It was getting late, and Jay let out a long sigh as he pocketed what little cash he'd made off of the bar playing that night. It was a last minute gig, and it was obvious that he wasn't the band's first choice, but they really weren't his type of band, either. Just a bunch of snot-nosed punk kids who put more time into getting their hair and makeup done than they did rehearsing. And for his trouble, he got a lousy fifty bucks. Oh well, at least the gig was at a bar.

He strolled up to the bar, sitting the case holding his bass guitar up under a stool, being careful to avoid people--most of them had cleared out so it wasn't really that hard to do--and he slid onto a stool before promptly ordering a beer.  "At least the beer's--" he took a sip, "...adequate," he muttered under his breath as he continued sipping at his beer--if it could be called that.  

Well, at the very least, things couldn't get much worse. In a few more minutes, it would be a new day anyway. "Might as well keep 'em comin'," he said to the bartender, a young woman who obviously didn't want to be there, but from the looks of the place, not many other people in here wanted to be either.  He gave a snort, nursing his beers as he discreetly took his earplugs out, using his superb hearing to see if he could at least pick up any juicy information. It was almost midnight after all, so some of the more...amusing characters should have been rolling in pretty soon. So if nothing else, at least he might get a good story. Or get into a fight, whichever came first.

11:30. Light fought against shadow in the dimly lit alley. Wait. Pause that thought. That was horrendously over-dramatic. More accurately, the alley was poorly lit. Lights on the sides of the buildings cast shadows that stretched across, beyond dumpsters and crates. But a lot of the lights were burnt out. And a lot of the people in the alley were, too. It was a nice alley. It had a street to walk on, horrible-smelling trash, and it was behind a hole-in-the-wall Asian restaurant not too far from the bar scene. Prime territory for muggings. Hence, the shadow from the first sentence. Hence, the light fighting against it and the over-dramatic buildup to the backdrop of the fight. 

She was 23, with long blonde hair and a fairly average appearance. Not too pretty. Not too tall. Little was memorable about the woman, other than the fact that she'd had a purse, and Elliott noticed these things. Of course, he wasn't the mugger in this scenario. He'd never been a mugger. But as a pickpocket, both past-tense and present, he knew a nice purse when he saw one. He knew enough about the world to note this, and note the time of night, to put two and two together and come to the conclusion that in this area, at this time... this woman would not be so safe walking home. So... he'd followed her, casually. In the background, in his hoodie, trying hard not to make it obvious. He hadn't been the only one.

Two men followed behind her. He watched them. Hands in their pockets. They were trying to keep a low profile, too. Little things add up, you notice them. Enough little things, and the conclusion becomes impossible to miss. Sure enough, after a few blocks, she noticed them. They noticed her, noticing them. Their hand was forced. And they forced her into the dimly-lit alley, with the threat of violence. Elliott ducked in after them, silently. He'd been working on his stalking. He was getting pretty good. They didn't notice the man following them until he interrupted their attempted mugging. He said something.

They were too dull to comprehend exactly what it was he was getting it. Something about stopping? Witty banter isn't so witty at 11:45 at night. He was still young enough it didn't feel like death, walking... but them. They were in their early 30s, and he could smell the reek of alcohol coming off them in waves. This mugging was an attack of opportunity done by inebriated individuals not thinking clearly. That was bad. It meant they wouldn't assess the situation and back down when a guy in a hoodie pulled back his concealing hood to reveal a white hockey mask on his face. He'd pulled it on as he'd entered the alley. He hadn't been wearing it under the hood the entire time. But they clearly thought he had. Made some drunk-ass comments about some cartoon character whose name sounded like one of the singers for the Monkees. Something Jones? Elliott had no idea. 

"Back off," he'd told them. "Leave her alone. Go." They hadn't listened. Idiots. So, he'd fought them. Suffice it to say, it had been both violent and brief, with a lot of kicks and dodging and throwing. He'd tossed them out of the alley, dusted off the woman's purse, and returned it to her. 'Thanks' would have been a fantastic word for her to utter. But she didn't. Her eyes fell to his three-fingered grip on her purse, and she scampered off like a scared doe. Not even a thank you. Thankless work, vigilantism. Bad hours. No glory. Good karma. Breaking the law. He shook his head, and stopped his musing. What he really needed was a drink. He turned, and walked out the alley's entrance. Elliott stepped over the two unconscious men. He paused, turned, and flipped through their wallets to get himself some drink money. They owed him. He'd just given them a public service. The service of preventing them from committing a violent crime. They would have done something, gone overboard maybe, and gotten caught. Wound up in jail. Had to deal with the consequences. This way, he was the only one doing something bad. It didn't balance out. Karma was kind of crushing his scale of justice that moment. He didn't care. Elliott pocketed the cash, pocketed the hockey mask--- Made a beeline for the nearest bar. 

