely on the demerit of his apparent youth?
The indignation fades from his face, and he sheepishly adds on, "And, uh, no, I can't drink - but you haven't served me anything yet! I didn't knock it over." He shuffles awkwardly on his barstool. The cumbersome guitar strapped over his back was certainly a possible suspect in knocking shit over - but Avriel knew that his Gibson was innocent!
The mystery of what actually knocked the glass over doesn't seem to prickle the boy's intrigue in the slightest, what with the hurried defense he's having to make for himself. Besides - weirder shit happens all the time. Avriel is absolutely unspooked so far.
The bartender squints at Avriel for long moments, trying to figure out if he's seen the lad before, then just nods his head and goes back to his slow morning routine - he seems barely-awake in this early morning shift, surely he cannot be blamed for not remembering a fellow worker who he doesn't have to serve, thanks to his youthfulness.
A waitress finally saunters over to clean up the mess Avriel and/or his Gibson have made, sweeping away the glass with ease. "Heya, Av, how's business?" she asks him - at least /someone/ around here knows him! He might even remember hers too: Lilia, no surname given. "Haven't seen you around in a couple days. Found somewhere new to hang out?"
And then, there's a sudden, dull pain at Avriel's shoulder, as though there's someone squeezing a hand tightly around it. Might have been the waitress, if both her hands weren't so clearly occupied already by cleaning up the mess.
Avriel isn't awkward and scared around girls - /women/. No, really, he's not. It's just difficult to convince a person of this when they call your name and suddenly you shoot a foot in the air because you swear someone just grabbed you by the shoulder and no one's actually there.
"Oh! Um, h-hey Lily," he stammers out, awkward and scared. "I know I missed a gig and I'm /really/ sorry about that, I've just been pretty sick and sleeping it off. They gave me antibiotics so I think it was something serious." He pouts, clearly wronged by whatever bacterial infection had so cruelly set itself upon him. He leans an elbow on the bar counter, shifting his weight to appear more slick (which doesn't work), and reaches up to brush uneasily at his shoulder. 'Better not be no fairy bullshit,' he thinks to himself, confident he knows exactly how Haven's spooky side works. "Hey, um - anything weird going on lately that I should know about?" No telling if his coworker was as aware as he is.
Her eyebrows are lifted in surprise at Avriel's sudden impersonation of the young grasshopper he is, and Lilia pauses mid-sweep to look over his way, concerned. "You okay there? Still under the weather?" she asks, pointing at him jokingly, "Keep your germs away from me, you dastardly villain!" Some more clink-clink-clink of glass shards, and she lets out a little hum of thought while she sweeps. "Oh, weeeell," she says it slowly enough that Avriel knows he's going to be privy to some juicy gossip now.
The woman leans upon her broom while she whispers to Avriel conspiratorially, not wanting to be overhead in what she's about to say next, "You remember Nina? Brown hair, pretty eyes, kinda quiet, yay high?" she holds up a hand in the air to indicate her height - half a foot or so shorter than Avriel is. "Well, last week she went home with this creepy guy after her shift - I guess he was okay-looking, haven't seen him before - but the vibes were all off, you know? You learn to pick up on these things, working in a place like this. Anyway, so, she went home with that guy and she hasn't shown up to work since, and nobody's heard from her at all." Her eyes are a little wide while she tells the story, leaning in close to Avriel, "The guy hasn't shown up either. There's all sorts of rumors floating around about what happened to her, but nothing confirmed yet." She purses her lipsticked lips together for a brief moment in contemplation, before nodding to Avriel, "So be careful who you go home with, okay?"
And then, on cue, there's a tug at Avriel's back, as though someone's trying to wrench his guitar off him, the strap digging into his shoulder painfully.
His features knitting together with concern for poor Nina's safety as Lilia spreads the gossip, Avriel gets halfway to expressing, "That's worrying. Maybe we should -"
Then there's that tug, like someone's trying to rip his beloved guitar away from him, and he wirls around on the spot, letting out a sharp, "Hey!" Alas - he sees nothing and no one who might have been trying to make off with his muse and music. His eyes dart to the bartender - no, wouldn't be him, he wouldn't be able to reach. Another waitress, messing with him? Those were the preferable truths. "Um," he says, not quite turning back to face Lilia yet. "Maybe I /am/ still under the weather. Or just going crazy. Does worker's comp cover that..?"
