ɴᴇᴏɴ ʜᴏʀɪᴢᴏɴ ⇂ sᴇᴍɪ-ʟɪᴛ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ʀᴘ discussion

lantern outpost, your typical hole in the wall dive bar. known for its seedy atmosphere, cheap alcohol and not so legal dealings. a spot for the underclass and criminals who want to do business or simply to grab a drink.

Rupert casually strolled into the bar, as if he owed the whole building himself. His leather jacket hugging his frame. He had gotten, well, stolen, the jacket when he was sixteen. A bony figure too late into puberty. Now, muscles filled it out, mostly around his back and arms. He hadn’t shaved today, his rough beard needed to be constantly touched with his calloused hands to soothe it. Serena was back at home, tending to some loose ends in their last Robin Hood expedition. And he wanted some alone time. After all being with a droid all day drained your humanity. He needed some human interaction, be it sexual or just casual conversation. But mostly conversation. Rupert was a romantic, the few left from what he was told.

The humid, alcoholic scent that clung to the air welcomed him. He streamlined towards the bar and sat on the stool waiting for it. He sighed, tapping on the bar table with his fists, while his eyes glanced around the atmosphere. It seemed fairly relax, no tension around. Yet. He raised a tentative hand to his hair, flatting what was already pulled back by the gel.

He waved to some clients, particularly a man whose wife had a cheap augmentation and needed painkillers to subside the new part in her system. Looking back to the bar, he wondered what he’d get today. “Could I get served or is this self-service?” He smirked, getting a few chuckles around.

Standing on the opposite side of the bar than the patrons was a skinny, blonde woman by the name of Gwen was cleaning a few glasses with a rag. The closer you got the more you could make out, her left cheek and the knuckles on her hands; thick and split, looked like what could've been a grotesque watercolor painting of blues, purples, and even greens. Gwen was dressed in the typical clothes you'd expect from the lower class; worn jeans, a grey long sleeve and a pair of stable soled boots along with a standard half apron tied at her waist. After the glasses in front of her were cleaned Gwen tended to one of the Outpost's regulars, the woman had asked for a shot of bourbon and who was Gwen to deny her? In fact, she could go for a shot herself with all the buzzing inside her head.

“Could I get served or is this self-service?”

Gwen looked up from pouring herself and the off duty hooker in front of her to see who'd caused the disruption and raised her eyebrow at the man. She handed Bria, the woman she was planning on drinking with, her shot before Gwen downed her own and made her way over to the new patron. Her right hand twitched a bit and she shoved the urge to pop them down as she took in front of the man.

Gwen's eyes sharp and observant looked him over and then the blonde leaned on the counter, "Well if you wanted something maybe you should've spoken up sooner Rough Road," she said pulling the same thing of cheap burbon off the rack behind her and filling up a shot glass, after sliding it down to Bria who'd signaled her for another Gwen turned her attention back to the man.

"We've got some piss poor beer if that what you're into, though as cheap as I myself might be even I wouldn't recommend it. So, what can I get ya'?" Gwen continued on rubbing at her hands a bit willing the soreness away, she's have to ice them later.

((Sorry it took forever, been busy!))

((No worries! Hope everything is alright :) ))


Rupert’s eyes laid on the woman behind the bar. His brows raised by her response, and as if pulled by the same string, his smirk widened. “Rough Road?” He retorted back, he huffed. “Never heard that one before” he said, keeping his eyes on her movements as she moved closer to where he sat. A movement caught his eye, darting down to her hand before meeting her eyes again. Rupert remained quiet as she poured and slide down the small glass. Introversion and Rupert didn’t mix well. But being without his fellow droid friend, he felt overexposed by the surroundings. Rupert had one ear to the door to hear anything unusual, while his eyes were resisted from darting around the bar. One of his many flaws within his human system.

