multiversallogs | Noli equi dentes inspicere donati.

To combat the cold as well as the pain of social endeavours, drinks can be obtained at happy hour prices. Beers in pitchers, whiskey in heavy crystal glasses, shots of some concentrated liquor that burns on the way down but is not, apparently, called tequila. Also some springtime specials such as the first of the season's citrus beers and something mint-like and tart that comes with a stem of something herbal with iridescent leaves. The sound of the jukebox is heard over noisy conversation, and people camp at bar-edge for access.

Having strung the engagement ring - emerald, nice enough - that arrived earlier with her tiger's eye to avoid that awkward scenario known as 'losing somebody else's engagement ring' that's funny in movies and not so much when it's you doing the losing, Gilly's first stop is not the swap meet itself but the bar. A shot first, then maybe that mint thing--?

(Getting up in the morning to go with Sally to some guy's moving day is going to be fun.)

Kate doesn't actually expect Logan to show up to a party like this. Granted, there's beer... and more beer so there's a chance a Wolverine might walk into a bar, but she's not holding out much hope. But she arrives with a long cardboard tube under her arm and heads directly to the bar to sit next to a redheaded lady she's never seen before, not to drink, but to be there in the first place Logan is likely to show up.

Here, Logan. Here is your old map of Canada, Kate will say if he does arrive and then look around to see if there's anything for her here. Then she will go home and don her costume and go fight crime. Another normal Sukkardi night for a teenaged vigilante.

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It was, perhaps, unfair to the box's original owner to have had it sent to Rex Lewis. When presented with a locked box, there was no way he wasn't going to take a look inside-- with his sister's help, of course. Ana being the expert that she is in matters of reconnaissance, it was easy enough to have her pick the box so that he could take a good look at the contents.

In the end, the effort was a wasted one. What did he care about drawings and... whatever the other stuff was. Not tech, so it wasn't worth Rex's interest.

Now the box is as good as new, locked as if nothing had happened, and sitting on the bar as Rex sits there nursing a drink. He's not feeling particularly sociable so much as he's keeping an eye out-- figuring this to be a good enough vantage point-- for his own object.

Edited 2012-04-15 00:15 (UTC)

'Unreasonably aggravated' is not a new emotion for Penelope by any means, but she sure had been feeling a lot of it lately. Ever since she'd returned to Baedal she'd waltzing on the razor's edge of exploding into blind rage, so naturally she'd been hoping to sit out this latest 'holiday', but no dice. The gods had other plans, apparently.

With her own lovely swap-gift in a plastic shopping bag stuffed into her purse, she swans into the Apache, and it's not long before she spots something familiar-- accompanied by someone familiar.

"Sup Cute Nurse," she deadpans, sliding onto the bar stool next to Rex and hefting her purse onto the bar. "Apparently you've got something that belongs to me. That means you should probably buy me a beer."

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ignore the earlier narrative mention of him not having his gift. HIS TIMELINE HAS SHIFTED

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Laura doesn't go to parties as a general rule unless she's dragged by someone else (Kiden, usually) but having someone else's stuff ultimately drags her out of hiding. She's not a jerk, of course she's going to come return it, and honestly she is really curious what the gods could possibly have chosen to give to her. There are precious few belongings she had back home that she places any value on. One is with her -- her choker with her mother and cousins' pictures in it -- and the other she burned a long time ago; she memorised the contents of that letter and has never forgotten a single word.

What else is there?

She's dressed, as usual, inappropriately, and her body language and expression indicate she could not give less of a shit about it. She's not trying to look tough; her expression is its usual calm neutral.

The first thing she does is get a beer. She can't get drunk, she just likes the taste, and having it in her hand makes her feel as if she's not so out of place. People drink in bars. She's in a bar. Therefore, she is drinking.

Notably, she is holding a hamster ball. There is a live hamster inside.

Frankly, Shepard has no idea how to go about finding whatever it is she may have been given. She assumes it'll probably be another gun, something useful, but she hasn't seen anyone so far carrying anything she recognizes.

And it would be weird, even for her, to start randomly walking up to people, asking to see what they're carrying. So instead, she's nursing a beer at the bar. That's when she starts to hear it.

Squeaksqueak.

Shepard frowns, turning around to look in confusion at the people nearby. Squeaksqueak.

And then she spots the woman with the hamster ball. And - yep, sure enough, apparently the people running this ass-backwards place have seen fit to send Captain Squeaks from Shepard's universe. She approaches the woman carefully, still holding tight to the photo album she'd ended up with.

"Excuse me? Hi," she says.

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Receiving a photograph makes the process of finding its intended owner a lot easier. Lyla isn't particularly hesitant in approaching Laura (they have a similar enough appearance that frankly she's kind of relieved someone normal is here...and then considers her own standards for "normal", ruefully), but she's not abrupt, either. She can sense when someone else is not a person you'd want to try to surprise, mostly because Lyla herself is the exact same way.

