01-25-2017, 12:28 AM
With occasional glances at his device for digital navigation, Dante soon reached a drink bar; the structure couldn't compare to others with a meager one-floor construction and a basic road-sign-sized neon board just below the dilapidated sign board. It didn't come close to the well-worn classical impression Dante found himself hoping for from this outing, and for the most brief of moments he considered checking another place.
The interior of the place held notably more polish than the dilapidated skin of the outside. It meant that the management clearly put priorities in place, even if they happened to be a bit skewed in practice. Several moody lights drew barely-flickering attention to the bar, the side rooms, and the bare stage. The pallid drone of the armfuls of patrons forced itself over the slow startup of a rock song he couldn't quite put a finger on; this, and the migration of several folks from the stage-side to the bar, indicated Dante must've just missed a show. Considering the polished metal pole set firmly as the center of a circle of bars, the kind of show wasn't hard to imagine.
Bartenders knew things. What they didn't know, their patrons oft did instead. The devil hunter strolled up against only a couple of judgemental stares, several simply resuming their other conversation moments later out of disinterest. He left an empty bar stool between himself and the surly-looking shirtless man to the right, then ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels. The tough guy took note with a glance. He must've been offended, or maybe suspicious, of the red-coated newcomer's generously-provided amount of space; after a few moments, the guy shuffled into that adjacent stool.
"What wind blew you into this joint, pretty-boy?" asked a level, but gruff voice from that immediate right.
Dante wanted to sigh, but refrained. "I'm not offering services."
"That's not what I asked, boy," he spoke again, lacing his tone with poison. "There's nobody who knows this part of town that comes into here without packin' serious guns."
As the bartender came back with the trademark alcohol and a shot glass, Dante coolly leaned on the counter with his left arm, Ebony laid on its side with a loose grip. The mustached server glanced at his index finger, propped safely over the finger guard, and proceeded to act no differently as he deposited the order without a word.
"That, there, is the kinda attitude that'll get you in fat trouble, boy-"
"You can start by not calling me that." With his free hand, Dante grabbed the neck of the bottle and popped the cork with his thumb, tipping the hard beverage into the icy glass. "At least I have the grace not to call you 'knucklehead' every two seconds, huh?"
The opposing male's brow furrowed over his shaded circle glasses, the intense creasing pulling down the hem of his bandana with it. It was almost remarkable how that forehead resembled his similarly-clenched knuckles on the table. "Fine, then. New, reckless, and lookin' for a brand of trouble to deal with. I wager you're a fresh Prime."
"Ha." First wrong assumption, take a shot. Dante exhaled as he set the glass down, only a single drop of the alcohol trailing down from the rim. "Certainly not past the expiration date," he remarked, taking his hand and pouring out the bottle again.
"Right," the man's fists tightened themselves pale, failing to keep the sight of his gnarled teeth grinding together behind his sharp lower lip. "Could've fooled me, with how much of a dumbass you're being."
Got insulted, take a shot. How unfortunately predictable, the red merc lamented, wiping his lips with the joint of his thumb. He breathed out sharply, beginning his involved retort, "This is a fairly low-profile place, on a road that doesn't get a lot of public traffic, in an area that isn't under the watching eye of any big names. And you said it yourself: you gotta have big guns to come in here. Double meaning, much?"
The burly man, as well as several others who managed to overhear Dante's little declaration of discovery, hesitated in what they were doing. That feeling of a dozen eyes scrutinizing him came back, stronger than before. Satisfied with the reaction, the devil hunter gave himself a knowing smile and slid his handgun off the counter, back into its holster.
His left hand came back up to reach for the bottle when finally, a new voice spoke up somewhere: "Just how much do you know?"
"That's it, really. You kinda nailed it, otherwise," Dante admitted flatly, presenting his empty hand to the burly guy to offer him some credit. As he finished pouring himself another shot, he missed the guy's gnarled look of confusion over this newcomer.
"Really? Boy, I'm about nail your head to the-"
"Give it a rest, Sandford," That other voice, clearer, demanded from the other side of the man in question. The half-blood didn't turn around just yet, but he heard Sanford slump back, presumably in resignation. Close enough to an insult, Dante decided, and took the next swig of alcohol down his throat. He had to clear his throat a bit after the sudden refire of that familiar burn.