"The police have been informed already," Lilia is saying even before Avriel's finished his sentence, with a shrug of her shoulders. "You know how the deputies here are. The dude's all but disappeared too, and they can't find anything on either of them." There's a concerned frown on her face too, and she gets lost in thought for but a brief moment until Avriel's letting out the loud 'hey!'. She blinks at him, glancing behind him into thin air where absolutely nothing is, and then back at the young man. "Yeeeeah, you should go rest. Lemme clean up here - you take care, Avvy. Good to see your face again - don't miss your next shift, okay?" She's got a bit of a motherly vibe to her when she ushers him off, getting back to finishing her sweeping before someone unfortunate steps in the glass shards.
If he's any less than careful while stepping off his stool, Avriel might find himself stepping right on a thick shard of glass that seems to have somehow slid back across the floor towards him. Whoever wants his attention may want it urgently enough to be in painful ways, it would seem.
This one particular trick by pranksters unseen might not be so effective. Avriel's only freshly out of his parents' home, after all - and they'd always been the type to chirp on and on about not stepping into a room with broken glass before it'd been fully swept up. He pays good mind to where he's stepping in the wake of the shattered glass, but he doesn't make right for the exit - instead, he heads in deeper towards the dance floor, and then to Miss Fairfax's office - maybe whichever manager was on shift was using it. He sticks to the walls, avoiding even the morning crowd of bodies, then knocks on the door, not waiting for a response before he starts talking.
"Hey, um, this is Avriel Bachman. Sorry for absences lately, I've been sick. I came in to try and work but I'm not feeling too well again... But I didn't clock in yet so it shouldn't be an issue, right? Can I just go home?" The back of his neck prickles, though. Someone - or maybe something - was messing with him, and he didn't like it at all.
To Miss Fairfax's office? Nope. Avriel's legs keep moving, past the office - whatever manager was on duty was about to reply until he just seemingly walks off, to their gaze. Probably not the best of impressions. There's a slowly-creeping, bone-aching chill that's settled into him, leaving him trembling, and his hands are pushing open the fire exit so he can step out into the back alley behind the club, smelling of unsavory things better left unexplored. Any attempts to re-enter the club would be met with the same, uneasy feeling of having something else in control of his body.
The something else in question wants him to walk off further into the dark alleyway. It's conserving its energy, for now, but he can feel it still, urging him onwards with impatient, single-minded purpose - onwards, or- his hand lifts to smack against the wall of the alley, almost scraping it raw if it struck with any more force.
"Go." The voice is his own. The word, not so much. He better get going, into the seedier depths of Devilwood, towards where the trailers are.
(And by the trailers, the spirit means to urge Avriel towards the shipping containers, obviously.)
Oh, Jesus.
Avriel freaks out just about immediately - internally, at least. Not like he could do much to shake it off while the skinrider was still in control, but when that control falters, he staggers against the alley wall and immediately hunches over to throw up. Apparently, the young man has a sensitivity to these sorts of things.
"Okay," he whispers, shaky and scared. "Okay. I'm going. Don't hurt me." And he does go, true to his word. He doesn't go back for his skateboard around the front entrance, but he's got a very fit, sporty figure, and he puts it to good work as he speeds up to a jog down the street, towards the shipping dock. Fear scrapes down his spine like nails on a chalkboard, nauseous and uncomfortable, but there's nothing he can do about it right now. He's just a normal human being.
It doesn't try to hurt him again, for whatever comfort that may bring him, even if the coldness only grows while he takes his time throwing up in the alleyway. The jogging immediately after may help have helped to appease the spirit somewhat. For now, it only guides him on where to go, correcting him with a sudden jerking of limbs whenever he dares to stray away from the path even a little bit, until he's stood near the docks, amidst a sea of shipping containers. There's momentary silence inside, and a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach as though the spirit isn't quite able to figure out what to do now.
