[Neptune's Bounty, The Fighting McDonagh's] A meeting

-There's a slight chill to the air in Neptune's Bounty, something that separates those who stay there and those who just arrived; those who were just visiting wore warmer clothing. The Securis door from the Upper Wharf to the fork between Jet Postal and the Fighting McDonagh's was adorned with a beautiful engraving of waves bountiful with fish, especially significant for this location. Above a small sign depicted a man brandishing his fists with the head of the rooster, with golden neon designs and the words "The Fighting McDonagh's Tavern".

The door lifted to reveal the ocean and the towering city of Rapture above, the neon signs advertising the different illustrious locations, their lights ebbing and flowing slightly from the ocean's rhythm. The reinforced glass seemed so delicate despite its ability to withhold the mighty ocean and ahead the hall separated; to the right was Jet Postal and to the left the Fighting McDonagh's. When you take the left you need only look up to see a more elaborate sign adorning the building, with the rooster's fists and golden lights shining brightly against the water.

When you pass the Securis door you immediately notice the wood flooring beneath your feet. To your left is a Circus of Values, and to the right down a staircase made of well placed stones is an El Ammo Bandito. Directly in front of you though is a beautiful staircase finely crafted from the same wood, and above the familiar tavern sign. The entrance is adorned with a checkered design of soft browns and yellows, and bordered within with the fine wood. The pattern continues along the walls as you step further inside, the wood flooring making giving your footsteps a pleasing sound that is different from most of Rapture.

A pillar in the center has shelves surrounding it on all four sides, with circular signs for 123 Beer and Ryan's Club standing above it. A net holds a couple barrels in the ceiling, and the walls open up to more reinforced glass with various neon lights seen from afar. A whale glides across the glass with a soft moan, passing stools and tables composed of barrels with a circular table tops; their surfaces elaborately decorated with two fish in a yin yang-esque arrangement.

A doorway leads to the upper floor of the tavern. To the right of it is the bar, with several bar stools aligned to it. The bar stools are all empty but a bottle of Chechnya Vodka, half full, rests on the top of the bar in front of the stool on the far right corner-

---

((Freelance, Closed))

Neptune's Bounty

Bonus:
Due to the increased amount of vapor in the air, Winter Blast will freeze for longer. Therefore, it stuns longer, and those coming out of it are slowed for longer. It will also last longer one turn longer on objects, like security installations or the ground. However, also due to the moisture, Incinerate! burns less easily, and does less damage.

Selection & Prices

Spoiler:

Dr. Murdoch never felt comfortable walking the docks of Neptune's Bounty. It felt as if the entire place was refrigerated to the point where your body would generate more heat than it needed, thus you were constantly bathed in an annoying cold sweat. Walking through the Lower Wharf he received a couple nods from the chaps down at the Fisheries. They were used to this... this weather.

As he vaulted up the stairs to the Upper Wharf, he almost ran head long into a deckhand carrying a large box marked "Fontaine Fisheries" on his shoulder. Normally, a man his size would require at least one other fellow to lift a package so large, laden to the gills with fish. The signature of Rapture; genetic modification. Clearly, this workman was employing the use of some Tonic to augment his musculature.

"Watch y'rself, gentlesir. Wouldn't want this dropping on your fine shoes, now would we?" the deckhand drawled. "Quite right, sir. Forgive me for causing you any trouble," Dr. Murdoch said as he passed by. Turning the corner, the man with the box plodded down the corridor, out of sight. Murdoch hurried on, but took his time around corners.

Passing through the Upper Wharf he saw no one else save a lone security camera. The motor inside whirred as it turned toward Murdoch, stopped with a click, and whirred the other direction. Murdoch pulled at his overcoat as it was, he deduced, the only thing separating him from a bad head cold. A whale passed beneath the glass tunnel Murdoch currently inhabited. He thought it strange that whales would swim between the buildings of Rapture. Surely, the radio waves being bounced around in this place would irritate them. Perhaps it was lost. Aren't we all?

As a matter of fact, Murdoch was, but only for a moment. He walked down a set of stairs and examined the wooden sign. To the right, Jet Postal, to the left, Fighting McDonagh's. Bill McDonagh has certainly made a name for himself. Rumor has it that the gent was a simple supervisor of one of the maintenance teams that runs Rapture. Did a good turn for Ryan, and now he's the General Contractor of Rapture and sits on the council. Hell, he's even got this bar named after him to boot. Murdoch wondered if McDonagh got free drinks there.

The Securis door slid upwards and the Circus of Values vending machine exploded with sound. "Fill your cravings at the Circus of Values! Ha ha ha ha ha!" it said. Murdoch's heart jumped into his throat for a moment before settling back down. He strode across the boardwalk and up the stairs into the Fighting McDonagh's. Scanning the bar, he caught the tail of the whale slip out of view through the window.

It appeared that the bartender was doing some work down in the back. Dr. Murdoch held out a hand and with the simplest flex of his mind, a bottle of 123 Beer sailed delicately to him. He opened it and sat at the right end of the bar, near the half empty bottle of vodka.

"You know, it's a good thing they don't have Natural Camouflage top side or the women's locker rooms would be packed with invisible men," he said wryly to the seemingly empty seat next to him. He placed his fedora on the bar and took a swig from his beer. "How have you been, Oliver?"

-The bottle of Chechnya Vodka left the table before the hand that held it became fully visible. His hands were slightly rough, hands that did work of the unmentioned sort; and his arm behind the wrist was quickly swallowed up by the sleeve of his coat, which was midnight blue in color; a blue so dark you'd think it was black until the light touched it. It flowed long, obscuring most of his body and whatever he kept on his person. When his face appeared to Murdoch he was looking at him, kind of. He had a sort of unfocused look to his dark brown eyes, as if his thoughts were elsewhere, but Murdoch would be used to this already-

And I would be one of those men...

-He laughed for a moment, then took a sip from the bottle. He had the beginnings of a beard, as if he neglected to shave, and the rest of his dark black hair was unkept as well, nearly long enough to cover his eyes. He set the bottle down; if one had a keen eye they'd notice that the bottle seemed a little less clear than the other bottles of vodka in the room-

I like this place, when there's not as many people. Its quiet.