“Maybe I was just being a gentleman not to disturb your drink” he motioned to the empty glass she had left behind. Rupert laughed at the beer remark. It was disgusting, but the first thing Rupert remembered drinking to get an alcoholic fix. It gave you a headache as well as a stomachache the next morning. “I’m feeling wealthy tonight. Grab me something good, Blondie”

The medic in him noticed the way she soothed her hands. He nodded to them as they moved rhythmically. “Where’s the pain?” He asked, leaning on his arm that was on the table. One of the old geezers that Rupert had worked with, slapped him on the shoulder.

“This ‘ere man can fix anyone! Anything!” He slurred. “‘E is, he’s…” The man fell and Rupert laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Arnie, damn you” he sighed, jumping off his stool to help the man up. Rupert lifted a finger to the woman. “My drink, and get yourself one too. You’re joining me” he winked, carrying the old man to his awaiting group of friends.

After dumping him to the responsibility of his equally drunk friends, Rupert made his way back, sighing as he lowered himself to the chair. While it was a funny situation that had occured, he disliked being called out over what he was known for. Of course, his name and record had been a gossip topic in his district, but he never cared for it to be to decide what kind of man he was. He was just Rupert, trying to make a living while making other people's lives a misery.

Gwen seemed to crack a sly smile at his reaction to the nickname, she thought it seemed fitting and so she told him so, "Yeah, after all, that beard of yours is lookin' a little scruffy." The banter came easy, after all, she was on the clock. Gwen had to put on the 'nice-ish bartender' persona. Keeping her own tracking eyes on the man, she pulled a hair tie out of her apron's pocket pulling her hair out of her eyes, it was against her plan of using the blonde locks to hide the worst of the bruising even if it was a few days old. While some people in the bar were known for their talents of trade and thievery, Gwen was known by those who participated in fisticuffs.

When the man mentioned something about being a gentleman it made her laugh a bit, something gleaming in her eyes, "A gentleman? Ah yes because most men here are a perfect example of chivalry," said Gwen gesturing to the rest of the male patrons, one in the back flipped her the bird, he was a regular at Necrosis like her, of who had some respect for her so no offense was taken. At the mention of something good she grinned, "Alrighty then, something good for you Rough Road," she said ceasing hands to put the bourbon away and grabbing her personal favorite. Of all the harder liquors there were at the Outpost, most of which she'd tired, Gwen preferred the vodka that was kept on stock. She poured the man the standard shot and a half shot for herself, it would definitely take that buzzing away for a bit.

When her hands were mentioned the carelessness from before left her demeanor instantly, looking back at him Gwen played into the ditzy blonde persona, "What pain?" she asked playing dumb even if it was clear her hands were a mess of bruises. It was the price to pay when involved in fisticuffs. The sudden appearance of the drunk man didn't seem to faze her however, it was part of the job, though what he said was of interest. Fix anyone? Oh joy she was serving a medic, though Gwen had no issues with those in that profession she hated the idea of it itself.

Taking a careful sip of her own shot watching the man take his friend back to the group she muttered almost bitterly, "Fix anything my ass." If anyone could truly fix anything Gwen wouldn't be finishing off a debt eight years old and would have perfect hearing. Even thinking about her hearing seemed to trigger the piece of shit she called an augmentation as a high pitch ringing kicked up making her want to not only mute it but down the rest of her shot before the man even returned to his seat.

She nodded to the glass in front of her, "One of our more decent drinks, hope you enjoy vodka," Gwen said with a half shrug setting her own glass down and glancing around the bar making sure no one else needed anything.

Rupert stroked his beard at the response, trying to tame it but felt the roughness tickle his palm as he moved his way around it. He shrugged. “Some ladies love it” he said nonchalantly. Though he didn’t really know whether that was even true. He was just lazy these past few days to shave himself. And he didn’t trust Serena was a shaving blade. The little scars on his neck and some covered by the thickness of his facial hair was evidence of that. Nevertheless his charming smile was still ever present.

