2013.06.02 - Bar Oldenhof

It's a lovely evening out in Amsterdam. Pushing the following morning, actually. For some reason or another, Amsterdam also happens to be where Domino is. There's nothing quite like a brief side trip to another exotic location for a spot of business. And plenty to drink.

The place is called Bar Oldenhof, run by brothers of the same name. It's fairly unassuming from the outside but lavishly decorated in a Bohemian style on the inside, complete with leather chairs, dim lighting, and a fireplace. The drinks are known for being good, their Old Fashioned in particular, though for some people the atmosphere is more than enough. It's cozy, but it's also easy for one to simply slip beneath the radar and become a fly on the wall around here.

Domino isn't being a fly tonight.

-Tunk!-

"Bullseye!"

There's some appreciative hoots and yells around the dartboard. A couple of drinks are held up around the room in mock salute. A few sets of shoulders hang limp, accompanied by scowls of various dimensions. Out comes a partially gloved hand, the skin of the fingertips white as a mouse, hovering in the air as a pile of paper money is doled out, one bill at a time.

"Always a pleasure, gentlemen."

Off in the corner of the bar, there is a piano. Upon the bench is seated a man of the opposite complexion, though his attire is designed to help conceal his identity. The pants and jacket are of a fashionable, mottled grey linen, the shirt a rich purple, the tie a slender black, and upon the African's head is a fanciful hat that was created in the 1950's and kept in mint condition in a grandmother's basement, only to later be procured from a vintage clothing shop somewhere in Chicago.

For a man with many secrets, most may not have realized that he had developed a talent at playing jazz music. However, Kwabena Odame has been seated at that piano for the better part of an hour, his identity mostly concealed by the low brow of his hat and the pair of sunglasses worn on his face. However, soon after the rather poorly matched game of darts has ended, he plays the final note of his latest piece, which so happens to be a take upon one of Serge Gainsbourg's finest, then rises from his stoop only to lift the hat and offer a bow to those who have chosen to applaud his showmanship.

Moments later, he slinks up to the bar, hat perched once again upon his head. The bartender knows exactly what he's drinking; Blanton's bourbon, neat. A drink is taken before he slips the shades into his pocket and turns a sly eye upon Domino. Once the funds are disbursed and she's in the clear, he levels his distinctive voice at her. "Imagine my luck, finding you around dese pahts."

Wink.

It's one of those moments. Maybe Dom's got too much on her mind. Maybe it's the drinks (of which there were several, already.) Maybe it's the competitive spirit fueling her to practically cheat these guys out of their money (which has more than covered her tab for the evening.) Whatever it happens to be, it caused her to miss the single biggest detail within these walls.

She knows that voice.

Pale blue eyes swivel toward their source then widen before a broad grin spreads across blacked-out lips. "No fucking way. What on Earth possessed you to visit the fifties then come out here and play piano, Kwa?"

How long had it been..? Too bloody long. Even though her third rule of survival is to not get attached to anyone, it's the one rule which she's constantly breaking. Frankly, she's missed her matter-shifting on again-off again partner. History like that can never be forgotten.

"Judging from de sign outside, I felt it appropriate."

Slipping past the two patrons separating them, Kwabena joins Domino at her other side, sneaking between another patron in order to lean up against the bar, drink in hand, facing her. "I learned a long time ago de importahnce of 'blending in'." Then, he lifts one of his collars with a free hand while presenting an altogether staged, plaintive look. "What, you don't like it?"

Truth be told, the woman was a bit of a sight for sore eyes, to use a worn out narrative. Not many knew where exactly he'd been for the past two months, or what he was doing. In this case, it was certainly not 'having fun', and he'd had his fair share of fun (in a variety of colors) with this one.

"You look sahprized," offers the Ghanaian. A turn of his lip curls a smile onto his darkened face, and he makes it a point to meet her eyes for a brief moment. Unspoken words come in two distinctly different forms. --It's good to see you-- quickly followed by --I didn't come here just for fun--. In a manner of speaking, he's here for business and pleasure. Such things are often commingled, after all. "Love what you've done with de hair, Lady Luck," he quips, before turning toward the bartender and nodding his head toward Domino. Next round's on Shift.

'Fitting in.' Heh. And here Domino stands, all in black, with her usual sharply contrasted presentation going in full force. Blending in wouldn't be easy for her even in the middle of Goth Night at a nearby club. To the question all she can do is chuckle and shake her head, "It's a far cry from the leathers."

She never minded those, either.

