WHAT IF - Leo, Illyana, Ryan, Razvan, Dazzler, Jean
The Stork Room. Infamous Speakeasy in New York City. Lights, music, laughter, smoke. Good looking men and even better looking women. This is the Young Generation. Freedom from corsets and authority makes the atmosphere electric. But you have to get in here first. The door in is guarded by a bellman who demands a password, and any sign of the bulls will close the place down fighter and tighter than a piker's purse.
December 3, 1921. Prohibition has declared the Country a dry one. Technically. God, you gotta love those loopholes. The Stork Room does. Tonight looks to be whoopee. The giggle water arrived without a hitch earlier in the day, so there's no artificial shortage tonight. A couple of politicians have shown up, slappin' hands with old pals, and dolls on their arms. The band is mellow, but there's an undercurrent that just screams they're gonna go live once their singer is on. She's a Sheba.
Oh, and is she /ever/ a Sheba. She goes by Dazzler here, though, or maybe just Dazz -- rhymes with Jazz, she tells the customers with a slow-dropped wink and a smile. And do you know how she likes her jazz? /Hot/. Blonde hair short and marcel waved, she slinks out onto the stage in a dress sheer and sparkly, with fringes that sway and slap at her legs as she walks. She waves a few fingers at some customers who had the forethought to sit close where the view is nice, and the band strikes up to a faster beat.
Among all the dolls there, Illyana looks the most like she's dressed up in her older sister's clothes. The dress looks good on her, flat chest and long legs, but she keeps rubbing one of the beads on her necklace against her lips, clearly ill at ease, and keeps patting her blond bob like the style is new. She's not used to it all!
Harry Colombo, one of /those/ Colombos enters, a broad smile plastered on his shiny face and immediately makes his way to Fred Shanks' table. Fred is a personal assitant to the Mayor (some say /real/ personal, wink wink, despite the dark haired woman sitting by his side and puffing on a long-stemmed cigarette). While he talks, though, his eyes continue to scan the crowd.
Dressed in a casual suit that hangs carelessly on his frame, Ryan doesn't /look/ like he's a part of the Sheldon gang, but word carries through town that the Sheldon boys won't go to a meet up without him. His expensive suit hangs off his spare frame, and white spats contrast with the black of shined shoes. He's not here for the crowd, though. Here's here for the alcohol. And he don't call it "giggle water," neither. He finds a table and wastes no time telling the staff what he wants.
Bob is the hairstyle of choice, wether so short it's nearly a shave and a curl, or long enough to tickle the jawline. There's nothing so gauche as having your name announced going on, but somehow, when certain people arrive, the building knows about it. Blonde, fringed dress, pretty-- She's got all the requirements. But there is something a little /more/ about the newest arrival. Emma Frost oozes confidence from the tip of the furred ruffle rising along the neckline of her dress to the buckles on her high-heeled shoes. Smoke curls lazily from the cigarette in her hand and she nods off her companion, some swell sap that's here just to put his jacket down so she won't step in a puddle. She tosses a glance at the set's up beat and nods approval.
Illyana breaks into a smile, and heads for Emma. She has her own cigarette, but unlit, like she's waiting shyly for some swell guy to offer. "The music!" she gushes. The alcohol is incidental to this doll, it seems.
Quite inconspiciously, Razvan wanders into the main room from the back of the bar, conversing softly with someone, seemingly about some shipment. He makes elaborate gestures with his arms, and his eyebrows are scrunched up in either apprehension or the beginnings of annoyance. He's wearing a fedora, that's cocked somewhat sideways, and his suit is a dark blue, with the ever-so-thin pinstripes running up and down the fabric. Jabbing his finger into his palm a few more times, the word 'money' flies about before they seem to reach an agreement and he turns finally to the room. Sitting down at the bar, he fishes into his suit pocket for a smoke.
With the band off to a running start, bass fiddle pounding, Dazz smiles at the crowd and shimmies along to it, the fringe of her dress always whirling and never still. Her dancing is overtly suggestive, and she sings with a husky voice, her eyes skimming the crowd for anybody who might look like they want to be a sugar daddy for a while.