His head tilted slightly, catching the gleam in her eyes and wondering whether the light was playing a trick on him. But from the different angle, he could see her features clearly. The fine nose, but also a glimpse of blues and blacks that had spotted her eyes, cheeks. He frowned. His mind going immediately to an abusive boyfriend, before trailing into different possibilities for the origins to those bruises. His thoughts weren’t dissolved by the pouring of clear liquor. His nostrils picked up the scent and he smirked. “I like your style” he commented, taking the glass between his hands.

His brows furrowed and was about to rebut her obliviousness. But was cut short by the interruption. The drunken friend of his started singing ballads and songs from prison to which Rupert was coaxed by to join in. He felt the numbers that were on his skin burn at the memory. But it was nice to have a routine than being on the run to survive. Worried about whether food would be on the table tonight, or if they had enough supplies for those who needed it. A sort of vacation, he regarded it.

When he returned, the crease in his eyebrows still remained. He reached out his hands towards her. “Give it here” he muttered, whilst the other took the vodka shot to his lips. With a jerk back of his head, the glass was emptied. He sighed, licking his lips. “Come on, that dumb blonde persona is the most cliche I’ve ever seen” he shook his head. “You can take care of patrons later, I want to see those hands”

Gwen let out an amused chuckle, “Oh I'm sure they do there Hot Shot,” she said her smile spreading into a bit of a smirk. He was the chatty sort, the type who liked to make conversation while she made cocktails. There were a few types of his sort, the flirts, the charmers and the harasses; the man it seemed to fall into a bit of the charmer fit though he was just overall pleasant.

Watching out of the corner of her eyes Gwen saw the head tilt, it was almost endearing in a way, ’Kinda like a giant puppy,' she mused mentally. Gwen could tell by the frown he'd noticed the obvious. Kicking her past self for not taking the time to at least cover them partly with that cheap cakey shit she owned before dragging herself out of her apartment. The pouring of liquor in a glass however seemed to distract him much to her relief. Keeping the almost playful air about them alive Gwen grinned a bit, “Glad you think so, because I wasn't going to repour anyways,” said the blonde shrugging her shoulders a bit eyes flicking to the numbers branded on his wrist. It made her own digits itch.

Feeling a bit more on edge by the mans prying question she went back to wiping a glass or two in order to keep busy. Her right ear catching the ballads she'd heard a few times in the bar, prison songs, Gwen had learned one when she was serving for her first minor offense. After that she’d gotten more careful. Ignoring the way she moved the rag in time with the tunes Gwen continued refusing to itch her own brand, she knew the numbers by heart and could spit them out faster than her own name. It was a sick chant ringing l, much like the one buzzing in her head as a near constant, when it was roll call. Setting the rag down she watched him reach for his glass.

Looking up with a raised eyebrow after he downed his shot in one go, she'd be more impressed if he'd shotgunned one of their beers though. While a shit idea it was impressive if they didn't hurl after. The playful air from before had vanished when he called Gwen out on her false airhead act, instead turning sharp and sour at once. Her smirk pulled into a bit of a strained smile, smiles meant at tips, tips meant she could pay bills, “Why do you care there Rough Road?” she asked complying despite her gut saying to do otherwise, “Hate to see a damsel in distress?” Throwing low blows was something of a defense mechanism for her, better to fend for yourself than get shit on later was her motto.

She gave her hands to him palms down, her knuckles looked worse than they were in the harsh red lighting of the bar. One of her knuckles, the index on of her left hand, was swollen with a nasty gash on it, red and irritated. The rest didn't look too bad, a few cuts and irritation along with the bruising as if it was all hastily taken care of.