"Yeah, can you blame me? Shit, kid, I can't even remember our last gig anymore. What part of the planet swallowed you whole? Been missin' out on a lot of excitement back at the home front."

Wait. Hair..? Thin black eyebrows adjust to different heights as she peers back at you, running a set of fingertips throught he cropped black mass atop her head. Naturally, it's quickly followed with a slight scowl as you use that nickname. Out in the open, nonetheless! C'mon man, she just took money from a bunch of people at the board, don't blow her cover!

"It has been a long time, hasn't it. I haven't really done anything with it."

Still. Comped drink. That always sweetens the deal.

Drink in hand, hip resting against the counter, she returns her attention back to you. "So you've gone from alien to merc to team player to, what, secret agent? I don't think I've ever seen you be so ..relaxed before."

Smirk. "I still have dem."

It's a damned good thing Shift can't really be noticed blushing, bless his genes, otherwise he'd be busted. No, she didn't change her hair, he just hadn't seen it in far too long. That little part of the conversation gets politely shoved right under the carpet, though he doesn't for a moment think she wouldn't have noticed. She's clever that way.

"Now -dat- is a good question to ask," he answers. "The proper question would be, where -haven't- I been? All over de goddamn globe, hunting our littah friend, Highball." He lifts the glass of whiskey in a toast and remarks, "You know what dough, I got 'im. Bagged his fucking ass in Allentown, PA, of all places." A slug of whiskey goes down the hatch, and without otherwise missing a beat, he points out, "Dat's a -weird- place, Allentown. Full of fucking weirdo's."

Spotting a trio of deep red chairs and a lazy couch, Kwabena nods his head in that direction and presumptively leads his friend toward them. Taking one of the chairs, Kwabena eyeballs you to see where you'll land; then again, he's a betting man, and holds a secret little wager that you'll adopt that couch, stretching out in full.

"Still all dose things. Mahnaged to turn de sick fuck ovah to de JLA. Remy wanted to off his ass, but, you know, Scott was dere. High road and all."

Oh, he realizes that he's leaving more questions in the air with his answers, but that's what conversation is for. And besides, Shift is getting a kick out of all this.

All Domino does is grin. It's enough of an answer to the matter of you still possessing your biker gear.

Well, that and the reaction that she gets out of you through various avenues. It's a knowing, teasing sort of grin. Nice to know that some things never change.

"Aw man, I wanted to help with that one. Talk about a grade-A jerk, at least someone took him out with a sense of finality. Well, congrats to you on a successful hunt." And good thing the merc trade didn't completely bleed out of you yet! "And no one knows weirdos quite like us," she declares while slamming another mouthful of, naturally, bourbon. It's tradition while in your presence.

The couch is a safe bet. She always did enjoy a good sprawl, and on the couch she can get her sprawl on without making the joint look trashy.

Talk about Scott's timely interception has her rolling her eyes, "The only way that guy's consistant is in his own little head. It's okay to kill this guy but not the other guy. I can't figure that place out, they're always fighting with their original sense of purpose, except when they're not. Remy's head was in the right place. Besides, I owe Highball a pair of hollowpoints to the knees. I promised! Can't back down from that. You know how it is."

And now she may never get her chance to permanently cripple a speedster. Such a shame!

"Now, level with me here," she continues while sitting upright, only to hunch forward with elbows on knees. "We both know what The Team thinks about the lone-wolf sorts. Are you still batting for that crew? You've vanished for longer than I have, we got new kids there that didn't recognize my face but never even heard about you."

Back when she was still a part of that team, that is.

Called it! Kwabena snaps his fingers as you take to the couch and shows a toothy grin. "I -knew- it. I called it. You'd take de couch like some fifties movie stah, damn if I hadn't bet on dat one."

Then again, he doesn't really know anyone else here, and knowing you, your damned probability manipulation would have turned you onto one of the chairs just to spite him.

"He's a complicated man," he notes. "No one undahstands him but... well, I dunno if -anyone- undahstands him. Yeah, I guess I am still batting for dem. You weren't made awahre but de seniah leadah's knew I was on de hunt for Highball. In fact, dey signed off on it, but didn't want de oddah's to know. Sorry about dat."

The rest of his bourbon goes down the hatch like a frightened Nazi in an Indiana Jones flick, and soon, Kwabena is waving the empty glass toward the bartender indicatively. A cocktail waitress comes over with the bottle of Blanton's, fills each glass, then leaves the bottle conveniently on the small table between them.

