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The Rusty Brass (IC Chill Thread)

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Lights, lights, lights. Courtney Avenue in Mendell is known for nothing if not for its many clubs. The hottest clubs in Mendell City are located down the cosmopolitan street, their fronts shining bright with big, graphic signs. It's loud too, what with the throngs of pedestrians either navigating the street or lined up outside of their favorite clubs. Your senses are overwhelmed as you nudge your way through the crowd, trying to find somewhere tame to settle down at. It's all hustle and bustle outside the clubs; they're not what you want. However, a particular location nestled at the ground floor of a massive skyscraper catches your eye. A small sign above the unimposing front entrance reads "STODDARD BUILDING," but your eye catches a directory sitting on the wall on the right of the door way. Curiously, you read through the list of offices, businesses, and such, until you reach a peculiar name.




To sate your curiosity, you decide to check it out. It's a short ride to the 50th Floor, and you come out of the elevator to find yourself in lobby with marble floors and ornate plaster walls, a small number of wall-mounted lamps illuminating the lobby. You cautiously explore the lobby, until you are shortly confronted by a set of oak french doors, with a mean-looking red Unathi staring at you as he stands beside the door, dressed to the nines in a specially-tailored black tuxedo.

"What'ssss up, mack?" he called out to you. "If you're here for the Brassssss, then get yourssself ssssome better threadssss. Ssstreet ragsss not permitted."

Meekly, you retreat from the 50th Floor, only to return later with a sharper garb donned. The Unathi smiles a toothy smile at you.

"That'ssss better, kid. Come on in, and welcome to The Russsty Brasssss."

The door opens to reveal a large, dimly-lit venue. It's noir, reminiscent of the jazz halls of the 20th Century. A large, collective cloud of smoke hangs over the whole loft, shining in the sparse number of lights. In the center of the room is a stage, illuminated by a shining spotlight high above, the air smelling of a curious mix of aromatic cigarettes, marijuana, and the stench of tobacco smoke. A band plays, mixed with humans, Tajarans, and Skrell playing traditional human jazz instruments, with a startlingly-attractive brunette human female taking center-stage as the vocalist, her red dress reflecting the light.

the movement of her hips as she sways; it's enticing, erotic, and the feeling that her eyes are following you across the room only intensifies the emotions that you are feeling. You approach the bar, and take a moment to look around. It's like being back in one of the old 20th Century jazz clubs back on Earth; everyone is well-dressed and classy, from the patrons and all the way up to the staff.

You give a smile, as you realize that The Rusty Brass was the place that you were looking for.



Occupying a booth as its sole occupant, Jim Calhoun savors the taste of his cigarette, his eyes fixed upon the stage. His current garb of a well-maintained navy blue suit with a light blue dress shirt and black tie, and a pair of black leather dress shoes, contrasts greatly with the clothing of his chosen profession. His expression was rather worrisome; he had come to the Brass to relax, but his nerves couldn't be dissuaded. The investigation was on his mind; he didn't feel as though it was going to go well, what with new problems popping up every single day. He picked up the glass of bourbon from the table and took a slow sip, trying to savor the beverage and get his mind off his problems.

"Fuck my life..." he said, as he sat the glass back down, taking the moment to take yet another drag from his cigarette.

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Mark Syion is looking for a place to relax after a long week on the NSS Aurora, he enters his ship and fly's over to Mendell city, the spaceport is always a hastle. A large Varuca stands in his way while exiting his ship. He says something which Mark does not understand he just nods and walks on.

Walking through the city, "It is busy tonight" he thinks to himself. A flyer is handed to him, it reads, "Come to the Rusty Brass in the Stoddard Building! Jazz and Blues tonight!"

"Jazz huh?" He thinks to himself, he shrugs and starts making his way to the Stoddard Building. After reaching the building he looks at the list of floors. "The Rusty Brass...Level 50". "Time to take the elevator then..." He thinks to himself.

After coming out of the elevator, he grins at the Marble floor and plaster walls, taking notice of the oak French doors, a chill runs down his spine after seeing the red Unathi.

"Whats'sss up,mack?" He says. "Please hang up your dress-coat and enter." He points to the boy behind a counter with a dozen racks behind him. Mark gives his coat to the boy and the boy gives him the number "50". "Ironic" He thinks to himself.