Rupert mumbled an inaudible ‘shut up’ but his smile held as he inspected her hands. He tsked. “I think we should call you Rough Road” he retorted, grabbing the coolness of his shot glass and pressing it gently along her knuckles. “I admire someone that has to fight to survive” he said in an honest tone. “And I want to help facilitate their winnings” he grinned up at her. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat the situation the majority of the people here lived in. Most were in the brink of eviction, or demolition. Others were just addicts that used up all their earnings for a drink to escape that reality. And some, like the girl before him, well, they were the tough ones, working endlessly to make a living. And in her situation, he guessed by the movement of her knuckles that she was a fighter. Probably a hot shot in the underground movement. He sighed, bidding his calculating mind to cease its’ internal works. Heck, he would’ve been a great droid since his mind was a never-ending cycle of assumptions and predictions.

“You should actually take care of your hands, Blondie” He scolded. “What use is a swollen, infected hand?” He mused. Rupert reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out some antibiotic tablets and some cream that would make the skin regenerated at a greater speed, leaving the scars but still faster than leaving it exposed to the elements. “Always after cleaning your hands. And just a few dabs” he instructed.

His eyes noticed that hers had caught attention to something on his wrist. Rupert knew what it was he he barely minded. Instead, he pulled away the cuff of his leather jacket and held the numbers to her. “Satisfied?” He asked, arching an eyebrow before tucking them back. Of course, the mark of a criminal was overall unpleasant. He would be lying if it didn’t cause some folks to turn their backs or close their shops if they saw those black numbers winking at them. But he wasn’t going to change for those snobby pricks. His crimes were done and paid for, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do them again.

“What’s your fighting record?” He asked, hoping to change the issue back to her. And he realised how her hands were still on his, his eyes widened and they looked back down to inspect them, just making sure he hadn’t missed anything.

Gwen watched him inspect her hands, she knew they look bad, even if she'd seen them at worse back in her youth. Letting out a huff of laughter Gwen resisted the urge to shrug, "Or we could go with what's on the name tag I should be wearing and stick to Gwen," she said giving out her name and ignoring the way her hands flinched away from the soothing chill of the glass. She was feeling an honest bit pride in his answer, while it wasn't much Gwen sometimes did get some of the bet money from the matches. "Ain't that tiring, after all, half of the people in this bar alone fight to make it in their own ways," said the blonde turning her face away from where hands more masculine than her own worked to see the damage dealt to them. Eyes going to the reflective metal countertop where her own distorted reflection looked at her all her expression and features warped in its surface.

Gwen snorted a bit looking back to the man, "I do take care of them," she argued back before dropping off to quietly add a, "Most of the time," and adding with a slight bit of her world-famous attitude, "It's useful if I can mix drinks and throw a punch, Doc." Her eyes looked at the items produced from his jacket. They were things she wouldn't think to buy or even afford on her meager salary between bills and that fucking augmentation debt that was still hanging over her head like a damn guillotine. Listening to his instructions knowing better to argue the situation farther.

Gwen watched as the man confirmed what she'd already put together. At the back of her mind, Gwen wondered if he was the same as her, knowing the numbers better than any address or cell number. In response to his arched brow and question, the bartender met his eyes for a moment, her blue eyes looking almost apologetic, "77345," she listed off hoping that cleared some things up between them because the last thing she needed was losing a patron because he thought she was some kind of bigot. People earned those five digits for a reason, be it foolish like herself or for their fight to survive.

Dropping her eyes from his again it was her turn to raise an eyebrow, "My record? Depends on what age are we talking about, back when I was some reckless punk looking to get my ass kicked or after I smartened the hell up?" Gwen knew what had smartened her up and just thinking back to when she decided to be a world class dumbass choosing to fight half deaf. The field day this man would have if he'd seen the state of her injuries back then if he was concerned about some skinned knuckles.

Feeling him go over her hands yet again made them twitch a bit still wary of letting him look at them. Compared to their normal treatment of ice, rubbing alcohol and some quick halfassed bandaging, the way he moved was something different by far. Gwen appreciated it she did, but part of her didn't trust it as the last medical attention given to her by someone other than herself fucked her over completely.