It figures it out soon enough - what there is to do is to scream on the top of his lungs, a loud, piercing, screech that's sure to leave his throat sore as it goes on and on and on:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
"Woah, kid, are you okay?" There's a hand on his shoulder - human, this time, and warm, a passerby who seems to live nearby, a woman in his twenties staring at him with concern.
Avriel way well pass for an angelborn by the way he leaps into the air with the hand on his shoulders, startled out of the spirit's screaming fit. "Oh," he mutters, flushed absolutely pink from fear and mortification. "Uh, yes, sorry, don't mean to bother you, miss. Just a Youtube thing." He smiles nervously at her, shifting his weight. "Sorry. This is a dumb idea. I don't wanna be a nuisance." The nervousness leaves his eyes bright and jittery - it probably wouldn't be so unbelievable to conclude he was probably on drugs. "Thank you for checking, though. That's sweet of you." Okay, so leaning more towards ecstasy than meth - but still. Probably drugs, right?
"Right..." She's certainly decided he's on drugs of /some/ sort, certainly, and there's a sad little shake of her head when the stranger pulls her hand away and walks off after a quick little, "Take care." How they get into it so young...
Inside, Avriel can feel another rising of emotion - he's going to scream again, or throw up again, one of those two, and then he's going to spontaneously explode into a billion pieces if the spirit has any say in it.
... and then, suddenly, it doesn't. There's a glint of metal that catches Avriel's eye in the distance, a shipping container with the entranced wrapped in thick chains and locked with a heavy padlock. He doesn't need to do any breaking and entering to know what he'll find in there, with the way the spirit inside him shrinks in on itself, all the anger and frustration that had led to the loud screaming now focused internally until it's smaller and smaller and smaller and- she wants to be found, she was so cold and there was so much pain for so long and it went on and on and on and-
... she's gone. He'd better call the police.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Ding, Ding.
Lauren's phone goes off with a couple of small notifications. Texts from higher-up again. What could they want this time? Maybe they were ready to acknowledge her bravery in dealing with that one pot-bellied bastard with the rotten egg breath.
Nope.
She's been given another job. Gotta go wrangle a bad guy, it seems - only this one's being described as only extremely annoying while not being that much of a threat - something appropriate for an arcanist with the free time to fart about in Starbucks rather than doing any real work. Not something she should need combat-ready backup for. His name: Antonio Garcia. Browsing the details on him provides plenty Lauren might wish to know, or to recall later on when actually dealing with the guy, but the broad strokes are that he's a very weak demigod, barely more than human, incredibly proud of his bloodline's ability to keep women young when they make love with him. Unfortunately for Garcia, he's not very attractive, not very smart, and has a terrible gambling addiction that keeps him from being far beyond the poverty line. He could use some serious help, only... he's incredibly annoying, and hits on just about anything that breathes. Probably vampires too, but it's not explicitly stated that he does so in his file, so a generous soul might not condemn him to the status of quasi-corpsefucker just yet.
Lauren's mission: go give him a stern talking-to about flirting with Order management during his recent rescue from a Syndicate operation gone wrong. There were lines of respect to adhere to, particularly regarding one's saviours!
...Someone upstairs must really have it out for Lauren. So many shit jobs with sex pests. What had she done to earn this?
Will almighty HQ know she's looked at her phone and read everything about Antonio Garcia if Lauren just switches it off and pretends she's still in bed? Surely they won't know. How would they know? She considers doing just that while she moves up to the counter and asks for one of those disgustingly sugary, pink drinks that definitely don't count as coffee. Small talk is made with the barista, because of course it is. "Thanks, Berry. Cherry. Jerry. One of those. It's definitely one of those names, right?" she squints at the barista's tag, then simply forgoes correction - they'll write her name wrong too, as is tradition.
Her phone's burning a hole in her pocket, through her skirt. She ignores it for many moments longer, talking to the barista about how yes, the weather's been awful lately with all the rain - yes, she hates rain, it makes her depressed, like seasonal depression but for the rainy season, and yes, you should definitely ask out the other barista who keeps sneaking glances at you and giggling whenever your hands accidentally touch, dear Berry.
