thefolder | It's Film Noir see~

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It's Film Noir see~

Who: Jinx, Noir and Open to all
What: Film Noir has settled on the city
Where: The Digital Dive Bar
When: Sunday Evening

The world is made up of shades of black, white and grey.

Figuratively speaking, it's difficult at times to see where right and wrong lay as shadows of selfish motives and sinful opportunities present themselves and weaken even the most pure hearted. The shades of grey can lead them astray and turn you about till you can't even recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

Also literally. As night fell upon the city the very color seemed to drain from the world and the clothing and lingo seemed to change to match.

The Digital Dive Bar was a seedy little joint on the north end of Terminal Tokyo, located in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty and adjacent to the Crest of Desire District.

It was the kind of shady bar where you could go to forget yourself for a few hours. Less reputable Digimon liked to gather here and drink away their problems. Some night this gathering of reprobates and rouges was downright cheery.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

A fog of cigar smoke filled the air above their heads as a crooked poker game was played out hour by hour with the chips gradually changing hands from one Mon to another. A vixen of a Renamon worked the bar flirting her way to tips and smoking from a long elegant cigarette holder. She wore a slinky black number that clung to her curves like so many men and mon would be happy to do behind closed doors.

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One such Mon didn't dare give her a second glance as he sipped from a tumbler of some harsh tasting liquid. His curly straw gave it a whimsical feel despite his grim expression.

Tonight had a sort of gritty feeling to it, like a worn out back alley where the gravel under your sneakers kicks up dust with every step and the dumpster is covered in rust.

A voice like silk being run over an opal called to him from the darkness.

"Well don't you look gloomy...and scruffy. I didn't know Digimon could grow a five-o-clock shadow."

A pale skinned beauty with all the curves of a snake and the eyes of a cat stood with a hand on her hip, cocked with confidence. Her own dress was a dark shade of grey that stood out against her snow white skin.

"If I had a bit for every thing YOU didn't know dame I could drink a Perfect level's amount of liquor and still have change." He grumbled facing away from her.

"Aw cheer up peach fuzz." She purred and from seemingly nowhere she produced a fedora. "I made you a little gift to try and cheer you up. You've been a real bummer ever since you-"

"Died. Right. Been there, done that. Rather not relive it thanks."

She frowned, and casually dusted off the hat. "I was going to say "Egged. It sounds nicer and less dramatic."

"Yeah and you hate drama don't ya?" He rolled his eyes. "Newsflash dollface. Just because we come back doesn't make death any less of a big deal for us Digimon."

She sniffed apparently not appreciating his attitude and plopped the hat on his head pushing it down over his eyes.

"If this is how you treat people who bring you gifts, I'd hate to see how you act around Christmas."

He growled and tugged on the hat adjusting it. There was a look of surprise as his wings popped through the hat where two holes had been cut to allow them movement. He gave it a few test flaps to see if he could still fly while wearing it and sure enough, he lifted off the seat.

"If this makes your guilt stop keeping you up at night then thanks." He muttered earning himself a sharp pinch that made him yelp. She took a seat next to him and ordered a dark amber colored drink with cherries in it.

"Is that what's been bothering you? A sudden acute sense of mortality?" she pressed plucking a cherry out of her drink and sucking it between her lips.

But he didn't answer. Not yet anyway, the night was young and he was in no place to be opening up to the woman who had held him at bay for so long.

He'd tried so hard to please her and what had that earned him? Pain, flame, and a dirt nap.

Fittingly, being burned to death had made him a little darker. Rougher. And he mourned for the boy he once was.

And grieved for the Mon he was becoming.

And so the two drank in silence as Jinx's sharp catlike eyes scanned the bar, perhaps for a victim, perhaps for some entertainment. And Noir continued sipping his drink watching the ice cubes clinking together as the fluids drained from his tumbler.

Harley could hardly recognize herself in this black and white world. Still devoid of her color she decided to make the best of this madness and doll herself up to fit the part.