"Running wild, lost control,
Running wild, mighty bold,
Feeling gay, reckless too,
Can't remind all the time, never blue.
Always going, don't know where,
Always showin' I don't care.
Don't love nobody, it's not worthwhile,
All alone, running wild!""
Emma moves into the room, the edges of her fringed hem swinging about and offering glimpses of a well-toned knee above the roll of her stockings. She tosses her clutch at a table and turns around to fend off a offer of a drink from one of the bolder, and less desirable, patrons. Harry, though, finds who he was looking for and starts to make his way across the room. Illyana beats him to it. "Illyana," Emma greets, capturing the younger woman's hands in hers and giving her a cheek to cheek kissing motion. "Don't you look just ducky. The music should be very fine." She raises her voice to be heard over the noise.
The cat's meow -- the bee's knee's -- a doll, a hot tomato, the it Jane -- whatever you want to call her, Elisabeth Braddock enters the Stork Room, following behind Emma and slipping through the cracks of a few keen cats. Her fitted violet dress does its job to boost her firm breasts high and keep the boys in charge low enough to be stepped on. She's here to have fun today. A pull of a jacket reveals her twenties ensemble further, it fit for a purple berry much like herself, and she hopes the mouths of those keen cats will overflow to get her a drink or two. Betsy stands at the entrance to observe the Juice Joint, noting new and familiar faces.
Illyana returns the cheek kissing gesture with enthusiasum. "Maybe you can introduce me to someone," she says hopefully, casting her eyes around the place. She nods her head along to the music.
Harry peels off at finding his target interrupted, and moves to stand by the stage. A few couples are already swinging across the small dance floor, barely managing to miss each other. He gives Dazz a long, interested look. Hey, baby.
Ryan is here for the booze, yes. But he's also here to watch the people. (And he's heard Sherman's moll has been stepping out on him, so he's keeping an eye out for her when he thinks about it.) He tips back a drink and leans back in his chair, turning his back to the band so as to better keep an eye on the interest. His eyes linger briefly on Illyana and Emma, and then flick to Betsy with interest. There's a lot in this place to keep a man's eyes occupied, isn't there?
Razvan finds a cigar and hums at it, finding it half smoked all ready. Why does he have a half-smoked....? Oh, right. Flicking a lighter open, he fires the cigar before unleashing a mist of blue-grey smoke to mingle with the larger clouds above his head. He's either not comfortable here, or he's simply still frustrated over whatever happened in the back room, as he glances around with eyebrows still straining to meet over his nose. The bartender sets a shot of something beside his hand, his elbow up on the varnished wood counter. Watching Dazzler carefully, he only half-listens to the noise, and concentrates on those pretty, singing lips.
"Of course, darling. We'll find you someone who's not a wet blanket. Need a light?" Emma jerks her chin at the cigarette in the girl's hand and quirks the corners of her painted mouth up as she turns Illyana around and starts to scan the crowd. The interplay between Razvan and his supplier is noted and she steers Illyana away from that direction, and toward the bar. "Drink first. Men later." Her kohl-ringed eyes crinkle, making their blue even brighter. They pass Ryan's table.
Dazzler finishes off her song in style, voice holding out a strong note, and then the band bumps right into another swinging tune, one of the many songs in the Charleston style. "Band's hot tonight, isn't it?" she asks, ostensibly to the crowd, but with her eyes lingering by Harry. "Got a fire lit under 'em. But we won't be done until we see you folks havin' a little more /fun/ here."
Illyana pouts a little. "I do. I thought maybe someone might offer." She gestures her frustration with her cigarette. She covers her mouth with her fingertips, and giggles. "Are you sure I should? I just came for the jazz--" She follows along with Emma, fringe on her dress swinging with each long-limbed step.
"Be more fun with you down here," Harry calls out obligingly.