“Gwen” he repeated her name as if it was foreign to him. The name rolling off his tongue that made his lips twirl upwards into a smirk. “Short for?” He pressed. He knew some names were cut short for the sake of comfort. But at the same time, he liked long names. It made the moment last longer and it also in a way gave him time to figure out what he was going to say. A weird, nervous even, habit that Rupert had. Of course, a few years ago he was a scrawny boy, a contrast to the butch man he was now. His eyes remained studying the hands, watching the movement beneath to ensure no fractions were inflicted from the fights she was in. But occasionally they would slip up to check on Gwen, watching her reaction. “Then they come to me to get patched up” he murmured, not wanting to give away about his profession to Gwen. He wasn’t proud nor felt accomplished by the name ‘the underground Robin Hood’. It sounded like a fairy tale when life was far from that.

It was his turn to laugh at her response. “Right, of course. That’s why some of them are getting infected now” he said, his fingers brushing away against her knuckles and back towards his person. There was no point in holding her hands anymore. He had already done his assessment and give her a solution. “I’m sure it is, that’s why I say you should take care of them. Or else how will you make a living” Rupert noticed her expression. “You don’t have to worry about money. It’s on the house” he winked.

He was caught by surprise by the sympathy in her eyes. He cleared his throat. “You too, huh?” He said with a curt nod. He extended a hand, a sign of respect than anything else. “Nice to meet you Gwen” he said, meaning it by meeting her eyes.

Rupert barked a laugh. “Well obviously you have to include getting your ass served to you stage” he teased. Rupert doubted he had surpassed that stage. It seemed that, if anything, that he was constantly getting his ass kicked. Whenever he would go steal, he’d get his ass busted by someone he owed money to. And thus, another source of income vanished.

He sighed. “When’s your next fight?” He asked, leaning on the bar table.

Gwen snorted a bit, "Short for none'ya," the blonde retorted; because in a way it didn't feel like it was short for anything anymore. She hadn't been called Gwendoline since she was fifteen. Looking back on herself fifteen-year-old Gwen was a dumbass, nearly just skin and bone but looked for her next fight like her life depended on it. It was the adrenaline highs and the feeling of blood on her knuckles giving her a sense of invulnerability. "What about you Doc, got a name?" she asked, though Gwen was fine with coming up with various nicknames for the man, she was also curious about his name.

Hating to admit that he was right Gwen before huffed a bit blowing a stray hair out of her eyes before moving to defend herself, "Haven't had the time, got a job to do and bills that need paying," said the bartender with a surprising amount of truth in her words. As soon as her hands were free one reached for her not so forgotten shot deciding she'd deserved to down the rest of it. Again knowing he was right Gwen didn't argue it, "Alright, I hear you, I'll follow your directions," she sighed out, but when he'd winked after mentioning it was 'on the house' he'd confirmed he was indeed the charmer type. After inspecting and placing the gifted supplies into the pocket of her apron.

Looking back up at the patron her attention was caught by the sudden shift of his tone. A bit of a strained chuckle left her, "Yeah, me too." Her apologetic expression looked rather surprised however when he offered to shake her hand. This sort of interaction often saved for those fights where the call was so close you felt a sense of pride for your opponent, "You as well," Gwen said giving it a firm shake before retracting her hand feeling relief when the tone switched again.

She faked a pained wince, "I suppose if I must, it was more a decade ago so mind you, I've learned my lesson. Little Gwen was a bit of an idiot but I think the first fight I got into was back when I was," she paused to think her fingers tapping on the empty shot glass before speaking with an amused laugh, "Shit like twelve? I was a piece of work that's for sure, I got in trouble more times than I could count." Gwen didn't have to think about the next stage of her fighting career. "About twenty was when I got roped into fight clubs, I did pretty well have a mix of wins and losses, the next few years after that, however," she paused again ignoring the heavy feeling building up like it normally did when she talked about those god awful two years.

