Nobody
[Let's see. Mask? How'ya doin' today?]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 3, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Gina
Somewhere in the stretch of shopping and drinking that is Federal, there's a little hole-in-the-wall bar. It's got a tin ceiling and a copper bar and all the light - what of it exists - is warm and glowing. The place looks like it was pulled from another time, and so do many of the people therein. At a corner of this gorgeous hammered copper bar is a thirty-something (though it's often hard to tell, isn't it?) Asian woman drinking something that smells of vodka, with an empty in front of her - so this is at least her second.
Across from her, in her peripheral view, is an upright piano - antique, and finished to compliment the interior of the bar - to be a secondary focal point, in fact. It's a pretty place for a pretty girl, and a bunch of similarly heavy drinkers.
Nobody
[Play something, Hudson!]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )
Nobody
[Er, plus one more.]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (3) ( fail )
Nobody
Nobody is at the piano. Nobody Special, Nobody You'd Look At Twice, Nobody You Know Yet, (and if you Knew 'Im, Maybe Nobody You'd Wanna Know. Sewer-Rat, Jack of Rats, Jack of Cats and Ill-Luck and Curses, Jack of the Curse, that's his name, just Jack. But we'll call him Nobody because Nobody is what he wears) although he's wearing somebody's face. The man at the piano could be mistaken for Arabic, Jewish, Indian, Sicilian, Persian, but the truth is This Face had family in Sweden and Lebanon and Barcelona and there was a commingling, melting pot ethnicity. He has an everyman look to him, you see.
Not ugly, not attractive, bland and average, shorter than average, and you'd say he had good eyes but you'd be guessing if you said they were brown, and you'd say he had dark hair, but who cares if it's black or brown, it's just dark, cork-screw curled, and he's got a crooked tooth like he couldn't afford braces when he was younger, and he's dressed in pretty standard blue collar fare, jeans and sturdy shoes and hold your horses be amazed, a shirt.
His fingers are knowledgable as they ply the ivory keys needle and thread thread and needle in and out out and in over and under and that's how you draw thunder out of this Day-relic thing, but his honeyed voice is silent in his chest. The tune he plays first is a jazzy version of Mad Tom of Bedlam, and when that's done he plays Queen's Don't Stop Me Now, and when that's done he has to think about it for a moment.
[Play it again, Sam.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6, 8) ( success x 4 )
Gina
Gina is, for the most part, indifferent to the ambient noise. She half-watches whatever game is on with mild interest, and occasionally glances towards the guy playing piano with similarly mild interest; it's rare that she gets both a sporting event of some sort and a concert. So there she sits in her just-out-of-work best - slacks, tucked in button-down shirt, belt, badge still on its lanyard around her neck. The game ends, she cheers, and then all of her attention that isn't on her drink moves to the man at the piano and the music he makes.
He - whoever he is - pauses and she claps politely, amused and appreciative, and yes, sips her drink. It's a maintaining sort of night, not a go for the big buzz one, and so while she's clearly under the influence, she's not hammered.
"Encore," she offers, and she's not the only one - but she is the closest.
Nobody
"What'll it be?" - he says, to Gina, picking her out of the crowd perhaps for no reason other than she's nearest. Nobody's Jack is pleasant to listen to. He's got a voice. There are those who know him well and might not recognize it now, but the inherent quality remains the same; resonance, skill, all that.
Gina
"When Sunny Gets Blue," comes easily enough, and it's back to jazz standards then, at least for a few minutes. And she's pleased enough to sing along quietly in her smoke-and-drink rasped alto, not particularly skilled or trained, but not bad either. Obviously, she doesn't pitch herself to be heard, but . . . well. It's not that crowded, here, and whatever came on after the game is on low. Every now and then, she can be heard.
Nobody
[Hmm. Play it again? Perhaps with Singing, in which case Specialty.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )
Nobody
[Woo, 5 suxx.]
Nobody
He considers, gaze going distant like he's gotta When Sunny Gets Blue from the air. The fingers of the right-hand chase down the melody, then lose it. Then find it again: all part've the show, folks, all part've the show - snake-oil salesman as interpreted by a pianist who actually is a good performer. He really is, too. He doesn't play like he's played for years, but he certainly has. Decades. Centuries, almost, huh? And there are certain days every year he has to wear the same groove out, play the same song, or it feels wrong; it feels like he has misplaced a breadcrumb. He knows these breadcrumbs don't matter, but they feel like they do.