The music in this particular joint get sly movement of Betsy's neck with her fingers tapping against her clutch unnoticeably. Violet eyes find the familiar more attractive than the new -- although she does give one fly boy (Ryan) a second glance -- and her heels step through the crowd toward Emma and Illyana, following close enough to hear their jabber and meeting them at the opposite end of the bar. "Men are always first, Emma," Betsy throws in, a look going to Illyana. "Where you think all that forbidden hooch comes from."
Emma pauses by Ryan's side and leans over, tugging Illyana close beside her. "Hey, got a light for my friend here?" she asks, blinking her eyes in a sultry, secretive look before straightening and pulling Illyana in front of her. "Don't burn her though." Razvan garners himself another look. Or maybe it's glass at his elbow. "That's just what you let them think, darling," she answers Betsy's call.
"Think you can do another song without me, fellas?" Dazzler turns and asks the band with laughter in her eyes and voice. The band leader assents with a nod and is rewarded with a blown kiss before Alison slinks down the shairs of the stage to join Harry on the floor. "You look familiar," she tells him with a smile. "You were just at Fred's table, just now, weren't you?"%
Harry, ever the smarmy gallant, steps forward and offers his hand to help her down. He doesn't release her hand when she reaches the floor though. "Yeah. Fred's an okay egg. If you watch your ps and qs around him. Know him?" he asks with the smile of a man who fancies himself a predator.
"Matchless, are ya?" Ryan asks, looking over the pair of blondes. He reaches into his inner suit pocket and pulls out a small matchbook, offering it to Illyana between two fingers. "Trade you for your name, sweetheart."
Picking up the glass, Razvan slugs it back without a flinch. He glances at Emma, then takes a second look as he sets the glass down. He appraises her for a moment, then turns away, puffing at the cigar. He's feeling a little better with a bit of red-eye in him, and he motions for another. The bartender apparently knows him cursorly and chats him up as the illicit liquor finds its way into the glass again. Suddenly, the man from earlier comes from the back and hands him a small envelope, which he shoves into his jacket. The man disappears into the back, leaving him to his shot glass.
"He's a regular," Dazzler shares, making no attempt to pull her hand away. She smiles the smile of a woman who has seen her share of these types of men. "Never tips the waiter. But I'm not the waiter, so what's it to me? And I don't think I've ever seen him dance."
Illyana looks a little disappointed--isn't he going to hold the light out for her? But she takes the matches, holding her cigarette between red lips as she lights it. She doesn't have the trick of handling it gracefully yet, but she tries. "I'm Illyana. What's your name?" She puffs out smoke, in a subtle imitation of Emma.
Two well dressed hoods walk in, wearing black white striped suits with plenty of facial hair. One of them holds the door open, and in comes a keen sheik with plenty of jack wearing a navy blue zoot suit with a large jat and a wear feather in the top. Leonardo Maxwell, a well known gangster with a large brown cigar in his mouth. "Get a wiggle on some hooch, I got eyes for the dame in white." he says as he quickly waves the men off, beginning to approach Emma Frost, of course.
Emma Frost has pulled herself away from the Ryan and Illyana exchange as unobtrusively as possible, gripping Betsy's arm and pulling her away as she goes. Illy's smooth approximation is noted before she turns and moves toward the bar, and Razvan, and his large envelope, and his alcohol. "Got one of those for me? I need to wet my lips before trying the dancefloor," she asks of the loner.
"Always on the level, hun." A brief stint of curiocity aims toward Illyana and Ryan, but only for a second as the scene and music. "You look rather keen today," Betsy says to Emma, "No wonder why--." The pull of her arm cuts the conversation shut, a look of confusion given to Emma. But it comes together over time, eyes affixing on Razvan and then back to everyone else. Violet eyes catch sight of Leonardo as he orders his goons away. Betsy nudges Emma, saying in a whisper, "A cracked hard boiled egg headed this way."
"Illyana?" Ryan leans back in his seat. "Different kinda name than you hear around these parts usually. Ryan Hewitt." His eyes glance back to Emma briefly before returning to Illyana, and he asks, "So you're pals with Miss Frost, are you?"