Bzzzzz.
Lauren's eye twitches, just faintly. It's killing her vibe. She sighs, gathers her coffee, waves a goodbye to the barista - whose name is not Berry or Cherry or Jerry - and steps out into the open, mumbling something not very nice under her breath about nepotism and how she'll definitely talk to Harry about this and - well, where's one to find an annoying neckbeard with a gambling addiction? Off to the seedy streets of Devilwood she goes.
Locating him physically might be the winning strategy, here. If she were to contact him with the attached phone number in his file, then he'd have /her/ number, and that could lead to all sorts of annoyance. Devilwood Drive's a good starting place for searching for the seedier walks of life - and all signs point to Badwater Quay, just behind the shipping containers, as to where the best gambling happens. Right across from the strip club, of course. The drive's not so bad. There's a sobbing teenager with a guitar and a bunch of deputies poking around one of the containers, but that's not Lauren's problem for today. Left turn! She finds herself outside of Rude Dogg's Smoke Shack. There's definitely gambling going on in there; one of the pokie machines within is playing those tacky jackpot sounds as someone wins probably seven dollars in quarters. Maybe they'd split their fortune with her once she was done with Garcia?
She can only hope. Lauren has been attempting to bolster her courage by belting loud music in the car and drinking her sorry excuse for coffee and pretending she's not going to have an absolutely terrible time where she's heading. It almost feels like she's a prisoner on the death row, with how morose she looks, and she sits in the car for a solid three minutes before sighing and making her way out. Better get on with it, then. Into Rude Dogg's she goes, pushing the door open and making her way in - no, sorry Anton, not here for weed this time, if only - and into the place where the magic happens. Proverbially, of course. There's no magic happening here, only people with gambling problems who need to shower more than once a week all gathered around machines throwing their money away. It's not hard to spot Garcia - of course not, he's a big guy - and she makes her way over without spending too long dilly-dallying and gathering more unwanted attention, to go stand next to him. "Sup, Garcia. Had any kidnappings lately?" Straight to the point.
Garcia's a big boy indeed - the big, swarthy kind of Puerto Rican, and fairly overweight, besides. He has a slight overbite, his nose is crooked, and his eyebrows are like a pair of fat, wriggling caterpillars suffering from partial alopecia. It's impressive, really; demigods trend strongly towards being born beautiful. Perhaps Garcia did have something to be proud of - his non-conforming nature.
When he turns to peer at whoever it is that would speak to him like that, his face lights up. "Oh, hello, sweetheart," he grins, exposing his teeth. His eyes linger for a moment on her society mark, so he definitely knows she's running with them. "Not this week, at least. You know, though, I owe you dolls a drink for gettin' me outta that situation. Real nasty shit. I know it's early and all, but the bar's open - we could do that now while you tell me whatever it is you gotta come out here to see me for, right?" Another gambler just lets out a sigh of quiet exasperation, then mutters - perhaps rather cruelly, as far as Lauren's concerned - "Well, at least you're fishin' in your own damn league this time, Garcia. You should give it a rest 'fore you fumble it again, though."
Lauren heard that. "Hey, what the fuck? You think we're in the same league?!?" She gestures widely between herself - blonde, average, if not a knockout-supermodel kind of pretty, decently well-dressed, definitely showered today - and Garcia - the opposite of all of that - and takes a step towards the other guy with her hands now on her hips, forgetting her assignment back there. "I'm not here to fuck, and even if I /did/ want to fuck, there's about three billion choices I would rather sleep with than /this/ guy," she juts a thumb at the guy in question, before adding, "and no, you're not included in that either. Goddamn, really? I'll show you same fuckin' league..." Huffing out an exasperated breath and muttering some more words under her breath, she turns back to the Puerto Rican, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Great, she hasn't even started talking to the guy yet and she's already annoyed. "Yeah, whatever, I need a drink," she decides, already heading off towards the bar and sitting herself at a stool. "I'll have your strongest whatever that doesn't taste like piss in a glass."
