undergrounds | [OPEN] HERE IS SOMETHING YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND:

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[OPEN] HERE IS SOMETHING YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND:

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They call them pubs here. Trevor dislikes this. He refuses to use their slang, and he has already gotten into a verbal fight with someone over language. Of course, this was all incited by Trevor himself after some hapless bar patron decided to insinuate that "English" was better than "American." Or maybe he wasn't insinuating anything; Trevor just assumed he was. Or maybe the man just politely told Trevor to calm down. Trevor can't remember the reasoning anymore because it was a blur of rage.

He now can be found in the middle of a rant - one in a series of many - shouting out into the dingy pub and attempting to cause another scene, which for some reason hasn't gotten him kicked out yet.

"Lager is a fucking scourge. It's goat piss. It doesn't get the distinction of being bull piss, because that shit is strong. Which one of you pip-pip jerkoffs tried to buy the whole bar pints of lager? Is that how you show your affection, you sadist? I know you're still here! I'm gonna find your presumptuous hide and carve it right off!"

[closed to clara]

There is one ray of light in this shithole. An older woman who seems content to just watch him do his thing. He's caught her looking at him and, fearless, steps right on over and takes a seat right next to her. Leaning on the table, he turns on his "charm", which just consists of him lowering his voice and staring at her with an intensity that'd make most people uncomfortable.

"Now this is a fucking crime. Beautiful girl like yourself all alone, having to buy your own drinks. Here, lemme handle that." He takes out his wallet, picks through it and procures a-- £50 note. God dammit he hates pounds. Forgot he had some of his money converted the other day.

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Heiji hadn't been the one to buy the bar lager, but he was watching now with some interest as Trevor went off. Was there going to be a bar fight? Because that could be exciting.

"Oh, piss off," muttered the man on the stool next to him, almost under his breath, but not quite. Certainly loud enough for Trevor to hear.

Yeah, yeah, bar fight to entertain the masses. That's what Trevor was for, anyway.

Loud enough to hear is loud enough to get punched, and that's exactly what Trevor does. He stomps right up to the stranger and decks him in the back of the neck, the force of which in that exact spot knocks him cold. It's a cheap shot but Trevor couldn't give less of a fuck.

"Donkey-punched, you worthless whore." His eyes come to rest on Heiji, considering he's sitting next to him. "-- And what about you, sugar? Wanna get kinky tonight?" Trevor shakes his hand off then balls it again, fully ready for another go.

Wow. Heiji watched his neighbor go down with an expression of mild surprise, then turned his attention to Trevor. After a moment, he smiled in a mildly infuriating manner.

"Not on the first date. Sorry to make ya haul your corset and chains around for nothin'!" In other words, he wasn't really looking for a fight, but he was fine if one found him.

Trevor just stares. Stares and stares at this skinny little fuck who's trying to back-talk him.

"What." A pause.

"What the flying fuck was that. Were you trying to be clever? I'm gonna demand you give it another shot before I roundhouse kick your teeth out for lack of effort." Trevor leans in on the bar, leans uncomfortably close to Heiji.

"Now. Go."

Well, I mean. Technically, Heiji didn't approve of senseless violence? But since it seemed like Trevor was gunning for a fight anyway, what was the harm?

Heiji brought his forehead forward and smashed it into Trevor's. Okay, 'smashed' might not have been the right word, because he was aware that human skulls could be a bit fragile and so he pulled the blow a bit.

This was fun, right? They were having fun.

So, okay. Trevor gets head-butted by this scrawny thing like he thinks he's a goddamn mountain goat. It mostly catches him by surprise; he recoils, but it's not enough to really kill the fight in him. It just kind of pisses him off more.

No idea this guy was magical. Trevor had a bad habit of picking fights with everything and then realizing he'd fucked up when they pulled some cheap trick on him.

"-- That was not a proper answer!" comes the next holler, and Trevor decides to throw the first punch because that's smart.