"Come on in, welcome to The Russsty Brasss" says the Unathi.

Opening the door, the first thing he hears is the song.

. A woman stands on the stage, a strange looks comes from her, Mark ignores it and heads to the bar. "What is this, the 20th Century?" He thinks to himself. Pulling a stool at the bar,"A Irish Carbomb please" he gives a smile to the bartender. The bartender nods and starts mixing his drink. He starts unbuttoning his Casual suit jacket. Mark looks to the stage, it seems the woman is being replaced by a Male jazz band.

He looks around at the many Boo- "Holy shit" he grins. The bartender places his drink on the counter "Here you are Sir." he nods, placing a silver coin on the counter,"Cheers mate" holding the glass up high.

He thinks to himself "Dear god is that really him?" He stands up from his stool and sits in a booth with a single booth. "Well, hello mate" he grins, sliding and Cigar and Zippo lighter across the table.

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Sophie Abbot has had it up to here with being sober and she wants to be STUPID for an evening. After spending a long, tiring weekend of caring for a couch-surfing millionaire and a week of narrowly avoiding being barbecued aboard the NSS Aurora, it's time to take a break from work and life and reality in general.

After throwing on whatever nice black dress that doesn't smell like old booze and disappointment, she takes to the streets of Mendell City. Chicago is nice, but sometimes Sol just doesn't have what a girl needs.

After a few hours of club-hopping, it doesn't look like tonight will be her night. By chance, she looks over at the nearest building. THE STODDARD BUILDING, the sign proclaims in its small but imposing lettering. Her eyes catch a directory. The Rusty Brass, floor 50. It seems promising, and with a name like that, it just might be the perfect place to not care for a few hours. She enters the building and slides into the elevator. Soon enough, floor fifty dings on the bell and the doors slide open. She briskly glides down the hallway to be greeted by a sharply dressed Unathi man in front of a beautiful set of oaken French doors.

"How'ssss it going, mack?" the well-dressed Unathi hisses jovially.

"Pretty well, and the name's Sophie, not mack." She jokes.

The Unathi chuckles. "You're dressssed for the occassssion, feel free to ssstay a while." The doorman shows her in.

It's paradise. 20th century jazz, complete with a crooner, warbles over the dimly-lit floor. The bar looks well-stocked, and a light haze covers the entire room. "I may have just found my new regular," she thinks to herself. She slides down to the bar. "Whiskey if you got it, water if you don't." The barkeep chuckles and slides a glass of the strong stuff across to her. She turns, glass in hand, to survey the crowd. "Hey, don't I recognize those two?" she thinks to herself. Lo and behold, the pair in question are her coworkers on the Aurora.

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Dr. Fraser is sitting in a corner booth, the smoke permeating through the room piquing his desire to kickstart his addiction once again. He sips at a tall pint of a lager and checks the watch on his wrist, 10:27 PM. He shifts uncomfortably in his corner booth seat, sweeping the room with his eyes in the hopes that his girlfriend had somehow received his last minute email, but doesn't seem to spot any acquaintances. He takes another sip and checks his watch once again, repeating the routine of shifting uncomfortably, licking his lips as he spots a man at the bar light a premium cigar with a zippo lighter. Even in the room full of finely dressed people for the noir setting, Isiah realizes he is overdressed with a suit which makes him look more like a stiff than a suave, and he's even in possession of the secure briefcase he takes to work, nothing but pens and blank papers locked within. Along with these is a single rose which has lost most of its pedals, now scattered throughout his case giving it a distinct scent which permeates through the air every time he opens his case. After what seems like an eternity, he repeats his usual routine of sipping, shifting, and scanning to find that the time is still 10:27 PM, however he spots the familiar face of Dr. Sophie Abbot. Owing partly to his gratuitous social cunning and mastery of all elements of charisma, he immediately makes it his god-given duty to avoid all eye contact, instead opting to continue his repetitive nervous routine, potentially for the rest of his night if need be.

