erratic_hematic: (talk to the hand)
[personal profile] erratic_hematic
Spike needs to let off some steam. The problem is that nobody is taking him up on his instigations, and he's been drinking too slowly for it too make much of an impact. He's been bar hopping for a little while now, but by the time he swaggers into Wilmot's, he's willing to take things up a notch. He doesn't want this to devolve into a round of drunkenly worrying about Sunshine's health even more than he already is. He doesn't want to worry more. He wants action.

He orders a bottle of whisky, pours out a full glass and downs it, then looks out across at the rest of the patrons while he refills his glass. There's got to be someone here who'll fight back.

He prods the first person to walk by him in the shoulder to get their attention. "Oi, you. You've got stupid hair."



[ooc: You can either let spike instigate or assume that it's a bit later in the evening]
i_jones: (it gives me a headache)
[personal profile] i_jones
This is it. Ianto has reached the end of his proverbial rope, the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back. He can't take it anymore. He has had it up to here [not indicated, but probably a spot well above his head].

Aliens. He's going to go mad if he has to spend another day living with aliens inside of another alien. There was a nice period after Callie settled in where everything was a bit domestic and relatively quiet and nothing went unmanageably wrong. He wonders now if he wasn't just resolutely ignoring all the little things that were driving him so slowly up the wall that he hasn't noticed 'til now that he's at the ceiling. He can't even recover with a stiff drink because his house, which is actually an alien, won't let him near any alcohol, ostensibly for his health, which the house (the HOUSE WHICH IS AN ALIEN) claims he has been neglecting. So he's gone on a long walk (for his health) to the riftie Pub for a drink (for his mental health). It's refreshing and slightly bizarre to walk the relatively normal streets of Manhattan. The strangest people he walks past are a welcome change, just for being people. Even the unsettling man in the alley before the door to Wilmot's is some kind of a relief.

He orders a pint of cider at the bar and sits at one of the little tables, trying to soak in the warm and extremely human surroundings, and maybe work his stomach up for some definitely human food.
driftseeker: (don't get lost)
[personal profile] driftseeker
Echoes of Raleigh, listen to me sing a horrifying chorus as her brother is ripped from the Conn-Pod, torn away with his life skewered on teeth larger than anything, his mind a shrieking turmoil of fear and agony and despair -

Mako wakes with a sharp intake of breath.

She doesn't have a brother.

She sits up in the bed in the apartment Gabe was kind enough to offer her, green like he said it would be to match the curtains framing the window, where the watery predawn light filters in to fall in puddled disarray over the rumpled sheets.

She braces hands to her temples.

She doesn't have a brother. She doesn't have a brother.

Mako jerks the covers back and pads to the kitchen, rattling around in a frantic attempt to fall into some morning routine. It is not until the loud groan of the coffeemaker pierces her ears that she realizes she does not start the morning with coffee. She starts with tea, Darjeeling black, and Raleigh would drum his fingers against the countertop impatiently, absently, as he waited for the grind of the beans to halt and the rhythmic drip of the machine to begin.

Coffeemaker abandoned, Mako flees into the outside world with its rush of cars and dizzying lights. She does not have much by the way of clothing, just essentials, simple and utilitarian.

She reads the name of the place at which she finds herself. Wilmot's.

She needs a drink.

No she doesn't. Raleigh needs one.

Mako has to sit down and order, and then she puts her head in her hands.
postictal: (uh huh sure | smoking)
[personal profile] postictal
This is a bad idea.

Then again, that's kind of his specialty. Bad ideas, and making the best of them. Well, that's really more Jay's specialty, but - Tim's not thinking about Jay. He has a policy where he doesn't think about Jay unless it's the staunch reminder that he's getting him back. He just - needs to find him first. Somehow.

Tim sighs.

'Rates negotiable'. What does that even mean? It's not like the vague label of 'adventurer' is much of a reliable job description. This is the kind of shitty idea tantamount to Jay's late night expeditions in the middle of creepy nightmare-infested woods. Meeting a self-described 'adventurer' because he's desperate, because he felt something work when he woke up this morning and Jay must've gotten out, he must have, he's just - he's just not here. He's lost. He's always lost. He gets lost in woods he's never been in. It's what he does.

