It was hard to see, because he was backlit by one of the windows in the otherwise shady and dim-lit restaurant, but there was someone loafing in the far corner. The slothful man, fairly old, wearing slacks, a button up, and a plain, black apron, was half laying in one of the booths, one arm behind his head, the other holding a small paperback book in front of him.

"No loitering, paying customers only," he said to Ivan in a ratchet-like voice that only his (presumably 95-year-old) mother could love. With all the excitement he put into it, one could only imagine he'd said it a thousand times lately, for whatever reason. Not the best way to greet people to a restaurant, but perhaps there was a reason.

The door swung freely.

The smell of cleaning solution was the first to hit their nostrils. The dark place reeked of a sort of ammonia-laden, piney scent, but thankfully did not smell like rotten carcass. It was hard to see, going from the bright light outside to the darkness within, but the open iceboxes in the customer area were all empty, and nothing remained on the counter and shelves except packaged beef jerky, canned goods, and other things that would not likely expire any time soon. Apparently, the possible health risk of leaving a whole ton of meat laying unattended had been addressed in some official capacity, and the place had been sanitized and emptied of everything but its equipment.

Good for the public well-being; bad for a potential crime scene.

The swinging doors to the rear of the room (which led to where the actual dirty work took place) were plenty accessible. There probably wouldn't have been any reason to check it out had there not been a sudden metallic jangling from within, though.

It wasn't just an ambient noise or a coincidence, nor the product of a breeze blowing in through the door; it was a loud sound like chains rattling, and hard. Someone or something was actually inside.

Ivan was taken off guard by the disembodied voice, and his head head whipped in the direction from whence it came. When spotted the old man, he settled down within seconds.

He smirked slyly at the man before sauntering over to the bar and helping himself to a seat, "I'll be havin' a 'Pirate Grog', no ice." He said, that grin never leaving his face.

"Ya know, yer sales pitch ain't the best fer bringin' in the assholes." He said with a laugh. In this case, 'assholes' was to simply mean "bar-goers" in layman's terms.

"Then again, I be bettin' most of'm be tossin' in bed with a migraine about now..."

"Nn."

The bartender seemed almost disappointed that Ivan was an actual paying customer. He put his book away, grunted, sat up, and walked with just enough briskness to be in the zone of "politely attending" (as opposed to, say "begrudgingly abiding"). Apparently, though, it was just the way he carried himself, as he seemed to engage readily enough in conversation as he got out the rum.

"Th'problem's been keepin'em out," the fairly large sloth-bear explained in a voice that was a little wispier than might have been expected from a burly, grizzled bartender, possibly weakened by excess smoking, if the extinguished, half-smoked stogie behind his ear was any indication. "All these foreigners in town, they huddle down like a bunch'a cockroaches in here 'n smell up the place is what they do, 'n they ain't buyin' nothin'. Drives off th' lunch crowd..."

The mug clinked in front of Ivan. The the bartender looked at him, scrutinizing, and wheezily added, "This ain't gonna be y'lunch, izzit?"


OOC: Folks playing characters following Jack, read here:

The back room was dark and still. A rectangle of light from the swinging door Jack held open painted her long, stretched shadow deep across the tile floor. It was hard to see much detail. Meat hooks hung empty and clean, and steel-surfaced work tables looked the same. There was a light switch that might have helped, but it didn't work. No one was visible... but it didn't mean they weren't there. It was dark, and there were a lot of things to hide behind.

If she pushed the door open just a little wider, though, the light would finally unveil something: a figure on one of the tables.

A body, draped in canvas, laying motionless on a table.

Ivan looked expectantly at the mug, dripping over with booze. He took it, and tilted back a long swig before finally slamming the mug down on the counter with a loud sigh of satisfaction. Then his attention returned to the old bar master.

"I was thinkin' about it." He said with a snicker as if to suggest he was joking. Although, if it wasn't brought up, he probably would have made it his lunch. "...Can I get a menu?"

"So, what be up with those annoyin' lights at night?" He asked in a non-chalant way, gesturing with a waving finger over his head as he described it.

The bartender flapped a menu down on the counter and slid it toward the salty hare, then gave him a deadpan stare, and a long stretch of silence after his question about the lights.

"If yer here,... y'should'a already been around long enough t' heard there's people up'n disappearin'."

The hare took the menu and glanced over it before he noticed the deadpan stare from the bar tender. He arched a brow, as if the news was new to him.