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Ten Thirty. He never was a man of great timing. Late in everything from arriving on the job to Emails. This time Dr. Gauss only just caught the shuttle out of New Gibson as a result of his habits. Glaring into the mirror of an overdecorated powder room, she let's out another frustrated grunt, tugging at her bangs. She sarcastically asks herself how her hair is so capable of loosing it's artificial purple hue in a mere thirty hours, while remaining impervious to any attempts to accelerate the process. If only the industrial polymer of her workplace was as effective for beauty as it was for saving expenses. At least no one was around to see it. Yet. "Really Isiah? Out of all of the nights?" Taking one last forlorn glance through the mirror at where her usual rose hairpin would reside only reminds her of the confidence she apparently also left in her New Gibson apartment. "But then again," Talia sighs as she heads for the door to her date. "Iv'e never been able to stay mad at him."

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Sophie cradles her second glass of whiskey--or is it third?--and looks through the hazy room for someone interesting. Inevitably, her eyes land on Dr. Fraser, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Twitchy, " she thinks. Recently Isiah has been the subject of office rumors for his supposed relationship with Dr. Talia Gauss, and Sophie has full intent to prove or...disprove those rumors tonight. Swallowing a gulp of liquid confidence, she makes her way over to where he's sitting, alone, without a female doctor in sight. She slides down next to him.

"Hey you, you wanna buy me my next round?" She says with a wink and a hair toss. "Nailed the entrance," she thinks to herself.

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Eugene waddled awkwardly towards the club, his kimono barely fitting his large and round figure. Two katanas are sheathed into his belt, and he approaches the club, pulling out a sweaty, and grease covered roll of dollar bills. He extended his cheese crusted fingers out to the Unathi, announcing in a boisterous, and almost arrogant fashion, 'Yesss? Hello! I am Eugene! And I have sauntered towards this fine establishment to-' Eugene inhaled deeply, as this is the farthest he has gone from his mother's basement in months, 'To find... Sexy Tajaran ladies like the one in the animes.' Eugene then bolted, arms flailing wildly behind him as he sprinted into the club, prepared to pick up some, Sexy Tajaran ladies.

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Fraser looks at Sophie in surprise as she sits down next to him at the corner booth, his palms become sweaty, knees weak, arms- "Sssspaghetti." Says an Unathi waiter setting down spaghetti at a nearby table. Fraser smiles nervously at her. "Uh-huh, uh, hello. Didn't expect to see you here. Er, next round?" He could smell the whiskey from her breath, but he hails a passing waiter and orders two shots of whiskey. "So, what are you doing here?" He begins asking sheepishly, when suddenly he hears the word "Tajaran" being shouted from the entrance, and sees a flailing commotion bursting into the room. He can't get a good look at it through the dim lights and the smoke, but then he hears a shout, "HE HAS A WEAPON!" Thinking of articles on Tajaran terrorism from the newscasters, fearing the worst, and being the bravest man alive, Isiah dives under his table at the booth, bumping the table in the process which spills beer all over his briefcase and the table.

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After waiting for Jim to respond, it did not look like he was in the mood for talking. He grabs his cigar and lighter back and moves to the bar.

After drinking some of his beer, he see's a man opening the door. he shouts "Tajaran". After spotting something what looks like two metal...swords? Mark thinks it would be funny if he shouted it out loud

"HE HAS A WEAPON!" he shouts.

Mark asks himself if he should do something about the mad man looking to hitch it out with a Tajaran, he thinks better of himself. It is his night out afterall...

After shouting it, it was worth it. People cower in fear. People hiding under table- "Is that Dr. Fraser?" He asks himself. "An-And he is with a girl?" Looks around, and realises he had no woman beside him.

"Oh right... I do not have one right now" he frowns.

He looks back at Fraser, hiding under the table with his...friend... watching him. "Can this night get better?" he asks himself.

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The second Sophie hears "WEAPON!" she springs into action. Drunken action. She grabs the nearest object in reach--a glass of whiskey--and blindly lobs it across the room in the general direction of the shout. A few seconds of quiet later, she looks over in the direction of her thrown glass to see a thoroughly drenched Jim Calhoun. "Well...damn. Worry about that later, I guess." Her drunken mind processes. She leans down under the table. "Isiah, hun? You can stop cowering now. It's just a fat guy in a dress." She looks around. "Nice evasive action there, though." She chuckles to herself. He's kinda adorable when he's cowering. She'll have to remember that. She casually takes a sip of the other glass at the table and calls across the room to the large stranger,

"Your name is--what?"