Tim swirls his glass of water, the soft clink of ice cubes against glass barely audible over the low drone of the other patrons. He doesn't really know what to make of this place with its weird-as-fuck old-timey feel, and the irregular surges of people spilling in and out aren't doing much to put his jangling nerves at ease. He hunches over his water, knuckles blanching as his grip tightens over the glass. Too many people. Too many goddamn people, and not enough space.

There's an all-too-familiar tightness in his lungs. He digs out his phone and taps out a message - seeking adventurer - and lays it out flat on the table in front of him with a muted click. Is that a thing people do? Is that a good indication of who he is and who he's looking for? Fuck, as if he couldn't have been more vague.

With a loose, fuck it shrug of his shoulders, Tim drains his water and puts his head in his hands. Definitely a bad idea.
etherthief: (destitute | miserable)
[personal profile] etherthief
End of a long, hard day. Wilmot's, again.

She shouldn't have done this.

She keeps fiddling with the cheap burner she got to replace her ROMAC phone, thumbs tapping idly against the buttons without typing, plagued by a powerful itch to text Greta and tell her no, nevermind, it's nothing, don't come.

She needs this, though. And there is no one else. Really, there never has been.

As if Greta doesn't have her own needs, her own life, someone else's children to attend to, as if Iman hasn't already drawn her in far enough, involved her, brought Durant to her doorstep, endangered the children. And now the woman is coming to meet her well across town because she needs it - wants it - needs it.

Selfish, arrogant little girl.

She sets her finished whisky down too hard with a crunch that draws a few people to look up; her hand flexes and loosens and she frowns darkly at the telling crack in the glass. She runs her thumb over it, smoothing it out, mending it slowly. She'll have to do that with the mug she broke this morning, when she finally goes back home. Hasn't been since she woke up. Her clothes are all mussed and a little bloodied, not enough that she draws attention, but enough that Greta will notice. And she doesn't have her hijab. Her hair keeps getting in her face. She doesn't like it. She brushes it back angrily with a sweep of her hand.

What is she going to say to Greta, even?

What more can she ask of that woman?

She sets the fixed glass down on the edge of the table and signals the server for another.
etherthief: (working | moping | both?)
[personal profile] etherthief
Rush's dream collapses and Iman lies awake, breathing too hard, staring at her ceiling. Her blood is up from his dumbshit attitude and his mottled, fucked up arm - she needs to break something. It's too early to go to Wilmot's but what the fuck is the point of sleeping, anyway.

She gets out of bed, paces for a few minutes, and ends up hurling an innocent coffee mug across the room, finding intense, relieving satisfaction in the sound of it shattering. That's better.

She'll clean that up later. She gets into the shower and turns it on cold. This is happening today. It'll just be her and Daine and Rush, who had better still fucking be alive.

There will be blood if he's not.

She brushes her teeth furiously, gets dressed and spends undue attention making herself look clean. There will be time aplenty for her to get wrecked today.

She checks the clock. Still at least an hour before even the stickiest barfly would be out and about. But if she stays here she'll end up breaking more things from the inactivity. She goes out.

She walks for a while. Wilmot's is close, so she ends up just circling that area, remembering vaguely better times when she fielded a weird meeting between Daniel and the Devil, and later when the Devil crashed through a wall. She'd take that shit over this, probably.

Finally, when time enough has passed, she walks into Wilmot's End, sits at the bar, orders "The tallest Tom Collins you can give me", and waits.
powerdealer: (20)
[personal profile] powerdealer
Seth's not entirely sure how much he likes being called up as a newbie's guide to superpowers. Any recognition is still a bit too much for him, and he doesn't like meeting at a pre-determined time with someone he doesn't know. But Wilmot's End is just about the only place he feels is safe, neutral ground.

He'd actually showed up pretty early, thinking he might scout for other newbies with fresh powers they might like to get rid of, but he's felt far too anti-social to actually approach anyone. His anxiety's been kicking in, much earlier than he'd like. It's a worrying trend that he's trying very hard not to think about too much.