---

This bar had live music going for it, most nights.  That was something you couldn't say about every bar. Elliott scooted his green butt up onto a barstool next to a guy with a bass guitar case under a stool. He ordered a beer. Guiness, actually. Better than some lite beer. Less cheap. Then, he spared a red-eyed glance at the guy and his guitar. 

"Playing, or played?" He asked casually. This wasn't a sports bar. That meant, if he wanted entertainment, he either had to keep drinking, or make conversation. With the quality of beer in this place, conversation seemed more than adequate. More appealing than adequate beer, that is. The bartender passed him a regular beer. "Out of guinness," the bartender grunted. Elliott smiled toothily at him.

"Thanks."

"Played," Jay said cooly, not seeming to notice that the guy talking to him was green and had red eyes. He'd learned a long time ago that some mutants got dealt a better hand than others; not everyone got something like shapeshifting, after all. "Though playing would be a kind term...considering the lousy lot I played with. Bunch of punk kids who spent more on their hair and outfits than their music," he grumbled, taking another sip of his 'beer.'

He snorted as the bartender gave his new acquaintance a beer, despite ordering Guinness. "I think that's all they have here," he whispered once he was sure the bartender wouldn't hear. "That'd be the only way to rightfully sell this ****." He gave a slight chuckle, shaking his head before finishing his drink and waving his hand for another one. "But as long as I'm here...I may as well drink awhile. Even if it is...whatever this is," he said with a slight cringe. Besides, as it stood, he was lucky he could afford to go out and drink at all.

Played, huh? That was cool, he guessed. He'd never been a musician. Not enough fingers for guitar. It hadn't ever bothered him much. His talents lay elsewhere. He liked music, but the fact he couldn't play guitar was nothing to fret over. Elliott's antennae bounced a little as he bobbed his head. True enough. Long-term gigs are better than one-offs. The guy was grumbling, but the way he described the punks he played with almost had Elliott's mouth turned up in one corner, a subtle smile. He didn't. Would have ruined the mood of the bar! But almost.

>>"I think that's all they have here," The blonde guy said quietly. Almost like he didn't want to offend their lovely bartender, Chuck. It was a good point, he'd made. He didn't call it swill, but something a bit more provocative. Elliott mentally replaced that word with swill, though. For the children.

>>"But as long as I'm here..." The man said. "I may as well drink awhile. Even if it is...whatever this is."

Elliott held up his glass in a mock salute, maybe even a setup for a glasses-clinking 'cheers'. "Any port in a storm." He commented wryly.

He drank. Yeah. Swill was a fantastic word for the beer. He pulled a face, and hid it from the bartender by turning it away. "Almost foreign." Elliott joked. Quieter, he leaned forward towards the man, and conspiratorially added "Like alien probe leakings."

Jay chuckled, lifting his glass to take the green stranger up on his mock salute, the glasses making the cliche 'clink' sound like on TV, before taking another sip. "Port in a storm seems appropriate."

He gave a hearty laugh. "I agree with you on half of that, but I'm going to plead the fifth on the second part. Though...I'd say it tastes kinda like a wet dog smells..." he replied, his dry humor showing. He took another sip of his glass, taking it sort of slow. For one thing, he found that drinks like this were best taken slowly, in stride. And for another, he really didn't want to sink all of his money into something this terrible. If he planned to go broke drinking, the drinks needed to be worth his while. He didn't even want to imagine how this crap would make him feel in the morning--or later today...He may have forgotten exactly what time it was.

He turned to look at the stranger. "My name's Jay, by the way. Also, if you know anyone in need of a bassist, I'm available."

Elliott's half smile showed teeth. Jagged, zipper-like, but friendly. Pleading the fifth? He didn't want to incriminate himself over some potential crime? He chalked that up to a joke, and moved on, never for a moment considering what crime the man could possibly have committed in loving leakings, probe or otherwise.

Wet dog, he could see. Maybe better than his suggestion of probes. "Maybe that works better," Elliott commented wryly. It was certainly rough enough.

He didn't get why the guy drank slow, sipping. It gave the beer time to get warm. Warmth made the flavor more strong for the hops. Americans like cold beer because it's refreshing, but most of the true beer countries drink it room temperature because they want to savor the flavor. Elliott didn't think the man wanted to savor wet dog grunge. Then again, he himself wasn't chugging his beer down. It was kind of sitting there, mostly untouched.