"I'll make myself clear," spoke the shirtless punk, now known as Sanford. "You're not wanted here. Whatever you're doing, do it somewhere else." His free arm reached behind him quietly. The other voice emitted a tobacco-riddled sigh. Dante looked over finally, and behind those tinted glasses, Sanford narrowed his eyes in anticipation for the next attack.
It did not come yet. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, leveling out the bottle to pour out another shot. "And why is that?" Dante asked, fairly legitimately. His hand deposited the Jack Daniels upright again, then leaned on the counter. He never broke eye contact.
Sanford scoffed. "You think I'm just gonna tell you that? Forget it. Last chance for you to get out."
Dante expected that other person behind Sanford to pipe up again, but another puff of cigarette smoke seemed to imply he wanted none of the crap that would shortly ensue. A pair of other punks from one of the round tables stood up. One with a rippling scar traced diagonally across his roughed face cracked his knuckles under a set of brass ones. The other unhooked a chain whip from a belt that barely held the hem of his jeans above his undershirt. The devil hunter remained completely unfazed.
"Look," Dante leveled out, trying to sound more reasonable. "You're not really gonna attack me, are you? Because, really, that's just a dumb thing to try and pull on someone like me." His fingers drummed on the table next to the shot glass, his idle form holding a bit of sway to it. Sanford's tough facial muscles narrowed around his circular lenses again. Was the red-coat drunk, or just trying to goad everyone into thinking he couldn't see a fight coming? The poker face on this guy seemed top-notch, and it infuriated the free agent all the more.
The bartender came aside Dante and Sanford again, still remaining professionally silent. This establishment, despite the wear and tear, had managed to go quite a time without a fight for once; the creased look on the man's mustached face said he was not eager to have this streak broken so suddenly.
"Since when am I the voice of reason...?" The guy behind Sanford mumbled, taking a pensive drag on his cancer stick before standing form his seat and blowing the smoke out of his nostrils. His plain black sun visor didn't quite obscure his narrowed eyes or the copious amounts of bandages wrapped around his cranium. The smooth jacket he wore tight with a heavy-duty utility belt was shown by the ambient lights to be lined with all sorts of pouches, holsters, and gear mounts. Hands at his side, he spoke up, "Just why are you here, anyway? It can't be just to blab about the place."
Dante's expression curved into the slightest smirk in recognition. Finally, someone talking sense. It only took - how many - three shots? Or did he take four? No, he had just poured the fourth one out, not taken it yet. "I'm just looking for a place to set up shop," The devil hunter very plainly admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "Not saying it's gotta be here, I just thought someone would know their way around better than myself."
A couple of doubtful voices muttered out above the dull volume of the overhead song. Metallica, Dante realized, that's what it was. The two thugs that had stood up shared a glance between them, while Sanford glanced back to his partner with a more forceful glare. The guy glanced down, hiding his face under the visor, and gave a more subtle shrug of his own, like a child who didn't know what he got in trouble for.
"Well," The bandanna punk looked back forward, releasing his hold on the weapon behind his back, "You picked the wrong place to look."
Dante scoffed, and downed that prepared swig of alcohol. As if the guy hadn't made that statement sound obvious enough. "You don't even know what I do- besides be a pain in the side, and all."
Sanford found his retort caught in his throat, mouth hung agape at the realization that his line had been stolen. He snapped his lips shut as Dante's own curled up again. The merc crossed his arms, sitting back with stern resignation. One of the other standing punks started to pull out his chair again, while a lone guy in a booth sidled out to make for the doors. The bartender walked aside to serve another Bloody Mary to a wiped-out soul on the far end, still on guard. Finally, Sanford found his words: "Whatever. It doesn't matter. We're not obligated to hear you out just because you walked in acting smart."
The red-coat's brow got a bit more cross, and he found himself perching his jaw on his hand, with his elbow leaned on the counter. "Okay, fine. Just gimme a place to start, and I'll go. That's all. No need to get angry over the new guy, alright?"
