Jack was not a drinker. Ask anyone who knew her pre-power growth, and they would tell you that. Working in the business of nightclubs meant seeing a full range of inebriation. From people who'd had just enough alcohol to have a good time, to patrons who blacked out from taking things too far. Jack had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of alcohol... and had thus sworn to herself that, no matter the circumstance, she would never take matters that far.

Principles seemed to fall by the wayside in times of duress, however. Despite Devon's diligent attempt(s) at rehabilitation, his efforts were focused on managing Jack's mutation. Alcoholism had never been brought to the table-- and quite frankly, the prawn had been doing fairly well at keeping it on the sly.

It was just-- these-- nightmares. Recurring nightmares. About Jude. About that man. About killng them. Sometimes there'd be different people involved. Zinnia. Jack's family. Old friends. It was enough to wake her up in a cold sweat.

She needed to drain her brain. A clean slate. She wanted to get a good night's sleep, and it was thus that she found herself at the edge of a bar, idly swirling a glass of Old Fashioned. Her eyes were wet and unfocused, the eyes of someone who'd been well into their night. Which, for a creature of Jack's stature, was an impressive feat.

The prawn's gaze swept over the bar, brushing over patrons, swimming towards the live music on a small and distant stage. It was a pretty lowkey place, and most people seemed deep enough within their own little bubbles that they scarcely seemed to notice the lavender gaze that flickered over them. Good. The prawn returned to her drink.

(ooc: Cafas)

Even before it had been a problem he'd been a frequent drinker. He'd been unwinding with a drink or two since he'd been seventeen, partying since before that. It was just how things were, at least in Australia. The habit had just carried over. When he looked at it that way, it didn't seem so surprising he'd fallen into dependency.

So how long had it been? Long enough he'd been counting it in three month stints. As long as he'd been dating Maya. That was a long time. Certainly the longest since he'd started drinking.

Then again, in that time he hadn't really had anything quite so terrifying happen to him. Sure, there had been bad times, the photographer, the bridges, his PTSD. They shook him, there was no denying it. He'd been getting a better and better grip on them though. He'd been getting the help he needed.

Then Halloween. Nothing had shaken his perception of his identity like that. The hallucinations, the screams, the horrifying reality even after it had faded. They'd been bad enough. He hadn't slept a decent night since. Still, he probably could have gotten through that.

Except for his mutation. His poor, broken mutation. He couldn't reliably lift a penny, and it was all he could do to not randomly change the properties of every piece of metal around him. He'd strained it, and he'd pushed it until it snapped. So much of his identity had been tied into that one part of himself. Now it felt like it was nearly gone, and that terrified him.

How could he continue to function as an X-man?

Cafas slugged back his whiskey and set the tumbler down. His sour expression burned into the bar as a heavy sigh escaped him. He ran both hands through his still blonde hair. Another broken part of his identity. He didn't even know what to do with it. Certainly it needed washing.

At least this feels the same...

The X-man cast his eyes around the bar for the first time since he'd walked in. It was one of those divey places he'd ended nights face down on the bar at once all the nicer places had barred him. He didn't remember much about it, but that was something of a theme with those.

A cursory scan, an assessment of the threats, the exits, the potential weapons. He felt so on edge. Then he found the giant, chitinous, multicoloured, lavender eyed mutant, and added confusion to his emotional state. As steadily as could be expected, he pushed off his stool and meandered over to sit a respectful one stool away from the Shrimp mutant. He stared at this new section bar for a second, an acidic glare on his face.

I mean, what's the point? Why would they want to talk to you?

He just about got up and walked away. Then curiosity won out, and he turned to face his bar neighbour.

"Jack? That you? It's Cafas, we did a shift or two together. I heard you were dead or something..." He paused a moment, watching the former Mansion security officer, "I'm glad I heard wrong." There were enough mutants just disappearing without adding any more people he knew to the list.

Most people were too deep into their drinks, their thoughts, or their conversations to bother hazarding a look around the bar. Very rarely did one lock eyes with another. It was sort of like driving. You kept your eye on what was important, and very rarely glanced at the other drivers. Or, if you did, your gaze caught the side of their face. Exchanged glances were spontaneous and uncomfortable.

Jack exchanged a glance such as that. There was a twisting in her gut, of recognition, but that was impossible. She didn't know anyone who looked like that. He saw her, too, and Jack saw the same flicker in his eyes. She was too drunk to scrabble her shreds of thought together, to piece together who it was that was looking at her, until he came over and introduced himself.

>> "Jack? That you?"

Sh**.

>> "It's Cafas, we did a shift or two together."