"Ya mean to tell me people just up'n disappear?" He snorted, and shook his head, "That be some X-Articles $#@&, matey. Someone 'round here's gotta have a better idea n'at."

For a pirate, he wasn't very superstitious. Or maybe he was just probing to see if the old man knew more than just rumors. "I'll be havin' the salmon." He said, tapping a finger on the fishiest of menu items.

As hopeful as Ember may have been, this particular meat had a very clearly defined shape, including a head, and feet sticking up. It was not the eating kind of meat.



Meanwhile, in the bar with Ivan...

The bartender did not reply to his request, but pulled out a skillet, dropped it on the stove with a big clank, got the fire burning (he had to use a lighter to get the gas going), and walked over to the refrigerator. A real, working refrigerator! They did have some modern conveniences. (It was pretty rudimentary, though.) On the plus side, the fish wasn't even frozen—also a good sign. Would the information he got from this guy be as (hopefully) good as the seafood, though?

"Think whatcha wanna think," he grunted in thick rasp as he dumped the marinated slab of fish in the pan. Insert satisfying sizzle. "Gets dark. Comes a big fire in th' sky. Folks see some kinn'a glittery weirdo. Bang! S'all gone, and somebody's or somethin's missin'."


Ivan idly sipped at the remainder of his ale as the bartender went about preparing his meal. Even zoning out for a moment(it was still kind of early for the pirate), but was snapped back to reality by the old man's voice once more.

"Glittery weirdo?" He repeated, with a cant of his head, "Anybody seen this guy an' lived to tell the tale?" He asked, genuinely interested. Obviously for reasons related to solving the mystery. Granted, it was of questionable truth, but hey. Any lead was good at this point in time.


"Aah, yeah," replied the bartender with uncertainty, "but I ain't been one of'em, so I ain't nones too quick t'believe it, m'self."

The fishy aroma began to fill the room most comfortingly.

"They say," he wheeze-sighed (with a twirl of his finger), "that erry time somebody disappears, there's some huge, fiery, sparklin' bird, or some such." He glanced over his shoulder. "Maybe twice'a your height, thereabouts."

"Some're even sayin' it's th' legendary phoenix come back from 'is slumber. Not me, though."


Ivan took a deep whiff, taking in the glorious stench of cooking fish as the old man continued to talk. Then he had to go and talk about legendary phoenix's and stuff. Ivan leaned forward, putting two fingers to his temple and closing his eyes.

That pose lasted for a good 2 or 3 full seconds before he looked up again, "Phoenix?" Okay, this was beginning to look bogus. He waved at the bartender with his hand, "And... who has been spreadin' these rumors?"


"Old folks," hissed the admittedly-not-entirely-young bartender venomously. "Coots 'n crazies who take th' wives' tales too serious."

This begged further explanation. Or maybe it didn't. Either way, it seemed Ivan had hit an area the ol' sloth-bear was talkative about.

"Yer not from around here, I take it, so, put simple, this is old country. Lots'a stories, lots'a myths. Lots'a people believe in weird stuff. I know what's happenin', though. It's those damn Rodinians."

Uh oh. He made a hard swerve toward politics. He continued rambling on as he plated Ivan's fish (along with some baked potatoes and green beans), and plunked it down in front of him. (It wasn't fancy, but it all seemed fresh enough.)

"Those damn, dirty, fascist southerners. It's got their fingerprints all over it. Th'whole myth thing is just a conspiracy t'keep us distracted..."

Alright, so maybe this guy wasn't the best source of information. Nonetheless, he had at least revealed a couple things: a weird guy in sparkly clothes had been spotted at the abductions, there was a phoenix myth, and lots of people were trying to draw the two together.

And what was under that sheet?

A body. Predictably, it really was. Unpredictably, it had a hood over its head, and gazed emptily back at Jack through a pair of dark, gleaming lenses, like those of a gas mask.

At that very moment, the front door slammed shut and locked. Simultaneously, the figure on the counter jumped straight up, and, flinging its sheet away, spun in midair and slung a mess of what basically looked like small, canister-like grenades in every which direction, all spewing a noxious gas.

If they so much as gasped at what was happening, they'd have all of a few seconds of consciousness left before finding themselves rather helplessly sedated. If they tried to go back out the way they came in, they'd find another cloaked figure standing in front of the door, surrounded by a mess of his own gas-spewing grenades.