The point, ladies and gentlemen, is he plays well: wistful, swoopy, something that hits a sweet pang, something that goes plaintive. His eyes aren't closed, but his straight and long [Egyptian] lashes are low. When he starts to sing, honey-tongued crooner, World War I Orpheus, it's all there, touched alternately with what sounds like sincere yearning and then hopeful melancholy. He is a practiced pianist, but he's always been a singer- and right now, the performance fills the air like smoke. He winks once at Gina, singing in her smoke-and-drink rasped alto, and runs through the whole thing twice, ends with a high-tinkling little question-of-a-not-song.
And because he is, or was, a performer once, he knows when it's a good time to make his exit.
So Jack-of-Nobodies gets up from the piano bench, relinquishing it to somebody else or relinquishing the bar to the jukebox instead, and rubbing his fingers heads for the edge of the hammered copper bar itself, and his duet-partner.
Gina
Jack-of-Nobodies winks at Gina and she, all amusement and vodka-flush, winks back; it's a pleasure, this surprising turn of events, and an unaccustomed one at that. The medical examiner is far from used to things going well. So often is she up to her elbows in cadavers that life is often more surprising than death.
At any rate, the pianist heads her way, and she gives him a nod and a worn-at-the-edges smile. "Nice job," she says and it's pleasantry that could well be taken as an opening. Maybe it even is, but it's never easy to tell with her.
Nobody
There're a few things about death the medical examiner might find surprising as well, but Jack isn't telling. He's wearing a Mask and he's also a supporter of the Masquerade. His skin's cold tonight but there's a choice that has to be made sometimes between warmth and stealing warmth: just one more night between. He's fine, preying on mortals; he understands the necessity, but he doesn't enjoy it. He doesn't always enjoy it. He enjoys the challenge, sometimes. He prefers to get them when they're sleeping -- to be a cauchemar: to give them pleasant dreams when he's stealing. The point is he's cold, and death's difficult, but music is lively, and he's a lively unliving fellow, this Mask Jack's wearing, and the pianist does take vodka-flushed wink and nice job as an opening to grin.
He's still average, but this is probably how people describe This Jack if they have to: he had a nice smile.
"Thanks. Haven't thought about Nat King Cole for a while and I thought my fingers might've forgotten; good thing you were here to remind me of the melody. Name's Hudson."
Gina
"First or last?" It's asked with a raised eyebrow and amusement - not that it really matters, mind, but she's curious. And then, regardless of the answer (or if she gets one), she adds, "Gina. And no one should forget about Nat King Cole - that's inexcusable. Clearly, you should break those albums out sometime soon."
She sips her drink, almost gone now, and the bar tender's there with another quickly enough; he knows who to keep watered, here, and that badge still falling down around her sternum gives reason enough for it to be her. Even if she is only an ME, it's always a good course of action to keep the cops in one's bar happy.
"I don't think I've ever seen you play here before. Must be my lucky night."
Nobody
First or last?
"Both. Last in the signature, but first I answer to."
The bartender comes by with another drink for Gina, sipping vodka like she enjoys the burn of it, and Hudson leans his forearms on the bar and orders an old-fashioned cocktail that fits the air this hole-in-the-wall tries for with its beaten-copper and its antique-piano and its diminished Tuesday night clientele. But Hudson is a perceptive thing, and maybe Gina just naturally thinks that he's checking her out, because he does look at her badge when the bartender comes over, before he makes his own order.
He chuckles, easily. "I'm chastised; but only if you admit knowledge of Fats Waller and Ain't Misbehavin'. If you don't, our inexcusabilities will cancel one another out."
She doesn't think she's seen him play here before. This smile doesn't show teeth; it's just something that stays on his face, animating him. He could be shy and you'd never know it. There's a certain snap-crackle of consideration when he glances back at the piano.
"So you believe in luck huh?" His tone says why-not-talk-about-this-when-drunk; philosophers are always in the drink. "Philosophy inspired by your daily grind?"