Jay the bassist introduced himself. Elliott smiled. "Elliott," he said. "And I'm afraid I don't. Though I think I saw some band fliers posted on the brick wall on the way in." Who knew? Some could be hiring.

He took another drink, and only mildly regretted it. Maybe it was an acquired taste? Or maybe his taste was going to hell.

Jay chuckled, still warily sipping at the "drink" in front of him. He didn't know if it was getting better, if he was getting numb to it, or if he was just settling for what he could get--like he hadn't done that before.

"I'll have to check it on my way out, then. Thanks, though. Good gigs are kinda hard to come by, it seems. Kinda like good beer," he blurted the last part out with a dry chuckle as he took another swig. Yeah...it did seem to be getting better, but he still thought that he may have just been settling.

"So, what I do may have been obvious. What do you do?"

Heh. Kind of like good beer, indeed. "Sadly, true." Elliott agreed. Despite his better judgement, he took another drink.

The Bassist, Jay, asked him what he did. It was an interesting question. At present? In the past? The future? For money? For fun? Because it was wrong. Because it was right. Clearly, he wanted the answer that required less complicated thought processes.

Elliott said "Between jobs right now. I was a delivery boy." Personally, he always thought the word delivery was one dyslexic man's error away from turning into devilry. He kind of liked that.

"Had a disagreement with the way my company was heading, so I went off on my own. Feel better for it. I'd saved up enough already, and I get by. Moonlight, some." He smiled at some hidden joke.

Jay quirked a brow, listening to him explain. To him, it seemed as though the man was speaking of something less than wholesome, though as someone who partook in "alternative income" himself, who was he to judge?

"Yeah, I understand," he mused, sort of thinking to himself. Though it piqued his interest to know exactly what kind of work this guy did, it was obviously none of his business. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been so vague. He gave a slight chuckle as he ordered another beer, becoming more acquainted with the taste by now. It was still bad, but...it was at least doing the trick.

Trying something, he took a few big, quick gulps, seeing if maybe drinking it fast would effect the taste. Not really, but it was definitely alcoholic.

"Huh..." he mused quietly. "What if this is past its date, and the bar is just trying to get rid of it?" he almost whispered as he took another sip. It would explain why they had nothing else, anyway. Though Jay was feeling a little...light-headed, by this point.

It was unthinkable, but as Elliott took another drink, he realized he'd finished the beer.

He stared at Jay and his suggestion, and arched one hairless eyebrow. "If its expired and it tastes like wet dog, why in the hell am I about to order another?" He wondered aloud.

Elliott suited his statement with the appropriate action, and the bartender acquiesced... with very little objection. He even smiled a little. A little knowing knife of a smile.

Elliott frowned, but he drank.

He felt a little off. Something was weird. But if the beer was bad, he'd just get sick later and out, it would go. He was only renting it, anyways. He laughed out loud at the thought, and related it to Jay. It seemed less funny to him when he spelled out the thought.

"For the same reason I just finished my second and am about to get a third, I assume," Jay answered. The 'beer' really did taste better the more he drank. Or something like that. Whatever. He ordered a third, which he then drank on, somewhat noting the bartender's demeanor, but at this point, it really didn't matter.

"I have to admit...there is something awfully strange about this stuff..." Jay mused, still taking another swallow. His head was starting to buzz a little bit, but it wasn't like the usual buzz he got from drinking. Something was...off. He chuckled at the joke, despite it not being all that funny, but hey, it was good to have a buddy in times like these, right?

He rubbed his eyes, still finishing the beer. "I don't know what's going on, but...maybe we should pay the tab and go..." he half-whispered, still feeling sort of dizzy.

The time, and the beer, seemed to run by at a quicker clip. They joked, and they drank, and before he knew what was good for him, he'd started his third beer too.

Elliott's antennae twitched as he hummed and sat and drank. Strange. "Yeah." What was strange was how much it had improved after the first. "Nefarious, even." He quipped.

The bartender was chuckling to himself about something, but for the life of him, Elliott could not figure out what he thought was funny.

It's not good when time seems to blur and events start to feel like they're occurring out of order. When had he finished the third beer? He thought he'd only started the second, but there they were. And certain jokes felt like they'd come sooner, rather than later, and far sooner than they should.

Three glasses were in front of him. "Three beers shouldn't be making my antennae hum like power lines." Elliott commented. No humming was actually audible. Except maybe the occasional hummed version of an AC/DC song from him. They were twitching, so he had that going for him. Things felt like they'd been painted in that film movies use when something is terribly wrong, or someone drunk.