Sauntering through the gruff crowd like she owned the place she snatched a martini glass off someone's table and took to the stage, fluttering her eyelashes at the crowd and flirting with them silently before speaking loud enough to be heard without a microphone. She never had a problem projecting.

"There's a lot of rough looking boys here in this hole in the wall." She cooed "Strong, sharp features, claws and predatory eyes. You remind me of my Puddin' back home."

The Neemon at the piano began to play a little intro for her while she sauntered over to the edge of the stage a lit a lamp to give her some shadows to play with while she sang.

Dark and seedy was just the sort of place that one would expect to find a half demon private eye, and what would you know, that suited his style perfectly. With the way his life went, even a saint would need a drink, and the demonic detective certainly didn't fit that bill. Maybe he drank a bit too much, but he wasn't really worried. He was a harmless, if somewhat ridiculous, drunk, after all.

And right now, he needed the alcohol. His powers were gone and even his beloved guns, Ebony and Ivory, were rendered useless. And not just because he'd lost the magic he used to provide himself with infinite ammunition. The weapons were broken, now so much useless metal and wood until he could fix them. Between that and the unfamiliar difficulty in swinging his formerly demonic but now just scary looking broadsword, he felt as weak and helpless as a newborn. It was even bad enough for him to tolerate the smoke hanging over the bar, though the foul smell of tobacco was enough to make him cough.

After the awkward fit was over, he scanned the bar with interest. His eyes lingered on the Renamon working the bar, a pretty little thing despite the fur that would probably put most humans off. But who was the man who turned into a scaled and spined demon man to judge for a few inhuman qualities?

A wink accompanied his return flirting as he got his first drink of the evening before the poker game caught his attention. His relationship with Lady Luck was a rocky one and he should have learned long ago that gambling was a waste of time, but the siren song of the cards called to him. It was a different world, right? Maybe his luck had changed for the better. Or at least, that was what he told himself as he took a spot in the next round.

Dante wasn't looking to be anyone's victim, but he would gladly provide entertainment. What kind remained to be seen, but his eyes flicked over Jynx's dress with keen interest as he sat down next to her. His scruffy appearance and the dark shirt under his red duster gave him a gloomy look, but ice blue eyes glittered with interest and perhaps even mischief beneath perfectly white hair that contrasted with a face that was in its thirties at most.

He ordered himself a drink, something with strawberries and a proof that you could use as lamp oil, and leaned one elbow on the bar. Once again he turned to look at Jynx, as if sizing her up and deciding how to approach. It was an almost predatory seeming action, but his smooth voice was relaxed and casual when he finally spoke.

"Ain't a dame like you a bit young to be hanging out in a dive like this?"

Really, he didn't care if she was old enough to drink or not. But he wouldn't know where he would be trying to take this until he was sure she was of age...and one thing he knew well was that you never directly ask a woman her age.

Edited 2013-08-12 06:06 (UTC)

within the mutter of broken dreams and cigarette smoke one was silent, choosing to watch the dame as she ascended like so many battered, bruised, busted angels above the haze of cigarette smoke which clung to the bar and the muttering, pulsing throes of would-be heroes, would-be this and thats which elected to drink away what could have been at the Digital Dive. Perhaps he watched because he was coherent enough to notice. Perhaps it was because out of all of them, he himself wasn't mean. He wasn't tarnished and he wasn't afraid. He had no reason to talk, he had no reason to drink, and he had no reason to not see.

He gaped, blinking at the dame with that voice, his gaze not even broken by the Coronamon sitting on his shoulder - wearing his fedora, after perhaps having one too many, swinging a lighter in tribute to the song.

Joshua had been lucky with this glitch. So much, in fact, that he'd found his custom CAT replaced with a Colt .45, complete with 7 rounds. As he moved inside from the perpetual rain, he couldn't help but clear his throat from the stink of cigarette smoke and life passing away hitting him as he entered. Anything was better than the rain. His trenchcoat was sodden, and he was mad enough to subject himself to hearing to the mutterings of those addled and drowning by whiskey, yet he wasn't mad enough to hold it to any account. So, he moved to the nearest available place; next to Dante, at the gambling table, after a rather portly looking digimon left.