Gina
Gina does not, in fact, assume he's checking her out - here the only thing that stops her from being one of the guys is the fact that she has boobs. No one here, in her neighborhood, where she lives and everyone knows what she does, looks at her as anything other than the cop she is - and never mind that she's a reasonably good looking one. She gives of an aura of unavailbility, even when she's being pleasant.
Which she isn't always, but then this Hudson guy has no reason to know that.
"I actually do know Fats Waller and Ain't Misbehavin'. My dad's a jazz hound, and a vinyl purist." It's amused, the smirk that goes with it. And sure, she doesn't go home often (or at all, these days), but she still has fond memory of listening to those records at all points in her childhood. "How about Abbey Lincoln and Let Up?"
Nobody
[Do-doo. Singing, so specialty? Why not?]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Nobody
[Woo, another 5. I'm amused to see 10s when he actually sings! Hah.]
Nobody
"When will trouble let up?" Hudson sings by way of answer, with a waggle of eyebrows. The not-very-tall man's eyebrows are thick and tapering. "This heartache is dragging me do-own," and he's deep-voiced, anyway, This Face, This Mask, with a remarkable range for his natural speaking register, but it gets all velvety and somber, all the way to "Frustrations keep bringing me down." End it with a sigh, and then: "Are you a jazz hound and a vinyl purist too? Bill Evans or Chick Corea?"
Gina
"Pearl Bailey and Sheila Jordan?" This comes by way of an answer, with smug amusement. And then, "I do love the vinyl sound, yeah - the cracks and pops, the needle scratches . . . it evokes something special, something sensual, not just in the sexy way. But I'm not a purist, no. It's always good to meet a fellow enthusiast, though."
Nobody
He laughs at her smug amused; he seems amused himself, Hudson, the edge of the amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Why shucks, I can listen to Pearl longer, but Sheila's a good palate cleanser," he says, after considering their voices. "I just can't listen to her too often, I start to get antsy. Too much sediment, not enough sentiment. And it is good to meet a fellow enthusiast."
He sounds perfectly sincere. Music's an old passion (an old tool) that he doesn't indulge in as often as he'd like. It's useful, but it's not part and parcel of the dark kingdoms, and it's not really bread-crumbs; it's a skill, but beside the point. Gina's not in the kingdoms herself, and it's always mortals Jack gets to indulge this side of himself with: little gossamer-threads from one side of the quest to the other. These places where the Side by Side Worlds meet.
"What brings you here of all the places in all the world, Gina? You come here often?"
Nobody
ooc: Er. He laughs at her smug amusement, even.
Gina
The bartender snorts as he slides a glass of water Gina's way - he knows the routine of the day, it seems, but doesn't answer for her - and Gina rolls her eyes his way and says, "It's a good thing you're not within reach, Sung-jin." But it's playful banter, really - no malice in it at all. And back to Nobody, here - "Yeah, I live in the neighborhood. This place is convenient."
There's no exact location given, of course, and goodness knows there are enough people of Asian descent in this stretch of Denver - for most people, she'd still be difficult to find. "What about you, you a local?"
Nobody
The bartender's snort gets the beginning of a curious look even as the pretty asian medical examiner is rolling her eyes.
"I moved to Denver a few years back, and I'm still trying to find all its hidey-holes," Jack says. "Especially where there's a piano I can play. Don't have the space for one at home and I don't like keyboards."
Gina
"With good reason. Keyboards are soulless monsters best used by prog rock bands and five-year-olds. Not that I can play piano or keyboard, mind, but the sound. Keyboards are a shitty imitation. As for hidey-holes, this one is the best on Federal, but there are little gems all over town." She speaks with the voice of experience, and given the way she's sucking down the vodka (and Sung-jin's reaction to his question) there's probably a good reason for that. "There's a great piano bar over on 16th Street, but it's super crowded and has a cover Friday and Saturday nights."
Nobody
[Jack: I am going to talk you into showing me some of these places, potentially useful police-connected human contact. MANIPULATION ACTIVATION. + Subterfuge, I guess? Specialty: Honeyed Words.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )
Nobody
[O_O]
Gina
[HOLY SHIT I GUESS THAT WORKED]
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