"Yeah, I know how it is. Thing is, I cahn't really take de credit for catching him. Neithah can Remy. Hell, Remy wasn't even involved, I think de son of a bitch was just tracking me because I was hunting him. Curious fucker, but I like him."

At this point, Shift seems to grow suddenly serious. He glances about the place briefly, just to make sure nobody is really paying them attention, before leaning over to close the distance with you. "Someone or something intahfered. It took away our talents. Jean called it 'mutahgenic inhibitor'. Could be a tool, or I mean, a machine... or it could have been a person." He shakes his head. "Only way I caught Highball is because it came down to good old fashioned fisticuffs. No supah speed, no smoke tricks. We beat de hell out of each oddah, I tell you dat, but de poor suckah hasn't had de training like us."

Finally having revealed the truth, Kwabena makes to sit back in his chair. "I think that's what spooked Remy off, odddahwise he might have tried to get a piece of No-Balls too."

Domino has to chuckle, "It's because you didn't bet on it that I went for it. Enjoy your hollow victory."

Yeah, that's pretty much it! Luck works in mysterious ways, and so does she.

"He's a pain in the ass, is what he is," she says with a slight scowl. It's followed with a dismissive wave of her hand, "Water under the bridge. They always had their own agendas and so did I." Though, on the inside she's a little surprised that the two didn't get paired up for that particular hunt. Maybe someone in the higher-ups thought that one of them was too much of an unknown element?

They'd be right, if that was the case. Blasted psychics.

When the bottle gets left behind she quietly says "That's more like it." Now this party's getting started good and proper.

"Didn't get enough action out of that guy with our time in Denver, huh?" Dom teases. "Good old Remy, never know whether to love him or hate him." Or trust him. Generally she tries to err on the side of caution with him, but..it's Remy. She just can't stay mad at that crafty bastard. "Did he have another mark on him? He's one you usually don't tail without a good reason."

Here it is. The truth behind the veil. It's unnerving, particularly with everything else that she knows regarding such 'tech.' "Trask's team came up with an injection which had that kind of effect. There was another thing just a few weeks back down in the Florida Keys. Some guy was setting up a mutant zoo, they were experimenting with something quite similar. Maybe there's a connection?"

There usually is.

"Lean on Kurt some, he knows more about it." Besides, she'd rather not go into detail about how she wound up as one of the exhibits. Complete with chemical injections.

"I suppose there's something satisfying about that kind of endgame," she continues while kicking way back into the sofa in turn. "All down to skill and finesse, no more trickery. No wonder Remy would have blitzed."

"You should have -seen- de look on his face, before I smashed it in some few times. Classic."

"He's afraid," points out Kwabena. "Scott's afraid, because you've got mutahnts who hate and want to kill humahns, and humahns who want to kill mutahnts. Den you have dis orgahnazation of mutahnts who have military training and tools, but dey want to do something right. He's afraid dat if he makes one wrong move, it will only escalate de problems dat already exist fahr out of control. I hope you undahstand what I mean." Kwabena shrugs. "He -is- a pain in de ass, but I get it."

Down the hatch goes another slug of whiskey, and soon enough, the bottle is back in Kwabena's hand for another pour.

With regard to Remy, Kwabena says, "Nah. He was tracking -my- movements. Maybe I have some few marks on me." He shrugs it off. "Remy's gonna look into dis mattah, and you'll be damned sure I will. But..." His pace then slows, and he frowns. "Yeah. Unnerving, isn't it? I've done lots of training. You've done lots of training. But you and I both know damn well how often we lean on our -oddah- talents. Hell, I'm so used to jumping off bridges and standing in front of guns dat by -dis- point, I'm not sure if I'd catch myself." There is a long pause, during which Kwabena swirls the expensive bourbon around in its fancy little glass, all the while monitoring the woman sprawled out nearby. He knows he's breaking her third rule by caring, but to hell with it. "Anyway," he finally says, "I thought, you should know. But it seems you've already had some few encountah's with similah problems."

That little joke about Remy? Brings a smirk and a touch of laughter. "Hey now, be nice. Just because he has to chahge his stick to get any action doesn't mean he's -completely- worthless without it."

"Sounds like yet another good reason for me to have left," Domino replies while finishing off another of her own shots. "Best case scenario, I would have made things a helluva lot harder on the guy. In trying to keep things stable for the kids he's also irking a bunch of the old guard. The guy just can't win."

Things aren't so black and white anymore. Even in her 'hundred shades of grey' life, they've only become more complicated.

