1964-03-02 - Big Bad Frat Party
Summary: Frat boys know how to wreck a night. The Brotherhood has the solution for making it better.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
silencer hope 

Emerald Lounge, given its name, is completely green. Green vinyl stools, green walls, even hideous green Formica countertops considered the coolest thing this side of East Village. It's the sort of place where people throng for green experimental drinks and louche attitudes, rock music starting to explore psychedelic tones, and a dance floor where all sorts bother to share their moment. It's the place where Hope finds herself gravitating towards even if she doesn't want to. She sways and moves in time to the beat, fairly slow as it feels, and lets the crush of people push aside all the cares of the moment. Or as many as she can.

Three exit points, one blocked by stools and a box of beer. Inadequate ventilation if something happens. Smokers lighting up on the bar, in the tables. The ready abundance of alcohol. At least two people packing knives, and four of them have stranger talents she can vabuely pick out. Dangerous.

But that's life.


Terry Walker could do with a drink.

He's been out of the game for a while — but that happens when one's daughter is kidnapped and one has to 'clean house', that is to say 'wipe out an entire mafia family single handedly'. Now that that's out the way, Terry needs that drink.

"Hrm," he mutters to himself as he makes his way to the bar. "Gimme a beer — no wait. A bourbon. On the rocks." The Australian accent is unmistakeable.


Silencer has partially disconnected.


Drinks get fetched up by bartenders who barely look old enough to drink, but the bouncers in the lounge see to it that no one becomes overly frisky or fails to pay up. There aren't tabs here; it's COD, same as any infomercial on the radio or telly.

Another quadrant and the redhead is grooving to the music, at least trying to. Others let themselves fade completely into the delightful thrum in their veins, the beat in their hearts. Hope isn't that kind of girl, bombarded by the pressure on her senses. Alive, so many people alive. Careless, sloppy souls thrilled by their own self-contained, teeny-tiny little worries. Life in boxes. She nudges her way through the couples daring to dance closer then arm's length apart. She sways and strides, pushing past, elbows available if needed. A little nudge, then voila, out by the bar. "Really," she mutters to two frat boys sizing her up. Not short, her. "Move."


"Hey, c'mon girl!" remarks one of the frat boys, lifting his hands in shrug that is really an attempt to get his arms closer to her.

"Heh, yeah. Be game!" says the other, who starts dancing just that little bit closer to her, despite her warning to 'Move'. They both follow her toward the bar, still trying to chat her up.

"Don' know what yo' missin'," the first frat kid insists, leaning his head in a bit with a leering grin upon it — as if drawn by an eager artist trying to do clown impersonations and failing.

"How 'bout we t — ," the second tries to say, and suddenly his voice vanishes. He blinks, and attempts to speak again, only no sound comes out.

"Hey, what's goin' on widjo' voice, du — ?" and the other frat boy's own voice goes. It distracts them enough that they leave Hope alone a bit, while they try and talk to each other.



Terry, watching them, smirks. Turning toward Hope, he says: "Yer popular today, huh."


Why bother staying in places like this? It's fun, everyone says. Go to a club, it's cool, they insist. Hope has words for the advice given in vain, a mental note not to trust them made.

She just isn't dressed like all the other hip cats 'round the lounge, jeans and a t-shirt hardly standard fare among flappy, loose dresses and skirt. It makes crossing her arms under her chest and tipping her head skeptically all the more dramatic, teenager speak for being unimpressed. Three centuries in the future isn't all that much different. "Not interested." Not gonna be game. "Really not interested. I want a beer." She might be pushing past, and the grinning kid is mostly ignored as she brushes past. If they try to stop her, she looks over her shoulder. "Cat got your tongue? Be glad it isn't my dad."


Terry's smirk widens.

He downs a mouthful of bourbon, and then narrows his eyes at the muted fratboys. Gently, very carefully, he takes that sound-energy and turns it into a mild TK field — applying pressure to the first boy's gut.

He doubles over, looking like he might vomit.

Dude? the other mouths silently. Whatchyo' doin', dude? You sick? You feelin' sick?

The fratboy shakes his head, holding up a hand as if to say, I'm fine. It's fine. I'm good.

Then he vomits over his friend.

Terry turns away from them, looks sidelong at Hope and shrugs his shoulders. "Looks like yo' friends've got other problems now, luv. You always attract this kinda distraction?"


Ew. Vomit on another is enough for Hope to sidle away from the sickening scent and appearance before anyone else starts reacting viscerally. Two quick steps forward and she pushes to the bar, leaving the fratboys to their own fates. Who says karma doesn't have a smirk and peeks out from under her blindfold every so often?

"Distraction?" It's that question that brings the redhead looking up, fair face young and eyes old, almost flinty. Guarded, as far as an expression goes. "Any girl walking past gets that. Nothing new, except they don't keep any manners about themselves while they're drunk. Pretty sad, but come tomorrow, they'll talk about getting stomach flu and that's it."

Whatever her accent is, it sounds odd. Not American. Not English. Not South African. Definitely not Kiwi. Whatever it is, English of a varietal not common must come to the fore. She flicks a finger at the bartender, and says, "Beer. Darkest you got." A crumpled dollar bill and two quarters get plunked on the surface.


"Probably better that, than what yer dad mighta done, eh?" Terry remarks with another wry smirk on his face, referring to the kid vomiting. Both fratboys head off to the restrooms to clean themselves up — still unable to talk. "I'd be the same, if anyone tries that shit with my little girl — not old enough fer that kinda attention, though."

Down goes more of the bourbon.

"I'm Terry," says he.


"Probably would've had them by the jewels and tossed them a few blocks," Hope says, her no-nonsense response too fast to be anything but very glib or truthful. Her elbow rests on the bar and she leans in, casual only superficially. Bending slightly from the waist, she languidly waits on the bartender to fetch up her stout or whatever he considers a dark beer.

Flexing her toe, she gives a very slight smile at Terry. "You'd think so. But there are people who make excuses. Lucky if she doesn't have that problem and knows her dad's gonna back her up. It helps."

Another flex of her foot and she pushes back her heel, stretching her calf slightly. Too much dancing means no dead stop. "Hope."


Terry's smirk turns into a mild, lopsided grin and he mock-toasts the 19yo with his almost-finished bourbon. "Pleasure, Hope," says he, before finishing off his drink. He is quick to order another.

"So, school? College? Ya don' really seem the type — unless it's a military college." He narrows his eyes a bit, watching this young woman who moves and talks with the grace of a feline — not to mention the watchfulness of one — and the bearing of someone who's seen combat, or war in some shape or form. He knows the type well.

He might be cut from the same — or similar — cloth. Either way, he puts the 'educated guess' out there, to see how Hope responds to it.

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