2012-10-21 Otto's Shrunken Head

PLEASE NOTE - THIS LOG IS NOT YET COMPLETE - I WILL BE FINISHING IT THROUGHOUT THE DAY IN PHASES! - Apoq79

There is a bar called "Otto's Shrunken Head" in New York's Lower East Side. Originally a tiki bar, the place has become one of those small, trendy bars where hipsters, punks, even steampunk and nerd kids gather to imbibe, chat, or hook up. It is early evening on a busy week night, and a tattooed, purple-haired DJ has just begun to play some interesting music. Fresh out of the Chicago music scene, the genre is generally known as "Seapunk" - a combination of trip hop, electro, and trance music with a decidedly oceanic twist. Fortunately, the music isn't so overwhelming in volume that it would really annoy anyone save for the most easily annoyed, and so it does not interfere with the rather boisterous conversation surrounding politics that has developed at the bar.

"Yeah, well I think that Governor is just full of himself!" blurts out one younger man wearing a studded leather jacket and wielding a fist full of cheap beer. "Typical, like all politicians. I don't care what party you're in, they're all corrupt!"

With the tune of hooting agreements and raised drinks as a background for his entrance, the generally unremarkable figure of Kwabena Odame walks into the bar. As the door man checks his photo ID, his oddly colored eyes peer about at the interior, looking for its quietest spot.

"Alright buddy, you're good," says the door man.

Odame, ignoring him for the most part, simply takes back his ID and sidles over to the bar, doing nothing to draw undue attention to himself.

As far as locations for info drops go, there could be worse. Domino slips in through the entrance only a moment later, so set on her task that she almost walks right into the friendly sort that greets her at the door in search of an ID. "Whatever, here," she cuts in while holding it out between two fingers. Nevermind that she could probably drink the guy right under the table, standing and waiting with her weight on one leg and her expression blank beyond one hooked brow. He says nothing in return when he hands it back, to which she gives a soft "Thank-yooou," drifting past him while tucking the ID out of sight. It's an interesting place, to be sure. She almost fits in with her quasi-Goth presentation. Onward and inward, eyeing the joint for her contact.

It takes the bartender a few moments to note Kwabena's presence, especially with his unremarkably plain clothes. He's not the only patron wearing something as basic as jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket of course, but most of those types have something otherwise remarkable about them, such as trendy glasses, pink mohawks, or a flashy partner.

Then again, there are Kwabena's eyes.

When the bartender heads his way, she throws herself back against her hip and studies him carefully. "Nice contacts," she says, smirking curiously at him. "What'll it be?"

"Double Bulleit Rye, on the rocks," answers Kwabena. When he speaks, it is with a thickly accented African voice, of Ghanaian origin for those so attuned to determining regional dialects. "Thank you."

What a curious bunch of people in this place... Then again, where else would these sorts of lost souls congregate? Domino's still searching the room, spotting the guy with the braided black hair at the bar. Hmm, is that--? Dang, the drink options around here aren't too shabby! Maybe she'll stick around for a while after getting her business out of the way. Visual contact is soon established with her contact, drifting through the crowd once more to stand at the edge of his table. "Nice weather, huh?"

The lone man seated there gives the mercenary a puzzled look. "I wasn't aware of any code--"

"It's small-talk, kiddo," Dom cuts in while holding a hand out, low to keep it out of sight. The man sighs and drops a USB drive into her palm then stands away from the table, leaning close to her ear. "Just for that, you can cover my tab." The departing contact is watched for a moment as she pockets the drive. "Sure thing, jerk." Sigh. Yep, definitely going to stick around for a drink or four.

Trendy bar... shrunkenhead... yeah. Heather's agent told her that this would be a good place to go out and be -seen-. The name makes her leery, but... hey, the things we do to promote ourselves when our business is -being- seen. She dressed in a mildly trendy outfit, nothing naughty even! Well, mostly not. So having driven herself here in her trendy little Mini-Cooper, she parked outside and clicked the alarm on before heading for the front door.