As soon as your hand departs from the bottle it's snagged once more, refilling her glass.

"Hah, he was after you? I read into that one wrong... For what it's worth your name hasn't come up with any of my haunts. Not yet, anyway." Kurt's name did once, but she helped get that all straightened out.

"Don't let your other skill sets grow dull, Kwa. True enough, I do rely on it pretty hardcore. But, if I have to make do without, I don't feel nearly as naked as some of us do. Learn to train without 'em, that's something they can't take away from you."

Sometimes she forgets that she's had a head-start on this game compared to you. That, even now, she might still have some wisdom to share."

The last comment you make on Remy sees her glass, still full, landing with a -thunk- on the low table between the two as she laughs. "There is more than one way to charge that particular stick, though!"

Momentarily rubbing at her eyes, Dom peers back at you with a positively mischievous glint. "So. You, piano. Something else you picked up from the tigers in the bush?"

"Yeah, de kids," admits Kwabena. "That's half of why I stick around."

"Aftah me, keeping an eye on me, or watching me at work," offers Kwabena. "Dose are de three reasons I've come up with. Hell, I ought to have just asked, but I had my hands full." The advice that is given is accepted with a whiskey-wielded salute. "Already on it, sugah."

The mood is -sufficiently- lightened, and though he's broken out in laughter as well, Kwabena stops short with a heavy snort. "Hey, dat I -don't- want to hear about!" he blurts out. "Jesus -Christ- I'm sorry I brought it up!"

Matching your mischievous glint, Kwabena leans forward, whiskey in hand. "Well, you see, dere was dis -one- tigah who could speak, and I learned some few things from him. Unfortunately, he was a big fan of Billy Joel, so I had to take some few lessons." Then he leans back, smirking. "Self taught. I'm full of sahprizes, you know."

More whiskey, down the hatch. However, here Kwabena pauses, feeling the swirl setting in. "Okay, dat's more like it." Out comes a cigarette and his old, beat up zippo, and with a twirl of it around his hand and through his fingers, the flame comes to light. Two puffs later and he's reaching for the bottle again. "God bless de liberal Nethahlhands," he quips, before ashing the cigarette in a nearby tray.

Funny. It's because of the kids that Domino left. Kids and hired killers typically don't mix so well.

"Well, if he shows up again, throw the question out there and see what sticks." To the 'already on it,' she dips her head forward in a slight bow, "Good man."

Her laughter is promptly renewed, this time at your discomfort. "You sure about that? Not even a little? The story I could tell you..."

It's difficult to tell if she's bluffing or being serious!

Her amusement only continues at the tiger story, "Truly you've come a long way. At least you know they'll never be able to take away your talent with the ivory."

That beat up Zippo is practically part of the foundation which supports you. She recognizes it. "You're still carrying that beat up thing around?" Yeah, easy for her to say. She is her own lucky charm. "Bet that thing's seen a helluva lot of molotovs in its day."

Saying it out loud serves as another reminder as to just how far you've come. In short order, at that.

"You ever figure out where you want to be in the next five years? If you want to keep fighting 'the good fight' that's fine by me, but there are other avenues you could pursue. Then again, with this whole Genosha bullshit we might all wind up dealing with the same battle."

"You keep dat up and I'll start taking potshots at you to see just lucky you are," warns Kwabena. No, he does not want to hear about Gambit's stick. Any of them.

"I like de way it lights," he says in defense of his zippo. "Smokes, molotovs, fuel leaks. Never fails. I pity de man who accidentally breaks it."

Suddenly, he feels like a kid in college being asked some plastic question by an HR suit on an internship interview. Where does he want to be in the next five years? Shit.

"Hopefully not dead," he offers in answer. "I'm a leaf on de wind, you know dis. Proffessah Wheels offered me something I needed, so I consider my service a debt to repay. Plus? Dere whole mission, or whatever you call it, is something I can believe in. Most of dose guys keep trying to see da world through a black and white filtah, but dey all realize it's not dat simple. I'll split de moment dey stop being realistic about what can and can't be done. As far as Genosha goes..."

Here, Kwabena falls eerily silent.

"Listen, I don't know dis Magneto person, but he's clearly a goddamn psychopath. Or a Victah Von Doom fanboy. Probably got raped by his uncle when he was a little boy or something." He cocks his head to the side a bit, and damn near leers at you. "What do you know about him?"

Shift seems pretty curious about Magneto, given his body language, rather than the nonchalant way he asked about the despot. He also, clearly, doesn't yet realize that Magneto and Erik Lensherr are one and the same.

