---- Fate "Fate is that element which suggests that some select events simply transpire in our lives - that some things aren't free will. While some view this as chance, others view this as some sort of greater motivator, that something larger or simply more complex than us is moving us along, good or evil. A lot of us won't get to know those major turning points in our lives where we did something that really mattered, and that is even if such events exist. But to me? How couldn't they? Just look all around you and try to convince yourself that this is mere chance, that we're not some sort of pawns in a bigger game. Whatever you believe, don't believe for a minute that things don't happen without a reason, even if you just want to call it 'cause and effect' and have yourself a nice day after without a second thought on it." ---- Clear Springs, Utah As a collection of characters for one reason or another you've been pressed into living in Clear Springs, Utah - be it in a pursuit of career, pursuit of happiness, or the pursuit of some freedom one could not achieve where they where previously. As a city, Clear Springs is a well established location, with a respectable metropolitan area and large surrounding suburban territory that continues to expand into the colder, higher elevation area surrounding the valley that it is centered in. To the West of Clear Springs is the Red Hills State Park, a mixture of reddened sandstone and exposed granite, and notable for the fact that it is so close to the outskirts of town, being but a few hours' drive away. While not an enormous tourism area, Red Hills State Park sees a fair amount of travel and exploration, but the most remote, mountainous and forested areas are not frequented by any - including law enforcement. Iconic to Clear Springs is the Lone Pine Metropolitan Area at the center of the city which is visible from nearly any edge of the valley, barring the deepest forest or over the crest of the Red Hills State Park. Most readily identified by the Trimillennium Towers, a series of three triangular buildings centered near the heart of downtown, the city itself is advanced and distinctly succeeding despite the economic recession, but it is not without its flaws; though the heart of Clear Springs in the Lone Pine area is upscale and admirable, the surrounding areas are still distinctly declining. The population, primarily a mixture of Caucasian and migrant persons, has two strikingly opposed issues; on the low scale, much of the crime affecting the common person comes from the illegal drug trade, whereas on the upper scale many organizations readily engage in attempts at corporate espionage, with the largest offenders being the pharmaceutical industry - NorGen Medical Industries and Harper and Leo Pharmaceutical in particular. Far North by three hours, Carver Air Force Base can be located and while it has few actual aircraft remaining, it holds a fairly extensive grasp on the terrain and is a detachment of the Air Force's Space Command, formerly operating in conjunction with Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado. Though primarily defunct, it does have a large tract of land closed off to the public where its former radar ranges once tracked friendly and foreign objects alike and is only moderately patrolled in such locales due to the minimal interest and operations the base holds. The perimeter is notorious for being largely undefended, displaying only warning signs and aging chain fences to keep out and ward off would-be trespassers. ---- Between Good and Evil As a city and a world to operate in, Clear Springs has no leaning toward or against the supernatural, and for the most part has no knowledge of its existence outside what is known in media already. The people of the state are often religious and hold some superstition and taboos culturally, though there is no single identifying or remarkable factor; the normal person could prove as dangerous as the unnatural, just as the unnatural could prove helpful. Given this, those of inhuman qualities are aware their world isn't too forgiving - that precautions should be taken and that their less... noble acts, be discrete, as it it is the 21st century after all. The line between good and evil has a strange balance of power as both opposing forces are very much mere men in the city of Clear Springs, and those that aren't mere men seem to stay out of the spotlight as best they can. No major or significant factions of the unnatural world exist in Clear Springs - the largest, at most, are pockets of organized inhumans who strive to simply persist without major confrontation.

Having spent the better part of his "weekend" - a loose term for someone with his schedule - working, the crispness of the oncoming night air was a warm welcome to his face despite its subtle chill; it meant a few days more or less to himself, without the presence of others... unless he desired company, of course. It wasn't like his work constantly surrounded or barraged him, on the contrary, but he did attempt to abide by the tasks he was given, even if he was entirely aware of their pointlessness. Switch the monitors to this location, patrol on foot this fence line, take note of leaving vehicles - if any. All simple enough? Absolutely, but it distracted from what he enjoyed - the nighttime air and the luxury of being able to prowl about, coming and going as he wished. Sure, there were times where he disregarded everything, instead removing his uniform and going for a wander after having switch the cameras over, but those were more the exception than the rule. Tonight? Tonight was that opportunity to prowl about, but it was much too early in the evening; the sun having not even coming close to drawing to twilight. Mercer would need a place to waste away a couple of hours; a bar not far from his apartment was one of his favorite haunts. He frequented the locale enough to know that it was just a few block away - able to nearly walk there, eyes closed at this point - and that they tolerated his presence so long as he bought a few of anything. Luckily, for a man who didn't hold much of paycheck, beer was cheap enough to make this a recurring adventure rather than a special occasion. God knows what Mercer would find himself into if he didn't have that time to adjust before letting the cat out. He reasoned, to himself as he closed the door behind him, sliding the aging iron lock shut and pocketing the key, that he'd end up dead; that almost tactile uneasiness in the back of his head that wanted free would ensure that. It wasn't just something he could let run rampant - at least not if he wanted to live a couple of more years beyond now. Mercer might not have been the smartest of guys around, but he wasn't stupid enough to think the pantherine side of him wasn't as big of a risk as it was a reward. Hurrying down the stairs, loose boots sliding a bit with each step, he paused only to get his bearings and turn toward his goal while drawing a deep breath. The sad part about this whole adventure was that he, himself - the man, not the beast - didn't get to enjoy it as much as he should be able to. Alcohol? Not only was any buzz he managed brief, if he some how managed to get there at all, but the liquid poison just dispersed to little effect; all too brief. That was a fair enough trade, reasonable sure, but it would be nice to once in a while not need struggle to even get slightly tipsy; the cat, all the while Mercer imagined, probably laughed at him. It had always been a love-hate and back again relationship with both sides of himself. There were perks to both, like right now. He'd head down to his typical prowl, get a few drinks, listen to the people ramble and watch a bit of television; the latter being a commodity he didn't bother owning. Later on he'd... well, go to his typical prowl? It was difficult to say where each excursion would take him - it was more an instinct thing and less a thought through effort. At least he was smart enough as some terrible amalgamation of man and leopard to keep out of sight and out of mind. There were a few close calls before - some, too close for comfort. Hopefully - and Mercer truly meant it - hopefully tonight would be a lot more... quiet? No guarantees of any sort he knew would be possible; it wasn't like one could really control this sort of thing, could they? If it could be done, Mercer certainly hadn't figured that trick out yet, if he ever could. For now, he busied his mind and his step with the thought of a drink; the cat he'd deal with later, once things got more quiet. Until then, he'd keep himself out of trouble and do the best to convince that lurking predator under the skin that maybe it wasn't such a good night to go out and do much more than stalk around. Shaking his head and wishing himself good luck on that effort, Mercer rounded the corner - closer yet to the bar.