"Hey," she says, "I think I got yours."

She holds out the photo.

"Is that your sister?"

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"He's sure a cute little fella." Cue one super-soldier (though dressed in civilian clothes tonight, neither Hellsing nor Captain America uniform to be seen) bending down to peer into the hamster ball. He smiles, waving at the hamster, before straightening up.

"He yours? Or are you looking for his rightful owner?"

YELL AT ME IF THIS ISN'T OK BTW

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NO THIS IS TOTALLY FINE :D

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And indeed tonight Kiden is free of the job of dragging Laura to a party to have F-U-N, a terrible thing it seems to Laura. She isn't dressed properly either, wearing her usual uniform of jeans, sneaks, and an odd t-shirt that shows she is either clearly out of place or just doesn't give a fuck.

(Spoiler note: it's the latter.)

It's a good thing they don't card in Baedal, or at least not tonight because Kiden is working on her second beer as she runs up beside Laura with her typical "One of my BFFs is here and I can't be any happier" grin.

"If nobody shows up for it, I'm keeping it." The hamster, Kiden means. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Who cares if it was Laura who found it?

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It had taken some convincing, but Garrus had agreed to go with her to this thing. They did have items to return to their respective owners, after all. Shepard was wearing a leather jacket, jeans and a t-shirt, rather than her completely-inappropriate-for-a-party armor, and the strange photo album was tucked under her arm as she made a beeline for the bar.

She definitely needed a beer before dealing with this.

Garrus was not thrilled about going to this thing, but even for all his protests he never would have let Shepard go by herself. It was easiest to pretend it was just a mission and not some party where he had a niggling itch that it could easily turn into an opportunity for everyone to oggle the turian.

He was wary of humans, even after all the ones he'd served with back home. A handful of gems didn't speak for everyone. And here? This could be like the Relay 314 Incident and he felt a lot like he was walking into a nest of thresher maws all by himself.

But not really, because ultimately Shepard was at his side. Even if they were both unarmed.

His only condition had been that he wasn't going to change. Yes, armor was highly inappropriate for a party, but there simply hadn't been time for clothes shopping in the midst of things. Particularly when a mysterious something that isn't yours appears in your room. If he was going to be painfully obvious, he might as well do so not looking like a complete fool. Not having his rifle already made him feel naked.

So it was that he'd followed her in with all the subtlety that a large alien clad in heavy metal could ever possess, bearing a small kit that rattled a little, probably from the lockpicks inside. Not that he'd know they were lockpicks. You pick locks by hacking them, damnit.

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Another drink is in order for Dr Bernát, and it's that and not nosy interest in Lucius Malfoy's business that brings her up to the bar again--

--but women are known for their ability to multitask, and the movement of the images catches her eye while she's waiting for the bartender's attention. It only takes her another moment to realize the familiarity, and the particular age; this isn't the younger Malfoy, associated with Hellsing.

“Excuse me,” she says, polite, French-accented, resting her hand by the album on the bar. “This is what you received?”

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Lyla doesn't usually frequent this particular bar, but she's certainly familiar with them as a generality, so even though she's clearly nowhere near twenty-one, there's a teenager there, in her ripped leggings and short skirt. She has a tall glass of something or another, though frankly, she'd prefer the bottle.

For her, this is behaving, and she calls up to the bartender: "Can I get a chaser? I'm gonna take it easy tonight."

The book didn't come with a note or a helpful photograph or really any such thing. He deduced that half the challenge was to be a fucking detective and get to know people, but isn't surprised-- and is, unsurprisingly, slightly pleased-- when intuition stirs up when a glance around the place finds his attention caught on an unfamiliar silhouette.

Okay, then.

The man that comes up the bar at Lyla's left is not someone who tries to blend in. He's in leather, the cuts of the shiny material refined and tailored to his frame, his skin chalk-white beneath the inchoate stubble on his jaw and neck. His cologne his strong and fangs visible when he goes to talk to the bartender;

"--when in Rome, right? Do you guys keep TruBlood?" When the bartender goes to do this, he says, unabashedly to Lyla, "They should know that mixers always have a vegetarian option."

Avoiding the not-tequila and ignoring the minty nonsense, Stark convinces the bartender that yes, he really does want 'the godforsaken red shit that no one drinks because it tastes like diesel'. With a glass in hand and a weird-ass book Vidocq would give his eyeteeth for, Stark leans against the rail and watches the cohort move through the room. It's no Bamboo House of Dolls, but there's that same sort of dive vibe that permeates the Apache and it's as close to home as he'll find outside the arena.

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Tatiana is weaving through the Apache, a camcorder hanging at her side in a small canvas bag, searching the bar for the girl she'd seen on the tape. She'd felt odd watching it - intrusive - but she figured it was the best way to find the genuine owner.

She couldn't help feeling a bit envious. She and Laurie didn't have any videos like that. Her dad had been gone by then, and her mom definitely wasn't interested.

