WHO: Celeritas, Nocnitsa WHAT: Contemplating, drinking, and possibly meeting someone new? Or, you know, someone he's more familiar with. WHEN: September 15, 2009; 10 pm WHERE: In and outside of a bar RATING/STATUS: High PG-13 or low R for violence and language / Complete
The ceiling fan was perhaps the most intriguing thing in the bar that evening. At least the churning blades overhead did not have the indecency of public drunkenness. In fact, they were quite stately, perhaps the only thing in the entire building that could be described as such. Even the mutant who thought this couldn't quite be called stately, unless all states had fallen to the blood of innocents on the hands of those with the gods' gift of special powers. His eyes dropped from the fan above, turning to survey those in the bar with the sort of bored disinterest that had become so common for him lately. Scents mixed beneath his nose, making him want to wrinkle it in a sudden childish gesture. The pungent odour of alcohol warred with the dozen or so sweaty bodies inside of it, struggling for dominance. Neither would win, of course, unless some of those sweaty bodies left. Then, it was anybody's fight. He swung his head to the side again, checking the bar's inhabitants. No one he knew, at least... not yet. He'd know as soon as the door opened and they walked in, the air conditioner aiding his already heightened senses by hurling their scent towards him faster.
Jamie grunted, tapping the mug of coffee against the bar's glossed wooden surface. Witch's coffee, they called it. Coffee, mixed with some Italian Strega liqueur. The flavour of both substances was extremely strong, making Jamie have thoughts about discarding it. But in all things, Jamie was very practical. Or so he thought. Getting rid of the coffee would have been a waste. And besides... alcohol was supposed to be good for a man's heart. One could never be too careful. He closed his eyes, tapping the mug once more before straightening his shoulders and arching his back. The motion sent his abdomen against the side of the bar, and he grunted. Though he hadn't hit the bar hard, with such sensitive senses, he might as well have hit it with the force to bruise. A steam of Greek curses fell from his mouth in low tones, unlikely to be heard by those with normal hearing. Fucking bar.
Within his mind, gears whirred. Were a telepath picking his brain just about then, it would have been a jumbled mess of indecipherable language. Greek tumbled end over end with French and Italian, and even that was the most normal thing coming out of his mind. Sensory intake was constantly catalogued, placed away for future reference. Once he'd heard a sound, smelled a scent, tasted a food - he never forgot. It was merely filed away until such a time as he heard, smelled, or tasted it all again. Idly, he let his mind tumble over the scents of those in the bar. A twenty-something male behind him was drinking his fourth or fifth beer, and he'd recently been in the company of a dog. Beside him was another twenty-something, this one a female. She was not drinking, and her scent carried the undertones of pregnancy. It was likely that the twenty-something was her mate, considering there was no familial scent between them. Jamie closed his eyes again, pushing their scents to the back of his mind. He was through with them.
For a brief moment, Jamie considered getting up and leaving. But he was too lazy. He'd already had a few hours in the training facility, and was now regarding his current activity as a sort of training for his senses. Speed was something he could work on as often as he worked on his physical shape. Senses were yet another thing entirely. His ears perked up, straining for any sound he could hear. At first, his heartbeat was most dominant. Slowly, he tuned that out. Conversations were happening all around him, and he was catching snatches of them. The pregnant woman behind him was snapping at the male, tone indignant. "All I'm saying is that your father would take it the wrong way. We can't tell him yet." Jamie gave a disgruntled sound on behalf of the male. She sounded arrogant, annoying. He found himself wanting to slit her throat. His fingers curled tighter around his mug. It would be incredibly satisfying in a bizarre and wrong sort of way. Two lives for the price of one. Never say that Jamie was appropriate.
The mutant shifted his shoulders, lifting his mug to his lips. The coffee, he hoped, would distract him. Much better to save pent-up aggression for dealing with that God-awful fuzzy beast he had to work with. Besides. If he killed her now, he'd have to clean it up. And that was just not an attractive thought. A moment later, any semblance of linear thought had dissipated. He was much too distracted by trying to decide if the Strega's taste was more strong in small doses than the coffee's. After a long moment, he decided that it was, courtesy of the minty overtones in its flavour. He had but a few sips left of his coffee, and he took them all in a great swallow, dropping the mug back to the bar with care not to break it.
"Damn," he muttered. Out of coffee, out of something to keep his hands occupied. Sharpening knives in bars, after all, was generally frowned upon. And it was also not a practise that would keep him from attacking the woman behind him. He wondered, idly, if she had red hair. It would be oh-so-amusing if she did. And it would certainly give founding to the old statement about red-headed women and bitchy temperaments. He thought, briefly, about ordering another cup of coffee. And then, with the taste of the other so strong in his mouth, he changed his mind. In a case like this, the only thing left to do was go out, have a smoke, and return to the same lonely barstool his behind had been occupying for the past hour and a half. Up he got, fishing his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. The bartender here knew him well enough that his leaving to smoke did not pose a problem. Besides, Jamie had been frequenting the bar often of late. Perhaps it was the fault of his team-mates, and perhaps it was just because he had no sense of self-preservation, and constant warnings about his heart only made him want to buck against a so-called authority figure.
His walk to the front was short, and he had already fished a cigarette out by the time he'd gotten outside. He leaned up against the wall, slipping the cigarette between his lips and bringing the lighter up to ignite the end of the "cancer stick." A grin crossed his features. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to get through his cigarette before someone came to bug him about something ridiculous.