Heiji caught the punch on the jaw, a bit right of center. A bead of blood dribbled out from the corner of his mouth; he licked at it, but his attention was on Trevor.

"Well, what kinda answer did you wanna hear? Not every day someone calls me sugar." Copperish, that was what his blood tasted like. Though a vampire might say differently.

Okay, that made him feel better. Didn't think this guy would take a punch as well as he did, but hey, maybe a little respect thrown his way for that.

"Oh yeah? Maybe you need to be in a relationship. Get someone to call you sugar all fuckin' day."

He reaches out, aiming to grab Heiji by the shirt and yank him off the stool, throw him to the floor.

Well, I mean. Heiji didn't really want this guy to mess up his shirt. He kind of liked the one he was wearing. So instead he grasped Trevor's wrist and redirected the force of the grab; if Trevor wasn't careful, he could end up on the floor himself.

"Is that an offer? No."

Trevor is absolutely not careful. So he does. End up on the floor, that is. He rolls a little, drunkenly, trying to smash a fist at Heiji or possibly kick him.

"C'mon, beautiful, I can show you a real good time--"

Heiji had backed up to perch on an empty stool -- actually, a couple of them were now empty, as several bar patrons had decided they didn't want to stick around when there was a drunk dude punching other dudes. Trevor's arm caught the legs, toppling it.

Heiji landed on his feet, only to find a burly fellow in a black shirt approaching them and frowning in deeply-felt disapproval at the guy Trevor had decked. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Trevor just blinks at this acrobatic feat. Okay, well, that plan of his also failed. Then someone's coming over to try to ruin their fun yet again.

"Fuck your system!" And Trevor proceeds to scrabble to his feet and football-tackle the hulk of a man, throwing all caution to the wind. The idea this might be another werewolf is somewhere in the back of his head, but he'd feel much worse about bowing out and following the rules than getting his throat ripped out, to be totally honest.

What. Why. The security guard fell backwards and threw out an arm towards to the bar to try and steady himself. He knocked over an abandoned drink, sending the contents spilling out across the counter. And across the end of a cigarette some slob had left unstubbed.

The surface of the bar burst into flames. Now the bar patrons, who before had simply contented themselves with mildly horrified drunken rubbernecking, were beginning to panic. Hopefully the bar owner hadn't been too cheap to make sure his sprinklers were working properly, because that wallpaper looked pretty flammable...

What.

"What." Clara winces, realising how rude she must have sound. She smiles at him apologetically, wondering what on earth is going on. "That's very kind of you but ah... Well..."

Looks like cat got her tongue but can someone blame her? When she came inside here earlier, she didn't expect anyone to notice or see her since this is one of the 'safer' places to be if you were a ghost from her experience. Little activity from any parties here. Low population of witches and werewolves and such. She didn't think someone could spot her, let alone try and talk with her and offer to buy drinks.

"You can-- You can see me?" Might as well get to the point of it. Especially with how some of the regulars are looking at the man in a funny manner, no doubt wondering why on earth he's talking to literal thin air.

"Uh, yeah, I can see you." Trevor's rifling through his wallet in an attempt to find a nice, pure, American bill that he can slam down instead of this stupid pound-note. "C'mon, darling, have some self-esteem!" He's totally ignoring her rejection of his buying her a drink, by the way.

As far as everyone looking at him, Trevor's far too used to that kind of treatment. He seems blind to the fact that he's got a whole lot of eyes on him, focused more on his current situation with this lovely stranger.

"Self-esteem? Wha-- No! It's not that." She tries to protest but she finds herself more distracted by the fact he could see her and no one else could here in the pub. So that meant he was... a fae? A werewolf? Someone who just happened to catch sight of her when she wasn't careful?

