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Lux, daytime. Why the hell is anyone here? The answer is pretty simple: no one is here. Or rather next to no one since all the long haired Hippies are asleep and the mods are turning their noses up at real work or something. Instead there happens to be a pretty strawberry blonde bartender — Ana — asleep in a booth with a coat draped over her. Lucifer Morningstar has a reputation for giving no shits about anyone; Lucian, on the other hand, is another matter. He looks over her, Mazikeen lounging on the stairs to street level, assessing. "Best go find them, then, and see if anything is intact." His tone holds a certain flinty distance anyone who remotely knows him would positively run to the nearest hole from. "And pick up two pints of vanilla on your way back. A jar of cherries and a bag of frozen strawberries. We'll need them."
JP Bonaventure was not an upscale kind of guy. He was the sort that owned what he had and likely fought for that. He was clean though, and beneath the gruff and swarthy exterior, a good looking young man with a lot of rough edges. What business brought him to Lux was unknown as he was not dressed at all for what one might expect coming through the front door. Of anything immediately noticeable were two things: switchblade in his back pocket, and oddly, a small silver chain with a small icon that might be non-descript to most. Lucian would be able to pick that out across the room as an icon of St. Leonard; patron saint of criminals, and nest to it St. Nicholas, patron of…repentant thieves and children? Interesting. The Cajun let out a drawl that brokered curious concern. "She alright?"
Lucian watches the dusky skinned second of his stalk off. She's a wonder, a predator in a snarky t-shirt, one of the little changes to the mortal realm. Fashionable to read 'Object to consciousness' or something of the sort, really. She passes JP on the stairs, a glare pressed from those obsidian chips for eyes. Nothing causes the deadly Lilim to smile, a pity really. "Don't cause trouble," her only words of advice, have all the warmth of Pluto. What a rocky surface and scary teeth you have, my dear.
Lucian gives a gentle pat to the sleeping woman's leg and she draws it closer, fully pressed to the back of the horseshoe booth. No harm, no foul. His business proceeds, assessing the bar and its selection of liquor, the rare few patrons in the sun. Daylight, however, is his hour, his hair gold and eyes bright as the skies of endless summer. Very little really escapes his notice, except the obvious. "She's fine. Long night out, and the consequential lack of sleep thereof. We are otherwise not a B&B, but she gets the perks. Anything I can do you for?"
JP paused, eyebrow hiking at the word of warning. It gave him pause and evenly, curiously he wondered to her, "Well I dunno. That mean you come back?" JP ought really keep a moth as a personal totem. Nothing grabbed his attention, and often, his libido faster than the promise of danger. Still he didn't pursue the passing flattery. The roving Cajun nodded faintly to Lucian's assessment that the woman was alright, concern assuaged. His attention however, was curious and lingered on the stair; a pause, a definite interest, but a curiosity. Faintly distracted he considered the question. "I dunno. Tell you the truth? Here wasn' where I expect' to wind up." Out of habit his eyes glanced behind him, because in certain walks of life survival was paramount on one's ability to keep their head on a swivel.
Cruel creature off to hunt whatever she likes - probably rats - leaves the remainder of the crew to worry about their tasks. Somewhere there are the ladies and gentlemen, none but one human, responsible for restocking and transcending the standards of common entertainment through the various flourishes they excel in. Whether that's painting a mural or fine tuning the glorious sound system, let it be said. Frank Sinatra comes on in a flourish and fanfare, 'Forget to Remember' poured over the electrical system. The archangel shoots a look over his shoulder, eyebrows rising slightly.
Not exactly a standard choice, all said and done.
"Not the first person to say that. Though I should warn you we have nothing standard on tap." Indeed, there may not even be a tap.
JP might be holding his breath for a moment. Was he? He was. Those brown eyes blinked a few times, shaking his head clear. Whatever that was she was impressive. He let out the breath he was holding and nodded getting a look at the rest of the place and the one that was obviously to him the proprietor. "Prolly not I imagine. Merde, seem' everything here's custom down to those of us visitin." This seemed to bring him a faint amusement. One last glance to the woman who had the night catch up to her fast and hard, and the man at the table, "Well, hook me up with somethin' to surprise me then I guess? I can cover it. Jes' don't break my balls." by balls he meant wallet; either of them and neither of which were rightly his, but he could cover his tab in reason.
Mazikeen is gone, the hunting lioness on the prowl. In broad daylight, that can't be the most exciting or mundane of tasks but rather a horrifying show of skill and bravado. Which one applies? Ask her yourself. Lucifer knows better than to bother her, all things said and done. He instead drifts back to the gorgeous marble and granite bar acting as an altar to all moral decency, the business of his to plunge those notions lily-white in a vat and bring them out starkly hued indeed. "Indeed. Originality is a rare breed in this city, no matter how often people think otherwise." He smiles thinly at that, not unkind, but simply acknowledging a truth. "Do you have a preference? Sweet, sour, smoky? I can fix you nigh to anything, but direction of preferences shall ensure satisfaction." Never ask the top end tab. It'll cost your soul.
JP wasn't entirely certain his soul was worth more than a jack and coke anyways. He could be wrong. Considering the options he took a stab n teh dark, "Savory? Bitter? Spicy's always good." He waded over to the bar and occupied space for a while. Like everyone else he had his share of things on his mind. He asked the man playing bartender, "How you wind up in New York?" Perhaps instinct or astituteness to not pick him out as a native, or a lucky or unfortunate shot in the dark.
Savory with a kick, this he can do. He considers the arrangement of liquors and starts with a vodka on the shelf, one that no distillery label reveals. A twist of the label will help him figure out where to pour it, mixing with a splash of dry vermouth and a sprinkle of bitters. That's where it begins; where it ends is very definitely in the woods among the most sacred trees. Forget pine syrup or eau de cedar, overrated as they are, but the barkeep knows exactly what he wants out of them. A little of this, a shot of that, a few shaken twirls of an old spoon tarnished by the elixir he's making like one of those frightful, mercurial creatures of yore who bent over pipettes and steaming bubblers. "How not? The city has a fine lure, all said and done. One cannot have such luxuries in the middle of, say, Peoria."
JP shrugged, "'Lantic City, Miami, Atlanta, Chicago, Detroit, 'Orleans, Vegas… Hell even Los Angelas I guess. I hear Cali's hoppin. Not tried it for myself. Thought aboutthe desert tho. You're right." He had to offer that watching the process with a curiosity. He liked 'new'. distratingly so. "Should I ask what a Peoria is or is that the point?" A faint half grin crept up on his face. He admitted though, "New York? Hard t'get used to."
How many places can they name? "Not the same as the beating heart of New York." He smiles thinly, staring off beyond JP's shoulder. "Out there are a greater patchwork of people than anywhere else on earth presently. They speak more languages, have more stripes and spots and colours in between. The sheer marvel of humanity, contained on an island between the Hudson and the Atlantic, a princely fiefdom by anyone's reckoning." Lucian flips the bottle from a shelf over, and this one is thin, small, dark. The syrup within has to be measured carefully not to overpower, and yet he manages, scarcely troubled by the prospect. Flip here, flick there, all good and done.