Pulling a toothy grin instead of being grim Gwen continued, "Well I went from decent to shit, nearly got myself killed once or twice," she shook her head, "It wasn't pretty, but I got smart though, took half a year off and came back better, moved faster, and hit harder. I went from shit to good in that little span and in the next seven or so years just kept improving, but we all have slow days," Gwen said pointing to the evidence of her loss.

Again the guy managed to throw her off, raising an eyebrow Gwen looked at him, "Next Thursday, why? Going to come to be my cheerleader?" she joked even if it wasn't an uncommon occurrence, hell some patrons came to the Outpost because she'd mentioned it to 'em.

Rupert snorted. “None’ya business, huh?” He smirked. “Tough blow” he sighed, leaning back on his stool before rolling his aching shoulders. For some reason, the tension of today’s deal was straining on Rupert. Sometimes things got too complicated when you become a black-market dealer, a criminal and a thief. The weight he carried on his shoulders alone felt like a ginormous ton of bricks. His ears perked up she had for his name. More surprised that he hadn’t given it to her just yet. He grinned, adding a small shrug. “I am the mysterious prince charming here to help you” he teased. While he did, and would, give her his name, a part of him wondered whether having everyone knowing your name was dangerous. He was fine with just being known as the ‘underground Robin Hood’, or even by his criminal numbers. For some reason, his name felt like a precious commodity. What would happen if he told her his name? Probably nothing. Maybe he wouldn’t see her again. Or maybe she could offer it to someone that would be heard by the forces higher up. Why was his mind so paranoid? Perhaps that was what landed him in jail the last time. Trust, was something Rupert held dearly.

“Then you’ll lose your source of income in 5 years…I bet on it” he retorted back calmly. “Take care of your hands. They are strong and still got life in them” he said. Rupert didn’t want her to be the one that would later come to him for a hand replacement, or worse, a lousy augmentation doctor that would give her a bad replacement. Then she would suffer the consequences of soreness, irritation or what he feared most of all, the augmentation turning against you and eating your system alive. A slow, painful death that made suicide rates insanely high because of it. “I’ll be sure to swing by again then do make sure you do” he smiled.

As their hands shook Rupert felt the surprise from Gwen, mistaking it for discomfort. He rarely got around to talk with girls, save for Serena. But that droid was too cold for his actions, giving a calculated gaze than any other emotion. He pursed his lips, linking his hands together in a modest manner. Shying away from saying anything else.

He chuckled. “I can only imagine the trouble,” he shook his head. “Twelve, what a baby” he jested. “Shit, getting yourself killed? What the hell did you do?” He asked, getting more curious about her past. Even though he himself had barely given anything away to her. it wasn’t fair, but he doubted that she cared about him. Maybe would call him dramatic. When she pointed to her defeat reminders, he nodded. “Huh. What did they pull on you?...more importantly, what got you distracted?”

He leaned forward, putting his chin on the palm of his hand and a massive grin. “Sure, why not?” he retorted. “Who knows, I could be your good luck charm” he laughed. Rupert’s mind went to his mental calendar. Thursday he would have to open shop to offer help to the people around, and fix up some deals of the things he got today. But he should be done and dusted around time Gwen had her fight. Maybe bring Serena along so that the droid could bother someone else. In thought, he changed his mind about bringing Serena. That droid might end up in the ring because she pissed someone off. Then Rupert would have to fix her up, wasting some parts that he could sell. Not that he minded, but he was desperate for a bit of cash here and there.

Gwen merely shrugged, "I've dealt tougher," she said casually, she wasn't wrong as the blonde was known to be a bit harsh when irritated though he seemed to have caught her on a good day. She watched him shift and roll the discomfort from his shoulders, Gwen couldn't blame him she knew from experience that those stools were pretty shit. Raising her eyebrows at his statement about him being a prince charming she snorted a bit, "Oh really? Well, Your Highness, you aren't the only noble here as I've been told I'm quite a royal pain in the ass," said the bartender with a chuckle.