Okay. She'll figure that one out later. For now she needs to focus on their immediate problem: Him talking to her when she isn't really there. It's not going to take long before people are going to start asking questions soon. Like 'what are you hitting on?' and things snowball from there. "Excuse me, sir, I appreciate your gesture. I do! Your offer is very sweet and all but I'm not that thir--"

The bartender approaches the 'two' before she can finish the sentence, the young man no doubt on the first night of his new job. He's eyeing the bill with some confusion since they don't take dollars. Though after looking at Trevor and looking back at the dollar, he decides it's not worth the danger of bringing it up and timidly asks what Trevor would like.

Trevor feels a sense of profound joy when the idiot bartender meagerly takes his $50 bill. That's right. Let's ignore how incredibly rude it is to force someone to take the wrong currency when you totally have the correct one right there at your disposal, but Trevor doesn't particularly care about his feelings. What he does care about is the woman next to him.

"Rum and coke." Barked at this shithead. He isn't complicated. Trevor then turns very pointedly to Clara, spreading his arm out possessively over the bar as he leans and looks at her. "And what about you? Anything you want, gorgeous. On me." His tone of voice changes noticeably when addressing her. Yes he's good at this.

Well. At least she knows he won't be too scary towards her. That's a good thing. Maybe. For now she thinks she's going to play along to avoid anymore attention being brought on them. Pretend that she'll drink, say she needs to use the restroom, and phase out of said restroom. A bit rude to do but, in the long run, she thinks it's the best for them.

She smiles at him nervously and tucks her hair behind her, trying to calm herself. Her nerves are getting the best of her though and the coolness of the pub becomes more noticeable as lights flicker overhead. Some of the regulars and try to focus on their drinks some more, muttering crappy electronics and letting it slide.

"Ummm... You're planning to get a rum and coke? That's my favourite! I would love to have that too with you."

Thankfully the bartender thinks the bill is meant for several drinks and he begins to prepare them all in advance, nervously looking behind to make sure Trevor was still in the same seat as he nervously tries to flag down one of the bouncers to please please please come here oh God.

"I'm Clara. It's a pleasure to meet you...?"

So help this barkeep if he dares make some sort of comment about Clara not being visible. Fortunately, he hasn't yet, so his limbs are all still fully attached. Trevor ain't magical one bit, so it must be some kind of glitch for the ghost-lady. But Trevor's none the wiser.

The lights flickering? Whatever. This place sucks. Trevor doesn't particularly notice either, too busy focusing on this wonderful woman.

He gives her a wide, terrifying smile once she says she wants what he's having. "Shit, good taste, too! Me and you need to get to know each other. Name's Trevor." He reaches out. Tries to take her hand and kiss it like a true gentleman. Whether or not he actually does is based on... a lot of things.

"Great minds, great tastes as they say, Mr. Trevor." To his credit and his luck(?), he is able to hold her hand for a second there. Clara is concentrating on sitting down, making her touchable to the rest of the world. She's also very chilly upon touching but that's clearly the pub's terrible wiring or something.

Clara, for her part, is getting flustered again and tries to say something, maybe a polite 'you're so sweet but no thank you' or maybe just pull her hand back and claim she has the flu, but someone intervenes at the worst time.

The bartender gets back to Trevor with the drinks he's ordered and just in time to Trevor and... and... and he has no idea what to do so he just ends up staring for a second before he politely clears his throat. At that very second he knows he's made a terrible and wishes he took up a retail job instead of here. "Sir? U-Um? I think you may have had one t-too many tonight."

"Do go on," the Irish vampire encourages, his feet not even touching the floor as he sits on his stool. He's got a pint of beer in his hands and is thoroughly enjoying the clearly unhinged American going off on anyone within shouting distance. Ignore that smirk on his face, Trevor. He's not laughing at you. Promise.

"Ohhh ho ho. Yes, indeed, I shall go on," Trevor spits, mocking the way this asshole talks. And by going on, Trevor's going to walk right up to the man and yank his drink out of his hand, then toss it somewhere. Might crash into a head. Who knows.

"Sorry, hope that wasn't your fucking lager!"