Sh**. This revelation plunged the prawn into a panic, though it was entirely below the surface. She only knew one Cafas, especially with whom she'd done a shift... he was from the Mansion. A muscle twitched in her jaw, a flex of the mandible, her heart clambering into her throat. Was she going to be sick? She thought she was going to be sick. Jack's gaze ran over the man's hair. Cafas had pink hair, right? She would've been able to slip off unnoticed if he'd had pink hair.

>> "I heard you were dead or something... I'm glad I heard wrong."

The prawn cleared her throat, a wet and anxious sound.

"I-" what could she say to that? They'd found a body, and it had looked like Jack. In her apartment. What were they supposed to think? Of course, Jack could pretend to be someone from the otherside, but what would see say? She'd been quiet too long, he'd know. Her thoughts were racing, her eyes were watering and blurring. The gig was up. He was going to turn her in.

"I should 'e dead," the prawn said meekly, mumbling into the miniature glass in her hand, " 'lease don't tell any-un you saw nee... I need to kee' a low 'ro-sile."

Her throat clenched, and the blurriness that had welled in her eyes overflowed. Perhaps it was unchecked emotions, perhaps it was the alcohol. She kept her explanations vague. You never knew who might be listening.

"Dere's trou'le," she whined, "Real terri'le. Didn't want to 'ring it to duh Nan-sion, or to... anyone... so I'n laying low 'til I know it's settled."

She looked at the not pink-haired acquaintance.

" 'lease don't say any-sing a'out seeing nee," she reiterated. The desperation was thick and un-ignorable in her tone. She had to hide.

That was a hell of a lot of desperation to take in. Cafas swayed in his seat, so taken aback he nearly forgot his own mood. The X-man blinked and cast his eyes around while he tried to translate and process.

God, she must get sicka people askin her to repeat herself.

He held his hands up in a placating gesture. Okay, so he'd been right in IDing her. She was deliberately keeping a low profile. She was in trouble. She didn't want the Mansion to have trouble. She didn't want to be found. Not even mentioned. So he had the content down. The subtexts, the implications, the fear, that was all having a much slower trip through his brain. That was what he drank for though, wasn't it? Shut up his brain. Slow it down to a point he could manage it.

"I ain't tellin' anyone I was here, let alone you." He knew what it was like not wanting to be found, and explaining he'd found Jack would involve explaining where he'd been. He had absolutely no intention of doing that. This was going to be his secret. The drinks were hitting him hard enough that he didn't even see the danger in that thought. He'd had those types of thoughts before. Nothing good had ever come of them.

"Now, what sorta trouble y' in? I dunno if y' know, but trouble's kinda our speciality up there. Maybe I c'n help. Not tha' I'm much use t' anyone 't the moment..." What had started as a calming and caring tone trailed off bitter and sulky. His eyes turned back to the bar. He didn't have a drink. That was a problem. He glared around for the bartender. "If nothin' else I can 'elp ya take y' mind off it. Always easier with somebody else." He waved expectantly at the bartender, who had done nothing at all to earn his impatience and grouchy mood. It never stopped anyone else though. He was used to it. The sort of people the place attracted.

The prawn nodded, the dismayed expression remaining on her features. He won't tell anyone. He won't tell anyone. You're safe. The anxiety that had been drowned-out by alcohol was starting to simmer up once more, unabated.

"Don't sink ny kinda trou'le is duh kind... y'all usually handle," Jack slurred, without lifting her gaze. She took another sip of her drink. It was, likewise, starting to get critically low. Another drink would be in order. The prawn, realizing that refusing to look at Cafas might be an admission of guilt, lifted her gaze again... perhaps the look in her eyes would also be an admission of guilt? She looked back down. It was true, though. Jack had a liminal knowledge of the X's because, as part of the security, it was sort-of need-to-know. It was part of the orientation-- "Why does this school for mutants have such high security? It's not just because it's a school for mutants, it also houses mutant vigilantes." That sort of sh**. So she knew about the X-Men, and knew who was a part of the team, etc. She also knew that they were the good guys. "Good guys" didn't protect murderers, however involuntary.

" 'ld luzz a distraction, doh," the prawn yielded, a sloppy smile crossing her expression. Cafas waved the bartender over, and Jack raised her glass, tapping it twice with her index finger, "Nee too, 'lease."

Even if she was getting absolutely sloshed, her work in nightclubs made her the sort-of perfect, most patient patron a bartender could ask for. She wasn't overly needy and didn't pitch a fit if she was accidentally glossed-over. A continuous flow of drinks didn't hurt either, though. She glanced back towards Cafas, her mouthparts twitching as though she wanted to speak. But her words failed her. She wanted to speak, and yet couldn't bring herself to. She wanted to tell Cafas everything, but she also wanted to dismiss herself and stagger her way back to her apartment.