1964-03-04 - Til Dawn Breaks
Summary: A monk and a bohemian visit the most hopping go-go club in New York.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: You Really Got A Hold On Me - The Beatles
blackagar rogue 

It was a pleasant evening, lively at that, in the lounge. How he was convinced to come into such a place is beyond anyone's guess. Blackagar, who normally had been adverse to visiting crowded areas due to the challenges faced in communication, had somehow been talked into this.

Standing just inside the entry to the lounge, dressed in a few levels of fancy beneath a suit, was looking across the area attempting to find a place suitable for sitting and having conversation… which was something he wasn't really going to do regardless.

The music in the lounge was vibrant, the most recent to be on the airwaves and the clambor of glasses, filled with spirits along with the conversations of others made the whole area one big party.


The Peppermint Lounge has line-ups outside the door and police on the prowl for trouble, hinting at its underworld connections. Celebrities come here to be seen, and supposedly, mob deals go down in the backrooms. Given this place is one of the hottest tickets in town, how Scarlett of all people manages to work her way past the velvet rope with Blackagar in tow, in many require significant contemplation afterwards. Is she a celebrity? A villain?

A little of both, as it happens, with a heavy dose of a second person whispering in the bouncer's ear. She doesn't offer more than a puzzled smile, and continues on. The only place there might be any hint of quiet conversation is jammed in a corner table, away from the stage, since everyone seems to want to be near the front. Or said back rooms, though she's not trading that much on her apparently curious status. Or trading at all.

Instead, the redhead in the swingy jade dress wiggles her black leather-gloved fingers. Too many people to trust she can maintain control, here. "Would it help if I stand on the table and read?"


Blackagar looks over at Scarlett and shakes his head, managing a thin smirk as he taps the slate tucked under his arm and then uses some hand gestures to communicate as best he can. «If you stand on the table, they may be expecting you to dance.» The humored point is offered before he tilts his head towards the only pair of open locations he can spot, neither of which are truly that ideal. But, he did let her choose the spot. The knowledge of it's tie ins to the rest of the world is beyond his own knowledge, such things didn't make it to the mountains of Nepal.

A tap of his slate is given, showing that he would write were there space to do such.


"I am a bohemian. I've known how to dance longer than I can remember." A measure of regret lies behind the brightly shaded words, however playful, for memory leaches away so easily from a set point not long in the past. Still, the redhead's swingy dress and glorious boots lend themselves to motion. "Why, should you prefer I dance only in the park or places where no one is looking? I already do the latter." Tilting her head, Scarlett directs a look upwards, slanting through the light fixtures, alluding to the starry heights where so often she pirouettes freely among the cloudtops. That said, her movements through the crowd gathered for the changing set — the current performers favour rock, the next, something closer to a little group of moptop guys from Britain — are punctuated by 'pleases' and 'pardon mes' to urge them to move. Most do, and those who do not, she has little trouble stepping on their unoccupied table to get by. Whether Blackagar chooses to follow, her hand offered to him, is up to him.

All things said and done, though, there's a table with her name on it and someone trying to get there first may just warrant a very, very pretty smile and the question, "You planning on dancing on that?" Never underestimate the power of a sunny smile and a bold inquiry. It does mean she scootches into a chair before someone else comes along to copy her, and thus, she waits for him, a step or however many along.


Stepping over tables just is not in the cards for Blackagar, for any number of reasons. Rather he opts for sliding around them. Where the crowd thickens, so does his chest, making himself a bit bigger in case to slide through, rather than around, some people. It isn't a push or shove, more of a firm nudge from a fit person. It certainly takes longer, but it also preserves him from climbing furniture, which is a cardinal sin amongst the elements of Attilan.

During one of the bumps, the slate from under his arm goes sliding free, requiring him to stop and stoop under a chair to pick it up. A smile greets him on his way up, some random blond who thought that perhaps he was sneaking a peek. Awkward smile, embarrassed nod of apology, and soon he is spinning around, realizing he has lost Scarlett in the chaos of the moment and in the transitioning crowd.


Pity the Inhumans think so poorly of chairs as stairs. Make of it as one will, such a curious and quaint custom. Pointing her toe and rolling her heel, she offers him a rather serene expression despite all the souls eagerly congregating in the open spots left. Give her a few moments and Scarlett raises her gloved hand. She can pop up as simply, calling out, "Over here, cherie." Not many people in such a venue speak fluent French, but a fair number do, and a few heads might turn her way. Failing that, she has other means at her disposal to go fetch the man she came in with.

Drinks are delivered as guests make their orders, the first tremors of music pouring from the speakers as the bassist of the next rock band warms up.


Dodging a server, Blackagar is able to spot through sound the presence of Scarlett and it brings his attention to her, steps falling in behind the server he barely missed and using her as a lead blocker through the bodies that are present. Finally he is able to get to the table that was picked out, slate flying to hands as he quickly writes out for Scarlett, «You would think that Mountain Lions would be more intimidating than music affecinados.» Flashing her, the sign that is, he moves to pull a chair free for the woman, then one for himself.


"Mountain lions? Scarcely. All hiss and few claws. These people are zealots, they love their bands and music." Rue the day those girls with Beatlemania start breaking into random screaming fits outside record shops. Greenwich Village will never be the same. Scarlett drops back into her seat and rests her chin on her palm, ticking a look over the assorted young people and more famous souls, a few older folk out to enjoy the night mixed in. As he pulls the seat out for her, she tugs her skirt smooth and scoots the seat in. "So this, as they say, is one of the hippest places around. Everyone and anyone drawn in by the music. You had enough time out of the city, warmed by your thoughts? This is the reason for it all. People."


Blackagar glances around, takes in a few of the faces, the wardrobes the displayed personalities before he starts to write on his slate and turns it over for Scarlett to read. As she does, his eyes continue to look over the gathered people, the 'reason' as she stated it.

«How many of them know? Know what is out here, the threats that exist? Is this a way to ignore them? To live through them? Or is it ignorance?» The expression he wears is not one of judgment, negating that as the tone in the words. It is actually one of concern perhaps, curiousity and intrigue.


A server going by pauses to ask, "Want to order anything?" He looks expectantly at Blackagar, like you do, especially in times like these where the lady never does so for herself. Awkward moments impending. The fellow doesn't even look back when she offers a helpful interjection of, "Gin and tonic." Right, feminine presence making her will known. See the masculine sniff and the expectant look at the Inhuman, rather than the redheaded mutant.

Her fingers curved along the line of her jaw, Scarlett waits until the server is dismissed or given a written order, at which she might deign to respond in kind. "What do they know? That our enemies hold nuclear weapons and the push of a button assures our mutual destruction? Aliens fly in the skies and infiltrate who knows how many governments? Nothing their parents knew is certain. Nothing we learned in school can be fully trusted. I don't ignore them coming here. I remember I am one of them, for all I have seen and know. Care what they care about to remain in tune with what it means to be one of them. Because while we constantly boil ourselves down into smaller tribes, cheri, we really are all one and the same in the ways that matter."

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