So he's sitting a little towards the back, nursing a drink and watching the door from his booth. Looking for anyone who looks a little lost and out of place, like they're searching for someone.
etherthief: (playing with fire)
[personal profile] etherthief
Iman practically drags her new friend to the East Village, wandering with intense focus until she finally comes across the bar Jodie had recommended to her, which looks just like it sounds, a proper English pub. It's been ages since she went to an English pub. She's looking forward to it. A little hysterically, actually. No wait. Scratch that. She does not get hysterical. She's a scientist.

"Here we are!" she says brightly, drawing Daniel in. Oh wow would you get a load of this place. The lady behind the bar is in costume. Adorable.

"Wow you can kinda tell it's for people from an alternate universe, can't you?" She snorts and takes stock of the people, looking for someone to talk to, or someone whose brain she (they) can pick. It's pretty early for anyone to be drinking, so there's not too many people there, except one guy who is drunk, slumped over the bar. Looking exactly like she feels, or rather how she wants to feel in an hour's time.

"That one," she says decisively, not bothering to check if Daniel's with her on the idea of approaching a drunk stranger and asking him questions about their mutual cosmic misfortune. He's probably not. She doesn't actually care.

She goes straight to the bar, assuming Daniel will follow, sits herself on the stool next to the guy, and nods to the tender. "I'll have what he's having."


[[ooc: Daniel's just gonna be here for the initial thread, but Iman will be here all day! Say hi if you wanna.]]
essentiallyharmless: (Drunk as lords)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
Lucy has managed to get out of the house for once. It's difficult when you have nowhere in particular to go to, and no one to go with, and inertia and directionlessness is pressing down on you. But staying inside those oppressive walls isn't doing her any favours, and there's only so much a roof garden can do for your sanity.

So she's made it all the way downtown, to Wilmot's End. It's not the sort of establishment she usually goes for, but there's a much higher chance of meeting someone actually interesting. And somehow she feels more at home with the weird and scary. She's tried to slip back in the kind of world she used to belong in, fundraisers and fancy parties and publishing and regular work, but she hates having to start from scratch, and after years of weird and scary, it doesn't hold her interest anyway.

So she's sitting at a table near the back, nursing a drink and half-reading a book, looking up now and then, waiting for someone to approach her, or to see someone she wants to approach.
bagropa: (for onus related reasons only)
[personal profile] bagropa
Croach is wrenched from his dream by an explosion. It is followed by a hissing noise not unlike the sound of a laser pistol cutting through and cauterizing flesh. He is alert immediately, abandoning his nest to seek out the danger in the park. Danger that... he does not sense. Instead, he hears the sound of human laughter, and he remembers the significance of the current date. It is some sort of human holiday, celebrated (increasingly, of late) by the baffling tradition of colorful explosions, perhaps as some sort of attempt to recreate a successful battle in their history. Regardless, it is unsafe, and Croach tracks the source of the explosions and warns the younglings away from using explosive devices. (It does not require much to convince them; they are eager to leave once he arrives, surely guilty upon being caught.)

He has been on this planet for fifty-seven days, he tabulates, as he dismantles the explosive to harvest the primitive chemicals within for use in new techno arrows. He has run out, unable to repair the damage done to the few he arrived with during the course of his travels and rescues. He has explored the length and breadth of the island and come no closer to discovering the purpose of his presence. He has learned that the denizens of the city are not always receptive to his assistance - in half of the assaults in which he has intervened, the victim has attacked him, often due to his appearance or 'nerve' or something called the 'patriarchy'.

It is... frustrating, he decides, emptying the black powder into a pouch and cinching it shut. He cannot identify the emotions this lack of progress causes him to experience and he is uncomfortable confiding in any of the - friends - he has made so far. He knows they are negative emotions - he recognizes the unpleasant feeling in his lower intestines - but they are either too foreign or too complicated to name in detail. Not that he has thought hard about that, really. He has actually put significant effort into not identifying the emotions. They make him agitated, and though he would deny it if anyone asked, he knows it has been showing. The way he treated the younglings he chased away was not kind, he will admit. They left abruptly because they were frightened, not apologetic. But he does not wish to acknowledge his emotions, because he fears - yes, he fears - that if he does, he might realize that there is no reason for his presence and, as several have insisted, no way to return to his home.