There were now three glasses in front of him. He couldn't remember ordering the fourth. Maybe there was something time-sensitive about this beer? Er, time-disrupting. Manipulating? Or, wait. The fourth beer was largely full. Maybe he was just losing time.

What was Jay saying? Pay and go? But he'd just gotten his fourth beer! In a quick blur of motion, Elliott resolved that problem. The now-empty glass clacked down gently on the battered counter of the bar. "Okay," Elliott agreed. He leaned to the side to fish out somebody's wallet, and forked over enough money to cover his drinks.

"Don't forget your bass," Elliott commented.

He was wrong about the beer, though he didn't know it. It wasn't a time-manipulating draft. Or rather, that wasn't the only thing it did. If our ever played Dungeons and Dragons, there's a class with an ability called "Wild Magic" that casts a randomized effect on a chance roll whenever the player casts a spell. The beer was tainted in a way much similar to that. The bartender knew, of course, which was why he liked it. It sold quick, and was cheap as piss to make with his power. It got people drunk fast, and drunk enough they didn't question it when their mug started to levitate, or they started feeling strange, like their feet weren't the right size for their shoes. Maybe their feet even phased through their shoes? Elliott, for example, hadn't questioned the brief moments of slowed time and sped up movement he'd benefitted from. Minor stuff, harmless really. It had allowed him to drink several beers in rapid succession while he and Jay were talking... and neither had really noticed. He'd snapped between states, and the beer had dulled the sensation enough he hadn't noticed, nor cared. It was entirely likely Jay had felt something similar. Unless, or course, he'd gotten something lame with his beers, like the 'feel funny' drinks and the 'buzzing sensation beer'. Elliott had gotten a humming draft, in between the others. Entirely, entirely, entirely harmless.

Together, they left the bar. They wouldn't find out until later than some unlucky SOB after them had gotten a glass of fireball and lit the bar on fire with the explosion. It had been fine. They'd resolved the situation handily, after a few lucky drinks. But the SOB had been surprised.

Jay's head continued to spin, but it didn't take long for the dizziness to clear. However when it had, Elliot was...shimmering? Weird... Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. And...the bartender was laughing for some reason. He put the money on the counter for the beers and started to walk out.

"Don't forget your bass."
"Oh, right..."

He blinked, seeing little wisps of color coming out of his mouth, Elliot's mouth, and even others as they spoke. Once they stepped outside, he could see more wisps of color coming from people's mouths, cars, even the occasional gust of wind. And Elliot was still shimmering. Though he didn't realize it, he was seeing Elliot move, despite his unknown newfound speed.

On the street nearby, a car alarm went off, radiating little wisps of color. Then...something dawned on Jay, and he turned to Elliot. "Holy ****, Dude! I can see sound! What the **** was in that beer...Never been this way before. I've only had three,
and my judgement seems to be...well no worse than usual."

Curious, Elliott waved his hand in front of Jay's face. He snapped a few times. Once, twice. Three times, a lady. Five more times, for good measure.

"Do you see that? What's it look like?"

His hands, of course, had chosen that moment to accelerate briefly, so that the waving blurred and the snaps went off like muffled firecrackers in the night. He came back down from it. Like Jay, he too felt ... no worse than usual. As far as judgement was concerned.

He had kind of wanted to strip off his shoes and walk upright on the brick wall to one side of them, just to screw with Jay while he was tripping. But he'd thought better of it. Not nice.

A car passed by in the street. It rattled along, with its noisy muffler. Would Jay see some sort of strobing Technicolor acid dream version of the Doppler effect?

((OOC: Give it a few posts, if you'd like to freak out a little. I've got an idea. I'm imagining Jay seeing a scream in the distance, and running off to help somebody in peril. Mugger or something? Could be fun. You can totally describe it if you'd like.))

He watched Elliot snap his fingers in front of him, not realizing his new vision also allowed him to see Elliot moving despite the random acceleration.

"Holy **** this is trippy. Basically it looks like little wisps and waves of color coming off of the source of the sound. So...the world looks really weird yet somehow awesome at the same time," he mused. "Also...why the hell are you shimmering?" he asked, but was interrupted as he saw a car with its muffler rattling; his ears picked up sound just as sensitively as always, but this whole color thing was really doing a number on him.

"On the one hand...I'm totally ****ing freaked right now. On the other...I kinda wanna go back for another br..." he mused, but made a point to walk in the opposite direction of the bar they'd left behind.