"Luckier than you are," Domino promises. But, that part of the conversation is allowed to end.

Sure, it's an odd question that she drops, but she's genuinely curious. While your response is fairly lengthy, she can sum it up in just a few words. There's another dip of her head as she concludes "Still with the team, then." Admittedly she does see you doing more good in that environment, and turning you into a merc may not be the wisest choice in the world. But, she knows that you could hack it as one, and the damage necessary to become a good one is already in place. You're already jaded in your own ways. You also choose to handle it differently than she does.

But, that's alright.

Leer away. You're one of the few people she won't threaten to shoot for such an act. "I've worked alongside him once before. Christ..was that in Nevada? Broke up a mutant concentration camp. Charismatic. Scary powerful. Unshakably driven. He's one to be careful around, happy to take you in if you share the x-gene and are willing to follow his lead but if you aren't with him you're against him. I know the type well."

At the same time, beneath it all, she's slightly conflicted. It's a damned radical stand to be making for mutants, but would she really want to stop him? Frankly, she's content to stay out of the way and wait to see what happens. Give this a few weeks. Maybe she'll figure out the variables by then.

Still with the team, though not the typical X-Man, to be sure. Most don't handle their stresses by getting plastered, chain smoking, or occasionally putting blow up their noses. Then again, Kwabena -had- gotten rid of his most dangerous vices, and he did well to keep the less-than-heroic side of his mantra from the students. Nobody ever asks when he procures important information how, exactly, he got it.

Of course, if they knew about the drug deals, the bullet wounds, and the beatings he's left people with in order to get information that has, in fact, saved lives, they might question him. Then again, a life worth saving is also worth getting one's hands dirty for, and thats the mantra Kwabena has chosen to live with.

"How powahful?" he presses, still staring you down in an attempt to glean more hard data from you. "Come on, Dom. Dere's a chance my nose is gonna go in dere. I need details. Given de name, I'm guessing he's... some kind of human magnet?" His eyebrows shoot upward. "I could only guess what -dat- means."

Pouring another drink, Kwabena shoots it back and snuffs the cigarette out nearby. Now he sets the empty glass down, content to let the bourbon work its magic for a few moments. "Peopah always want to shoot de person dere afraid of. Can't be stopped. War's coming, and we all know it."

That look in your eyes. It's a familiar look to Dom. It's the kind of look that, when used on anyone else, would suggest that 'neither of us are leaving until you tell me what I want to know.' The stakes are a bit more relaxed between these two, but that single-minded need for more intel remains.

She's also got no reason to deny sharing any of it. She's got no love for the new leader of Genosha.

Her next shot is downed then set aside, making way for her heavy, strap-covered knee boots to kick up onto the table. So much for avoiding adding trashy elements to this establishment.

"Yeah, magnetism. Powerful as in 'I once watched him rip the entire wall off of a building' powerful. While levitating. Tore the building to pieces freeing everyone he felt was important enough. I've seen him pull the weapons out of soldier's hands and use 'em against their owners. He'll use his charm when possible but when push comes to shove you do not want to be opposing the guy. I wouldn't classify him as an omega but he's pretty fucking close from what I can tell."

"If you want my opinion, your best defense against him is to pull your smokescreen act. Everything else he can probably manipulate to some extent, but I don't think he has a good grasp of anything non-solid. Also, if I'm not mistaken, he's got himself quite a following already at his beck and call. I don't know the extent of it but a guy with his charisma you just know he's not working alone."

Good luck!

Well, of course, the first thing that comes to mind are the thousands of nanites that still swim throughout Kwabena's blood. With or without them, he's screwed. A big part of why he's still with the X-Men is that, well, some of them have the ability to help him, which keeps him from keeling over dead, or running back to Doomstadt with his dick tucked under his ass.

What, exactly, could Magneto do, if the variables are set that he feels Shift is in opposition to him, and he finds out about those nanites?

"Smokescreen," he murmurs. "Yeah, dat's probably de best choice. De human body has its own magnetic field, but... smoke?"

Come to think of it, Kwabena can't be quite sure what, exactly, is in that smoke. It's him, sure, but in what molecular form? The Xavier Mansion may have the data on it, but damnit, he's a doctor, not a genetic physicist.

More bourbon goes into his glass, threatening to polish off that expensive bottle of Blanton's. "Well, I don't -know- if anything is even gonna happen, but if it does..." He lifts the glass in a salute, then offers Domino a hearty smirk. "I guess we'll find out just how indestructible I can be."