Henry was actually pretty normal-looking for the people who showed up at George’s door to couchsurf. Enormous backpack, probably at least fifty pounds; obviously well-worn cowboy hat; red-and-blue checkered shirt, a pair of aviators dangling on the second button; lightweight, deep indigo jeans; beaten-up but lovingly cared-for leather boots. Really, the only thing that surprised George at this point was the unceasing ability of young rednecks and trustafarians to look and dress exactly alike. But Henry seemed nice enough. George invited him inside and showed him around. It was getting late already, so he suggested they head into town and get dinner and maybe some beers. “I bike most of the year but take this bus to work in the winter,” George said as they sat down. “You said you work in IT?” Henry asked, keeping the smalltalk going. “Yeah, I’m a sysadm for one of the pharmaceutical companies in town. Really good benefits — I can’t complain.” He paused for a moment to look at the map above them. “There’s a food truck event every Friday in the town square. I’m pretty sure you can find pretty much anything you want to eat, and it’s pretty cheap.” “Sounds great. I’ve been eating farm food for a little too long. I could use something that doesn’t have any potatoes in it,” Henry said, smiling. “OK, but a word of warning, because you seem pretty well-traveled: the sushi is pretty bad. It’s probably just ‘cause we’re so far from the coast or something, but I can’t bring myself to eat that stuff.” Henry nodded and didn’t say anything for a moment. It occurred to George that, since they’d gotten on the bus, Henry had seemed like he was concentrating on something, but George had no idea what. “Something on your mind?” he asked after the pause. “A little, I can tell you later.” George had expected another pause, but Henry responded immediately, the same slight smile across his face as before. Then, suddenly back to small talk, as if to change the subject, “how’s the music scene around here, by the way?” “Well, that depends what you’re into,” George started on the spiel he’d gone through a few dozen times before. “It’s no Austin around here, but there are some good country, bluegrass-type bands and some weirder artists playing gigs around here. Burning Man-types. No clubs. The place I was thinking of going should have something going on, but I’m not sure. I assume you’re still in?” Of course, Henry was. They spent the rest of the ride talking about which music they liked. They both decided on a taco truck and were pleased with the choice. Henry suggested they get some beers at a grocery store but remembered they were in Utah and suggested they just head straight for the bar. By that point, they’d learned to converse with one another pretty well. “So what are you planning on doing once harvesting is over? Where do you usually go for the winter?” George asked, taking a seat at the bar with Henry. He ordered a couple of IPAs. “You want to just get the next round and we’ll take it from there?” “Yeah, that works. Anyway, usually I just head where it’s not winter. I was in Hawaii most of last year, actually, and I’m thinking of going to Puerto Rico until next summer or so. The problem is the travel costs, though. I usually don’t make much more than room and board, so airfare pretty much kills me.” The beers came and they both took their first sip. “I usually end up doing something else on the side — computer stuff pretty often — to save up for my next big move.” George nodded and didn’t say anything while they both drank about half of their beers. He looked over at the band that was setting up. “I still have no idea what kind of a music a band called ‘Amish Tech Support’ is going to play. Oh my god, look there. I think that’s a theremin.” “You’re kidding me.” “It’s the season.” “I think I’ll need some more drinks for this.” He waved to the bartender for another two beers and downed the rest of his bottle in one gulp. George figured he could afford to let loose tonight and followed Henry’s lead.

The restaurant bustled with activity, curiously calm; the dinner rush had largely come in by now, and as such its atmosphere was both mellow and lively at the same time. Though outside it wasn't dark yet, the interior of the restaurant felt as cozy and warm as if it were. A hushed chatter pervaded the main room, drowning out and mixing in with the clatter of plates and knives and a dull, elegant music that played softly in the background. From the kitchen wafted the scent of food, savory, sweet, and hot, to be met with the brisk chill of the evening air wherever a later-arriving patron swung open the finely polished glass door. For many, it would be a place to relax and laugh over a glass of wine, but Moe was having none of it. His head throbbed as he walked through the aisle, the combined effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal hitting him harder than usual. "How's everything tasting?" Moe asked the inhabitants of one booth as he passed by, plastering his best smile on his face. Normally he'd be more genuine, but given the circumstances he wasn't exactly in the best mood. A general murmur resounded from the table, accompanied by concurrent nods and rapid swallowing. "Anything I can help you with?" he asked, gazing nervously around the table. "We're good, thanks," came the response from somebody at the table, and with a mindless nod and grin Moe walked quickly away from the table. He hoped they would still tip. Moe rushed down the aisle, walking determinedly towards the entrance. A few people turned curiously to look at him, but he didn't really care. He glanced apprehensively at a coworker, who looked back at Moe somewhat exasperatedly. Moe had acquired somewhat of a negative reputation among his fellow waitstaff for frequent smoke breaks, but technically restaurant policy allowed him to take breaks as often as he did, and things seemed to be relatively slow, so it wouldn't really hurt anyone... Some moments later he reached the door. Moe looked back at the host, who apparently didn't notice him leaving, or didn't seem to care. Shrugging this off and assuming they would know where he'd gone, Moe opened the glass door, and looked outside onto the street as cars and people rushed past in unison, engines and voices alike resounding past him. His restaurant was located facing forwards onto the street; it was one of the classier establishments on the block. The only other one that Moe knew was a bar some buildings away, but he couldn't afford to get drunk now; he had a decent job and he needed the money. He'd moved to Clear Springs half a year ago to be closer to his sister, who relatively nearby in Salt Lake City, and had gotten the job some months ago. Evenings like these were the worst for him, but he had to keep working, until someday he could do better than he was. The chill of the fall setting stood in clear contrast with the warmth of the restaurant, but it was a nice break from all that chaos. Lighting up a cigarette, Moe walked down the street. Twenty minutes, he reminded himself, and rapidly pulled out his phone to check the time. The familiar smell of smoke surrounded him, and Moe strolled down the street calmly as night approached.