Lauren gets the laziest, least-sexually-charged eyeballing she may have ever received from Gambling Bystander, who is himself almost skeletally thin and peppered with gritty grey stubble that looks rougher than iron wool. After a moment, he just scoffs and turns back to his game. An absolutely withering attack from someone entirely unrelated to the situation, and who had no leg to stand on, but that's just how it goes when you're dealing with Badwater, one supposes. Garcia, on the other hand, is comparatively charismatic, even if it's just to get into Lauren's pants. "No, beautiful, you're well out of my league, don't you worry," he reassures her, attempting to get a nice sultry sparkle in his eyes. Doesn't work, to no surprise. Anton rolls his eyes a little at the display, but proceeds to pour out something strong and unlabeled but which definitely still emits a fragrance curiously similar to piss in a glass. "On the house, love," he smirks, apparently also tossing his hat into the ring. "Jus' 'cuz you don't deserve to have Garcia buy your drinks." He's beaned in the forehead by a well-thrown quarter. One might suppose that's where the demigod genes went into - Garcia has, regrettably, an undeniably impressive aim. "Alright, sweetheart," the sleazy Puerto Rican chuckles, abandoning his one-armed bandit to wander up to the counter. "What is it I can do for you, huh? I hear you. You don't wanna fuck. I hear you. I respect /consent/."
"Thanks Anton, you're a real bro." And boom, bro-zoned just like that. Lauren is an expert at this business, and she's /also/ an expert at downing her entire not-piss-in-a-glass in the span of three seconds, throwing her head back to finish it off all in one go and then sliding the glass back over to the bartender. "Tastes like shit," she tells him, and then, finally, gets around to business, turning in her seat to face Garcia better, and then changing her mind and turning back around to face the bar.
"Right, thanks bud. Appreciate that you're not a rapist," she tells him with a snap of a finger and a lazy fingergun, but her heart really isn't in it. "I'll cut straight to the chase, Garcia, 'cause there's some weird smell in here that's giving me a migraine." One can only wonder what that may be. "News on the street - well, proverbial, this isn't street news, this is society news- anyway, the point is, THE NEWS IS that you've been annoying as shit, and you gotta stop that. And get help for your gambling problem while you're at it." Why did they send Lauren for this? "So this is your wakeup call to act like a fuckin' human being, I guess."
Well, Lauren had been sent initially to reprimand the fellow for inappropriate conduct during his recent rescue from the syndicate, but it would probably be hard to get into the details of it while in the public setting. Anton has a bit of chip on his shoulder over having his Premium Alcoholic Beverage insulted, but he at least has the modicum of professionalism to not launch into a rant or anything like that. Garcia, though, flips to the defensive immediately, providing justifications that prove, in fact, that his unwanted flirtations were in fact morally correct.
"There is no crime greater in life than to let beauty pass without appreciation," he informs Lauren, the dance of his eyes along the silhouette of her figure implying just which beauty he was trying to appreciate. "And I don't know if you've heard, but sleeping with us - uh, /Puerto Ricans/, it's real good for your skin." Both Anton and Gambling Bystander groan quietly on hearing this, but the fat man goes on unperturbed. "So, really, you know, I'm basically offering a /favour/, aren't I? It's just words, sweetheart, I never touched a woman who didn't want it, so what have I really done wrong? This is America, right? Can't a man enjoy his free speech?" The defenses pile on and on. This is not the first time he has had this conversation.
"Oh my fucking God," Lauren whispers quietly in lamentation of her own poor fate. What has she done to deserve this? Absolutely nothing, is what. She has never annoyed a single person in her life. In fact, she's going to swear a vow of silence right now for the rest of her life, and live out the rest of her days in a monastery where she has to interact with nobody at all, which is better than interacting with the world just in case she runs into another person like fucking Antonio Garcia in her life. If it happens one more time, it will be way too soon. In fact, she's quitting the Order, Haven, and life while she's at it this very day. Goodbye, world.