Sanford's apparent accomplice leaned himself back, lazily falling into his seat again with a puff of smoke. The eyes behind those round lenses judged Dante just a while longer before shooting across the room. "Hey, Hammer!" He called out, an open hand next to his lips as if it would magnify his shouting, "You free for the evening?"
A bald-headed man with a full circle of facial hair and a jungle-camo jacket piped up from his cold bottle and his losing hand of cards. "And what if I am?" He called back, the rumbling voice deeper and yet less obliged than Sanford's own.
"You've still got one of your spots on the far-side, right?" Dante sat back as Sanford worked, eschewing the glass entirely to just drain the bottle idly from the source.
"You mean, one that's not compromised?" Hammer turned in his seat, folding his fan of cards face down. The shirtless muscleman to the right of him raised, tossing in eight blue chips from the pile he had amassed in the hour.
"Doesn't matter, any of 'em will probably do. He's just looking for a shop to use."
"Well, damn," The camo guy grunted as he pushed himself upright from his chair, "He'll have to work for it, then."
"Long as it's not an escort mission," Dante butted in, draining the bottle. He slammed it back down, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a handful of Imperial coins he had duplicated during the second elevator ride down. Sanford just rolled his eyes over his glasses and turned back to the counter as the bartender walked back up.
Hammer walked up, his gray vest on display between the lapels of his camouflage overcoat. A pair of loose cargo pants terminated in clomping combat boots, giving the impression of the man being military brass. Maybe before, Dante figured, considering the military here didn't exactly have nearly as much taste for subtlety. The devil hunter deposited the coins on the counter, not waiting to see whether or not the bartender accepted them before standing up himself.
"You must be the guy, huh?" Hammer guessed aloud, looking over the red coat strapped up with his quite various loadout of weaponry. "I guess I can lend you a place. Won't come cheap, though."
Dante just rolled his shoulders, readying himself for another bout of walking. "Depends on what you're asking. Let's burn that bridge when we get to it, huh?"
The bald man didn't respond with anything more than a knowing nod, and strode out into the urban air with his customer in metaphorical tow. The bartender thought to speak up about the coins, but decided he was just thankful the bar would remain standing for another day, and so shrugged it off for once.
The interior of the place held notably more polish than the dilapidated skin of the outside. It meant that the management clearly put priorities in place, even if they happened to be a bit skewed in practice. Several moody lights drew barely-flickering attention to the bar, the side rooms, and the bare stage. The pallid drone of the armfuls of patrons forced itself over the slow startup of a rock song he couldn't quite put a finger on; this, and the migration of several folks from the stage-side to the bar, indicated Dante must've just missed a show. Considering the polished metal pole set firmly as the center of a circle of bars, the kind of show wasn't hard to imagine.
Bartenders knew things. What they didn't know, their patrons oft did instead. The devil hunter strolled up against only a couple of judgemental stares, several simply resuming their other conversation moments later out of disinterest. He left an empty bar stool between himself and the surly-looking shirtless man to the right, then ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels. The tough guy took note with a glance. He must've been offended, or maybe suspicious, of the red-coated newcomer's generously-provided amount of space; after a few moments, the guy shuffled into that adjacent stool.
"What wind blew you into this joint, pretty-boy?" asked a level, but gruff voice from that immediate right.
Dante wanted to sigh, but refrained. "I'm not offering services."
"That's not what I asked, boy," he spoke again, lacing his tone with poison. "There's nobody who knows this part of town that comes into here without packin' serious guns."
As the bartender came back with the trademark alcohol and a shot glass, Dante coolly leaned on the counter with his left arm, Ebony laid on its side with a loose grip. The mustached server glanced at his index finger, propped safely over the finger guard, and proceeded to act no differently as he deposited the order without a word.
"That, there, is the kinda attitude that'll get you in fat trouble, boy-"
"You can start by not calling me that." With his free hand, Dante grabbed the neck of the bottle and popped the cork with his thumb, tipping the hard beverage into the icy glass. "At least I have the grace not to call you 'knucklehead' every two seconds, huh?"