It was the usual casual chaos in Michelle's shoe-box apartment, Slipknot blaring at a soothing billion-and-a-half decibels from a pair of surprisingly powerful external speakers. Ancient things by now, they were some of Michelle's most prized possessions--she fell in love with them at Value Village a little after realizing the speakers weren't actually blown out and bought them on the spot for $10 a pair. They weren't much good for hauling around, but they were big enough and bad enough to fill her apartment with enough noise to drown out the rusty-bed fucking or bad-relationship grudge matches that seemed to plague the rest of the semi-transient members of her apartment building. It was exactly that kind of thing that set her teeth on edge and exactly that kind of thing that kept her rent as fucking pathetic as it was, so the ability to counter it all with a wall of anarchic rage was highly valued. If Before I Forget couldn't kick the shit out of whatever noise was going on, not much else would. Michelle's den needed a biblical kind of cleaning, and she was half tempted to build herself an ark, turn on the water and let the flood wash it all out to...well, more Utah. Not exactly a lot of sea around. Her den--she couldn't keep herself from calling it that--was dark and warm and cluttered, the living room really just a place for a couch outside of the kitchen and bedroom-bathroom. A few years ago Michelle would have been surprised that people paid money for a place like this--the drain in the kitchen sink didn't work and it had been a week since the last maintenance submission, the wallpaper smelled like cigarettes and the walls underneath it were paper thin. It was, as her friend described it, The kind of shit-hole roach motel that doesn't ask questions and takes cash. So, you know. Perfect for you. "Fucker." She commented idly at the thought, looking to the cherry of her dying spliff before stubbing it out on her overflowing ash-tray. A spliff is a half-joint, half-cigarette abomination that Marko had recently turned her on to, and she had to admit she was fan. It helped maintain an upkeep level of inebriation, the sort of functional high that junkies talk about needing to get through the day. At the same time, most junkies didn't have a half ton of slavering monster trying to crawl its way through your skin and eat your next door neighbor, so they could go to rehab and she could try and keep her fucking blood down, thank-you-very-much. Besides, today had been a good day--she'd booked through more patient files than she thought she would, she hadn't blown out her speakers turning them up over Punch and Judy down the hall, and when she checked her account she'd gotten paid. And she hadn't felt Big Bad--as she called him-it-her in her head--rumbling for a little while now through the haze, which meant life was about as good as it was going to get. She was, she decided, even going to risk going out. Flicking through her widely varied selection of heavy black hoodies, she threw on one of her favorites, slipped on a pair of tights and stuck her feet into some heavy boots on her way for the door. It wasn't that she cared didn't care that she looked like some highschool emo-goth poser so much as she didn't fucking care what she looked like anymore period. What was she going to do, go out and meet someone? Hi, my name is Michelle, let's grab some coffee and hope I don't eat you sometime? She barked a laugh tussled what was left of her hair for kicks on her way out the door. ...aaand almost ran into Mr. Schumaker, who was about to pound on her door. One fist raised in the air, mouth open to shout, they both of them stared at each other for a moment. All the blaring rock in the world couldn't have broken the white noise that went on in Michelle's brain for a second, that instant of something unexpected and unpleasant enough to skyrocket her pulse. Her fingers started twitching, the nails starting to itch, but thank God the elderly immigrant took a step back and coughed into his raised fist. Either he'd seen something in the way she ground to a halt or he wasn't quite as willing to shout at her face the way he was through her floor, because he just jerked towards the apartment on he inside. "Music." "What?" "Your music. Turn it off, when you leave. It keeps up my dog." "You don't have a--" "Turn music off!" "Okay! Okay! Turn music off!" She muttered, throwing her hands up, stomping back into her apartment to flick the laptop shut and close her eyes. She breathed, heavily, trying to focus on that pleasant marijuana-tingling-fog instead of the heartbeat that felt like it would punch through her ribcage and tell Mr. Shchumaker where exactly he could put his invisible dog. A year ago she'd have kicked his ass for talking to her like that, and she'd have had-- No. This was better. Keep your head down. Focus. Swallow. Breathe. Good night. The music cut off a second later as the laptop went to sleep and she made her way for the door, plastering on some pretty-in-pink smile that didn't reach her eyes as she closed the door shut behind her and locked its trio of locks. The old kraut watched her the whole time, sweat-stained wife-beater clinging to later-sixties flab and sweatpants while his beady little eyes burned holes in her back. She turned and started down the hallway for the door with a little wave over her shoulder, trying to ignore the way the muscles in her hands were starting to cramp, new strands visible crawling up towards her knuckles and fingers. "Music off! Go away, Mr. Schmucker!" She called over her shoulder without looking, heading down the stairs in a rapid descent before gulping in the warm night air, swallowing new scents and fresh breeze down to try and get the smell of stale sweat and age out of her nose. She could practically taste him, and she had no interest in making it literally as she tried to reinforce her flagging good mood and head down the road. Thank God it was walking distance. ----- The trick to sneaking into bars when you're underage is knowing how to abuse liquor laws. As long as you've got a drink in your hand once the server shows up, it's in their best interest not to card you in case they gave it to you. And since almost every bar served Coors Light, and on the rare occasions she had company over she had them bring her some, she just made sure she stashed one in her kangaroo pocket and slipped in the back past the kitchen and off she was, partying in adult-land. It was a rare excursion for her but she'd done it more than once--some of the servers were starting to know her enough to be conversant, and she hoped that one of these days she wouldn't have to trick them like this just to get a damn beer that wasn't yellow and fizzy. But either way, as she settled herself in a booth in the corner and watched the band start to set up on stage and sipped her body-heat Coors with distaste, she could feel herself starting to wind down. She might want another cigarette, and she might remember a moment where she had almost taken off Mr. Schumacker's jaw, but she was having a beer in a bar like a normal girl and even starting to relax a bit. Maybe nothing more would go wrong tonight. After all, what was the worst that could happen.