-Oliver taps his right foot a moment, and he can feel the EVE Hypo bounce very slightly from its strap around his right ankle. He looks forward and up, at the shark jaws adorning the wall above-

Murdoch grinned at the joke and took another drink of his beer. Despite the long trek to get here, Murdoch concurred with Oliver's sentiment. "The quiet is nice, if you can stand the cold. They keep us nice and warm upstairs in the labs. Still... it is quiet," he said, looking at his friend's drink before following his gaze up to the shark's jaws.

"I'll say this... if that shark had a set of chompers like that, I dread to think about the teeth of the guy who caught the sucker," Murdoch joked again. He knew it was bad, and yet that didn't keep him from saying it. He spun his bar stool around and propped himself up by putting his elbows on the bar.

"Say pal, you might not have to be that guy in the ladies locker room if you cleaned yourself up a bit," the doctor said. "Anyway, did you see the article on page 6 of the Tribune yesterday? 'Ryan Exposes Contraband'. Seems like one of Frenchie's boys was a bit careless and got the whole gang knicked. Sullivan'll be busy for a week straightening that mess out. And the whole while, half of Arcadia will be walking softly to keep security from looking at 'em too closely." Murdoch shook his head and finished his beer, setting the empty bottle on the bar next to him.

The man's hands gently fumbled with the bottle as they slowly brought it up to the his lips. With a slight jerk of his head, he leaned back and downed a portion of the liquid fire and set it back gently onto the table in front of him. It wasn't as if this were unusual for him - quite the contrary, he was a regular patron at the Fighting McDonagh's and he doubted that anyone would care. Well, they could just scold him a bit and try to tell him to get his act together, and he would always nod and smile, reassuring them he'd get help. Next thing they knew, he'd be back here again next week; and the cycle would repeat.

To some extent, he didn't think that it really mattered to them. Why would it? After all, a regular patron was a paying customer for the business. And as Ryan liked to shout from the rooftops, "Altruism was the root of all wickedness!" and that "A man's selfishness is the only secure thing in this world!" He gave a small snort. Ryan. What a disgusting example of why the Revolution needed to happen in his lifetime. He thought of how disgusted Marx might have been to know such a man like Ryan existed - and thrived in this environment no less! Ryan was all talk and had a fancy suit. But Jake knew the truth.

He'd known the first day when he'd picked up The Communist Manifesto, the Common Man's Good Book he liked to call it, that he was holding something special. Fontaine's uncultured thugs...what were they worth? When he had his way, this entire city would be run by people who knew what was right and wrong; not by dubious shades of gray set up by how much it affected their pocketbooks. And it'd told him all he needed to know about Ryan's type - the selfish, fat bourgeoisie who thought he had the world in his grasp. Ryan knew nothing only than whatever he wanted to see at the moment.

The people had an image of this man...a cult of personality around him. He knew, he'd foot in the war and had seen how the Germans had revered Hitler as some sort of Second Coming. Stalin, the bastard, was just the same way (and he was almost sure Stalin made his skin crawl far more than Hitler did; for one, the latter man was still alive). But again, as Jake often prided himself, he saw what others didn't. Ryan liked to pretend he cared for others, that he was doing everything that he did in everyone's best interest, but it was like a child molester attempting to say he didn't want to have his way with children - a complete and utter lie. The tears began to...oh God, he'd promised he'd try to let it go. His little girl...where was Ryan's damned Great Chain of Industry when he'd needed it most? When his little girl, his Ananda got sick and...when she didn't get better...

He blinked and reached a hand toward his eyelids. He scowled as his hand came away with wetness; he'd long since thought he'd gotten past the habit of crying for her and...Vidya. Oh damnit, now he was shaking a bit. Stop it. People will begin to ask questions...

'I'm drunk aren't I?
Strike that, I probably am. That's the most lucid thing I've thought so far tonight'

He gave a sigh and rubbed his hand over his growing, spiky beard; further adding to his 'bum' appearance, he thought. His life had managed to take real turn for the worse - no job, just a bum who lounged around Fontaine's House for the Poor, delivering his speeches of an egalitarian workers' paradise. But wasn't that worth fighting for? He felt it in his bones, sure as some people had their religious convictions but...it didn't seem presentable. He came off like how Ryan might call a 'Parasite' and that was a dangerous thing in times like these.

He cast his gaze towards those around him, the people laughing and smiling. Smiling, how long had it been since he'd done that himself? He couldn't honestly recall. Even his worker brethren noticed his somber attitude towards most things; his constant air that suggested he believed everything would collapse the moment that it could on its own. And he sighed:

'More splicers.'

He'd noticed that recently, more and more people were getting into this ADAM business. He admitted, he had too, but some people...He looked across the room to a young man impressing a lady friend of his with floating her wine glass above his fingers as she laughed and clapped, cheering him on. His lip curled in disdain - didn't they know nothing good ever lasted? Of course, that probably made him a hypocrite considering he'd tried to drown some of his sorrows away in ADAM too, but not too much that his followers (yeah, all dozen of 'em...) would notice.

His brow furrowed, and he sucked in a cheek, gnawing on it. 'How long till the bubble goes busto and everyone gets cheated out of the deal?' That was what he asked every day, as he saw more and more ADAM coming in and out of those Gatherer's Gardens and people shooting that EVE stuff into themselves like it was going out of style. What goes up, must come down, that old scientific law said...but enough depressing thoughts for tonight, he decided.

He glanced down at the newspaper before him and blinked a few times as he made sure he'd seen the right article.

"AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH THOMAS DAVENPORT - "RYAN EXPOSES CONTRABAND!""

For a moment, his mood briefly brightened and his heart flared. He thought Davenport a complete idiot, just another one of Ryan's lapdogs - but he had to admit, the man was a fine orator and good deliver a speech good as any; he wasn't disappointed either as his eyes skimmed the article's contents. Ryan's newest policy - his only ever SMART, one Jake thought to himself - was just out: they were going to be trying to take down Fontaine's smugglers. His lips curled into something that might have resembled a smile.