The opposing male's brow furrowed over his shaded circle glasses, the intense creasing pulling down the hem of his bandana with it. It was almost remarkable how that forehead resembled his similarly-clenched knuckles on the table. "Fine, then. New, reckless, and lookin' for a brand of trouble to deal with. I wager you're a fresh Prime."
"Ha." First wrong assumption, take a shot. Dante exhaled as he set the glass down, only a single drop of the alcohol trailing down from the rim. "Certainly not past the expiration date," he remarked, taking his hand and pouring out the bottle again.
"Right," the man's fists tightened themselves pale, failing to keep the sight of his gnarled teeth grinding together behind his sharp lower lip. "Could've fooled me, with how much of a dumbass you're being."
Got insulted, take a shot. How unfortunately predictable, the red merc lamented, wiping his lips with the joint of his thumb. He breathed out sharply, beginning his involved retort, "This is a fairly low-profile place, on a road that doesn't get a lot of public traffic, in an area that isn't under the watching eye of any big names. And you said it yourself: you gotta have big guns to come in here. Double meaning, much?"
The burly man, as well as several others who managed to overhear Dante's little declaration of discovery, hesitated in what they were doing. That feeling of a dozen eyes scrutinizing him came back, stronger than before. Satisfied with the reaction, the devil hunter gave himself a knowing smile and slid his handgun off the counter, back into its holster.
His left hand came back up to reach for the bottle when finally, a new voice spoke up somewhere: "Just how much do you know?"
"That's it, really. You kinda nailed it, otherwise," Dante admitted flatly, presenting his empty hand to the burly guy to offer him some credit. As he finished pouring himself another shot, he missed the guy's gnarled look of confusion over this newcomer.
"Really? Boy, I'm about nail your head to the-"
"Give it a rest, Sandford," That other voice, clearer, demanded from the other side of the man in question. The half-blood didn't turn around just yet, but he heard Sanford slump back, presumably in resignation. Close enough to an insult, Dante decided, and took the next swig of alcohol down his throat. He had to clear his throat a bit after the sudden refire of that familiar burn.
"I'll make myself clear," spoke the shirtless punk, now known as Sanford. "You're not wanted here. Whatever you're doing, do it somewhere else." His free arm reached behind him quietly. The other voice emitted a tobacco-riddled sigh. Dante looked over finally, and behind those tinted glasses, Sanford narrowed his eyes in anticipation for the next attack.
It did not come yet. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, leveling out the bottle to pour out another shot. "And why is that?" Dante asked, fairly legitimately. His hand deposited the Jack Daniels upright again, then leaned on the counter. He never broke eye contact.
Sanford scoffed. "You think I'm just gonna tell you that? Forget it. Last chance for you to get out."
Dante expected that other person behind Sanford to pipe up again, but another puff of cigarette smoke seemed to imply he wanted none of the crap that would shortly ensue. A pair of other punks from one of the round tables stood up. One with a rippling scar traced diagonally across his roughed face cracked his knuckles under a set of brass ones. The other unhooked a chain whip from a belt that barely held the hem of his jeans above his undershirt. The devil hunter remained completely unfazed.
"Look," Dante leveled out, trying to sound more reasonable. "You're not really gonna attack me, are you? Because, really, that's just a dumb thing to try and pull on someone like me." His fingers drummed on the table next to the shot glass, his idle form holding a bit of sway to it. Sanford's tough facial muscles narrowed around his circular lenses again. Was the red-coat drunk, or just trying to goad everyone into thinking he couldn't see a fight coming? The poker face on this guy seemed top-notch, and it infuriated the free agent all the more.
The bartender came aside Dante and Sanford again, still remaining professionally silent. This establishment, despite the wear and tear, had managed to go quite a time without a fight for once; the creased look on the man's mustached face said he was not eager to have this streak broken so suddenly.
"Since when am I the voice of reason...?" The guy behind Sanford mumbled, taking a pensive drag on his cancer stick before standing form his seat and blowing the smoke out of his nostrils. His plain black sun visor didn't quite obscure his narrowed eyes or the copious amounts of bandages wrapped around his cranium. The smooth jacket he wore tight with a heavy-duty utility belt was shown by the ambient lights to be lined with all sorts of pouches, holsters, and gear mounts. Hands at his side, he spoke up, "Just why are you here, anyway? It can't be just to blab about the place."