By the time she's finished with her internal diatribe, Garcia's finished with his external diatribe, which means it's prime opportunity for Lauren to tell him, "Okay, first off, shut up." She inhales. If he can go on a rant, she can go on a bigger, better rant.
"Second of all, fuck you, and fuck your mom, and fuck your mom's mom, and fuck your dog, and your dog's mom while you're at it. See how I didn't have to say any of that, and yet I still did? That's my free speech, if we're all going off your logic. Free fuckin' speech doesn't mean there aren't fuckin' /consequences/ to your actions when you go around spouting bullshit and making people uncomfortable, Antonio," Are they on first name basis? They are now. She doesn't even give him a nickname, that's how riled up she is. "And the next time you decide to hit on the people who're saving you from dying - or worse -" she's exaggerating, just a teeny bit. He won't mind, right? Surely not. "- they might just decide that instead of saving you and sending someone to talk with you, maybe it's better to just let you stay fuckin' kidnapped so you can have your organs harvested."
... she's finished. Probably. Lauren exhales out a slow, deep breath, then tells Anton, "I'll have another drink, thanks. Not the one that tastes like piss this time, for real." She might go on another rant if she gets another piss-smelling drink.
"All our drinks taste like piss," Anton warns Lauren, but he's pouring out another nonetheless. It's the same one as last time. He's not actually a bartender - he sells weed. This is apparently just the leftover stock from when this place was a pub.
Unfortunately, Garcia has an annoyingly thick skin, and the words bounce off him like nothing. He hears her, certainly, and raises his hands consolingly, but making a point of insulting him to demonstrate her free speech doesn't do much. He probably tells his mum to fuck off from time to time as well. Charming guy.
"Hey, hey," he says, "You need to slow down, sweetheart, I'm not that bad. It's just flirting. I don't see why you're in such a fuss." Playing dumb will surely be a winning strategy for him. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, okay? I apologise. Easy as that." Even Anton shoots him an annoyed look for that, but he doesn't say anything yet. Garcia's probably paying half the rent with the way he feeds those machines his money. Thankfully, there's one man left in the room with a more acerbic tongue than even Lauren's.
"Maaaan," sighs Gambling Bystander, "Would you just shut the fuck up? You're like this /every day/. A pair of tits walks into the room and suddenly you're humping their fucking leg, man. It's sexual harrassment and I don't give a shit if you're playing along nicely cause it'll get you out of trouble, 'cause you're a real fuckin' creep, Garcia. Just fucking listen to her and maybe let some of it /sink in/ this time before you wash it all away with whatever cheap shit you can find to drink."
God damn. Man must have had that bottled up - oh no, he's turning his attention back to Lauren.
A moment passes, then another, before he eventually snaps, "You're still a fucking femoid. A woman with tattoos or piercings is just a whore." He scowls and gets up to storm out of the room, but that does put him dangerously within Lauren's swinging range as he passes her. Looks like he just couldn't let himself do something nice on a /woman's/ behalf.
(re) "All our drinks taste like piss," Anton warns Lauren, but he's pouring out another nonetheless. It's the same one as last time. He's not actually a bartender - he sells weed. This is apparently just the leftover stock from when this place was a pub.
Unfortunately, Garcia has an annoyingly thick skin, and the words bounce off him like nothing. He hears her, certainly, and raises his hands consolingly, but making a point of insulting him to demonstrate her free speech doesn't do much. He probably tells his mum to fuck off from time to time as well. Charming guy.
"Hey, hey," he says, "You need to slow down, sweetheart, I'm not that bad. It's just flirting. I don't see why you're in such a fuss." Playing dumb will surely be a winning strategy for him. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, okay? I apologise. Easy as that." Even Anton shoots him an annoyed look for that, but he doesn't say anything yet. Garcia's probably paying half the rent with the way he feeds those machines his money. Thankfully, there's one man left in the room with a more acerbic tongue than even Lauren's.
"Maaaan," sighs Gambling Bystander, "Would you just shut the fuck up? You're like this /every day/. A pair of tits walks into the room and suddenly you're humping their fucking leg, man. It's sexual harrassment and I don't give a shit if you're playing along nicely cause it'll get you out of trouble, 'cause you're a real fuckin' creep, Garcia. Just fucking listen to her and maybe let some of it /sink in/ this time before you wash it all away with whatever cheap shit you can find to drink."