He turned- the poison of a junkie's broken promise in his eyes, as he regarded the other, and then the table. Of course he would play.

Dante smirked and leaned back in his chair with crossed legs as he saw someone else sit down, pale blue eyes looking him over and sizing him up. He looked young, but Dante had learned the hard way not to assume someone couldn't play because of age. And those eyes...there was something about them. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much. Not that he could judge. He'd had his innocence destroyed at a much younger age.

Deciding he'd figured out as much about his new opponent as he could just from appearance, he nodded in greeting and turned his attention back to the table.

"Ever played before, kid?"

"Not exactly." He responded, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat and coming out with a few unmarked bills, tossing them onto the table. Of course, the currency came with the glitch. And he was hoping, really hoping, that it belonged to a nefarious sort come to collect. In turn, he received some cards for what he offered - humming a thoughtful note to himself as he checked them over.

It wasn't like he cared whether he won or lost. It wasn't as if it was his money. If anyone ever did come for it - it'd likely be the most excitement he got since arriving.

Harley noticed and giggled, blowing him a kiss from her dark painted lips before addressing the crowd.

"Nice to see someone appreciates me around here. Sure he's got a baby face, but he looks like he might still have some class about him."

She sauntered along the stage and fixed him with her stare. "Well I always did like being teachers pet~ I hope class is in session soon."

The crowd hooted and cheered for the joke as she took the mic once more to sing a song just for him...or at least that's how it felt.

Perhaps the fact the world around him, himself included, was monochrome would perhaps hide the fact he was blushing immediately, even at the kiss being blown his way. His gaze darted around him at her words, before eventually rising to her gaze as she spoke to him - not understanding what she meant. The glitch hadn't changed the fact he was too straight-laced to understand, though his blush indeed darkened. Perhaps it was noticeable? Or perhaps the fact he had to loosen his tie was some indication of that.

His gaze lowered though, with the guffaws of those still with enough about them to understand, Coronamon included. And she started singing again, and he was somewhat safe. That was, until the end of the song, where Coronamon made matters so much worse. The digimon snatched the flower, a small, white carnation, from the Warrior's left breast pocket, tossing it to her feet before conveniently disappearing.

She let out a squeal and swooped down to gather up the flower inadvertently (Or possibly on purpose) giving a good look at her cleavage in the process.

She took a deep breath of the flower and sighed happily.

"It's little gifts like this, and all your applause and smiling faces that really makes this worth it." She cooed. "It makes a girl feel special you know? And feeling special is one of the best things you can do for someone."

As the music started up she fluttered her eyelashes at the Warrior and suggestively stroked the pole of her mic stand.

"Lemme tell you about how I make people feel special~"

Her next song was so laced with innuendo even the digimon patrons couldn't help themselves and began catcalling and cheering wildly as the mood in the bar perked up considerably.

The....cleavage thing definitely made him look away. While in the past he'd fought creatures such as the Cloud of Darkness and Ultimecia, there was something different about a woman which wasn't trying to kill him. Having no tentacles helped, too. No matter her charmsthough, the cat-calls were indeed distasteful. So as the next song drew to a close, he chose to move to the bar, lowering his head and drinking whatever he was offered by a smiling, all too amused Vikemon which appeared to have enough fun at his expense to give him something hard.

Despite the fact he wasn't an innately violent person, conflict or not, if he got hold of Coronamon...

It was around midnight when he appeared, the sort of kid who you knew had good intentions, but at the end of the day was nothin' but trouble. This was his city, see. In his mind, it was his job to protect it--all of it. And that meant getting to know some of the seediest parts of the underbelly of this crime-infested heckhole they call Terminal. It was Terminal, alright. Terminal--like a disease, festering with crime and unhappiness.