'He deserves all the trouble he's going to get,' Jake thought savagely as he looked down at the picture of several Ryanite men in uniform out in front of Fontaine Fisheries, hauling out several men - a beefy lot, probably not too intelligent, he figured, and the perfect henchman archetype.

He closed the newspaper and looked warily across the room and paused for a moment. He'd never seen THESE two before - two men, one with a bit of tan look to his skin and the other with long, black hair dangling in front of his face; as he watched the man pushed it away and continued his animated talk with the man in front of him. 'Newcomers?' he thought to himself. He made it a point to try to at least know the names of some of the newer patrons, just so they wouldn't ask too many questions as he came in here every night to guzzle down the cheapest brand of beer the Fighting McDonagh's would carry.

He stood up, stretched, and then wished he hadn't. His leg was back to throbbing again, always falling into that if he sat down for long periods of time. 'Never been the same since that German shot a hole through 'er...' he thought self-deprecatingly. These two now, they seemed interesting enough and he considered himself pleasant enough company in a conversation as long as it didn't stray too heavily into politics or economics. He smiled to himself, converting them to the proletariat's cause could come later; new friends were to be had and...

He paused thoughtfully and reached down, grabbing the newspaper. What better way to start things than to have something to talk about with them as a conversation piece?

-He shrugged at the remarks of how cold it was... he sort of liked it. Somehow feeling your skin and how it reacted to the chill in the air made him feel more alive. The barkeep had just returned from the back room, cradling a box of liquor in his arms-

Heh...

-Oliver offered a slight chuckle for his friend's bad joke, turning his head but not his whole body to face him. He never seemed like it but he always paid close attention to what people said, whether it was directed to him or not-

Walking softly's what gets you caught, that's the funny thing. And Sullivan should enjoy chasing people he has chances of catching...

-He drank to that, finishing his bottle, and knocking it on the bar twice. Oliver never had a long row of bottles when the night was through, but he sure refilled one a night several times. And his wits never dulled all the same-

Yeah they'll get pinched. They'll all get pinched...

-The barkeeper returned his bottle, filled to the top, and Oliver took some off the top real quick, looking past Murdoch in thought-

...all of them until the only crooks left are Ryan and Fontaine.

Dr. Murdoch nodded in agreement. Sullivan was, at best, an inflated beat cop. Then again, perhaps that's why he was brought down here. He possessed enough authority to keep the locals in line, yet was not used to being a position above others, and so he could be easily manipulated by Ryan. Used when he saw fit, but ultimately dispensable should push come to shove. Or if he suddenly grew a back bone. As it was, Sullivan was tightly wrapped around Ryan's finger out of gratitude, and that type of bond is tough to break.

"All the same. Sullivan'll just grill 'em, fine 'em, and let 'em go. I mean, it's not like he's got jurisdiction over a prison.... unless you count Rapture as the prison. Then he does. Regardless, in this prison he's only got a couple cells," Murdoch mused, half to Oliver, half to himself.

Murdoch then turned his head toward the approaching man. He had the same unshaven look Oliver had, but the eyes said he had seen more of this ugly world than he would have liked. Anyone could smell that this man self-medicates with booze, though he must be a practiced drunk. The slight limp in his leg suggests that he might have a cramp, but because he doesn't appear to be working it off Murdoch surmised that the damage was permanent. It looked as though he carried a copy of the Tribune with him, though Murdoch couldn't see the date.

"Hey buddy, you're looking a little rough around the edges. You okay?"

He nodded thoughtfully to the man in the front of him. "Thanks for asking, friend. All the same, though, every time I come here, it's not exactly to be conscious, hear what I'm saying?" He scooted a bit closer to two men in front of him and leaned forward.

"Got a bit lonely over there sitting all by myself, to be honest. I'm a bit of loner, normally; just wanted to see if there's anyone interested in a chat or two over everything. Tonight's a night I'd rather not mull over my life. But hey! Don't let me spoil the evening. Night's young, plenty of drink to go around, and there's always things to talk about. If you guys are down with it, I'd like to just pull up a chair and shoot some breeze with ya." He looked at them closely, studying their facial expressions. They seemed to be eying him rather warily, though he at least thought not unkindly. He sorely wished earlier he hadn't as much to drink as he had...usually stuff like this a lot faster; he'd tried that a week ago with a girl and it hadn't gotten him much more than a black eye. He still remembered vividly how much punch she'd had in that hook of hers; if he hadn't been in so much pain back than, he'd have recommended her for boxing tournaments.

He shifted again, attempting to keep any weight from falling too heavily on his bad leg. He took the Rapture Tribune out of his hands and gently placed it on the table, facing the two men. "What you two make of that? Ryan's making moves to try to get Fontaine's boys under his thumb. Can't say it's not worth a try, but Fontaine's 'bout as slippery as a banana peel. Doubt he's gonna get much anywhere with this whole thing, but at least he's finally taking responsibility for this city of his." He moved a hand behind his head, lifting up his woolen cap a bit and scratched a spot, quirking an eyebrow at the two gentlemen, friends themselves he'd presumed, in front of him.

He coughed for a brief second and stuck out his hand to them. "Name's Jake Featherston. And you two go by...?"

Murdoch shook Featherston's outstretched hand while sliding a bar stool toward him with his foot. "It's a pleasure, Jake. I'm Daniel Murdoch. This here's Oliver," he said sticking his thumb toward his friend. "Take a seat, if you like, it's a free ocean. In fact, we were just talking about that article a moment ago. Ryan's sure as shit going to try to needle Fontaine, but like you said, it's like trying to pin a butterfly that's still alive."

Murdoch turned and picked up his empty beer bottle by the lip, waving it while making eye contact with the bartender to indicate that it was empty and he needed a refill. The bartender nodded and took the empty bottle, replacing it with a full one. Murdoch opened and took a drink, relishing the bitterness of it. A woman sitting near the window erupted in laughter as the man next to her grinned, while withdrawing his hand from her rear. Murdoch cocked an eyebrow at the man, and then turned back toward Featherston. He felt as though he recognized him, but couldn't quite place where he had seen the man before. Perhaps, over the course of the night, it would come to him.