The walk itself? Straight forward, with little interruption or difficulty as the worst that came with the trip was waiting for all the bastards with the cars to get over themselves and their rush. There were crosswalks for a reason so people could, surprise-surprise, cross the street without fear of a car; really just the fear of the drivers who, for one reason or another, were hellbent on going to home to see their screaming, ungrateful brats and their disinterested spouse. That said, it had become a game for Mercer wherein he'd do his best to time the lights and the crossings. Was it sad that he had made this trip so many times that he knew the general length of time each light lasted? Probably, or that's what he thought. The first step was always the scariest, as even the red glow of the lights weren't always a foolproof deterrent. Mercer didn't exactly care though - it wouldn't be the first time a car had hit him. He remembered that event pretty vividly, especially since it was laughable now; oh how everything made more sense when he met the feline within face to face - that brief moment of clarity and perfect control otherwise lost in a sea of animalistic predation. That's why as he stood there on the sidewalk, watching, timing, he paused - the people in beside him taking their first step; there went what he knew was coming. Just from the corner of his eye he saw it; the van with a place to be. It blew past him - all of them - and barged through the red light without much warning. Almost casually, arms crossed, he just let people react as they did; most uttering curses, some having froze in place, others stepping back. Now? That was when Mercer proceeded across, as if nothing ever happened with just one tan boot in front of the other, glancing back at the van as it carried on down the street; an off forest green, early 2000's, hadn't been washed, and with a left tail light cracked. "Not a surprise." Mercer muttered as he reached the other end, hands in his pockets as he fumbled about with his wallet, flipping through his various work credentials until he got to the sleeve containing his cash. This was the only reason he carried it with him - cash in this part of town was dumb otherwise. It's not like he'd get robbed - just the thought of someone trying to do so made him laugh internally - but at the same time, someone might try; it was a sort of known issue with this area, the kind that was just an obvious unspoken rule. Giving his fingers a slight lick, wetting them to draw the bills out, he slid them into the other pocket and the wallet itself back as he paused again at another cross; the side street next to him filled with a few idling motorists. These guys will be here for a while, Mercer mused in thought, shooting a blue eyed glance over to the other side where he discovered no turning traffic were headed this way. Thus he took the calculated risk and crossed over, again relying on what he readily knew about the drivers here. No harm came of the little gamble and in a mere moment he was at the door where he took a quick accountability of the world around him; just an idea where he'd be off to after nightfall as well as those who happened to be around at the present moment. He wasn't paranoid, but Mercer had that instinct in him to do his best to size up anyone and anything he could; he rationalized it as the big cat debating on if it thought it could take them or would be better off vanishing into the oncoming night if need be. To date, it hadn't run into anything that he recalled that it didn't think it could take. He was a werepanther after all - what possibly could be much bigger or scarier than himself? Sure Mercer considered that there were other, worse things out there; doubted to hell and back he'd meet one, let alone in this pit that was part of Clear Springs. Catching a glance of a man, a waiter really, leaving a restaurant only to start up a cigarette and head this way - eyes and focus briefly locked on a phone - Mercer didn't immediately recognize anyone else going this way. In fact, most people were going into the other restaurants on the street, including the one the man with the cropped brown hair and cigarette had just left. That must be nice; family meals and all the like. Mercer chuckled to himself at the notion of actually having a meal out; a bar and a few beers was a real "treat". It served only to satiate, to a tiny, tiny extent the big cat inside, which had this ever present, lurking need to wander about and seemingly check in on places it was familiar with and take part in most anything it really pleased. Feeling the night drawing closer as the sun drifted loser towards setting, Mercer leaned his shoulder into the door only to be assaulted by the musical presence of a theremin. What really caught Mercer's attention after that audible surprise was the younger woman in the corner in a sizable hoodie that absolutely failed to match the only mildly brisk outdoors or the rest of the bar's patrons; she was the first thing out of the norm his eyes caught and something about her just rubbed the panther's fur the wrong way - just inexplicably. Carrying on, letting the door shut behind him, Mercer let the rest of the world around him just sink in. Most were the usuals - those he'd seen before and didn't get a weird feeling about. The goth chick? That was... different. Something about her made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand a bit on end, which didn't sit well; he chalked that up to the fact she was, for lack of better words, in his favored spot. The man in the red and blue checkered shirt with the wide brimmed hat and tenderly maintained old leather boots didn't fit either; same for the beers he was spending he and his cohort's money on. They weren't the usual cheap stuff most patrons ordered; even the black drenched college student was drinking your run of the mill Coors Light. "What the fuck?" Mercer uttered under his breath as his head turned to at last confront the source of the theremin. "Amish Tech Support?" Visibly shaking his head after reading, Mercer approached his second favorite spot; this irked that feline within to no end. Not only was he between the two other parties, but that little punk had his spot; yes, Mercer rationalized it was stupid for the cat to expect her to somehow know that, but at the same time she just rubbed his fur every wrong way she seemed she could - like it was purposeful almost. Gritting his teeth a bit, doing his best to shake off the minor annoyances, he awaited the bartender, who - without a word - took the money Mercer produced from his pocket and delivered him a Coors as well. Turning about a bit on the stool, Mercer with a sense of casual confidence given that this was his prowl and that they were new enough to it, began his inquiry to both the two men closest to him. "Color me curious," Mercer began, offering a pause as he took a drink from the bottle before setting it down behind him, his eyes shifting from the band to the two at the bar itself, "Are you familiar with these guys?" He motioned toward the band as they continued their performance with a nod, "I can't say I've ever heard of, let alone seen them here before."

Stepping onto that bus was the first time Henry had been with more than three other souls in a good six months. For the most part, he liked what being around others did to him and what it let him experience. He could peek into others’ psyches and know them in a way no one else could know strangers. The rush of sensations started in his head and poured through him, collecting in his gut, where it gathered into a painful mass. He’d spent countless hours trying to figure out what that awful sensation was — perhaps something to do with what people had hidden in their subconscious. In the end, it didn’t really matter. He’d handle anguish for a few days and strike off on his own again. The bar was even more interesting, from his point of view. He was swimming in perceptions. The room was alive and beating. His ability to sense the states of other people’s minds didn’t really have anything to do with being in his sight, so as he talked with George he wandered around the room in his mind’s eye, riding the highs and lows of every conversation around him and making note of everyone in the bar. After a few minutes of that, though, that little cancer inside of him grew to be too much. By the time the beers came, he’d focused on his breathing and pushed as much as he could out. And so he enjoyed his beer — another first in many months. He was certainly happy to treat himself to something half-decent, but he’d have to switch to something cheaper later, when taste mattered less than alcohol content. He’d been watching the band and wondering what exactly they would play since before George even mentioned anything. He also didn’t really have a clue, but he was pretty down for anything. Live bands weren’t something he was used to. The theremin was a convenient excuse to down his beer as quickly as possible. Henry had mostly gone into this night expecting to be drinking a lot — he found that there were more of the good parts of his special abilities and less of the bad parts, as long as he stayed in a good mood. It was a significant enough effect that Henry was pretty sure he’d develop some kind of alcohol dependence if he had more access to alcohol. In any case, another half-bottle of beer and ten minutes later, Henry was affected pretty strongly. Barely drinking at all made him quite a lightweight, but he metabolized it quickly, so he didn’t worry. Henry felt the guy sit down next to George and already got an extremely strange feeling from him. George, a pretty outgoing guy, and almost certainly not a psychic, responded, unaware of any weird vibes. “I haven’t heard of them either.” He turned around to face the same direction the newcomer was. “I kinda doubt they’re locals, unless it’s a brand new group. I’m just as curious to figure out what this is gonna be as you are. It looks like they’re starting the sound check now.” Maybe it was the beer that made the feeling so strong. Henry had no idea, and he hadn’t even seen the guy yet, but there it was. This guy felt like something new to him. He let curiosity get the better of him and turned around like George had, leaning forward so he could see around George. For a few seconds, he lost his usual control, and stared straight through the guy. It was like he was zoning out in another person’s head, a look of total concentration and at least some hint of suspicion on his face. He snapped out of it, but surely a little too long not to have been noticed. He leaned back in his seat to put George's body back in between his and the newcomer's, wondering to himself, what is that guy?

Outside, the brisk autumn air blew the smoke of his cigarette behind him as Moe strolled slowly down the road, looking around himself for somewhere to be. As far as he could tell, Clear Springs and the people comprising it seemed to be fairly ordinary; although he had heard of some crime issues and other goings-on, Moe hadn't personally been affected by any such occurrence, and he wasn't the type of person to look into that sort of thing anyway.. Nonetheless, Moe liked to watch the people around him as they darted around him and rushed into various shops and restaurants; perhaps he was trying to gain some insight into the character of the people of Clear Springs so he could perhaps fit in more, or maybe he was just eager for a distraction to bring him out of the staleness of his current situation. Whatever the reason was, Moe continued to walk onward, gazing intermittently into the windows of shops that he walked past.

Still though, the bar was the only other place he really knew on this street, and Moe's better judgment told him that he shouldn't go in there. Was there a rule against him going into other establishments during his break? Moe didn't recall such a restriction, though maybe he missed something when he got the job. Was it worth risking that possibility? He didn't have that long, after all, and he couldn't drink lest it threaten his job. Moe watched as a man passing by him pushed open the door of the bar, an ghostly voice resounding quietly from within. No, it wasn't quite a voice; it had an ethereal quality to it not unlike that of a stringed instrument, and yet it wasn't that either. A theremin, that's what it was.

