Post by Kaji Fireson on Aug 6, 2015 23:59:31 GMT -4
The scene opens on the main room of the Steel Butterfly. I don't think we properly established this last time, so I wanted to focus on it a little bit.
"The main room," as it turns out, is a pretty poor descriptor. The Steel Butterfly is a night club, so its main room is more like an arena, with a bar, some tables, and a large dance floor all vying for space and attention. The walls and furniture are all done in neutral colors, mainly light grays, so that all the crazy colors that are flying around at the whim of the DJ can get maximum traction on them.
In the back of the room, seated at one of the tables, is Jacob Whitehead and Jason Doyle. But there is a third person joining them, an attractive woman in her early 30s, her face framed in dark hair that make her blue eyes stand out more than they would in a frame of light hair. Those blue eyes are currently wandering the dance floor. It's a Thursday night, so not too busy, but there are plenty of nubile younglings gyrating to their hearts content, staking their claim on the party scene while their peers are in bed or up to less adventurous escapades.
Woman: Have you heard from her?
The simple question, uttered as if by accident and with no concept of its importance, brings Doyle's face to contorted rage. Jacob, on the other hand, seems to share the woman's languor, his eyes cast over the bar to see his patrons, here mainly older, throwing back their hard liquors of choice as if to drown out the music that most definitely does not come from their generation.
Jacob Whitehead: No, not really. She's texted me a time or two, but that was before I changed my number.
Woman: If she really wanted to find your new number, she could.
A slight, lazy smile curls one half of the Tormentor's lips.
Jacob Whitehead: I know.
Woman: Fair enough then.
This conversation, apparently an idle consideration of two people familiar with each other, throws the third into terrible fury. However, he controls himself enough to speak of something else.
If he was expecting his tone to be even, that's another story.
Jason Doyle, through clenched teeth: Is this really...how you should be preparing for your next match for APW?
Jacob chuckles.
Jacob Whitehead: What's there to prepare for? Dude's old, he's liable to fall over dead at any moment from all the blood he's shed over the years. The fact that he hasn't yet is a minor miracle.
Woman: You have shed your fair share, Jacob.
Jacob raises an eyebrow, then smiles, though this one is much more forced.
Jacob Whitehead: So I have, Stephanie. So I have. But I'm pretty sure none of my wounds came from rusty barbed wire.
The woman grins; her's is genuine.
Stephanie Russell: No, we use top of the line materials in our shakedowns, thank you very much.
She smiles, and the conversation just sort of shuffles off into other matters that we don't care so much about.
"The main room," as it turns out, is a pretty poor descriptor. The Steel Butterfly is a night club, so its main room is more like an arena, with a bar, some tables, and a large dance floor all vying for space and attention. The walls and furniture are all done in neutral colors, mainly light grays, so that all the crazy colors that are flying around at the whim of the DJ can get maximum traction on them.
In the back of the room, seated at one of the tables, is Jacob Whitehead and Jason Doyle. But there is a third person joining them, an attractive woman in her early 30s, her face framed in dark hair that make her blue eyes stand out more than they would in a frame of light hair. Those blue eyes are currently wandering the dance floor. It's a Thursday night, so not too busy, but there are plenty of nubile younglings gyrating to their hearts content, staking their claim on the party scene while their peers are in bed or up to less adventurous escapades.
Woman: Have you heard from her?
The simple question, uttered as if by accident and with no concept of its importance, brings Doyle's face to contorted rage. Jacob, on the other hand, seems to share the woman's languor, his eyes cast over the bar to see his patrons, here mainly older, throwing back their hard liquors of choice as if to drown out the music that most definitely does not come from their generation.
Jacob Whitehead: No, not really. She's texted me a time or two, but that was before I changed my number.
Woman: If she really wanted to find your new number, she could.
A slight, lazy smile curls one half of the Tormentor's lips.
Jacob Whitehead: I know.
Woman: Fair enough then.
This conversation, apparently an idle consideration of two people familiar with each other, throws the third into terrible fury. However, he controls himself enough to speak of something else.
If he was expecting his tone to be even, that's another story.
Jason Doyle, through clenched teeth: Is this really...how you should be preparing for your next match for APW?
Jacob chuckles.
Jacob Whitehead: What's there to prepare for? Dude's old, he's liable to fall over dead at any moment from all the blood he's shed over the years. The fact that he hasn't yet is a minor miracle.
Woman: You have shed your fair share, Jacob.
Jacob raises an eyebrow, then smiles, though this one is much more forced.
Jacob Whitehead: So I have, Stephanie. So I have. But I'm pretty sure none of my wounds came from rusty barbed wire.
The woman grins; her's is genuine.
Stephanie Russell: No, we use top of the line materials in our shakedowns, thank you very much.
She smiles, and the conversation just sort of shuffles off into other matters that we don't care so much about.