There's a moment that passes by where Cooper just stares at the idiot who decided to decorate the floor with his drink. Then he hops off his stool and draws himself up to his full height....which doesn't really do much in the way of intimidation, seeing as how he's only 5'6". There's a glint in his eye that doesn't bode anything well for Trevor. There's still a smirk on his face as his voice goes soft and low.

"You've just given yourself two options, pal. You can buy a drink t'replace the one you just wasted or I can take it out of your hide. Your choice."

Trevor is completely blind to the look. Part of him wants to crack up when the guy approaches, because he could probably use his head as a damn armrest if he wanted to.

"You're gonna... pull your next drink out of my ass? Okay. Give me one second. Just one second so I can muster up the perfect shit for you."

Staring at him, waiting for that first hit 'cause he's more than wanting to get into a fight tonight. Even if it's with someone vertically challenged.

"They never do take the first option," Cooper mutters to himself. Normally, he'd feel bad about getting into a fight with a normal human being when he's so clearly outmatched, but this guy is an asshole. Cooper's going to enjoy taking him down a few pegs.

His fist moves with blinding, unnatural speed and the crack it makes when it hits Trevor's jaw can be heard all over the bar. He actually pulls his punch a little at the last moment. A vampire of his strength can punch straight through a wooden door when he's of a mind to do so, and while this guy may have it coming to him, Cooper had no desire to leave a bloody hole where his head used to be.

Trevor's just so pleased with himself and his incredibly clever comment about the drink and the shit, he doesn't see it coming. Not that he... would in the first place. It becomes painfully (literally) obvious that this short fuck is of the supernatural persuasion.

Trevor's essentially slammed to the floor, his entire face exploding from the punch to the jaw and-- is it broken? Ain't like he hasn't had one of those before. But no, he can move it, just-- maybe a molar's loose now. Ah well. Didn't like that one anyway.

He spits out blood, looks up at the-- short fuck-- again, squinting. Pointing.

"You-- think you're-- fuckin' better than me..." Yeah. He can really feel that whiskey now.

Edited 2015-06-19 02:09 (UTC)

Cooper half-hopes Trevor will just decide to stay down once he hits the floor. But taking that course of action would require having more than the only two remaining brain cells rubbing together inside this gentleman's cranium. What a pity he's still able to talk. He should've punched him in the throat.

"Oh please. The arse end of a donkey is better than what you are." He follows that up with a kick to the ribs. Most of the patrons are watching the one-sided fight now. None seem inclined to intervene on Trevor's behalf.

Wow.

It's not often you see a guy causing this much of a stink in the middle of a pub, and Eames is watching this unfold with a mix of amusement and fascination. He almost wants to take credit for buying the drinks just to see what Trevor would do.

He spots someone out of the corner of his eye, obviously wanting to 'deal with this' and Eames puts out an arm to stop him, shaking his head and not even bothering to lower his voice so Trevor won't hear him, "I want to see where he's going with this."

Oh, but Trevor catches that movement. Catches how Eames puts his arm up like he's trying to end a fight before it starts. And that does a fine job of pissing Trevor off. He makes a beeline for them, spreading his arms out.

"What's wrong, your boyfriend got his panties all twisted that I insulted his favorite beverage? Please for the love of fuck get your arm away from him before I rip it off myself. C'mon, what've you got planned for me, huh? Take a swing, cowboy!" Directed at both Eames and this other guy.

The guy backs off before Eames even gets a chance to process what Trevor is shouting, evidently not as tough as he wants his friends to think.

Eames, on the other hand, doesn't seem all that phased. He puts his hands in his pockets and cants his head curiously at Trevor, looking him over with an amused expression. What an angry man.

"Nothing planned, I was just curious about how long someone could throw a tantrum about lager for."

Trevor narrows his eyes at this guy. Squints a little. He was expecting the other punk to tuck his tail between his legs, but this one? Smells like a smarmy bastard. One with a nice face, at least. Nice body, hopefully. Trevor won't mind shouting at it.