Dante's expression curved into the slightest smirk in recognition. Finally, someone talking sense. It only took - how many - three shots? Or did he take four? No, he had just poured the fourth one out, not taken it yet. "I'm just looking for a place to set up shop," The devil hunter very plainly admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "Not saying it's gotta be here, I just thought someone would know their way around better than myself."
A couple of doubtful voices muttered out above the dull volume of the overhead song. Metallica, Dante realized, that's what it was. The two thugs that had stood up shared a glance between them, while Sanford glanced back to his partner with a more forceful glare. The guy glanced down, hiding his face under the visor, and gave a more subtle shrug of his own, like a child who didn't know what he got in trouble for.
"Well," The bandanna punk looked back forward, releasing his hold on the weapon behind his back, "You picked the wrong place to look."
Dante scoffed, and downed that prepared swig of alcohol. As if the guy hadn't made that statement sound obvious enough. "You don't even know what I do- besides be a pain in the side, and all."
Sanford found his retort caught in his throat, mouth hung agape at the realization that his line had been stolen. He snapped his lips shut as Dante's own curled up again. The merc crossed his arms, sitting back with stern resignation. One of the other standing punks started to pull out his chair again, while a lone guy in a booth sidled out to make for the doors. The bartender walked aside to serve another Bloody Mary to a wiped-out soul on the far end, still on guard. Finally, Sanford found his words: "Whatever. It doesn't matter. We're not obligated to hear you out just because you walked in acting smart."
The red-coat's brow got a bit more cross, and he found himself perching his jaw on his hand, with his elbow leaned on the counter. "Okay, fine. Just gimme a place to start, and I'll go. That's all. No need to get angry over the new guy, alright?"
Sanford's apparent accomplice leaned himself back, lazily falling into his seat again with a puff of smoke. The eyes behind those round lenses judged Dante just a while longer before shooting across the room. "Hey, Hammer!" He called out, an open hand next to his lips as if it would magnify his shouting, "You free for the evening?"
A bald-headed man with a full circle of facial hair and a jungle-camo jacket piped up from his cold bottle and his losing hand of cards. "And what if I am?" He called back, the rumbling voice deeper and yet less obliged than Sanford's own.
"You've still got one of your spots on the far-side, right?" Dante sat back as Sanford worked, eschewing the glass entirely to just drain the bottle idly from the source.
"You mean, one that's not compromised?" Hammer turned in his seat, folding his fan of cards face down. The shirtless muscleman to the right of him raised, tossing in eight blue chips from the pile he had amassed in the hour.
"Doesn't matter, any of 'em will probably do. He's just looking for a shop to use."
"Well, damn," The camo guy grunted as he pushed himself upright from his chair, "He'll have to work for it, then."
"Long as it's not an escort mission," Dante butted in, draining the bottle. He slammed it back down, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a handful of Imperial coins he had duplicated during the second elevator ride down. Sanford just rolled his eyes over his glasses and turned back to the counter as the bartender walked back up.
Hammer walked up, his gray vest on display between the lapels of his camouflage overcoat. A pair of loose cargo pants terminated in clomping combat boots, giving the impression of the man being military brass. Maybe before, Dante figured, considering the military here didn't exactly have nearly as much taste for subtlety. The devil hunter deposited the coins on the counter, not waiting to see whether or not the bartender accepted them before standing up himself.
"You must be the guy, huh?" Hammer guessed aloud, looking over the red coat strapped up with his quite various loadout of weaponry. "I guess I can lend you a place. Won't come cheap, though."
Dante just rolled his shoulders, readying himself for another bout of walking. "Depends on what you're asking. Let's burn that bridge when we get to it, huh?"
The bald man didn't respond with anything more than a knowing nod, and strode out into the urban air with his customer in metaphorical tow. The bartender thought to speak up about the coins, but decided he was just thankful the bar would remain standing for another day, and so shrugged it off for once.