Jake gave an affirmative nod to Murdoch's invite and sent down beside him on one of the bar front's many stools, easing himself down gently. "Now see, that's the kind of stuff I'm talking about. Fontaine's too smart for his own good and Ryan's out trying to catch his shadow while the real thing's always too far gone to get. God...I just hope he doesn't funnel too much money into that. Even if Fontaine's every guy's boogeyman, I doubt Ryan would like spending the probable amount needed to catch the guy. He won't even lift a pinky to help update the Little Wonders' Educational Facility down in Point Prometheus! Can you imagine that? Guy won't even help Rapture's future..." Featherston shook his head and stared down at the table, giving a long sigh.

"It's just...all screwed up, ya know? I mean, I know it could be a whole hell of a lot worse, but I've come to regret this city and Ryan himself. Wasn't even a supporter of his Objectivism or whatever he calls it. Just came here 'cause the...'cause the missus and I could stay here together and not be made fun of. Don't much care for relationships between a white guy and non-white girls back at home. I ain't saying I'm the smartest guy in the world, no way, but I just sometimes think I see things others don't." He licked his lips and paused...had he said too much? He tried to look over casually at his new companions, gauging their reactions. He hoped to God they weren't Ryan spies trying to pick out possible rebels (alright, he WAS but that wasn't the point as all of this Fontaine business was making Ryan antsy as all get out!)? He couldn't be sure, but there wasn't much going back now, was there?

So he just decided a different tactic. "Hey...enough about me, alright? I come in here, slopping all this onto you two and I don't even get your sides of the story. Sorry for that, bit of a habit of mine sometimes I'm afraid. So what's with you guys? How did Oliver and Murdoch end up in this grand ol' dump we call Rapture?"

((OOC: Demos, apparently we had a bit of a snafu. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to go until after AspiR had gone earlier, but I did anyway. Then you went and we butted out his turn, kinda. He says it's ok, he'll just post next.))

((Demos, your last reply was out of turn. I know you guys don't even know anything about turns and such so its perfectly fine, its a common mistake between RPers of all experience levels. This little mess up is good for our example to. The turn order is easy to determine. It is Me, Demos, Who_is_Atlas?. The mistake was when it became Me, Demos, Who_is_Atlas?, Demos.

The best thing to do when this happens is to continue the error, skipping my turn, until it would be my turn again. Its just fine, no worries!))

-He listened to the man, letting Murdoch shake his hand on his behalf. It wasn't his intention to be rude when he didn't speak, its just that he knew you learned more when your mouth was closed.

By the time Jake and his friend had gone back and forth, his bottle was half full again. He was still as Jake explained his misgivings for Ryan, and he soon faded from sight, with no evidence of his existence but the Chechnya Vodka bottle and the memory of him. A tap of his hand on the bar brought him back to everyone's eyes when the stranger posed his question-

I'm here because they aren't. Simple as that. And Murdoch... he's here in the more immediate sense because of me. But Rapture? He could tell you better than I could...

((Demos I need to speak with you before your next reply))

Murdoch listened to Jake's story and moved his head as was appropriate. Nodding in agreement, shaking in disgust, and drinking in between. Music drifted down from the upstairs behind the bar, and then was quickly silenced. A man passed the balcony and glanced down at the trio sitting at the bar before turning into the lavatory at the bottom of the steps.

"I came here about a year ago. Wide-eyed and eager to ply my trade as a doctor. Little did I know that I was practically smuggled in here. I still work as a doctor, but I primarily do research now. I'd say... oh, I don't know... about a month into my residency here, maybe?" he said as he looked toward Oliver for some help remembering. "I think it was about a little less than a month since I had gotten here when I was summoned down here to Neptune's Bounty. I guess I might have looked at one of the deckhands the wrong way because I soon found myself up Shit Creek without a paddle. A couple of guys cornered me in that hallway back there that goes from the Lower to the Upper Wharf. Started beatin' on me pretty good. Don't get me wrong, sir, I got a few good licks in too. But when you're up against a couple of spliced fellas with some bad attitudes, well... things went South pretty quick from there."

Murdoch grinned and shook his head again. "So, I'm gettin' tuned up pretty good when Oliver comes walkin' around the corner. He doesn't know what to make of all this, but he just grabs the big guy and throws him into the opposite wall. Surprised the hell out of the little guy, and gave me an opening. Knocked him flat out, while Oliver cleaned up the other lummox. After that we headed on up here, knocked back a couple to ease the pain, and reminisced about our victory. Got myself a set of brass knuckles that day too, and eventually spliced a bit. He's one of the few friends I got here, and definitely the first. Now the guys down here know who I am and I don't get any trouble now. Still get lost though," he said, finishing his sentence with a swig from his beer.

"Let me ask you somethin', Jake. Where's your wife now?"

(OOC: Sorry about the screw up. AspiR didn't explain the rules to me at all, so I didn't know wtf was going on. It's cool though, now I do.)

Jake listened intently to Murdoch's story. He'd heard about that actually, it'd gotten a lot of attention as those fishermen probably had been Fontaine goons (after all, it was a secret everyone knew - if you worked down at the wharfs, you were likely in Fontaine's pocket somehow) and that it'd been played up by Davenport and Cohen a lot. He'd scoffed then, really wondering the veracity of the issue as they blew any little thing out of proportion; he hadn't doubted it'd been possibly below Fontaine to beat up innocent bystanders though. 'Just another reason the son of a bitch is one who's gotta get out too,' he thought to himself.

He took a smaller swig of his beer, not wanting to get too intoxicated as he listened to how Oliver and Murdoch met; most interesting thing that'd happened this week in any event, he felt. They seemed to be an alright lot, he figured and judging by Murdoch's tone and Oliver's casual use of Natural Camo...he was beginning to think they could be trusted a bit more. He actually managed a small smile to himself, the first in quite some time, 'Finally, people in this world who can see the line and KNOW it's there and are careful to tread on it.' He figured he wouldn't press for Oliver's story, as he wasn't sure he could take such another story of abuse tonight.

But then Murdoch had had to ask about Vidya. He sighed and wondered - was it something that he needed to say? After all, he'd hardly said much about it at all since her passing away a few months back. He dwelt on it from time to time, but nothing more than that. 'Do you wanna get this off your chest or mope around for the rest of your sorry life?' his inner voice whispered. 'Ah, shove it, you. Can't you see this is an important decision? I barely even KNOW these guys!' 'So what? They're listening and they seem to be pretty open with you. Stop being a damn baby.'