Croach returns to his nest with his find, hiding it safely in the cover of the roots of a tree. He has not ventured far from the area for the past Earth week, deciding instead to provide himself with a more comfortable and perma-- a more suitable place to live. In his explorations, he found a abandoned cave full of animal skins. He praised Nah Nohtek for the gift and took them to the copse he calls his own, intending to build a tent. He finds himself inexplicably reluctant to do so, though - to do anything, short of helping those within proximity who require urgent assistance. He has not visited Sunshine four Earth days. He wonders if she has noticed his absence.

That is not an entirely unfamiliar emotion, he realizes. He wondered that often about Sparks Nevada after he declared his onus complete and left, leaving Sparks Nevada with the author Rebecca Rose Rushmore. The Red Plains Rider had, concurrently, wedded Cactoid Jim. Croach had felt… superfluous. He had lied openly to Sparks Nevada in order to disguise his reaction, declaring that he would return to his tribe indefinitely. He did not feel successful when Sparks Nevada believed him. He had experienced - sadness.

Putting names to his emotions - frustration, sadness, loneliness - does not make them easier to bear. But something had, he recalls, and his feet carry him south out of the park with purpose that he has thus far lacked.

“I wish to begin a tabulation,” he declares with more confidence than he has felt since he arrived in the city, sitting heavily on a stool at the bar in Wilmot’s End. He has heard it is open to - that they would not be averse to his appearance. “One of your wheat-based beverages. You may entrust me with the bottle.”


((WHO WANTS TO GET SUPER DRUNK WITH CROACH because he is going to get pretty drunk. He will eventually be leaving with someone - not like that, gosh - but in the meantime he will be... an inappropriate drunk.))
johnny_truant: (Default)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Johnny leads Charley from Chinatown to the East Village, searching out the bar where he'd met Zagreus some weeks ago. He finds it without too much trouble - "Wilmot's End", apparently.

"Okay," he says, stopping outside. He's starting to panic a little bit, but doing a really good job keeping that tamped down. The plan he's cooked up is shit, and he knows it, but it sure is happening. "So I think... I'll sit in a booth, like I did before, and you can sit at the bar. There's a mirror behind it, so you can keep an eye out without being seen. Right?"

He's doing a surprisingly good job of sounding like he knows what he's doing, too. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls out his phone and stares at it for a minute.

"I have to do this somehow so he'll think I'm just being an idiot," he says. "And not, like. Suspect something."

He doesn't add that this shouldn't be too terribly hard, because he's usually an idiot.

He takes several moments to come up with something good, then several more to type it, wrestling awkwardly with the tiny touchscreen keyboard and the insufferable autocorrect feature (he has got to ask Gabriel how to disable that), before finally sending out the lure.
vlad_dracul: (peeks)
[personal profile] vlad_dracul
Once Dracula learned that the soil of this land would give him sleep, he set to work. He had no desire to become involved in the conflict between ROMAC and the rebels, particularly with such scant information. Fortunately, his actual needs were simple. He needed blood, easily supplied by the rats and vermin of the city. He also needed a place to sleep. Well, sleeping in a coffin, even one occupied, was something he had done before, when necessary.

He preferred a comfortable house or apartment, though. For that, he needed money. He had a small bit of gold in the lining of his jacket, a holdover from more dangerous times, but selling the gold would probably draw more attention than he wanted. Dracula needed a way to earn some honest money. He refused to stoop to crime, especially theft, which he despised. Fortunately, this city, even more than others, had a criminal underbelly willing to cater to those in need of new identities. After earning a small amount of money doing odd jobs, Dracula was able to get enough identification to get a job...at least in places that didn't check backgrounds too carefully.

Now, Dracula is gainfully employed as a bouncer at Wilmot's End. His job includes breaking up fights, preferably before they begin, and making sure minors don't sneak up onto the second floor. Dracula goes back and forth between the floors, making sure the clientele can see him clearly. Wilmot's End has a reputation for not tolerating trouble and Dracula has not hurt that reputation at all. He wears the uniform of black jeans and a black button up shirt well. It's an easy job and Dracula rather enjoys it, even if it is somewhat menial. Ah well. He's developing a solid reputation and gets along with most people.