Razvan cants his head up at Emma, taking the cigar stub from his mouth slowly. Without speaking, he turns from her, motions at the bartender, and hands a shot glass of pale amber liquid to Emma. He leans back against the counter and looks up at her. "Well, I do now," he hums, his voice lightly accented. The cigar goes back to his mouth. Chuckling, he nods. "Are you sure you wanna wet your lips with that? The dancefloor may sway a little, and you might find it dances along with ya." His eyes go up to Leo, eyeing him for a moment, before snapping back up to Emma. "I imagine you can handle it, though. You seem...poised," he says with finality, happy with his choice of words, it appears.
Illyana smooths her bob. "It's Russian. Came out with my brother. Business, you know." She wrinkles her nose at the business part. "He keeps me out of it. I wanted to have a little fun, and Emma said she knew this place--"
"And this is the place to have fun," Ryan agrees with a smile and a tipped-back lean in his chair. "But doll, I gotta tell you -- little bird like you, you'd be better off in a cage. Lotsa cats 'round these parts that wouldn't mind a nibble of you. I'd listen to your brother."
Emma inclines her head to catch Betsy's whisper, then follows her look. Hooboy. Looks like a struggle-buggy bimbo. She turns a bright smile back on Razvan. "I like it best with a little sway." She takes the glass and tosses it back without making face. The glass is fingered coyly for a moment before being handed back. "This is Betsy Braddock and my name's Emma." And if you don't know her last name, well... who really cares.
"I have claws," Illyana says with a shy smile, flexing her fingers teasingly. She drags on her cigarette. "Are you one of them?"
Leonardo walks up to Betsy and Emma, giving them both a hard boiled grin as he removes the cigar with his index and thumb. "I'm stuck on you two dolls tonight, why don't ya come over and rest your gams over at my table? On me, of course." he offers before placing the cigar back into his mouth. He eyes Razvan, not saying anything to the man, it's just one of those 'Yeah, ya gonna do somethin' about it?' looks.
Jean isn't quite the same style of hepcat as the one that's just sauntered in, but with flapper dress buried somewhere within the wrappings of a fox fur coat, and a bright auburn bob peeping out beneath a cloche hat settled just-so it's no Mrs. Grundy that's turned up. Miss Jean Grey, registered nurse has arrived alone, and with a high colour to her cheeks speaking of some hapless flat tire left abandoned hat in hand out in the naked City. "I swear, if there's a drugstore cowboy left in this town that I haven't had stuck on me, then my ol' dapper's a deb," she informs the bartender with a toss of her head.
Ryan catches at Illyana's hand as she flexes her fingers, to take a good look at her fingertips. "I've seen sharper claws," he says with a smirk. "But those'll do ya if you can use 'em. And I'm not here for the birds. I'm here for the booze." He tips up his glass of scotch in a salute. "Need some?"
The lights go out, and seconds later, so does the music. Some of those familiar with the scene jump to their feet, hyper-alert and looking for the nearest exit. Those not so aware either gape or scream.
"I could dib my bill," Illyana says after a moment of consideration, not withdrawing her hand immediately. "Just a small one." Then the lights go out, and Illyana is one of those who stands gaping, totally at a loss.
Razvan whistles softly as Emma downs the glass. "You know your way about the liquor, apparently." He offers a smile and a nod to Betsy. Taking the glass back, he sets it on the counter. "I'm Raz. I assume yer both out to paint the town red, hm? A fine place to do it in, here. Got the a new shipment of good strong stuff, so you'll..." He pauses as he looks up at Leo. "Hm, an interrupter, fantastic. Dry up, pal, the dame and I were having a chat." Then, the lights go out, and everything is dark.
A smile and quite suggestive wink is given to Razvan at Betsy's introduction, a flip of violet strands giving a perfect view of the cat. "And who's Daddy would you be tonight?" she asks. Only a small gander goes to Leo before darkness hovers around the Juice Joint. A fit of fear and anger slowly boil. "Who the killjoy 'round this place?!"