"A tantrum. Oh, I can show you a tantrum, sweetheart. That was a mild fucking complaint." He wags his finger at Eames like he's telling him some revelation.

The loud American is loud and American and all ears in the pub are, unfortunately, trained on him and his very loud rant. It was only a matter of time before someone got tired of him blabbering on and decided to deck him, for how uncomfortable he was making the usual air of the crowded pub.

But then he went around threatening the air, and a few more patrons, glaring at him, left, and Nancy had had enough. Standing from her seat at the corner of the bar, she approached the man and gently tried to lay her hand on his back, sending as much calm through it as possible. She did not want a scene today. It'd scare away customers.

"Not all of us are fans of Lager, sir. But you'd have better luck starting a fight during football season." English football.

Trevor's never been to this bar before and thus does not know the staff. But when a tiny little girl approaches him and decides to touch him he whips around to face her. Stops. Stares. Tries to process what she just said.

Okay, he's tipsy but not enough that he can't form coherent thoughts.

"Football." Trevor says this with a very heavy, hateful tone of voice.

"It's called. Soccer." Said slowly, each word dragged out, like he's translating a tome of Satan to this lady.

Nancy hardly blinks when he wheels on her. If this man couldn't stand the language, why did he come here in the first place? Her brow furrowed for just a slight moment.

"Right." She could have told him that it's rude to come here and to insult the culture. It was pissing where you sleep, and utterly useless. But that wasn't the goal. The goal was to get him to calm down so they could all have a lovely evening. With this in mind, she reached out again, willing her magic to calm him.

"Soccer, then. If that's what you want. Maybe if you asked we could get you a pint of something you preferred, too?" She'd just pay with his money while he wasn't looking.

Isn't his fault he crash-landed in London and has since been too lazy to move back out. Plus, bitching and whining is just sort of his thing.

Then-- shit. For some bizarre reason, the anger's just dissipating. This is unpleasant, because he was actually enjoying that ball of rage all tight in his chest and for whatever reason it's leaving him. Must be whatever shitty alcohol he's been having.

"Uh." Trevor replies in an intelligent way before he frowns at Nancy. "Sure? Why the fuck not." Still somewhat confused but not willing to turn down more alcohol, he wanders back over to the bar.

As he moves towards the bar, she lets out the breath she'd been holding. Alright, good. That was some progress. Lifting her hand from his pocket as he moved to the bar, she pulled out his wallet and tossed a few pounds on the bar.

"Whatever he wants, then." She said with an apologetic smile at the bartender as she put the wallet right back where she'd taken it from.

Did this lady just rob him. Sort of. Trevor watches, stares a little. Allows this. She's a little young and he prefers them aged, but isn't gonna deny some physical contact.

"Well, fuck me. You ever considered a career in crime? -- And make it a whiskey sour." Half-shouted at the bartender.

Yeah. Sort of.

She doesn't remark how he's asking for a whiskey sour, but instead just adds: "And I'll have it straight." Just whiskey. Nothing fancy to it, no way.

"Never considered, no. Didn't get the opportunity." Hopefully, he's distracted enough now that he won't go back to screaming, and she's content to stop trying to calm him. It gets too exhausting, if she keeps it up for too long, especially with someone so... angry. Excitable.

She winks at him, just for the effect.

"I'm curious as to how you know the difference," Balem said, picking up on Trevor's accent, "I've never been to America, but I'm fairly certain that piss-drinking isn't a common hobby there."

Balem didn't look like the type of person who ought to be in this bar - he was dressed more like a rich trust-fund student that ought to be in some fancy coffee shop with a laptop and a pile of books - and he wouldn't usually be here, except for the fact that he was scouting for potential allies among the werewolves and Circle Midnight witches and figured they might frequent seedy pubs.