'I hate you.' 'I know.'

He took another long swig from the can, feeling the last droplets of alcohol wash down this throat, and crushed the can in between his fingers. "Well, pardon, guys, I might just...break down somewhere in here, so you're aware. It's not something I do but I just haven't talked about it much. She's dead, Murdoch. There's a whole lot of crap they put over the whole thing - but you'll know the truth here; Fontaine likes to keep himself with an image for the people? He's as rotten as the common people you throw in jail; ya know that already, but not just HOW low this guy is."

"Back during the war, after it I mean, I was shipped over to Britain where I met 'er. Vidya Nehru, that was her name. Most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, course you know, stuff like a guy like me - pasty, all that - with a girl like her - Indian - they don't mind it much in Britain. U.S., though? We can't even treat our own minority groups with any respect. So I did what any guy'd do with a girl he really liked, we got hitched and everything. But we started to worry as I'd gotta go back SOMETIME...and that's when she got that letter. She used to be a scientist, fer...well, I dunno what. Always above and beyond what I thought of. She would shoot the breeze with me at dinner over genotypes and DNA sequences and I'd just nod and smile. So naturally, Ryan got his wormy little fingers onto her and here we came, soon as we found out there were no restrictions on what you did in your private lives. Sure, we got the stink eye from lots of people, but it didn't matter...we were happy." He winced and gulped hard, here was the hard part...

"As you know with most marriages, ya get kids eventually. Our little tot was Ananda, loved 'er to death; still do, of course. She isn't the healthiest of little girls, but...well, we make out alright together. She gets taken care of by one of the women who lives on my floor everyday, while I'm out and about trying to find jobs. There when I'm here too..." He shook his head and shifted in his seat. Mumbling on, he turned his attention back to them.

"Vidya took up work again at, well, I'm sure you'll be familiar with the damned company now - Fontaine Futuristics? Early help with designing plasmids." He was grinding his teeth together now, almost assured some tears were at LEAST coming down his face. And yet...an angle he'd never considered just occurred to him: he was treading some dangerous water here, mentioning Fontaine Futuristics in a negative light like he was; he didn't care for Fontaine in the slightest either, the slimy little bastard had done far too much - but that was neither here nor there now. What mattered was where THEIR loyalty laid...it didn't seem to be with Ryan, but if he had gotten into the wrong territory with his little history speech...

'I might not live to see next week,' he thought grimly and set his mouth at a bit of a frown. Better to just keep quiet about how I REALLY think now and just...let things proceed naturally from here; if they're an alright lot, I can slip it in somewhere later. Don't need to make more enemies than you have to, of course.

"And then, Fate's icing on the cake...you probably heard of this big accident way back when they started testing Incinerate. Took out the whole lab and hurt lots of scientists and volunteers. She was in that and...I could dealt had she just been badly burned, but she got the kinds you don't get better from. Where's she now? Gone, friend...just like a lot of those other poor saps unfortunate enough to be near that neck of the woods." He stared at the bartender, as he poured another drink for another customer, watching the clear, liquid happiness fill the glass as its container was put away. He continued on in a haunted whisper:

"I just...I didn't, I don't, know what to do no more. And, oh, the REAL kick in the balls...Ryan fired me down at Hephaestus. Bullshit about needing to let go workers, but I knew he was sniffin' for Fontaine loyalists, even back then. So now here I am, sitting with both of ya, spillin' my guts. I just hope you guys have got better happily ever afters with your families than I do..." He put his head down on the table, letting the tears simply come now; he wasn't sure if it was all that alcohol, or simply all the pent up time it'd been in his head...but it didn't really matter either.

-He nodded, verifying the one month mark. As his friend recounted the story a smirk came to Oliver's face at the memory. He remembered seeing Murdoch, a stranger to him then, one against two in the hall. He was outsized, outnumbered, and it was obvious he didn't have a drop of ADAM in him... but he still held his own. Oliver didn't have much time to observe though; no one could withstand too many blows from the larger man's meat fists.

He sneaked up quickly jammed his fist against the front of the man's throat from behind, grabbing him while he joked and throwing him against the wall. Oliver then put his knee in the man's groin, taking a moment to check on the would-be victim and watching as he was knocked out colder than the ground he landed on. Another hook to the bigger man, now that he had doubled over and his face was at a normal height, and he wasn't getting up again.

The visit to the tavern following that was the first of many visits, and it had become something of a ritual between them. He didn't wish any harm to Murdoch but he was sure glad he saw him getting mugged that day.

Oliver was still again, having already gotten another full bottle before Jake started with his terrible story about his kid and his wife. He lay invisible, looking down at his hand which he knew was on the bar. He could feel the bar against his hand, though it lay empty. He could feel the warm moist spot on the surface from his hand staying there for so long. He had been using Natural Camouflage for years and looking through himself never seemed to lose its effect-

When Jake finished his story in tears, Oliver's left hand went up to touch his own left cheek but by the time he was visible his hand had already covered the almost round puncture scar he had there. It seemed like an unconscious action, until his hand left his face suddenly, returning back to the bar as he just realized what he had done-

We all learn it the hard way... embrace a snake and you invite poison into your heart...

-He left Jake to decide who the snake was, Ryan or Fontaine-

"That's a damn shame, Jake, damn shame," Murdoch said, "I guess you could say that I've been lucky enough not to have to suffer loss like that. Wife and kid? Jesus." He stared at the top of the bar for a long time, letting the man have his peace with his tears. What else could he say to alleviate some of the pain? Nothing. Though, as Murdoch was taught, it's best to let these spats of emotion play themselves out to their full. Who knows how long it's been since this man has openly talked about what happened with his wife and child?

He thought about Oliver's sentiment for a moment. Snakes, huh? Fitting, to be sure. At least Fontaine gives you the chance to make something of yourself. Ryan, as shown here in Jake's life, will cut you loose the moment the chips are down, the cards against you, and without so much as a second thought. The Great Chain, my ass. How great is it if you can remove links as you see fit? Bullshit.