Emma doesn't scream. "Bulls!" she exclaims into the dark, putting word to what those more experienced already know. Police raid on an illegal gin house. Emma reaches out to grab the hand nearest her.
Ryan slides the glass into Illyana's hand just before the lights go out, and he freezes. "Looks like the bulls are at the door," he says, rising to his feet in the darkness, squinting to try and scan the best exit. "I'm sure you'll excuse me, but that's my cue to make myself scarce."
"Aw, -applesauce-," comes from Jean in the darkness near Emma. "This is just the crown to my night." As she shifts a little bit in the quiet, there's an audible and suspicious gurgle of liquid somewhere in the depths of her coat.
"Wait!" Illyana protests. She sips at the drink before setting the glass down on the table, and moving after Ryan. "Where's Emma?" A doll needs someone to hold onto in the darkness, and Ryan is nearest, so she puts out her hand.
When a panic button is hit, all electricity goes out, shutting off access to the highly illegal alcohol stored in various nooks and crannies around the building. It makes escaping a little more difficult on patrons caught between back doors and police, but it saves the valuable liquid investment from seizure. "Freeze!" The police kick through the second door, hidden cleaverly behind a bookcase in the small second hand bookstore front for the speak easy.
"Frost? The bulls can't touch her," Ryan says, near contemptuously. He takes Illyana's hand with a slight sigh of frustration and starts pushing through the crowds by the exits. "Family's pulling too many strings. Wherever she is, she don't mind. Me? I'm not wasting a favor from the Sherman boys on getting nabbed at some speakeasy what wasn't theirs." As the police push through the door, he sighs and curses under his breath, stepping just behind Illyana and tipping his hat low over his eyes.
A feminine touch is felt on another's feminine fingers: Betsy's fingers. "You might be dolled up, Emma, but I'm a Big Six kind of gal," she advises jokingly.
Razvan mutters a foreign curse as he finally realizes what's going on. This is not oppurtune for him. He has the cash though, and the shipment will...probably be traced back to him. He curses vividly again. "Gotta make that stuff disappear," he mutters, trying not to worry. "Just gotta..." he pauses, then turns, deciding to be chilvalrous. "Say, you gals need a way out? Think there's a way into the next building in the back." He reaches out for someone to grasp, hoping rather distantly he won't touch anything inappropriately. Then, the police. "Well ain't /that/ keen," he growls. "They covered that door."
Leonardo reaches out for a feminine hand, the guys can go up the river for all he cares. He has no idea who he grabs, but quickly tries to remember if he spotted a back exit. "We're gonna be on the lam all night, I'm not stickin' around to get the pinch, come on." Could this be a train of Leo + Emma + Betsy?
+ Razvan?
"Give it to me," Emma suggests covertly into the din, taking Betsy's hand in one, but leaning toward Razvan, and letting him capture her other hand. "Can't prove it's not mine if they find it on me." Leo's words tug faintly at her attention.
Illyana may not be much to hide behind for Ryan, but she seems a wise enough gal to be distracting for the police, standing right in front of him and looking wide-eyed and innocent. Besides, she's with Emma! She brings her cigarette to her lips and tries to look nonchalant.
"Miss Frost, this might be a poor time for a business proposition, but let me bend your ear a minute," murmurs Jean, who, independent gal that she is, is completely without a hand to hold. "How would it catch your fancy to know that I've got a line on some medicinal liquor permits?" Which will, alas, probably not fly to explain away the four bottles hidden in her coat right -now-.
Razvan grips the womanly digits and doesn't let go. He glances around, eyes distant in the dull glow of his cigar's ember. "Where to go, where to go," he hums. He'd get off a lot faster by his lonesome, but that wouldn't be right. He shoots a disgusted look at Leo, probably missed totally in the dark. Then, he hears Jean's voice. "Listen, we gotta scram. Tell your business friend she can come along and tell you on the way," he speaks just over the noise.