Suddenly the bar became much more appealing to him as a distraction. Perhaps he could go inside and just listen to whatever music was playing for the remainder of his break, and come back later after work to have a drink. Maybe one of his acquaintances—Moe wasn't sure if he could quite call them friends—would be there and he could have a conversation, or something like that. Lost in thought, Moe exhaled, smoke billowing from his cigarette around him. Finally reaching the bar, Moe peered inside and indeed, a band was there, preparing to play. It was a theremin, Moe thought absentmindedly, mentally congratulating himself for his minor victory.

Somebody walking behind him pushed past him, abruptly bringing Moe once again to his senses. The man, rushing hastily down the street, looked back at Moe with a look of irritation. "Excuse me," the stranger muttered insincerely, as he continued past the bar and into another establishment. With a small frown, Moe turned to look behind himself to see that the flow of people had not yet lessened, and he respectfully stepped back to allow those behind him to pass as he slowed down.

Withdrawing back towards the wall, Moe leaned against the wall of the building, relaxing slightly. A worn, ragged poster adjacent to the door advertised the band playing—Amish Tech Support? He didn't know quite what to expect, but shrugged the name off anyway; Moe was a bit indiscriminate when it came to his music preferences, and he was quite interested in what the theremin would sound like. Checking his phone again, he confirmed that he still had around sixteen or seventeen minutes left. Well, that was still enough time to sit and listen. He could hear sound from within the interior of the bar, but decided to remain outside a few more moments. Moe once again returned to watching the people as they walked by, taking his time and savoring the cigarette. It seemed like a waste of one, but Moe nonetheless located a nearby cigarette receptacle and stubbed it out.

The sound of the theremin greeted him at its full volume as Moe walked into the bar, accompanied by some other assorted instrumentation. Gazing around the room, he didn't see anyone in particular that he knew, although he did see a few people that he thought he recognized as regulars. Moe was feeling out of place in his clean, white work uniform; a futile hope emerged in Moe's head that nobody would notice him. Would there be consequences if he was caught here? Of course there are, Moe thought to himself. What would they be, though? He was getting the feeling that perhaps he should come back later after work, but then chastised himself for his indecision—he had decided to come in here and listen to music, and that's what he was going to do. Moe wandered apprehensively around the door, still hanging back cautiously. The atmosphere of the bar stood in stark contrast with that of Moe's restaurant; it had a lively energy to it, voices and music blending together in a sort of boisterous cacophony.

Sitting up front at the bar was the man whom Moe had seen walk inside some minutes before, next to whom sat a few other characters who seemed out of place in the raucous environment. A pair of men sat chatting at the bar, one of whom was clad in a red and blue checkered shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. Bit gaudy, eh? Also out of place was a young woman sitting in the corner of the room, sipping a beer and watching the band preparing on-stage. Turning his own attention to the band, Moe checked his phone again—around fifteen minutes left of his break—and settled down in an unoccupied chair near the entrance.

Nobody likes a warm Coors Light.

At the best of times, Coors Light is what you drank on a hot day when water isn't alcoholic enough and a real beer is too heavy. Ordering one at a bar just seemed like an exercise in futility--what was the point of going to a bar and not getting drunk? That home-away-from-home nonsense never really clicked with Michelle, who understood bars the same way every eighteen year old who occasionally slipped past security thinks they understand bars. Most of what she understood was that warm beer was gross and the fastest way to get a new drink was to pour through the one she had, so she drained it about as quickly as is socially acceptable for a young lady to pound down a shitty beer and flagged down a waitress.

She had to admit, there was something...off about the place tonight. The only way she could describe it was through scent, but that wasn't really right. Big Bad might have had a nose that could smell a quivering meal from a mile and a half away but Michelle very much didn't, and it was hard enough to describe the senses she did have half the time. It was an undercurrent, like ozone, and as far as she could tell it was coming from the three hipsters front and center watching the show. All glasses and flanels and--shit, were those cowboy boots?--they didn't exactly look like the kind of people she thought she'd see in a place like this.

Though admittedly, it did have a weird ass instrument on stage that made music when you waved at it. It didn't get much more hipster than that.

Bars were for getting drunk, and getting drunk took alcohol. 4.2% was not going to make a difference. With a (relatively) flush wallet and a decent enough night for it, Michelle was ready to make a trip to the bar worth it, and that meant girly drinks. The kind with umbrellas and syrups and a dozen and a half different liquors that she would never in a million years bother buying. What was the point in stocking that shit if you weren't ever going to use it? Once upon a time she'd have beat up a girl like her ordering something that ended in -tini, but with a self-conscious little quirk of a smile she did exactly that as she caught a waitress on a drive-by.

Happiness was something for other people, and Michelle was prepared to accept that in some emo little corner of her soul that was willing to just say Fuck It to the notion. She didn't like smiling not because she had anything against being happy in particular, but because when she did she could feel the stretch at the corner of her lip, the tight scar tissue tugging at it just enough to be noticeable. Normal people could smile and not even care, but every time she did it felt like a little reminder, a quiet nagging reminder that she was kidding herself in the end. Like when she saw the tattoo on her neck in the mirror before she covered it--and she always covered it. Tonight it hid behind a thick leather choker she'd studded herself a while back, so worn it felt natural on her.

Every bitch needs a collar, right? She could actually remember that one motherfucker saying that to her.

She could also remember what his zygomatic bone tasted like.

The appletini, when it arrived, was a very welcome distraction.

As she did her best to drink down that shitty hyperventilating feeling she was getting in the back of her throat, her eyes crawled over the crowd again in an attempt for distraction. When she clicked onto the new guy who stepped in looking like part of the staff, she smiled to herself over the violently green drink. She might have found someone who looked as awkward as she felt about this whole 'being in public' thing. By the time he managed to decide he was staying, she was already finding herself looking back over to the three Musketeers bonding over their craft beers or their five o'clock shadow or whatever it was they were doing. For some reason it was these individuals that kept catching her eye, even when she tried not to let them--there was just something about them.

About the time she was tilting the green glass up and feeling cold ice clink on her lips--who the hell put ice in a martini glass?--she realized it was time to get another. Back to waitress-hunting.

"I haven't heard of them either." To which provoked a series of short nods from Mercer, broken only by the fact that he choose to turn about on the stool; hand grasping the bottle before facing the band once more. “I kinda doubt they’re locals, unless it’s a brand new group. I’m just as curious to figure out what this is gonna be as you are. It looks like they’re starting the sound check now.”

Drawing the bottle to his lips, his mind wandered for the moment between conversation; why did tonight already feel like a strange, strange night? It didn't bode well, given that he had to at some point let the cat out for a walk about the areas surrounding his workplace. It was just that inkling, unusual feeling. Mercer first chalked it up to the company he was keeping at the bar... which inadvertently convinced him that it was, beyond a doubt the strange feeling. Having just taking the first down of the beer since he picked it back up, the man beside the first - the one with the red and blue check shirt and dangling aviators - proved to lean about and stare at him as he drank.