"I'll say this about Fontaine. With him, there's no due process... if you know what I mean," Murdoch said grimly. Ryan might be a son of a bitch, but he wouldn't outright kill you, and thus if Murdoch had to cross one or the other, it would be Ryan. "Have you tried looking for work since you got laid off?" he asked Featherston.

Featherston raised an eyebrow as he watched Oliver's hand scratch a scar along his face. It seemed aged, very noticable now but something that was much nastier before years of healing. It was round, like a hole through his cheek, that split into a thinner scar that went towards his lips but wasn't quite long enough. He was about to ask about how Oliver got it before, Oliver simply plowed on with his odd statement of: "We all learn it the hard way... embrace a snake and you invite poison into your heart..."

He figured that should be significant to him somehow. But for the life of him, he was no good at this philosophical stuff. 'Embracing a snake?' Maybe...Fontaine? Ryan? He didn't know, could be either or, he figured. 'Certainly a good explanation of both,' he thought. Listen to either too long, and you'd get seduced just as easily with Eve and the apple. He wiped his eyes and sighed - he hated crying. He normally found it a sign of someone who had a weaker constitution and couldn't stomach all the stuff the world threw at you, but it'd felt...right to do it and get it out. All that mattered now, though, was steering the conversation away from all this business.

"So there you go, but I think I'm glad you two were curious. I mean, better than bottling all that stuff up, right?" He wondered if he really was kidding or being truthful. Again, somehow that didn't really seem to matter or factor in much. He fidgeted gently with his cap, feeling the coarse, yet warm material brush against his fingers, an odd little habit of his, and gave another pause.

"As for work and all that, well, I've tried to say the least. No one's got much use for someone from down in Hephaestus other than the guys who are actually in Hephaestus. I'm thinking of trying to get a small part-time job somewhere, though. Guy above me in the poorhouses snores like a sleeping hound dog and it makes it hard for me to get to sleep; sooner I can at least get a place of my own, the better." That was, again, partially the truth - he wasn't sure how long it might be before Fontaine ever came to make his rounds, he came in every once in a while and it was always a big ordeal then, he wasn't sure he wanted Fontaine to recognize him for...ugh, another story for another day. It wouldn't be a direct confrontation, but he was sure that if Fontaine ever caught his eye...Fontaine never forgot faces, especially for those who caused him trouble or wronged him in some way, or simply because they'd been there when he'd had a chance to stroke his ego.

"I just think I'd appreciate it if we got off the subject of families, ya know? But if you guys ever catch wind of someone who's hiring for someone with experience in metals, give me a ring, alright? The poorhouses are...er, sure to know who I am, just ask for me or something. They're good people and they'll let me know I've got visitors." He frowned now, even with a happier mode in place than the one earlier, he'd heard Murdoch was a doctor but...

"Hey Doc, what exactly kind of medicine do you study for? And Oliver...I dunno if you mentioned it earlier, but what do you do for a living?"

I'll see who needs someone from Hephaestus...

-Oliver offered it as a kind gesture, though he didn't know if he would find such a person and knew it was a tall order. He tapped his glass gently, giving the barkeeper a knowing glance-

Well, I do odd jobs. Whatever needs doing... more specifically things others won't. Or can't.

-He takes the bottle in his hand, again its contents not as clear as the bottles of Chechnya on the shelf, but that didn't seem to bother him. He tapped his right foot again, the feeling of the EVE Hypo there familiar and comforting-

It seemed to hit him like a ton of bricks. Murdoch removed the beer bottle from his lips a little too soon and a drop fell between his legs onto his bar stool. Using the inside of his coat, he smeared it away so it was dry again. "I knew I knew you from somewhere. So familiar. I was thinkin' to myself, 'Where have I seen this guy before'. And then you reminded me. The poorhouse! I live in Apollo Square, and I often walk by Hestia to get to the bathysphere down that way so I can get on over to Point Prometheus where I work," Murdoch said. "I've done a couple rounds in there myself, but always under the supervision of Dr. Suchong. He has us find candidates for... some testing that we do from time to time."

Truth was, the candidates were for plasmid testing, but after listening to what happened to his wife, Murdoch doubted that Featherston would want anything to do with such experiments. Murdoch settled himself down a bit, letting the initial thrill of the moment of gestalt flow out of him. He took a drink and set the empty bottle on the bar.

"To answer your question, good sir, I am not a medical doctor. I did not want to correct you before, because your story had enthralled me, but it is true. I do not practice in medicine. Rather, I am a doctor of psychology. Most of the work I do is research oriented, and directed by the head of our department," Murdoch explained. "Not very exciting work, but it's what I signed on for."

He looked at Oliver's drink. "Your vodka is a looking a little off, there, pal."

He gave a nod towards Oliver, his spirits lifting slightly. 'See? Good stuff DOES come to those who wait.' He wondered, if that job offer ever came to pass, how he could repay him. He brushed it off almost immediately, with a mental snort: 'Doubt you could find more work down there. You know how little in demand people are down there - you get in for life, pretty much, and you stay down there and rot with the best of 'em.' All the same, though, there was hope...

"Thanks, that means a lot, really. Nice of ya to do all this for a guy you just met, and I'd definitely appreciate it if ya could try...listen, I dunno how, but I can try to pay you back someday, Oliver. If you land me a job, well, consider it an IOU."

With a proverbial spring in his step, he turned back to Murdoch, who'd just managed to slosh a bit of his beer onto his pant leg and just as he finished wiping it out of his trousers, Murdoch's voice rose slightly as he went on about how he'd seen him in the poorhouses before. He blinked suddenly, 'Testing?' Smith went with some doctor looking types a while ago and came back with a fat amount of dough and some fancy new tricks with telekinesis, but he'd never thought...hm, might want to file THAT little piece of information away for future reference.

Murdoch continued on lightly, gesturing here and there as he told him about his job as a psychologist. "Mm...shoulda asked that before I went and talked like you knew what I went on about earlier about stuff like that. How can stuff like that be boring though? I mean, getting inside everyone else's head might be a bit interesting, depending on who they are. What makes people tick doesn't sound too bad a profession to me, why's it so unbearable?" He was, for the first time in a while, honestly perplexed by this. 'I guess if you do something every day though, it does become a chore to do...'