A few lights flicker back on, and street light from outside creeps in through the now open set of doors. The cops seem to be concentrated in that general direction, but a plain clothes Dick casually rises from a corner table and pulls out a leather wallet after extinguishing a cigar into his own cup of 'tea.' "Unless you got them tucked into your panties, darling, make an appointment," Emma calls out over her shoulder and tugs on Razvan's hand. "Give me the envelope," she insists urgently.
The pulling continues again and Betsy follows, a bout of that previous fear rising somewhat. She hears the words of Razvan very faintly in all the hubbub, but draws the picture clear in mind. Emma's words speak volumes but a wing-girl needs to get one in as well. "Listen, dame," Betsy says to Jean, "this is not the time or place to be worried about dough. Now dry up or start moving your gams!"
"Yeah, just keep lookin' real sweet and innocent, there," Ryan encourages Illyana under his breath. "They got a lotta folks to haul in tonight -- just keep your head low and we'll get lost in the shuffle. Plenty of folks more interesting than us here -- they'll go after the ones that panic, first." He shuffles back a few more steps, seeking out the shadows.
Razvan blinks at her. "The envelope?" He scrutinizes her for a moment. "What're you talking about? Ya know how much booze I'd have to sell to get this much dough again?" His eyes search her face, then shakes his head. It doesn't seem there's much choice now. Maybe she's able to do something with it that he can't. "How do I know yer on the level?"
"Bet my brothers could get me out of any jam," Illyana says, voice nowhere near as nonchalant as she's trying to appear. "The Rasputins mean anything to you?" Her hand shakes a little as she takes the next drag on her cigarette, talking only a little over her shoulder, not really looking at Ryan.
Leonardo's hand unknowingly goes for Jean's, and if he grabs her or not, he scrams after the Emma + Betsy + Razvan trio's voices. "Wet hoods can't even keep up, keep up, moll." he says to possibly Jean, claiming any woman he's touching is /his/.
"Oh, let the big dog do her own barking, chickie," is Jean's kindly suggestion to Betsy. "Besides, she's plenty interested in the dough herself." A shuffle in the dark, and a rolled piece of paper with an official feel to it transfers itself from a coat pocket to be dropped down the front of Emma's dress. "Call this a freebie. You've got chronic bronchitis, and give me a holler if you want more." she calls, as a strong hand closes around hers, and she's towed away, giving a bright smile to her potential way out. "Hi there, Jimmy. You got a plan to scram?"
"Rasputins?" Ryan's eyebrows raise. "Little bird, I've heard rumors. But it's always best to stay outta the jam in the first place. I tell you what -- I think a Rasputin favor might do me better than hangin' on to all the Sherman favors I'm buildin' up. I'll distract the bulls over there and you can just slip outta that side door they're while they're dealin' with me. And then don't forget to mention Ryan Hewitt to your brothers, will you?"
"Look, if they find it on you, you /know/ it's going to get filched. If they find it on /me/..." Pocket change. Petty cash. He doesn't have a lot of luck, and the bulls are breathing down their neck. "Find your own way out and take the chance, or--" The rest of her comment is bitten off by the arrival of paper down her dress. She looks after the Leo and Jean pair in the gloom and plucks the permit from its nesting place. "/Swell/."
Razvan grunts fiercely and yanks the envelope out of his jacket. "Looks like everyone's giving you plenty of paper," he mutters, holding the envelope against her stomach with his free hand. "I don't trust you, but I got a better chance of getting out with this on you. So, what're we doin'?" His eyes shift back and forth, getting more nervous. "I assume yer a regular here. There's gotta be a way out."
"It's a deal," Illyana agrees. She hesitates a moment, and then goes up on her toes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she slips away toward that side door.
Emma takes the envelope and gives him a wink before lifting her skirt to tug the envelope into a garter. "Get ready to play nursemaid, Betsy, darling," Emma murmurs into the dark, steps forward, wraps her arms around Razvan's neck, and /collapses/ into a coughing fit. "Oh. I shouldn't have come out tonight. My bronchitis. I need to lay down."