There existed this awkward, sort of slowing to his drinking welling within him as Mercer's attention shifted in Henry's direction. By the time he had paused, taking the bottle and setting it down, the silent man had drifted behind the other again - breaking his line of sight. Mercer, by all rights, proved a bit bewildered.

What? What in the fuck was that about? His thoughts drifted, attributing the strangeness to the bar's more unusual patrons as a whole. What the hell is going on here tonight? Did I miss some sort of convention? Who are these people?

Marginally threatened but more deterred by the sheer oddity of that event, Mercer took up the beer again, downing what little the bottle had left; what he would have finished originally. The beverage, as initially intended, had the desired effect of proving distracting, as little by little Mercer's psyche had drifted toward the more hostile - he didn't like being watched, for many reasons, a certain giant feline being the most obvious. But there was a method to his madness; why he worked at night, oft wore sunglasses and stuck only to places he felt most comfortable - safe - in.

Except tonight didn't seem to be one of those, as the bars' usual uneventful and more... normal? No, that wasn't right. More... standardized patrons weren't the only "company" here.

Setting he emptied bottle down, Mercer's attention turned to, surprisingly, the lean smoking man from earlier who was just as wrapped in the white uniform as he was the last time he'd been seen. Jarring, certainly but at least this guy had an actual reason to be here - he worked down the street and went on a break. Aviators and Mrs. Anti-Social here? Let alone anyone called "Amish Tech Support?" Not so much. Shrugging lightly, accepting the man as he sat at an angle across the bar, Mercer prepared to order another beverage to "enjoy".

It wasn't the vibrant green color of the drink that the waitress had proved to just delivered that caught his attention as he awaited her return - it was who it was for. Honestly, Mercer didn't exactly know what to expect from the black clad chick - the two cowboys, sure, the smoker, alright, but it amused him that she had made such a hard cut from barely alcohol to the sort of exotic drinks ornamented with an umbrella. It still didn't settle the fact she had, by and large, taken his place... which to this moment didn't sit right with him.

Receiving another drink, having already paid for it with the initial cash from earlier, Mercer could only sit back and watch the show.

Or so he had hoped.

By the time he was about to set the second Coors down, his phone rang with a received message. How he overheard it as the theremin got more out of control - as if that statement had ever crossed anyone's mind before was questionable - was beyond him; not really, he knew this particular tone more so than he should. It wasn't entirely a bad thing to have happen, but it meant he'd have more company... and that the caller was perfectly aware of where he was at this moment. That last part was the bad news that need emphasis, as this wasn't the first time he was met here unannounced.

Fishing around his pocket, he produced the device and scanned the message.

Need more than last. Weren't happy with copy.

It was one thing to have dabbled in transporting illicit goods in the past, well now and then to this day too, but it was another to be accepting of and engaging in information gathering for a competing organization. It wasn't hard at all to actually acquire the material, it just took some minor finagling to get right. The easiest was just to stop any one of the vehicles he knew would be transporting secured goods prior to allowing them to leave Harper and Leo's research site; they could protest "random" inspections, but the templated ones? The ones he wrote? Those were valid provided they just so happened to align with a truck's departure.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Mercer downed the beer in a hurry - not that it would help his irritation.

Really? Because it was a copy? Everything we use is a god damned copy of a copy! His mind recoiled at the thought of essentially being subtly berated by a contact, face visibly contorted in a disgruntled manner. All of this for not getting the near impossible to acquire evidence that Harper and Leo were actively duplicating NorGen's synthetic medication. The fact he had any proof at all, that NorGen was right about some of these shipments and the research facility, should've been more than enough - in fact they owed him or as far as Mercer was concerned.

He had to keep calm, just put up with NorGen's agent for a few minutes, then go back to drinking.

Oh, right... and then take the cat out.

Taking an anticipatory glance around the room, Moe still seemed to be searching for some sort of distraction; he felt that he was rushed for time, as the band on stage was still setting up and doing their sound check. He watched them with a feeling of restlessness— "Amish Tech Support," Moe repeated, pointlessly attempting to discern something further. What was their theme? Their gimmick? Quite a few other people in the bar also seemed to be confused by them, though none of them seemed to possess the same amount of actual interest that Moe had towards them.

...well, overall, they seemed to be very... avant-garde, in both music and instrumentation alike, but still, he didn't consider them to be too out of place in the setting; granted, they were very strange, but the band seemed to complement the sort of vigorous energy that permeated the area. Had Moe not been more interested in them, or be more interested in something else (after all, they were pretty much the entire reason why he had decided to come here in the first place, given his initial doubts), perhaps they would lose their distinctness and blend back in with the rest of the background noise.

His attention drifted back to those few people he had singled out from among the crowd. Moe din't really know why he noticed them in particular; maybe they just didn't fit in with the energy of the rest of the place. After all, otherwise they didn't seem to be that notable—the girl in black hadn't even been talking to anyone else. She seemed to be keeping mostly to herself, sipping from a curiously green drink, though she too was looking at the group sitting at the bar, the two men chatting. One of them seemed regular enough, though the other seemed a bit bothered by something. And... ah, yes, there was Moe's old friend from outside, the man he had spotted walking in prior to Moe's own arrival. Now he was sitting at the bar, glancing at his phone and subsequently downing his beer, apparently disgruntled by whatever he had just seen. Mentally extending his sympathy towards the man for... whatever it was that was bothering him, Moe then turned his own attention back to his own personal space.

Another quick check of his phone—thirteen minutes—(the simple action was by now almost a compulsion) and then he was once again free to settle down. For a few seconds Moe stared at the ground, lost in nonexistent thought, and then slowly turned his head up to face the bar. Well, he might as well get something while he was here, if not alcohol. As he began his cautious trek towards the bar, he was faintly aware of the wail of the theremin, accompanied by, what, some sort of obscure percussion instrument? Whatever it was, it fell away, dissipating into the blanket of lively chatter that filled the rest of the room.

Taking a seat at the bar, a seat away from the man he had seen walk into the bar, Moe mumbled some request for sparkling water to the bartender, who looked at him for a moment somewhat judgmentally, and then handed over the appropriate amount of money. At his work, he was supposed to carry his own money for transactions and making change, and he would probably lose some of his own money in the whole scheme of things, but what was the harm in that?

The slight acidity of the soda water served to relax him slightly, leaving in its wake a cleaner feeling in his mouth, but still, Moe felt awkward and self-conscious sitting up here—people were probably judging him, all bundled up nicely, clad in his pristine white uniform. At least the guy in the checkered shirt appeared to be fairly casual, despite his whole outfit. What could Moe do? Roll up his sleeves? Unbutton his top button? Would it be socially acceptable to light up a cigarette in here? Admittedly, Moe didn't know the place and its regulars well enough to discern that sort of thing, so maybe it was best not to do anything for now.

A small sigh escaped his mouth as Moe attempted to relax further, having taken another sip of his drink. He turned his attention once more to the band, who seemed to be nearly ready to perform. Taking one more curious look around, outside, at those he had noticed before, and then back at his phone (still around twelve minutes, just like it was last time) Moe finally settled his attention back on the band.