He blinked back to the present as Murdoch gestured again to Oliver's glass of vodka (Featherston seriously doubted if the brand was Chechnyan, but he never really cared much for it before as he couldn't really afford it himself) and nodded in affirmation to his remarks. "Looks a bit bruised there, pal, if you complain a touch, might be able to haggle in a free drink from the bartender."

Ah hell, you wouldn't owe me. But we'll worry about that when you got the job, huh?

-He listened closely when Murdoch told him what he did. He knew when Jake asked that they would have to be careful what they answered with, though Murdoch's little spill told more than he probably wanted. When Jake responded, he was sure to steer the conversation away-

You see, Murdoch and I, we both appreciate the human mind. Its just that he's more book smart and I'm more street smart about it.

-Oliver paused with a brief laugh-

That isn't to say Murdoch's never walked down the street or that I've never opened a book.

-The barkeeper had given Oliver a glance when they mentioned his vodka, and Oliver shot a knowing glance back, replying-

...and there's nothing wrong with my drink. The barkeeper knows what he's doing.

Murdoch's eye caught the glance between Oliver and the barkeep. "Uhhhhh... huh," he noised. "Well, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later," Murdoch said, quoting Alice. The triviality of the matter, he concluded, was not worth pressing Oliver further about. Plus, he might not feel comfortable talking about it with Featherston around. On that mental note, he dropped the subject and turned back to Jake.

"I must have given you the wrong impression, sir, and for that I apologize. My work involves a lot of screening and interviewing potential test subjects. They have to be in some sort of state of good health, you know. Also, and most important, they have to be mentally sound. All of this requires that my colleagues and I interview each candidate. After we've completed our battery of test, we can then make a decision on whether they would make a good test subject. It's all very interesting to me, but there is a lot of paperwork involved, and on the outside looking in I could understand that some might find it boring," Murdoch said. He'd rather be running his own lab, performing his own experiments, but for now this would have to suffice.

Somewhere in the distance a steam whistle signalled the end of the common work day. Almost assuredly the Fighting McDonagh's would begin filling up in the matter of a half hour or so, for it was a popular watering hole for the dock workers and gents from across the way at the Jet Postal. "Well, gentlemen, I imagine we're about to have a lot more company joining us shortly."

He wondered how much of a cast-iron stomach Oliver would have to have in order to down that stuff. He exhaled slightly and shook his head; ah well, none of his business in the least. He just hoped that he wouldn't regret that decision in the morning. Speaking of that, he was surprised to find he hadn't drunk anything more since his initial come over here, 'Well I'll be, seems that old saw who said talk can cure anything was right.' That was completely hollow, he knew, as he'd probably be back tomorrow doing what he did best, but that was then and this was now. He turned back to Oliver, clearing his throat with a deep 'hurumph!' and continued, "You may not want to be repaid, but I'll do it anyway. Land me somethin' and I won't take no for an answer." He gave his best authoritative look, feeling he probably seemed rather pointed; he hadn't practiced in a while though, so he was sure it almost came off comedic.

Turning his attention back to Murdoch, he listened intently as the man began to explain the finer intricacies of his profession. 'I can't even imagine sitting there, doing all that paperwork...but he's right: it's hard to say what you really think if you haven't done it before yourself.' He paused for a moment, stirring in his seat, bending his toes to get rid of the pins and needles feeling he'd grown, before moving on. "You don't seem much like the guy for all that secretary type stuff, though. Can't you move up or something? Or, well, lemme guess - one of the big wigs over there likes you 'exactly where you are.' In other words, they don't feel like writing up a recommendation for you." He grinned wryly, more to himself than anything. That was how things worked a lot of the time down here in Rapture - the powerful rubbed each other's backs a whole lot, but weren't too eager to uplift everyone else to similar positions; for all of Ryan's talk of the captains of industry banding together, nothing had ever really came of that. He was almost sure everyone but Ryan and his thugs knew it, too.

The whistle screamed sharply into the evening air, cutting through most chit-chatter and general conversation that had permeated the Fighting McDonagh's a moment before. Murdoch remarked dryly on how quickly the pub was going to fill, and Oliver, from what he could tell, had just been sipping his vodka quietly to himself. 'Not much of a talker, is he? Ah well, that's alright: rather have a listener to talk to than someone who can't shut up...'

He wished he owned a watch at the moment, as he really couldn't be sure of what time it was. He had nowhere to be honestly (his party meeting wasn't tonight), but he wondered if Murdoch and Oliver had anywhere to get going to. "Hey, how long you guys plan on spending around here? Not trying to get rid of you, but I was just wondering since I might able to plan myself accordingly..."

-Like clockwork the workers from the wharfs shuffled in, making their way to their respective tables that they had acquired "ownership" or through years of going there on a daily basis. They had stayed later than usual; the frequent meeting between Murdoch and Oliver ended before the crowd came in, and there was good reason for that.

Oliver didn't seem to mind. It wasn't every day that someone poured out their entire life story in front of you. He was wondering what this man was like on better days; he had seen him on his worst, Oliver figured.

He was about to reply to Jake's question but was interrupted by a hand grasping him that was so big, Oliver's left shoulder fit in the palm of it as he was grabbed-

"That's my seat."

-The way the man said it was more of a command than a statement; he had a black beard and a receding hair line, and an expression that seemed to tell his day hadn't gone so good. Oliver looked at him for a moment, then brushed his hand away dismissively, turning back to Murdoch and Jake as if he wasn't interrupted. The man that had been brushed away looked to his left and his right. On his left was a smaller guy, but the wiry type that was still nasty when it came to blows. On his right was a man about his own size, only this one was completely bald and had a deep scar down the side of his head, probably a work related accident that he was playing off to be some dramatic remnant from a fight-

Anyway...

-Oliver had started to continue, but the man behind him thought otherwise, grabbing him by his shoulder again and whipping him around in his stool, delivering a hook with his left hand that had Wrench Jockey behind it, by the way a tooth and the blood that came with it flew from Oliver's mouth.

