16051/Too Many Blondes

Too Many Blondes
Date of Scene:	09 October 2023
Location:	The Dugout - The Narrows
Synopsis:	Dinah and Zinda meet in a bar, significantly raising the blonde quotient.
Cast of Characters:	Dinah Lance, Zinda Blake

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Dinah Lance has posed:
It's a rare occurrence for Black Canary to hit up a bar in Gotham and /not/ cause a ruckus. Sure, usually that's because she's hitting it pretty literally on the prowl for a lead on whatever case the Birds of Prey or one of her other vigilante friends is trying to find.

But that's usually not a Monday night thing, everyone knows henchmen, goons, and thugs are more talkative on Fridays when they've had a long work week of crime and a few drinks. Which is why what's normally a hive of scum and villainy is more a hive of blue collar workers that only /might/ be goons when the docks aren't busy.

For her part, Dinah's not really dressed different anyhow, a bolero cut leather jacket covering her shoulders, arms, and upper back, with the zipper undone but hooked so it practically acts as much like a bustier as the one piece beneath that clings to that athletic figure like a second skin. The closest thing she's done to making a concession to autumn chill is wearing a sheer pair of dark leggings instead of fishnets, but they disappear into familiar knee-high boots. She glances up at the TV in the corner, eying the time as much as the sports coverage, lifting a pint of beer for another small sip as she awaits the arrival of her texted friend! Dinah hasn't caught up with Zinda in a good while, and hey... this is more casual than some kind of Birds of Prey potluck. Besides, there'll be time for that around Thanksgiving!

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake just landed in Gotham after ferrying a renovated B-25 from France for an air show. After stops in Scotland, Iceland and Toronto, she's more than ready to stretch her wings in a more figurative sense.

The door crashes open and the petite blonde ace yells out in a loud, very Southern voice. "Bartender! Gimme a pair of long necks fer starters! An' y'all better start a tab, while yer at it."

Zinda is dressed like one of her recruitment posters, right down to the cap and go-go boots. The skirt is much shorter, however, and the Blackhawks jacket is unzipped to show a crisp, white t-shirt beneath. Blue eyes sweep the bar, lighting on a familiar blonde. "Oh HEY sis! How're we doin'?"

Dinah Lance has posed:
Dinah, for her part, does /not/ spill her beer down her chest despite nearly flying out of her chair when the door slams open, prepared for that to be heralding the entrance of Bane, or Killer Croc, or some other towering mountain of... Zinda. It's Zinda!

Eyes lock onto familiar figure, doing their usual sweep up and down and drawing a little helpless shake of Dinah's head. Zinda. So totally Zinda to the core.

She stretches a leg out under her table to nudge the opposing seat out with her heel, grinning brightly, "Zinda! Honey! We are doing /fine/! Better than fine now that you're back in town! I've missed you!" She clicks her tongue and perks her eyebrows high, "Looking good as always, and /clearly/ right from another rousing flight and no doubt a landing perfect enough to..." She frowns, "I don't know a good saying to compliment a perfect landing. Just pretend I do and I gushed all about it at you, sister."

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake saunters right up, boot heels clunking loudly. She lets her own gaze wander during the approach, then settles onto the offered seat with a shift of her hips.

"Honey, ain't no such thing as a perfect landing, but a -good- landing is any one you can walk away from." She beams, then shoots an accusing look towards the bar as if to check on the beers. "You're lookin' pretty good yourself. Fishnets all in the laundry?"

Stretching her long legs out, she crosses booted feet at the ankles. "I was halfway across the Atlantic before I figured out why my phone was beepin', and refueling in Toronto before I figured out how to answer your text. I swear this technology's gonna be the death of me."

Dinah Lance has posed:
Dinah's lips are quirked in a sly little grin, that table doing a fair bit to cover /most/ of those legs... well, she might let one slip to the side for that lingering appraisal just to give her a reason to grin even wider. But she does at least let her legs swing from Zinda's seat when the other blonde arrives, sitting up straighter in her seat, only to lean forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers forming a flat plane under her chin to rest on, framing her body with her forearms as she hums out. "I mean, I always thought a good landing was one the /plane/ could walk away from... or like... fly again, you know?"

She rolls her eyes and sighs, "I'm going to be honest, most of my plane experience is being crammed into an economy class seat. And... are you crazy? It's /cold/ out! I need a couple days to adjust to the season so I don't catch a cold!" She snickers softly, "Or maybe I'm undercover. I mean, no one ever remembers anything but the fishnets... but they /are/ why I usually break up criminal gangs in their hideout come November. Warmer that way."

She sighs and shakes her head, "Oh, don't tell me, I /barely/ understand my phone, I at least don't have a sticky note on it to remind me of the password anymore. I don't think computers actually do everything they say. I'm pretty sure Babs is just a witch. And now now, no /dying/ from technology when we're just getting hooked back up together!"

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake looks over with that wide, sly grin and watches as Dinah shifts positions. She sits up a bit more herself, leaning in close and plucking a beer bottle from the waitress' hand as she gestures. "Honey, gals like you an' me ain't -got- no 'undercover' mode. See? We're what they call 'CON-spic-u-ous.' Pretty sure it's a blonde thing." Wink.

Zinda takes a deep swig, letting the bottle gurgle a bit before setting it down hard on the table beside the untouched one.