Anyone else that Dom cared about might hear a 'good luck' or 'try to be careful.' To the man sitting across from her? Exactly one smirk, and one "Give 'em hell, Kwa."

You didn't need her sympathy. Her way of caring is sitting here and sharing drinks and conversation with you.

"In other news, I've finally hopped back into the biker club," she continues in a complete change of subject. "YZF-R1. Twenty thirteen model, brand fucking new. Been out of the country so much I've barely had a chance to turn the key. Always something else to do, right?"

Oh, the things she's been getting herself into... Yet, she's not the type to share any of these details. Talking about the bike is already stretching it, small-talk is something that she struggles with.

So, back to business she goes.

"Amsterdam. Really. Here? Something tells me this has absolutely nothing to do with the Highball run."

"I'm still rocking de Iron 883," remarks Kwabena. "Rips up anything in my path and purrs like a lioness when I need her to!"

He shakes his head and leans forward, smirking again. "Nothing to do with it." The remainder of the bourbon gets dumped into each glass, then he lifts his up and offers a toast. "Let's get de hell out of here and go cause some troubah." Assuming you're down for that last drink, Shift clinks the glass and downs the oversized portion, before throwing the hat onto the nearby chair.

Seems the drinks have already been paid for or something, for Kwabena is out of his chair and making for the door, glancing back to see if you are coming. Then, without warning, his body disappears and the linen costume falls to the floor in a heap. The cloud of smoke reforms, catching the unexpected gasps of a few patrons, and there he is, clad in that gunmetal gray version of his X-Men uniform that decidedly lacks the markings of the team.

Hey, it's Amsterdam, two freaks dressed like idiots will fit right in.

It's a cryptic response, but Dom's used to those. Both giving them to others and receiving them, often from the same people. One thing's certain, at least. She's not about to turn down that last shot. Feet sweep off of the table, the same motion seeing the glass returning to her hand for all of a few seconds. When it returns, it does so empty.

"Best offer I've had all night."

The smoke-change is still fun to watch, and still familiar to be around. By comparison, she just flicks out a pair of deep purple sunglasses and hooks them around her eyes, a devilish smirk carved into her face every step of the way.

"Don't mind the weirdos, boys. Also, you might want to practice your dart technique," she says to one guy in particular on their way through. One hand comes up, mimicking the motion used to throw one. "It's all in the wrist."

Those boys, many of whom were likely looking to get lucky with miss lucky, have all just realized that they can't top the trick performed by this African mutie. "Dey've just been practicing de wrong wrist movement," quips Kwabena in passing.

One of them catches the insult, of course, and angrily stomps over in front of Kwabena. "Hey, mutie! Watch your mouth!" he spits in accented English.

"Watch yours."

Up comes his fist, but instead of socking the poor sucker, his acute control of the mutation causes his forearm to go smoke, and forces its way into the guy's mouth and nose. The guy makes to collapse, but it seems that somehow, Kwabena is holding the poor bastard aloft, likely by thickening the mass of smoke inside the guy's body. He chokes and coughs for a few moments, until Kwabena withdraws and reforms his hand.

Once outside, he looks over toward Domino and says, "Dat might have been a bit unfair." Then, he's looking straight at a BMW R 1200 R model motorcycle, which was (ahem) rented for the duration of his visit. "You didn't think we were taking de bus, did you?"

"Gee, you think?" Domino challenges in a halfway jovial tone. Of course she's going to chuckle about the wrist movement remark, but there's no need for it to turn physical. She insulted half of these people enough already by emptying out their wallets at the board.

"C'mon, Tuesday. Let's press on while this is still a nice place to burn some time."

The bike waiting for them outside is something to grin over. "I was looking at one of these... And I suppose you expect me to ride bitch." There's a momentary pause before her shoulders twitch in a 'whatever' motion, "Eh. You covered the tab. Seriously though, c'mon. I'd sooner hotwire a hoopdee than rely on public transportation. I still have standards, you know."

Just where are they going? Who knows! Who cares. Drinks, conversation, more catching up to do, she can't think of a better next step than opening the throttle on this many CC's of power.

"Well, you -are- de bitch in dis equation," jokes Kwabena. "I've -nevah- been anyone's bitch, in my entiah life." He hops on first, then scoots up so there's room on the back. "Don't worry, Neens. Your secrets ah safe."

The machine kicks to life, revs twice, and then goes tearing down the street toward whatever insanity awaits them.