Even on busy nights, Dracula tries to find time to talk with the clientele. The more they know him and the friendlier the relations are, the easier it is to get people to listen and cooperate. He's always willing to chat for a bit.
johnny_truant: (Default)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Johnny stands in the fitting room of an East Village thrift shop and stares himself down in the mirror. He's half undressed and hasn't progressed any further, too distracted by his reflection.

He used to have a lot of tattoos. He remembers having them. He was working on the beginnings of an abstract-patterned sleeve for his left arm, and he had the branching vortex on his right wrist, and the compass on his left hip, and something on his back. Didn't he have something on his back? He doesn't remember now.

What he sees there instead are the three long scars, clawed in by whatever it was that attacked him - or didn't. Hadn't he imagined it? Had he, really? Things like that are too, too hard to remember.

But there's no ink on his back, not anymore, if there ever was. And there's no sleeve either. Just his burn scars, stretched and fading. The wrist tattoo has improved and shifted to his other wrist, as he'd previously discovered, and... is it growing? It seems bigger than he remembered.

The compass is still there. It's the only one in the right place.

He starts to unbutton his pants, and he sees the ink carry down further, down his left leg. When did that happen? Why hasn't he noticed this before? He hasn't been undressed very often, he sleeps in his clothes half the time and tends to enter a trance state whenever he showers, but still.

He strips his jeans and stares at the monstrosity curling around his thigh, all the way down to his knee.

Stairs.

No. No. No.

The compass is still there, but it's just the anchor point, the origin for this horrific architectural mess that has sprung out of god knows where. It's a hack job, not very detailed, mostly just simple dark lines running at jagged perpendicular angles, spiraling around his leg. He stares at it until he starts to feel sick.

When did this happen? How did this happen?

He doesn't care. Rather, he can't care. He has too much on his mind to care. He pushes it out, excises it with a heavy, abrupt exhalation. He tugs on the clothes he pulled from the rack. They fit. They're boring. He'll blend. They'll do.

Twelve dollars for the pants and five for the shirt. Not bad. He dresses himself in his old clothes and steps out of the room, away from the mirrors, to make his purchase. Can't move into a new place without clothes, right??

What is he even doing?

He hasn't decided yet if he'll take Gabe up on his offer. It's stupid not to, he knows that, it's a free deal, even if he's not sure how much he trusts the guy yet, he's in no position to be choosy. He'll relent. He knows that too.

But he needs time first, to do whatever the hell he's doing today.

After he buys the clothes he continues walking, unwilling to return to the hotel just yet. He needs space from everything and everyone he knows. He needs to just hide for a while.

It is with this in mind that he enters the first open bar he finds. It's just after noon and he was supposed to only use the rest of the money Jodie gave him to get clothes, but he doesn't really need more than two outfits, does he? Not right now, anyway. What he needs is alcohol. So he curls up into a booth in a dark corner of the room, sets his bag next to him, and orders "something cheap and strong" from the sleepy-eyed waitress. Turns out "cheap and strong" is a really bad vodka tonic. It'll do.

He nurses it for a while, lowering his head into his hands. His skin feels electrified; the movement of ink across his body, the fading scars he's been trying to forget, and the dreams. He had a nightmare last night, he remembers it too vividly, dying in a bed of butterflies, inside the TARDIS. He wonders if any of it was real, and if she's okay.

Too many dreams lately. And the first was the worst. He still feels the itch, the sting of Zagreus, something he left behind, branded into his head. Jodie said Aiden took him down, but did he, really? It's still so familiar, that burning fear and hostility, the feeling of being invaded and watched. What if he's still there? What if he'll always be there?

Shit. Stop it, Johnny. He downs his drink much too fast, coughs loudly enough to get the waitress's attention and orders another.
has_a_horn: (wtf is that)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
Gabriel had started out with the good intentions of heading out to Wilmot's End in the search of a good time and maybe a distraction from being trapped in New York and the continuing absence of the TARDIS in his life. An hour in, he's removed himself from the group he'd been talking to, and is now sitting at a table in front of an untouched strawberry martini, poking at his phone.