In she walks, taking a moment in the doorway to let her baby blues sweep over the room slowly. She has her ID out, since well... she's twenty two, and looks like she's maybe a teen these days. She smiles to the guy checking ID's as he notices the name and gives her a second look. She nods and heads inside after saying, "Thanks hon."

Every animal has its watering holes. In the last century, one minority after another has had to endure segregation- and over that time, pubs and bars have provided a safe haven for everyone from the disenfranchised to the feared to socialize safely and watch one another's backs.

And what kind of leader would Erik Lensherr be if he didn't, on occassion, see to the health and well-being of his wards? Inspected where they spend their time and protected them, if need be, with the power they don't have for themselves?

He enters with his own small entourage- young, impressionable looking mutants, swaggering with a power and authority that far outweighs their meager existence, but empowered by the trust Magneto places in them. They exchange short words with the bartenders and Magneto is guided towards a private booth table on the elevated rear wall of the room, his companions spreading out around him. A drink is brought and delivered- what looks like a simple scotch on the rocks. He produces a small tablet and starts scanning through its contents, blue eyes flickering at certain faces that drift in and out of his immediate awareness.

The bartender gives Odame a momentary smirk, before sashaying over toward her selection of whiskeys and choosing the green-labeled Bullet Rye. She brings a double glass back over to him and studies him curiously as she pours the drink. "Benin?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Odame.

"Benin!" she repeats. "I know it's not Nigeria."

"Oh." Kwabena acknowledges her by actually looking her in the eyes, and flashes her a half-hearted smile. "I'm sorry. No, it's... it's Ghana."

The bartender snaps her fingers. "Ghana! Damn! That's right! You know a friend of mine in collie said she was from there! I /knew/ I recognized that accent." She grins and gestures toward the drink. "Welcome. First one's on the house, since I've never seen you here and it looks like you'll be sticking around a while."

Kwabena perks an eyebrow toward her, and is about to answer, when the incoming entourage starts to draw the attention of almost everyone in the room. Kwabena, as well, turns and watches, but there is a look of recognition and shock in his eyes that he simply cannot conceal. "I'll be a god damned..." He doesn't even finish the thought, as the silent curse disappears into shocked silence.

There's someone who's in the bar already. She's in the back. At a table by herself. Nursing a drink. And every now and then some idiot, usually a drunken one, comes up to her and tries to hit on her. More often than not the bad pick up lines involve the woman's chest. Or what the drunks would like to do with said chest. And every time the woman has to send them packing. Oh she doesn't hurt them. At least not physically or in a way that's readily apparent. Sure one or two have had their glasses explode in their hands, but....

But Karen Starr (aka Power Girl when she's in costume) is here in casual civilian clothing. She was /suppose/ to be meeting someone here. But instead that someone is an hour late and still hasn't shown their face...

Thus she keeps having to deal with stuff like that.

Pitty the drunk fool who actually angers her. Especially since she probably can't get drunk herself.

Dom's up at the counter, making her own selection by reading the labels. Seems like the 'tender's a bit waylaid by Mister Braids over there. Normally she's not all that interested in eavesdropping, but there's one moment during their brief conversation where she catches something that seems ..out of place. The tone and pitch are completely different. She may not catch the words, but she knows that sound. On the sly she shifts her gaze toward Kwabena before turning around, yawning with a lazy stretch, and hooks her elbows back upon the bar so she can look at the room proper, where his attention currently seems to be lurking. A group of new arrivals... Following some old guy? Doesn't look like a Chess Club, to her. Perhaps she should be eavesdropping a little more than usual, here. There's a feeling in the air that wasn't here a moment ago.

This doesn't have anything to do with her, does it..?

Of course, there's the one young lady who actually -wants- folks to notice and watch her, that everyone seems to find less interesting than the group of... oh hey look, old guy with an entourage. Heather offers a bit of a smile to Erik, with no idea who he is. She shrugs and heads towards the bar. She does know Domino, fought alongside her once in that riot a while back, but she reaches up and removes her jacket (revealing like 95% of her back of course) before she gestures to the bartender, "Can I get like four orders of Jalapeno Poppers?" she asks as she sets her credit card on the counter, "Oh, and whatever's on tap."