His trenchcoat hung off of him like the weight of his responsibility. It was a reminder. A hearkening back to earlier days, better times, times when a man could follow the book and get things done. But the book was thrown out the window. Landed in a puddle. Run over, possibly shot. He wasn't on the force anymore. That's why he could wear a hat.

They never let him wear a hat on the force, even though he'd always wanted to. 'Regulations,' they said. 'Can't do it.'

He didn't have a badge anymore. But he had a hat. Some nights, that was enough. Other nights, he wished that some dame with legs for miles and a face that screamed trouble would kick in the door and... I dunno, whatever it is dames with legs for miles and faces that screamed trouble did. It was definitely something that'd save this city, at any rate.

Regardless, the lack of dames at his private-eye company left him without a lot to do, and a sense of overarching 'grey.' He hated the color grey. Still, this whole place was grey. He could get something he needed here. Sometimes grey is alright.

He slapped a bill on the bar as he sat down. "The usual, barkeep."

The barkeep looked at him from where she was shining a glass. Confusion sparkled in her eyes like fire on a building--flickering until the structure that contains it can't take it anymore. He shook his head. She must've been new. "Milk. No ice. And one of them cool straws. The curvy kind."

The bartender nodded quickly, and provided the drink. Tipping his hat in thanks, he spun around on his barstool and surveyed the room. The white of the milk went through the myriad twists and turns of the straw, standing out against the grey of the universe itself.

The swirls reminded him of home.

Business was tough, it was tough all around. But that was just the nature of the city: either you're eaten alive or you eat. And in Impmon and Leatherhead's business? Everyone does the eating if they want a profit.

IF you wanted a pizza, you had to go through Impmon and his number one big, silent enforcer. No one even took a slice without them knowing it. See, they owned the pizza racketeering business. And no one else would muscle in on their turf if Leatherhead had anything to do about it.

You know those two always had money on their mind and pizza in their pockets when they walked in. Impmon nearly moseyed on over to the joint, dolled up in his pinstripe suit to the sixes and sevens. Leatherhead just had the typical longcoat and hat combo. He always kind of kept to himself save those he knew personally. And those who Impmon didn't like? They got acquainted with LH's fists.

The bar was their oyster as far as Impmon could tell. Once they made their way, Impmon snapped his fingers. Leatherhead did the rest, hoisting up his boss right up to the bar stool. Together they leaned against the bar, checking out for fresh rubes.

"Hey barkeep!" he waved his hands, "How about a white russian, fresh on the rocks? ...bartender?

Guess the bartender was busy with other things.

"Feh."

"Hope you ain't expecting me to go easy on ya, then."

Dante's own glitch money was grubby, grungy and smelled like whiskey. It fit right in with the theme of a sketchy private eye who'd been around the block far too many times and amused him to no end. His own cards were lousy, of course, but it came as no surprise. The only time he'd ever gotten a decent hand, his life had been on the line.

His lack of surprise, as it turned out, worked to his advantage. With a hand this bad, he didn't dare hope to win in a straight showdown. No, he would have to bluff, and bluff he did. His face didn't even twitch as he looked at the cards, then turned his eyes to his opponent. After all, poker wasn't just about luck. This part was a battle of wills, and he knew this kid didn't know yet that he always got dealt a lousy hand.

As the clapping died down and the piano player continued on to keep the lively mood rolling, A voice cooed in his ear, warm breath teasing his earlobe.

"Thanks for the encouragement handsome~ It really kept me going."

He'd elected to sit at the bar finally, his head in one hand and glass close. The Warrior had just about ordered his second drink when suddenly, perfume. And someone close, the presence not altogether unpleasant. Her. If anything, the amount of men moving to make way for the dame with the songs which seemed to hint at her wanting more, something better, than life could slap her around the face with was indication. They wouldn't shuffle back, wouldn't afford any schmuck without a pretty face any leeway. That was life, they'd say. It was a bitch and then you died.