Ryan smiles at that kiss to the cheek, a smug little expression. "Stay in your cage, next time, Birdie," he says as she slips away. He then tips his hat forward and whistles juantily as he approaches the cops by that side door, letting his feet sway with a little drunkenness he does not feel, and greets them exuberantly. "Heya, fellas! Ralph and all the gang from Southwest wanna send you their /fondest/ regards."
Leonardo reaches into the jacket of his suit, then pulls out a tommy gun and aims it behind him, sure to keep Jean out of the line of fire, and remembers Betsy and Emma are in front of him. "Gonna put down some bulls without splatterin' the tomatos. Get down!" he suddenly yells, then fires his gun off at where he remembers the door being after a few seconds. Ryan should take heed, and /get down/!
"Are you off your rocker, mister?!?" Jean was -not- expecting a tommy gun, apparently. "Jesus H. Murphy, you're nuttier than a fruitcake!" It must be noted that this medical assessment of Leo's sanity is taking place from safely behind the bar, where a thump and a tinkling smash indicate that one of the illegal passengers of the fox fur coat has just met an untimely end.
"Ralph?" Ryan asks, whirling at the sound of gunfire nearby, and then his eyes widen. /Oh/. Not Ralph or any of his boys. He drops to the floor, like any sensible gangster caught in somebody else's crossfire, and starts army-crawling out of the way, staying low and sending a quiet stream of curses through gritted teeth.
Razvan loks at Emma curiously, then his eyes widen as she coughs on him. He staggers and grabs her waist to steady her. It takes him several seconds to figure out the ruse, then frowns. "You think that's gonna--" He is promptly interrupted by Tommy gun fire. "Holy--!" the rest is again drowned out. "Is that man crazy?" He grabs then and tugs them towards the back of the bar.
Kind suggestion or not, that particular owl gets an unfriendly look. "Dumb Dora," Betsy says as the woman gets pulled away after making a bargain. The trio train continues and Betsy eyes the bulls with hesitation. Her focus shifts at familiar words, and with no time to process the information she catches the /collapsing/ woman. "--ugh. Lay off the sinkers next time." And then the nurse inside of her kicks in: "MOVE IT! This gal got the Heebie-Jeebies from a bell bottom, and it's--" Gun shots. Betsy hits the floor next to Emma. "That cracked boiled egg of yours is off his rocker, Emma!"
Gunfire barks back, along with shouts and screams and shattering glass. Emma's second sag becomes a lot more realistic, and heavy. Something wet and sticky spreads out from her shoulder.
"I ain't goofy, just burnin' some powder and tryin' ta hit a buzzer in the dark. Come on coppers, throw some lead!" Leonardo yells while laughing with the cigar firmly planted inbetween his teeth, releasing Jean to move his tommy gun slowly to the left and right. When he runs out of bullets, he feels for a table and turns it over, hiding behind it to reload. "My edge is just startin'."
Razvan hisses at the sight of blood. Tonight suddenly got deadly serious. He motions for Betsy to help him pull her behind the bar. Glass shatters and pops, and he pulls at them. Ducking down, he leans against the bar. "Where's she hit?" he shouts over the ratta-tat-tat sounds. "Is it bad?" He's speaking mostly to Betsy.
These days, a man's got to know how to pick his battles. And Ryan knows that this one ain't his. As soon as he's crawled out of the line of gunfire, he is up and running. (The cops are distracted, too busy shooting back at Leo to arrest a second-rate gangster.) The night outside is dark, and he slips off into the shadows.
Jean has got herself a patch of ground, and, any medical duties aside, she's holding it until the bullets stop whizzing. While she's down behind the bar seems as good a time as any to divest herself of her remaining giggle juice, enriching the establishment to the tune of three bottles of good Canadian whiskey. Oh, the tragedy of life. "Aw, applesauce," she moans again, flinching even flatter against the flooras a hail of misfire from one side or another goes singing through the upper half of the bar. "I shoulda just stayed at the pictures..."