Tatiana figures they must be nice memories to have, especially here, so she's going to give them to Ilde if it takes her all night.

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tw; references to suicide and suicide attempts.

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If Odessa didn't know better, she'd suspect the object she found in her living area when she trudged up the stairs for coffee this morning was actually meant for her. It's a nice sleeping bag, after all. She would have liked to have had one of those back in New York.

But she has a home now. A house. Hers. Properly. Someone else needs this more than she does, and despite any disdain she may have for the notion of a higher power, she isn't quite selfish enough to tempt fate by keeping the insulated bedroll. Not without attempting to find its owner first, at least. Cord tied around it to keep it rolled up, it's also precariously hanging from the barstool she's seated at by the same. Maybe whoever it belongs to will see it, and come to claim it.

And if they don't, then she'll keep it. Whatever. Guilt is for lesser mortals. That notion keeps her warm, or it could just be the bright blue drink she's nursing.

With the necklace that she received --cheap, but well-loved, and with the remnants of magic, which is what really gets her interest-- wrapped in tissue paper and tucked into her pocket, Philomena heads to the bar first because she's got an inkling for something fruity. Afterwards, cherry schnapps and lemonade in hand, she starts to wander around the room, sipping from her straw and keeping an eye out for whoever she has to gift.

And, of course, whoever has something for her. Surprise surprise, she likes it when she gets nice things.

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For Irene, parties mean business. Hence why, at any given moment, she can be seen leaning in to make the sort of joke that needs to be murmured, or accepting one drink or another (though the astute observer may note that she is drinking slowly, keeping track) and making sure not to play favourites too badly.

Not that she doesn't enjoy herself, of course. She just enjoys herself with aims in mind, and a rather ruthless approach towards achieving them. That's how you have fun, right?

No item is particularly outstandingly not hers; either she's already passed it on or it's in her bag, depending on when you've found her. She's in McQueen- stelanmancy is a beautiful thing- and if she says so herself, she looks ravishing. And she would say so herself, wouldn't she?

Ana Lewis wasn't cold, and she approached parties as rather serious business. It felt like they definitely needed a good party after the last several months. Her goal was to get as drunk as she could and find out who on earth was called Cinderella back home and why they had a princess crown that was real. The temptation was great to steal the diamonds, but after seeing what the gods could do, Ana was in no hurry to piss them off.

But it was a pretty tiara.

Belly upping to the bar and feeling a bit overdressed in her nude lace and leather, she ordered one of the shots, slammed it and then raised a finger for a second.

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Once she's found Sol, Boomer considers just going straight home, but it seems inconsiderate make whoever has her item track her down somewhere in the city. Instead, she gets a beer to nurse, and mainly watches people. She's content, for now, to keep herself apart.

She can't decide what to do with humanity, but she has an idea about what most humans would like to do to her, if they could know what she's done. What she is. But surrounded by other people, she can just pretend for a little while that this is almost normal.

At least, Raylan thinks, the compulsory socializing is at the Apache. It's a lot more people than he'd like, and he plans to go home once he offloads the goblets sitting in front of him, but in the meantime he's working his way through a glass (first or... not at all the first, it isn't immediately evident) of neat whiskey.

The goblets, he thinks, are not the sort of thing he'd ever own himself, but nice. Family heirlooms maybe? Idle speculation and people-watching are the orders of the night.

That and the feeling that perhaps he should speak to more of them, ever, with no movement toward actually doing so.

It's not tequila, but the burn's close enough for government work. Or whatever it is they say.

One shot, a good ten minutes' respite, a second, a shorter break, and a third, and then Rachel spins around on her stool, back to the bar, facing the crowd. The purple (a few shades more so than the wrap top she's in, with jeans and silver flats) rind of a not-quite-a-lime-but-close-enough is just visible between her lips; she chews it a bit as she considers how best to go about finding the owner of the fabric case full of needles and medications that currently resides on the bar behind her, by the glass she just downed.

She's glad the party seems to be going well. Maybe it's morbid to be celebrating when so many have died or lost so much, but, fuck if they don't already have little enough to celebrate in this city. Take the opportunities you can, that's always been her standard operating procedure.

Having dropped off the item she received with its proper owner, and found her own gift from the gods, Olivia isn't quite ready to go home yet, and the bar is as good a place to sit and think as any.

She has a glass of whiskey in front of her, but most of her attention at the moment is on the token she's holding, dangling from her fingers by its braided cord. She can remember the night Lincoln gave it to her, what he told her it was for, though the memory's more distant than she'd like - and that alone makes the object seem surprisingly appropriate here and now. She smiles faintly and runs her thumb over the round metal of the token, lost in thought.

Bar Area:

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Shepard + Garrus + recipients + anyone who wants to stare at the turian!

Re: Shepard + Garrus + recipients + anyone who wants to stare at the turian!

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Paging Ilde

hay shrieky lookit what i got (and open to anyone else, too)

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