"Your name is who?"

"Your name is--huh?"

Ah screw it, he's a problem for another time.

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After waiting a few moments to properly assess that there is no real danger, Isiah climbs back up from under the table, and frowns when he sees his briefcase has had beer spilled all over it. He begins working the electronic lock on the briefcase, but it appears that it is no longer working. He grumbles to himself frustration, but then gives it up and returns his attention to his visitor.

"So, if I recall correctly, don't you have a rich cousin who filled you bathtub with chocolate pudding?"

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Mark syion bursts out laughing after seeing Jim getting hit by a bottle square in the face.

He ponders to himself, "Have I gone to far?" grins, shaking his head. "Nah."

He looks in the general direction from hence the bottle came. After some detective work, and with a bit of luck he finds sophie looking a little guilty from so-" Is she with Dr. Isiah"? He grins, pondering what he could do to have some... "Fun"

His grin turns into a large smile, he downs his drink and moves to where she is sitting.

"You know..." he says. " You just assaulted a officer, right" grinning, he takes out a pair of cuffs. "Lets have a chat, shall we?"

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Shas'kala Sakaei, standing in the shaded far corner of the room, holds his lighter to the cigar dangling from his clenched teeth as he uses his separate hand to shield the slight air conditioning from further inconviniencing his light in its attempt to maintain a flame.

The glow of his following success fails to fully illuminate his scowl as he shoves one of his claws into the pockets of his cargo khaki pants, scratching his neck with the other. Emitting a low hiss at the sound of Mark guffawing, Sakaei proceeds to loosen his black tie as he steps out of the shadows and exhales smoke through his nostrils, shuffling towards Mark at a slow pace.

Wearing a white short sleeved dress shirt with a black tie and some badly matching pants, accompanied with his sandals and his olive overcoat folded over his shoulder, he'd furrow his brow in annoyance and growl out, "Ease off, chump." He'd turn his gaze to Abbot, shooting her the same look of cynicism.

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A black-haired woman sat at the next table snorts at Syion's posturing; "Do what lizzie says, monkey-boy. You're an NT goon, not MCPD. Though, it'd be funny to watch you be thrown out on top of kittie-chaser over there." The woman knocks back a glass of some obscure liquid and checks her watch, muttering in annoyance.

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Sophie looks over at Isiah, who had finally removed himself from under the table. "Yeah, I do, and the pudding was vanilla. His name's Eli and he's Earth's only couch-surfing millionaire." She looks up just in time to see Mark Syion turn to converse with a few other patrons. "Hope I didn't cause too many problems, " she thinks to herself. She refocuses to the cute doctor across from her. "What about you? Got any family worth mentioning?" She picks up a napkin and begins to wipe the beer off the briefcase.

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Isiah nods slowly, only partially paying attention to Sophie at first, his attention keen on the Unathi who has shown up and asked someone to ease up. They both look vaguely familiar, but he can't put his finger on who they are, only that they work on Aurora as well. He looks back down at the table to see his briefcase being wiped off with a napkin, and silently watches for a little while. After an awkwardly long pause realizes he realizes he's been asked a question, and answers rather quickly, "Just my Mom, Dad, and adopted Diona son."

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Mark's grin fades away. "No fun allowed then..." he says out-loud. He goes back to the bar, puffing on his cigar,

"Bartender, another please". the bartender nods and goes into the back of his bar. Watching from his stool his finds the woman who shouted at him, see did not look to bad, looks busy. "Better not go after her..." he thinks to himself. He looks to find the badly dressed lizard. After a few minutes he finds him, terrible looking lizard in a dark corner.

"How can this night get better?" he grins.

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(OOC: Right then, we're not even 30 posts in, and this thread has gotten to be very ridiculous. The intention of the Rusty Brass was not for it to become a sailor bar, which you have ever-so turned it into. As the OP of this thread, I am forbidding any posting until I can devise a way to undo the shoddy RP damage that has been done).

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