"AhhhHHH!" The sight of blood is not welcome in the life of Betsy Braddock. In fact, she loses her grip on Emma's body and leaves her frame for Razvan to handle -- and then she notices the crimson liquid flow onto the ivory curves of her dress. Her glad rags never had a chance. "I think it's her shoulder," she offers him, the scene becoming a little too much to handle. "I don't know! Do I look like doc' Jane or somethin'?!"
Leonardo has gotten himself in deep, but he's reloaded and suddenly stands to fire at the lights from the cops' guns, ducking and strafing, getting closer and closer. More bullets fly, Leo gets one in the leg, then in the stomach, but he races forward. "I'm gonna kick off squirtin' metal!" he declares, running right up to an officer and placing the gun to the guy's head with a blissful smile, but before he can fire the other cops begin pouring their bullets into him, driving him back on to a table as his tommy gun wildly fires at the ceiling. Finally, with the last of his bullets, he accidentally shoots down a chandelier, which falls directly on to his body and delivers the final blow.
Razvan isn't in the best shape himself. "Lunatics, maniacs, what're they doin'?" He grabs a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind Emma and hands it Betsy. "Here, take a slug and quiet down before they decide you're the next target." The chandelier and shots drown out the rest of what he's saying as he rips off a sleeve of his shirt and presses it against Emma's shoulder. "If she tries to wake up, hold her still."
The gun fire shocks Betsy's body even though she is safe below the bar. Bam! BAm! BAM! Her body shakes and convulses at hearing the metal fly from the belly of more metal. When the whiskey bottle is handed to her, it falls out of her grasp to join the sound of broken glass behind her. It invokes a subtle curiocity, though, and violet hair can be seen rising from the bartop slowly. Betsy is shaking, scared -- for her life and that of Emma. She just wants to have fun, but this, clearly, is not fun. Razvan's voice hits her again. Her voice is shaky, "We're going to beat the bullet."
Glancing over the edge of the counter, Raz quickly ducks back down as sporadic fire echoes. Something shatters, then again. Gripping another bottle, he doused some on Emma's shoulder, trying to clean it with his torn sleeve. He doesn't know what he's doing at all. Drinking swiftly, he holds the new bottle out to Betsy. "Well, what do you suggest we do?" He assumes as soon as the Leo is taken down, the cops will be slacking off their own fire, so he sits tight, waded fabric pressed against the angry red wound. "They should stop soon, hopefully."
"We're gonna start movin' our gabs. That's what we're gonna do." Her answer follows a similar look to the bulls again, and then to an exit where others are escaping. "Come on. Emma'll be fine. Her dough will cover her," Betsy offers.
Razvan snorts softly, then shrugs. Tying the sleeve around Emma's shoulder, he pauses. He wants his own dough back. But, he's not entirely sure how he's gonna get it. Pausing, his fingers twitch at the hem of her dress, then pull back and drop. He's not gonna do that. Glancing at Betsy, he nods. "I'm followin' you, bearcat."
Betsy watches as he makes his way into Emma's dress, eyes wide. "What're you--?" And then she remembers, a look going to the exit again, and then back to Razvan. "Just 'cause a gal can vote don't mean she's going first. I'm following you, actually."
Razvan mutters something under his breath, grasps for her arm, and leaves Emma. Ducking and weaving, he heads for the nearest exit and bursts out into the night. Finally looking back to see if Betsy followed, he jerks his head as a cop glances up at them and begins to walk towards them. "C'mon. I don't feel like spending the night in the clink just 'cause I was at a shootin'. Got a place in mind? Or do I have to pry up a sewer cover?"
Indeed Betsy follows, close and not missing a step. When the cop is seen heading towards the duo, her instincts kick into high gear. "Stop jabberin'! Just run!"
"Pushy dame," murmurs Raz, but takes the advice. He heads off very swiftly, and is swallowed by the night streets several hundred dollars and a sleeve short. Not his night.
What if we were all speakeasy bunnies?