Who the hell is this guy. He definitely doesn't look like he belongs. Nice clothes, face like a model, he sticks out like a sore thumb and Trevor instantly dislikes him. Of course, that hate is only cemented when the kid (or so he thinks) speaks.

"Because I've participated in watersports." Said in a very matter-of-fact tone. "You know what those are, pretty boy? I'd be fully willing to educate you on the ins and outs."

"I have no interest in being educated in that particular topic, but thank you for the compliment," he said. Pretty-boy was a compliment, right?

"What brings you to London? I'm not from here myself."

"Accident." Spat out in response. (Then being too lazy to actually leave, despite a seed of hatred for this country sprouting and flourishing within him.)

"You though? You look like you fit right in, fucker. Maybe not in this particular dump, but the vast, all-encompassing trash heap where souls go to die that is London? Yeah." Trevor steps closer, points a finger in his face. "A regular citizen right here."

He had to laugh at that. "I lived in Greece, before I came here. And believe it or not, I was considered the life of the party. Drank nearly every night with actors and singers and learned types."

Of course, that was a few thousand years ago, and he was more lighthearted back then.

Jackson had been keeping to his game of poker in the corner, fixing his cards in the company of three of those pip-pip jerkoffs, when Trevor and his American accent come crashing through the pub's casual carousing. He's like a flashing beacon of "White Trash Here!!," and even Jackson, Yankee king of Talking Too Much, is getting second-hand embarrassment.

But he feels you, man. Homesickness. It kicks you right in the teeth, and keeps on kicking, until you suddenly find yourself kicking somebody else in the teeth.However, this pub doesn't need another loud-mouth Yank, 'cause that's Jackson's role. So he decides to give a brother a hand and help rectify this situation.

Getting out of his seat, Jackson saunters right up to Trevor, close as friends. "Hey, brother." Jackson slinks an arm over his shoulder. "After centuries of them drinkin' swill, you think you're gonna change their mind?"

Jackson slips out a bottle of bourbon from his coat, presenting it to Trevor like Jason's Gold Fleece. Good stuff. Imported stuff. "How 'bout we find ourselves a space in the corner over there. Leave the limeys to their lager, hm?"

Trevor doesn't even notice the new person, but the second he comes up to him and slings an arm around him he's about to punch. Stops himself just in time because-- wait, this guy's not trying to take him up on his blaring offer to get his ass kicked, is he?

There's some dark bottle he's being flashed and Trevor at first throws a glare at this guy, like - fuck your donation i ain't poor - but then he's saying something about limeys and lager and instantly, Trevor feels a twitch of a soul-connection going on. His demeanor switches quite abruptly and he's happy to be led by this mysterious stranger to said corner.

"God damn," Trevor nearly shouts, still tipsy and wanting to be as loud as possible. "Do you know how to pick someone up. Go ahead and roofie me all ya want, sailor!" Yes, still yelling this, clearly not caring if anyone overhears. Far from the top of his list of priorities right now.

He's waiting for that punch in the jaw-- well, would'ya look at that, Trevor's decided to play nice. That's encouraging. Jackson puts on his best grin, and proceeds to keep on talking.

"Apologies. Left my propofol in my other bag." Jackson gives his messenger bag a pat, and shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Still, I promise I'll treat you right, pal." Says the guy, er doctor, who actually does carry morphine in his bag for Special Purposes.

He pats his fellow American on the back, leading him over to a table in a sparsely populated corner of the bar. Won't stop him from being loud and ragey, but at least it takes Trevor off center stage. 'cause Jackson knows how these Brits work: they seem mild enough, until you get a pint or two in 'em and ruffle their feathers.

Too damn early in the week for a bar fight.

"So what brings you across the Atlantic, over to this here shit-pit?" Jackson steals two empty glasses from a table behind him, slides them across the table, and fills them liberally with the bourbon. "Something tells me it ain't the sightseeing."

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[OPEN] HERE IS SOMETHING YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND:

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