The wiry fellow and the bald man stood between Murdoch and Jake and the bearded man, the wiry fellow smacking a Wrench in his hand threateningly, the bald man brandishing a Lead Pipe-

((We decided to shake things up a bit. WIA?, check your PMs

Those of you not in this thread and reading it later will notice suddenly we have signature forms. Thats because its taken us this long to have them in our signatures. On a normal basis we'd have signatures in every reply in the post, but the signatures were turned on after this RP started))


..................................................
Name: Oliver Everett
Class: Standard
Gene:
Plasmid(2/6): Teleport (Flawed Prototype), X
Physical (2/4): Natural Camouflage, X
Combat (2/4): X, X
Engineer (0/0): X
Weapons: Bare hands

[Fine EVE 5/5]
2 First Aid Kits, 4 EVE Hypos & 1 EVE Hypo (Earlier model)
No ammo
...................................................

The wood planks creaked in protest of the new crowd that had just walked in. Murdoch didn't notice the footfalls of the ruffians that had come up behind them. However, the low growl had the unmistakable tone of threat to it. Murdoch turned to see the bear of a man glaring at the back of Oliver's head. His gaze shifted to the other two men who happened to be with him. A tough, wiry looking fellow, and another gent whose hair won the race to evacuate his scalp. He glanced at the brandished weapons and figured reaching into his pocket for his knuckles would be cause for some sort of blow to the head.

Murdoch turned to look at Oliver, who merely drawled 'Anyway...' before being spun around and clocked in the face by a fist the size of Montana. Blood splattered across the bar as a tooth knocked against a bottle and rolled across the floor. Someone's going to the dental wing of Medical Pavilion after this.

With hosilities already having been engaged, Murdoch spun around on his bar stool, grabbing his empty beer bottle in the process. Sliding off and planting his feet firmly on the ground, he brought the bottle squarely down upon the head of the wiry fellow, shattering the bottle. He gave a yell of pain and placed a hand on the spot where he had been struck. Murdoch hastily reached into his pocket and slipped on his knuckles, hoping that his drunking buddies would be so bold as to help finish what had been started.

---------------------
Name: Daniel Murdoch, Ph.D
Class: Standard
Gene:
Plasmid(2/6): Telekinesis, X
Physical (2/4): SportBoost, X
Combat (2/4): X, X
Engineer (0/0): X
Weapons: Brass knuckles

[Fine EVE 5/5]
2 First Aid Kits, 5 EVE Hypos
No ammo

It'd happened far too quickly. One minute, the three beasts in front of them had gone on about how they were 'in their spot' and the next minute, Oliver's tooth had been forcibly separated from his mouth and was now disconcertingly sitting a short distance away from Featherston's closed hands. This wasn't going to end well, he could tell, and it would end with either group getting hauled off for charges with Commissioner Sullivan or the hospital. He gulped to himself as Murdoch quickly cracked his bottle over the wiry man's on the left's head with a disgusting cracking noise. The yelled and shot backwards, stumbling over stray stools, as the warm, crimson liquid cascaded down over his face. Featherston didn't think he was down just yet, though. That sure would smart but it wasn't hard enough to make a guy go unconscious...

Featherston had been afraid of that; he was never much one for conflict but now...well, he couldn't very well leave these two to themselves and sneak off, could he? He wasn't a coward. He got up, wobbling a bit and tried to give both Murdoch and Oliver a knowing look. 'Look, as you might've guessed, I'm probably not gonna be the greatest help in the world. Old leg's bad enough...' Hoping that he'd properly conveyed that, he limped forward to the middle one, who'd started scowling at Murdoch and inching forward menacingly, his cohort probably looking even more furious than the leader. Jake tapped the man on the shoulder and the older man whipped around to face him. His face was a mask of pure rage until he looked at the angle Featherston was holding his weight and he bit back a laugh as he nudged the guy beside him.

"Lee, c'mon look at this guy! These two actually got a disabled guy to help them handle us! Ain't this a riot?" The bald man and Lee, determined by Jake to be the one with the beard, sneered and poked him back, "What're you gonna do? Hit us with a cane or something, pops?" Pops. The man was at least his senior by a good ten or fifteen years and he was getting grief for his foot. Jake simply scowled at them and leaned forward, "Ya know what? Still got it, pal."

Making a, in retrospect, a very poor decision Featherston threw back his arm and punched the man in the stomach. The man simply smirked and grabbed Featherston's arm, jerking it down and pressing against the back of Featherston's hand. He yelped in pain as the man's pressure grew tighter. Not smart to punch a stomach like that, he decided. 'Probably Armored Shell, like hitting a damned brick wall...' Lee apparently thought this was hilarious, as he bit out, "Guess he bit off more 'n he can chew, right Steve? You're one of the best brawlers I've ever seen, and that Armored Shell tonic inject ain't a shameful addition either..." So that's what it'd been, as he'd assumed. He grunted to himself, 'Yeah, real tough making your skin so hard you can't damage it. What a wimp...'

So he decided another tactic entirely. He smiled lightly and the bald guy, Steve, was now looking at him rather dumbly, trying to piece together what he was about to do next. He put all of his weight onto his bad leg, and he very nearly fell over himself, he took his good leg and slammed his knee into Lee's groin. Hard. The man let out a pained howl as Featherston felt himself falling...but onto Steve. As the two crashed to the floor with a 'thump!' that he was sure could be heard even down in Hephaestus, he quickly started punching Lee's face, down and down, harder and harder, hoping at any rate to knock the man out (he'd been the burliest of the bunch and probably most threatening-looking, after all). 'Armored Shell's gonna make this a whole hell of a lot harder though...'

He just hoped that Oliver could pull himself together before he or Murdoch was outnumbered.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Name: Jake Featherston
Class: Standard
Gene Modifications:
Plasmid Account (2/6): X, X
Physical Account (2/4): SportBoost, Acrobat
Combat Tonics: (2/4): Security Evasion, X
Engineering Tonics: (0/0): Locked (not an engineer/hacker)
Weapon: None

[Fine EVE 5/5]
No weapon at the moment
ADAM hypo needle, 3 first aid kits, 3 EVE hypos, 1 pack of Cigarettes, $100 Rapture dollars
No ammo