The warrior blinked at her voice and stood, offering her his seat and a drink, the Vikemon moving doubly fast for the lady, whatever she chose - or didn't choose. It wasn't exactly chivalry. Not exactly. Perhaps she really did need something better than what life had done to her. Or, perhaps one too many pretty songs, confusion that she'd actually found him within the throngs of the bar, and a predisposed unknowing of alcohol made it give it up so easily.

"You needed support?" He questioned, not believing for a second that someone with that voice, that dress, and the guts to get up there could be self conscious.

She shot him a sideways eye and couldn't help but smirk.

"Ain't a mook like you a little young to be going grey? Or is your life just that stressful?" She teased gently slipping another cherry between her lips and enjoying the burst of juice mingling with the alcohol it had been soaking in.

"Oooo of course." She cooed and took a seat next to his at the bar. "I may not be as chesty as some of the gals on the kick line but everyone needs a little support when they're performing. The give and take of an audience and the performer is like the most comfortable of bras."

Even the bartender seemed a bit confused by that and she decided it was best just to get Harley her usual, some jello shots and a fizzy Italian soda.

Her perfume smelled like cotton candy.

He shrugged, taking the teasing in stride. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten questions about his hair color and he doubted it would be the last.

"Doll, my life's got more headaches than you could count. But believe it or not, I was born with this hair. Call it a unique family trait."

Or a unique trait to being part demon. But he'd never seen anyone with both human and demon blood outside of his family, so it was close enough.

"Oh I believe it." She chuckled "But only because I've taken to brutalizing anyone who accuses me of dyeing my hair pink when it's been my natural color all my life."

Her Digimon partner groaned into his drink.

"It was the ONE TIME! Let it go woman."

"Never~"

"Ya'd think they'd have an easier time figuring out you're not exactly run of the mill after seeing those pretty eyes of yours."

He picked up his drink as the bartender set it down. A long drink, and then he put it back on the bar with a loud clink.

In this town, it didn't take much to have fate deal you a bad hand. Some might call it fate, anyway. Others might just deem it rotten luck. You win some and you lose some, that's how this place worked. More often than not you found yourself scraping the bottom of the barrel just to make ends meet. Not that he was used to ever having any massive chunk of change at any given moment.

But he did grow up learning you had to work for what you had, no matter who you knew or what business your family was involved in.

Hiccup and Fearless entered the bar in the wee hours of the morning, just around the time it really started to hop with activity. Anyone would always be able to hear when Hiccup the Horrendous had entered a building, given his tell-tale gait that gave him away in almost every scenario.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

"Yaknow ya really gotta get that thing fixed." His partner barked in his ear from his usual spot on his shoulders. Hiccup just rolled his eyes and hobbled the rest of the way in, collapsing into the nearest booth he could find. With a sigh he tipped his hat down to shield his eyes from the madly flickering neon OPEN sign on his window.
The Gomamon on his shoulders turned and hopped onto the back of the booth, before leaping across the backs of the booths and chairs until he'd reached the bar, no doubt heckling the bartender to pour he and his pal up a couple of drinks.

Before Hiccup even had a chance to lift his head again he'd been presented with...something, something he appreciated having no doubt.

"C'mon, 'ave a drink kid," Fearless urged, moving to rest his fins on the table. "You'll get what'cha need soon enough, then we'll be back in business. 'Ell we can probably beat the money outta some poor suckah' if yer' interested.."

She smirked at the flirt and fluttered those eyelashes of hers.

"Sweet mouth for someone who looks like he stepped out of a punk rock noir flick." She purred. Her partner rolled his eyes and sipped harder at his drink.

"Well well well, look who it is."

Beastboy sat a few seats down with a fizzy soda in front of him. A driving cap sat on his head and a bowtie at his neck giving him a more casual yet still stylish look.

"The Don-de-capi of Pizza himself huh? Gracing this humble little dive bar? Pinch me dude I'm dreamin'"

In this particular play Beastboy was a small time Pizza runner himself, specializing in veggie pizza and gluten free crusts. It was a nitch market to be sure but it had become trendy recently.

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It's Film Noir see~

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