Holding her hands up in surrender she took in what he was saying. Gwen was adamant about her lifestyle, the fights and even mixing drinks, it was what kept her sane sometimes. She already had that ripped out from under her before and wasn't letting it happen again become an option. "Alright, yeah it's pretty reckless leaving them untreated, your right, I'll work on it, fighters honor," Gwen said not even using the last phrase sarcastically like she normally did. She did act serious when the occasion called for it after all, and her source of income was something she was very serious about.

Gwen shrugged again, "Sure was, a baby with the unbridled anger of a junkie denied their next fix and a stubborn streak so strong even I was frustrated by it," she said fighting the urge to pop her knuckles, the only reason she hesitated was the fact they were still sore. Looking to the side a bit and letting out a humorless snort Gwen nodded. "There was an accident," she was vague about what it was but gave some info away, only a handful of people knew and she intended to keep it that way. "It left me pretty messed up, affected nearly everything I did," pausing to mess with her ponytail in the end tightening it Gwen continued looking at the man in front of her, "There are certain set rules when it comes to bare-knuckle, but there are also a set of unspoken rules, one being if you tap you tap if not you go until someones on the floor. I ended up on the floor one too many times with too many hits to the head, got enough concussions that I was pulled from fighting for my own safety," she finished, knowing he had some medical knowledge probably helped him understand what she'd meant. Gwen wasn't sure what the first aid supplier had meant when she said something about 'hemorrhages' but it sunk in when she mentioned possible death. Heh, that scared her straight for sure.

"As for my latest fuck up," Gwen hesitated a bit, the whole truth? He'd hit her right temple and sent her augmentation into a frenzy causing her to nearly double over and yell from the high pitched ringing that made her vision vibrate. Well, she couldn't tell him that, so half-truth it was, "He whacked my temple," Gwen said tapping her left temple with a finger twice before returning them to her empty glass, "It's a good move albeit dickish, but he used me being disoriented to his advantage and I eventually tapped so he won fair," she said with another shrug and a bit of a smile.

Gwen’s own smile turning to a grin she laughed some, “Maybe you will be Doc, who knows,” she said with a laugh, giving into the want to crack a few of her knuckles she didn't mind the bit of soreness she felt when a few stiff ones give from the pressure. Looking at a few patrons who’d joined them at the bar, regulars Gwen found that she was comfortable in the familiar setting. There was no discomfort from her augmentation, the bar wasn’t too busy and the banter between her and the man in front of her was natural, though only knowing him for a short bit of time there was a sense of mutual respect for the other. ’This is kinda nice,’ mused Gwen in her thoughts a bit, in fact, if he did end up coming to her fight and win or not it could be fun, hell she might even give him a round free if he did end up bringing her good luck.

((Gosh I don't think I ever got the notification for this! Sorry it's late!))

____________________

[For Jon]

There was a blonde woman behind the bar, she had her hair thrown up in what was an attempt of a bun and was wearing the typical tank top and jeans, but there was a worn navy flannel on over her tank top. After all, it was raining cats and dogs outside. Gwen was the bartender's name and while she was free of any major bruising there was a healing shiner on her left side. Her current task at hand was cleaning shot glasses and beer mugs, it was an easy one and routine at that point.

The sound of the door opening and shutting, letting in the sound of the storm outside, announced someone entering the building. There was a gleam of metal at her hand and around her left eye as she lowered her hood, revealing a head of dark brown hair as she made her way to the bar. Samantha was her name, not that she often gave it. There was a whir of machinery in her limbs as she moved, her mechanical eye putting a reflection of the lighting wherever she looked.

(Sol?)

Jon- "I'm not saying Florida weather is crazy, but I just saw a mosquito in a sweater snorting the pollen off my car." wrote: "(Sol?)"

(Working on one, busy this week is all.)