The sound check ended, and Henry noted a wave of relief in the audience. There were a few nods between the guy mixing in the back of the bar and the band, and they took a few a minute or so to sip drinks and chat before the vocalist announced that they were indeed Amish Tech Support and introduced himself and his companions. No one cared.

But that all took a few minutes. Henry returned from his thoughts and looked at George, who had a pensive expression on his face. At first, Henry thought he was watching the band, but on closer examination he was just spacing out. Henry decided to restart conversation, and put on a friendly smirk on his face. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

He blinked slowly. “I was just connecting some dots, I guess.”

“What?” Henry’s confusion was genuine.

“Well, so I was hanging out at my sister’s last weekend, and her son was watching Spongebob while we were just shooting the shit with my brother-in-law. Anyway, we get quiet for a little bit, and a new episode starts or something. It’s Spongebob sitting at home, really intently watching a sea anemone” — he botched the pronunciation, Henry noticed, but he wasn’t sure if it was the booze — “swinging around on its little stalk, like in an ocean current, on TV. Then the snail, Gary — I think I’m over there too often — comes in and Spongebob changes the channel really quick and looks all guilty.”

George was leaning back against the bar, facing toward the band, mostly talking to Henry but also to the new guy. Henry was sort of hunched over, facing out and in George’s direction, making eye contact as he listened. Henry glanced occasionally at the new guy, who was paying special attention to some girl in the corner of the bar. He let the thought go and decided he wanted more to drink, so he held a finger up to pause George’s tipsy philosophizing, turned to the bartender and asked for two of whatever was cheap and on tap. He signaled for George to continue.

“So of course after that we adults were cracking up. I mean, it’s a joke about porn in a kids’ show, right? But then my nephew was just staring at us, asking over and over what was so funny, which only made us laugh harder.” He looked at Henry, clearly about to make a point. “But the thing is, I watched that same show as a kid, and I was probably just like my nephew back then, and all that stuff went miles above my head.”

George said that with the intonation of finality, but Henry didn’t see the point. The beers came though, and both of them took a sip. “But what does that connect to?” Henry asked, not wanting to overtly tell George to stop rambling.

“Well, long story short, I’ve been learning Spanish, right, and I’m getting pretty good, talking with relatives and stuff. But there’s still all kinds of stuff I miss, from subtext to massive chunks of sentences.” He took a few sips, then continued. “And I’ve just been wondering if I missed as much as I did when I was a kid, except I never noticed it because it was just outside of what I could comprehend.”

He finished his beer in one final swig. Henry didn’t interrupt him. “I guess the question is: what am I missing just because I can’t even process it? There are things I know I don’t get, like fine art and jazz and morse code and that sort of thing, but what about the things I don’t even know of?” He stared intently at Henry, who stared back but saw much more. George had, over the past thirty seconds or so, gone from excitedly rambling to deeply serious, perhaps with a tinge of suspicion.

Henry had tested that out plenty of times, though. George couldn’t know of Henry’s little abilities, but he was more than able to discern that Henry was letting himself behave a little weird. Shit. “Are you high?” he asked calmly, with a bit of judgement on his face for good measure. He didn’t know whether he was at that in-the-zone level of buzz or he just thought he was.

George rolled his eyes and looked back out at the band, who’d started playing something surprisingly unobtrusive but undoubtedly on the experimental side. George’s eyes narrowed once the vocalist came in. “This is a Wilco song. I saw them live a couple years ago. The instrumentation is just really weird.” He declared, and he was right, thought Henry. “I think they’re holding off with the theremin until the bridge at the end of the song. Good thing, too.”

A large group stood up and left. Maybe it was a little too noisy for them, thought Henry, but they might also just have gone anyway. “Let’s grab that table,” George said, pointing. “This is no way to have a conversation and make friends.” He nodded in the direction of the New Guy. Then, with a gregarious, not-entirely-sober smile, he looked over at the guy sipping sparkling water. “You look like you need to relax. Get yourself a beer and meet us over there.” He motioned with his empty glass, put it down on the bar, and walked over to the table. Henry gestured to the bartender and followed.

Time to have fun.

It wasn't really a thought of hers, honestly. One of the flannel boys had put two and two together and realized that if they were going to spend the time chatting they might as well do it around a table. By the time they grabbed the guy at the bar she'd almost made up her mind, but that's what sealed the deal--if they were willing to grab some random asshole from the bar, they'd have to be down with her showing up. That was why guys went to bars, after all, to get drunk and hang out and pick up chicks. Right?

Like she had any fucking clue, but that dandy appletini-Coors Light combo had the beginnings of a buzz in her temples and she was feeling a little rebellious. It was a night out, goddammit! Maybe she never had any fun because she never let herself have any fun. Maybe Big Bad (It's the alcohol talking, a little part of her hyperventilated, don't be stupid, don't fuck things up!) didn't have to be as much of a killjoy as she made him. It had been a while since she'd cut loose, since he'd ripped out, and even when the moon came along she had her little safety nets. When was the last time she actually got someone hurt?

As was usual for Michelle, while she was busy thinking and exacerbating and freaking the hell out, her body had plans of its own and made them known. She was already on her way to the table when her stupid heart started beating faster, her lips pulling tight in a little catch-me-if-you-can smile. It felt like she was getting away with something, and that edge of going-to-get-caught, fuck-it-do-it-anyway abandon was making her a little giddy.

If there was something to be said about her, she was a physical person. Mama might not have raised a dummy but she'd been a dancer and a cheerleader (Hah! What a fucking riot!) once upon a time and she knew how to slide her way across a floor. Effortless with all the confidence she didn't have, she got to the table just as the boys were settling down. A quick twist of a wrist on the back of a worn smooth wooden chair pivoted it on a leg and spun it around to let her straddle it, wrapped around the back rest while her chin rested in the groove between her wiry forearms. Her hoodie flopped across like a punk-rock circus tent in a breeze, the worn holes for her thumbs not the only ones where pale flesh peeked through.

"Howdy gents." Her smile twitched to a grin before falling back to size. "Cool if I crash your stag party? And I'll have another, honey, thanks so much." She added to the waitress from before, snagging her as she passed to another table and wiggling her fingers by way of please-and-thanks before turning to her new partners-in-crime properly. Maybe things would be different now. Maybe this would be fun after all. Or maybe they'd tell her to fuck off!

Never knew until you tried. It was a little funny--the more she stuck herself out there, the more she relaxed. She'd learned by now that if a pucnh was coming it was better to roll with it, and on the edge of watching her tentative good-time-girl bravado crumble she was oddly at ease.

"How 'bout that fucking radio-thing, huh? You guys ever heard shit like that before?"

Drifting between toying with the phone, adding a pause brief enough to note the trio depart from the bar itself, Mercer couldn't help but feel a conflict of emotions - feelings as if to just call this meeting off, throwing it to when he wasn't more concerned with the booze or the cat, or if he was better off just taking the prying now. The contact would pry, no doubt about that. It wasn't in the slightest a matter of if, but when and how much... and given how easy to find Mercer was, often making one of a couple rounds to locales he frequented, they'd find him one way or another.