God damn. Man must have had that bottled up - oh no, he's turning his attention back to Lauren.
A moment passes, then another, before he eventually snaps, "You're still a fucking femoid. A woman with tattoos or piercings is just a whore." He scowls and gets up to storm out of the room, but that does put him dangerously within Lauren's swinging range as he passes her. Looks like he just couldn't let himself do something nice on a /woman's/ behalf.
THUNK.
Hear that? That's the sound of Lauren's forehead hitting the surface of the bar with full force. It's going to leave a bright red mark. She only dares to lift her head when Gambling Bystander - the unlikeliest hero of this day - begins to speak, and that's only so she can figure out if literally any of that is sinking in for Garcia. For a moment, she sees him with metaphorical stars in her eyes - only for a moment though. Only up until he's speaking those last words and making Lauren's eyebrows lift up, way up in surprise.
Lauren rises from her seat, calmly, and then, disregarding her main mission here, decks Gambling Bystander in the jaw. Only, of course, it wasn't /her/ who did that, but Garcia, because Lauren's been sitting in her seat the entire time, of course. Wow, who would have thought Garcia would have had it in him to punch that other guy straight in the face? She is entirely shooketh.
Somebody ring in Lauren as a one-hit wonder, because Gambling Bystander is down and OUT. Seriously, he must be like sixty years old and walking around with the equivalent of a single hit point at all times. Anton looks kinda incredulously at Garcia, but this is the seediest part of Devilwood, so he's not even that bothered. Garcia just watched himself drop a man on his ass, too, but that really doesn't seem to bother him as much as it should. He probably has an idea of what's going on. "/Never/," he says, picking up where Lauren left off, "Talk to a lady that way in my company, Frank," he sneers, looking down at the collapsed figure on the floor. He sniffs dusts, off his knuckles - on the wrong hand - and leans against the counter once more, directing hooded eyes Lauren's way. "Okay," he says. "I won't push you right after you just had to hear that. But, eh, I do something nice for you, you do something nice for me some time? I'd love to see you again."
Is that really the right thing to say to someone who just knocked a man out cold, Garcia? Is it really?! Lauren considers him right back, going to nurse her new piss-drink and taking a sip without breaking eye contact so Garcia can see the murder in her eyes. Hopefully he doesn't mistake them for bedroom eyes, but who is she kidding? "If I hear about you sexually harassing one more woman, regardless of association, I'm going to fuck you just so I can chop you up into itty bitty pieces and throw you into the fucking ocean, and I'll keep your severed off dick taxidermied as a souvenir on my nightstand," she tells him, ice-cold. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, he's right, get a hint." What has her life come to, when she has to tell the incel that the other incel has a point? "I'm done here." She lingers for a couple seconds longer, just to finish her drink and also just in case the man has a sudden change of heart and wants to evolve from his garbage status to turn into a functioning member of society.
As much as Lauren's got a great point, and her threat is seriously something to pay heed to - saying 'I'm going to fuck you' to a man like Garcia simply washes away all other context like blood on sand. He looks Lauren up and down, real slow-like, and nods his head in affected understanding. "I hear you," he says, and his voice is disgustingly sensual. He's almost purring. "Look, it's a heated moment, and a woman like you doesn't deserve to be made so upset. You should go home, treat yourself nicely, do something fun to take your mind off things." He wets his lips, then murmurs, "I'll be here if you ever decide you'd like to follow through on your teasing, huh? But I hear you. No pushing. I hear you." He pauses - then asks, "What was your name again, beautiful?"
"Oh my God," Lauren's going to find whichever God sired Garcia's ancestors all those years ago which led to her this day having to put up with this piece of shit and then she's going to kill God. "I'm going to namedrop you in my suicide note," she tells the man with utmost seriousness, and then walks off without giving him a name - after turning herself invisible to his eyes, of course, because she /does not/ want him to watch her go.