[ooc: He'll be hanging around for a while, so there's plenty of time for multiple ppl to show up]
powerdealer: (7 | Brooding | Sad | Default)
[personal profile] powerdealer
It's been three weeks since Seth escaped from the rebels, and about two weeks since he moved in with Gabe - though he doesn't stay there every night, and hasn't really moved that much in. He got another apartment as well, once he managed to scrounge together some more money through not particularly legal ways. Some nights he doesn't want to be around people (or dogs), and some nights he doesn't want to be alone, so he ends up going back and forth, which also helps in not making him feel like he's inconveniencing Gabe. It's been working pretty well so far, and Gabe is amusing company.

Besides that, he's been busy taking steps to protect himself by tracking down powers he wants. Of course, a large part of the difficulty is that he mainly wants defensive powers to do with hiding or escaping, and people with those powers are pretty hard to get hold of. Another is he either needs resources to buy the power off of them, or enough justification to simply take the power from them. He had felt absolutely no remorse for taking back accelerated healing from a particularly vicious rebel member he had given it to some months prior, but in most cases people with these powers aren't evil or using their powers for anything particularly morally objectionable.

In between that, he's been simply trying to readjust to society. It's mostly to that end he's sitting at a table in Wilmot's End tonight, having a quiet drink.

Of course, he could do that in any bar, but this one has the advantage of letting him scout for interesting powers at the same time, and he knows that their patrons' safety is the most strongly enforced rule here, and you don't really want to make an enemy out of the owner, so he feels relatively safe here.

So if anyone wants to say hello, he'll be fairly friendly.
ceciiil: (a reporter's eyes)
[personal profile] ceciiil
Cecil is more than a little overwhelmed by his new surroundings. The move from a sleepy desert town to the busiest city in the country is quite a jarring one, even without accounting for inter-dimensional travel. Plus, it's cold. Not even supernaturally so, just...cold. Outside. Cecil considers himself an open-minded and worldly man, but why would anyone do this deliberately? Ugh.

So after a modicum of getting settled (frankly the prospect of decorating, which his new space sorely needs, had been too much to contemplate on top of everything else) he'd fallen back on a timeless classic. "Drink to forget." Also, what better way to learn the ropes, right? Someone had mentioned the bar, err pub, and it seemed like a nice way to kill some time. Try to formulate some kind of...life strategy.

Of course it's nothing like he'd expected. But the pub is nice and homey, and after a brief dispute with the barperson about the definition of rocket fuel vs brandy, he settles in to do some peoplewatching/life reordering. He's dressed in a smart, casual sweatervest, with the addition of the atrocious yeti coat acquired upon his arrival, and projecting his best air of approachability.
applesaucemod: (Krissy 3)
[personal profile] applesaucemod


A special pub has recently opened up in the East Village, and word has been spreading through the ranks of both the rebels and Romac, as well as on the rifties network.

Wilmot's End caters specifically to the unusual, those touched by the rift or carted here from different worlds. Here you can mingle and socialise in a reasonably safe environment. There is a very strict non-hostility rule, and anyone who wants to make trouble, or some rebel who wants to pick a fight with a Romac employee, will be immediately evicted. Bear in mind, though, you are not protected from gossip, and anyone might overhear you.

The first floor is a cozy pub with a relaxed atmosphere, where they serve food and have a well-stocked bar. Perfect for chatting and quietly unwinding. Minors are permitted in here until 8 pm.

The second floor is not open to minors, and is divided into two levels. On the lower level, there's a stage where bands or DJs occasionally perform, as well as an area for dancing. The upper level has seating with a view of the stage, and a bar where drinks can be ordered. This area is generally somewhat rowdier and a lot louder. The second floor also houses the offices, with windows facing the street.

The pub is located at the corner of 10th street and Avenue B. For those who are not safe to walk in the open, the bar is accessible through a basement entrance, reached by a tunnel that leads off the Lower East Side 2 Av subway station. It is open 24/7, and is owned by Beatrice Summerfield. Staff will be added to the NPC list.

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The Big Applesauce

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