Oh fuck this. I'll deal with it tomorrow. Mercer's thoughts wavered as he entered his reply, attempting his best to deflect their interest, at least for the time being.

Fingers to the screen, it was done in a heart beat.

There wasn't an immediate response. That's what drew the sigh of relief and eyes free of the phone; in that moment, Mercer caught the slight glimpse of movement. Not from the band who had just a few minutes before departed the stage, but instead from the last person he imagined to get up. Eyes tracking for the time being, he was curious as to where this was going, because the brief expression he caught? It wasn't matching the one she had before, but it certainly matched her actions as she whipped a chair about, sitting herself down and ordering another drink all in one fluid motion.

At first Mercer wasn't sure what he just witnessed; as if the incident but ten feet away was in a fog, but the more he thought about it as she finished her remark about the theremin, the more he realized she was serious.

Settling in, first checking the reaction of the two cowboy booted cohorts, then the waiter; he imagined, before checking back to his phone, they might prove a bit startled... or confused. Maybe both. Mercer certainly was, but all the same now he found himself feeling left out. These were his grounds, he might as well be comfortable around these people - sure the air that followed with them struck him as a bit odd, but there was no harm in that, right?

Thinking as he was, his attention focused back to the screen in his palm.

No reply.

Not yet at least, which was all the more rationale and permission he needed to join in on whatever was about to happen. It didn't take him twice on the thought to stand, crossing the bar before kicking back the leg of a chair with a heel and proving to sit down. It was in that moment, slipping the phone away, he replied almost casually, to the woman - or rather on closer inspection what he'd almost consider a girl still - and her remark about the theremin.

"Heard of it - can't say I've ever seen one in person."

Mercer proved to nod in the direction of the man in the plaid shirt, keen to note the little, more than awkward moment they had between each other but a short time ago. Maybe now, he rationalized, things would settle down some; the atmosphere maybe left to calm, but it certainly didn't where he sat at the table's corner, maybe a foot away from the punk college student - or what Mercer assumed her to be. Before he could let go of the notion though, his mind toyed with the fact that the last thing he wanted was a reply now. What little interaction he had with anyone but his coworkers, even if this turned poorly, would be better than none at all.

Though he hadn't had any real expectations for it, the song that the band was playing was quite unexpected; the music was almost uncharacteristically innocuous—a repeated beat, backed by steadily rising instrumentation. To Moe's disappointment the theremin didn't seem to be involved quite yet, but hey, he was here to listen to music, and that's what he was going to do. Last night, he'd stayed up later than he'd liked to have, doing just that (the consequences of which he was still seeing even now), but the pressure of the next day's work had precluded any chance of him actually relaxing. Now, Moe could finally sit back for a while; after all, the day was coming slowly to a close with the evening, and, at least for the time being, he didn't have anywhere to really be.

Many of the people around him, however, didn't consider the music to be such an opportunity; several had decided to completely ignore it, while others used it as something of a conversation piece. "This is a Wilco song. I saw them live a couple years ago. The instrumentation is just really weird. I think they’re holding off with the theremin until the bridge at the end of the song. Good thing, too." Moe overheard one of the plaid-shirts say to the other; while he personally disagreed with the judgment of the theremin, he nonetheless nodded slightly with the intention of indicating his understanding, though of course they wouldn't notice. Moe turned, taking a slow sip of his drink, as a nearby group got up from their table and walked back towards the door, perhaps in protest of the music; looking back, he saw the two plaid-shirts eyeing the abandoned table eagerly.

“You look like you need to relax. Get yourself a beer and meet us over there." The unexpected remark came from the one whom Moe had overheard. He seemed friendly enough, if not slightly drunk, but Moe couldn't spend much more time here, he had, what? Another quick phone check, aaaand... ten minutes. When would that be—the end of the song? He probably shouldn't get involved in that sort of business now.

"Oh, I'm actually at work, or on my break, and I can't really..." Moe's excuse trailed off as Plaid-Shirt #1 walked off to claim his new table, some feet away from where he'd been sitting at the bar, with Plaid-Shirt #2 following behind him. He scanned the room apprehensively: there was the guy from outside, typing something on his phone and then looking up, startled at the girl in black, who pulled up a chair beside the Plaid-Shirts and was ordering a drink. The Guy-from-Outside reacted astonishedly; while Moe himself was somewhat bewildered, personally he wasn't as taken aback—after all, why should he be?

"How about that fucking radio-thing, huh? You guys ever heard shit like that before?" she said, an air of confidence around her. Moe glanced towards her, noting her apparent youth—she was maybe college age, or so, probably not old enough to drink. The Guy-from-Outside had focused back on his phone briefly, apparently anxious about whatever he was looking at; he put the device away, and refocused his attention back on the Girl-in-Black to respond to her question. Slightly sympathetic to the man's apparent plight, Moe shuffled forwards, toying with the idea of participating in the conversation.

Well, I might as well have some sort of distraction. "...Neither have I," he interjected reluctantly, nodding slightly at the Guy-from-Outside. "I heard the theremin from outside; I'm on my break, and was interested in hearing the band play, so I guess that's why I'm here now." His voice was oddly raised, a slight touch of defensiveness present, as though he were trying to announce the circumstances behind his presence there; as he finished his sentence, he glanced around at those around him, anticipating their responses. Moe sipped again from his drink, this time with distinct sense of caution, hoping that he wouldn't be drawn too far into the discussion.

Henry was on his way to the table too quickly to really care for any of Moe’s excuses, much more focused on the young woman from the corner of the bar who he knew would be joining them. He sat down to lay a claim and set down his beer. In a relatively sober fashion, he shifted his gaze to match the person who was already the focus of his concentration as she approached them, flipped a chair around, sat down in it, and not-exactly-politely asked to join them. Feigning surprise, he turned to George with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. George just smirked back at him with a shrug and sipped his beer.

Henry turned to the girl and took a gulp of beer, half-listening to her question about the theremin. He almost wondered why she’d come over and sat at this table, but he already knew. There was an astoundingly weird vibe around this table: he perceived something frightening in both Mercer and Michelle, but for whatever reason it felt like where he was supposed to be. Like a moth to a flame, he thought to himself, and chuckled as he swallowed.

He let the question remain unanswered while he glanced at Mercer, who was sitting down and putting his phone away. He answered her question and sounded both a little absent and a little irritated.

And then that guy with the sparkling water spoke, who Henry hadn’t actually noticed actually follow them. He put it down to the alcohol and the two more interesting presences in front of him. He’d been putting a lot down to alcohol, he realized, and noted this should be his last drink.

He wasn’t really listening to what Moe said; instead, he was just a little astounded by how awkward the guy seemed to be. He seemed decidedly nervous, to the point that Henry was suspicious of some sort of social anxiety. Moreover, Henry didn’t give a damn about why he was here, but he was still sober enough not to just say that out loud. He decided to change the topic of conversation.

Henry set down his beer with an unintentionally but not unreasonably loud thump, but managed to play it off as if he’d wanted to attract attention. “Anyway, I’m Henry. Nice to meet you all.”