who| Arthur Petrelli and Lindsey McDonald what| Two morally grey lawyers, and one large bottle of expensive scotch. where| Bar McRandom; Los Angeles when| Following this graffitti conversation; Evening. rating| TBA status| Thread, incomplete.
It was the kind of bar where the lighting implied that it was entirely likely you were about to get your throat slit at any moment, but chances are you would see at least half of it coming and your doom would be polite enough to tell you before they sawed your jugular in two with a straw. The bartender probably wasn't human, and if he was, the genes responsible for his forehead hadn't been present the day evolution had been announced to the rest of the pool. But he poured the scotch neatly and never touched it to water, which was the only important characteristic.
No patron had yet tried taking anything to the throat of the man at the bar with the greying hair, despite the hiking backpack that reached the top of the bar leaning against the stool beside him, and he had paid for a bottle of the establishment's best liquor to be brought up from the back and dispensed as needed or indicated. Even the hulking, skulking men with unpleasant-looking tattoos and worse manners remained at the pool tables off to the side, only occassionally glancing his way. He sat and drank as if he had always been there; always belonged there.
Then again, Arthur Petrelli had long perfected the technique of belonging wherever he wanted to.
He heard the bar's door open and close, and gesturing to the tender for a second glass, had a polite amount of alcohol waiting at the bottom of it when a man came to occupy the stool beside him.