"Better bring us a pitcher, honey!" she calls, to the departing waitress. Pointing to Dinah's mug, she adds. "Whatever she's drinkin'll be fine."

Whispering conspiratorially to Dinah, then, Zinda offers. "The longnecks are for the unlikely event that a bar fight erupts later on. It ain't polite for a lady to throw a pitcher." Leaning back again, she sips the beer while she talks. "I'm -real- sure that Babs is a witch, myself. And we'll hafta' get you up in a real plane sometime. Somethin' nice an' slow with a propeller. Like maybe a P-38."

Okay, she can't help but chuckle at that.

Dinah Lance has posed:
There's a soft little laugh and a glint in Dinah's eyes as she reaches for her own beer, "Hey now... you'd be shocked what a decent wig and an annoying amount of time can do to disguise you! ...Well, until the wig comes loose. Then it's /right/ back to conspicuous for sure..."

She sighs and grins, lifting her bottle in a little toast, "But here's to being our best blonde selves, flygirl!"

She drains her own beer once that pitcher's ordered and eyebrows perk high, "Zinda... are you planning for a-" She's cut off as her fellow blonde leans forward and... well, she's not /planning/ a bar brawl. She's just being prepared.

There's another low laugh from Dinah and she sighs out, "Oh, Zinda, sweetheart... if I'm getting up to trouble, being /polite/ usually exits beforehand and I don't worry about it at /all/..."

She lets out a low noise in her throat, somewhere close to a purr, "Oh! Anytime you want. I mean, I like rollercoasters, love my bike... figure getting in a classic plane with /you/ gripping the stick's gotta be the next level of thrill seeking, right?"

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake clinks her bottle with Dinah's. Leaning in again, blue eyes flash back and forth and blonde brows lift. "Well I ain't saying it's a sure thing, but me an' bar brawls ain't exactly estranged, if you catch my meanin'. Let's just say it remains within statistical likelihood."

Zinda eases back again, her gaze sweeping the bar to size up the potential participants. "Looks like good, hard-workin' folks that'll have to be back to work in the mornin'." She points a finger to Dinah, then. "Now if you're gonna dance on tables an' fight with soldiers, honey, it's really important that you still act like a lady. Especially if you're wearin' a short skirt."

Taking another swig of her beer, Zinda's shoots Dinah a knowing look by way of explanation.

"An' speakin' of that, there ain't no substitute for a couple thousand horsepower roarin' between yer legs as you try not to black out in a high speed turn." Her voice lowers, then she adds. "No matter who's holdin' the stick."

Dinah Lance has posed:
Dinah Lance sighs out softly, sweetly, fighting an even bigger grin as she nods, "Yeah, I mean, I get it... bar brawls just seem to happen. It's why I don't play pool very often. Lean over the table for a tricky shot, someone's hand slips, I have to hit them with a pool cue, their buddies take exception and..."

She rolls her eyes and heaves out a loud sigh, "And then I don't get to finish fleecing them for the wager on the pool game, y'know? Just once I'd like the whole /thing/ to play out before I have to hit someone."

She continues to nurse her beer, one eyebrow perking, "I try not to wear short skirts... I mean, short skirt, the fishnets, I feel like no matter how bad and free and easy with my dating life I am, that's... /probably a bit too strong of a signal of a certain type, right?"

She grins and leans forward, her own voice dropping, "Well, frankly, I'm not letting anyone take me on my first wild ride like /that/ except you, Blake. I mean... what're you doing tomorrow? It's not like I'm in the middle of a huge season for flower shop business."

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake laughs, taking a long swig of the first bottle to drain it before picking up the second. The waitress drops off a pitcher and two mugs, earning a salute. "Short skirt -and- fishnets? Sounds like a French waitress or a certain magician I used to know, except she never bothered with the skirt. But neither one of us is really a top-hat kinda gal, and you can bet your sweet patootie that there ain't no ruffles under my skirt."

"Tell you what, on the wild ride. Blackhawks keep a hangar at Gotham Airport. Stop by in the morning. We'll find a flight suit that fits, and I'll show you the ride of your life."

Zinda fills both mugs. "And you'll wanna have just a light breakfast."

Dinah Lance has posed:
Dinah's eyes narrow thoughtfully before she heaves out a sigh, "Maybe tomorrow /afternoon/? I mean, we've got an entire pitcher to work through if not a second and... I mean, I don't know how they did it /back in the day/ but I like to sleep in when I'm facing down the threat of a hangover!"

Which of course, means it's perfect timing for that pitcher to arrive, and Dinah to refill her glass. It's not nearly so worrying as her occasional drinking has been, this is definitely no 'Dinah's had a rough breakup and is teetering on the edge of a Problem' drinking. It's celebratory 'My pal, the world-renowned jet setting badass pilot is back in town!' drinking.

Which is why the next few hours pass in more and more of a hectic, speeding blur. Drinking out of sorrow's slow and maudlin. Drinking because your friend who might maybe be a bad influence when she gets going is back? Well, it's really that times two with how wild Dinah can get.

But by the time they're stumbling out of the bar at the end of the night, Gotham's surlier dockworkers have gone welcomely unpunched, and the two blondes fade off into the dark for a brief, roaring ride on Dinah's cherished bike towards her apartment and flower shop.