17044/Last Exit and Last Call

Last Exit and Last Call
Date of Scene:	30 January 2024
Location:	Last Exit
Synopsis:	Drinks and conversation are shared, it's all wisequacks until the duck becomes a raven
Cast of Characters:	Corben Kelly, Michael Hannigan

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Corben Kelly has posed:    "... and thank you for coming out!" Marcus Black, likely not even close to his real name, places his mic in the stand and exits stage 'over thattaway somewhere. The rest of the band is still milling about a bit on stage as the underpaid 'roadies' start breaking things down.
    Corbin stands in front of his drums, partially blocking the big old Death Omen symbol on the bass of his drum kit. It's pretty simple, that logo, just the words and a black bird busting out of the O in Omen. He stretches his arms over his head and lets out a yawn. One of the hired help wags a hand in Corben's direction, trying to get his attention. A brief 'conversation' takes place that goes something like - 'Corben, you going with us to at.' ..and the reply, 'Not tonight, need to hit the bed.' It's all in sign language, the roadie not nearly as skilled as Corben.
    He takes a hop off the stage just as the lights come up enough along with a little softer music piped in for that moment before everyone gets the boot.

    "Last call!" Someone behind the bar bellows. Almost time for the boot.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Off to the bar a pair of men are milling about. A short-haired blond about 6 foot in height is wearing some high end clothes and everything about him just screams that. Before him an empty glass sets and a notebook is in the process of closing. "I'm out." He comments, glancing over to the other guy, "You good?"

Off to the side, somewhat leaning against it as he's without chair, a slightly shorter man glances up. "Hmm? Oh yeah. Bar's closing. I'll be out once I'm done with this one."

Seemingly content with the response, the taller of the two nods and heads off.

Mike Hannigan turns his head to watch the departing Wade Shaw before he turns back to his mostly finished beer and the notepad in front of him. Unlike his friend he's dressed in a fiscally responsible manner. Goodwill's finest. The incognito rockstar reaches a hand down, picking up his glass for another sip.

Corben Kelly has posed:
    Corben's dark lined blue eyes track Wade's exit before he turns his attention back to Micheal. At some point, 'I know that guy from somewhere' went through his mind in regards to Shaw. He runs a fingerless leather gloved hand through his hair, sweat from the night's efforts making it stick up even more 'this way and that' than usual.
    Once again, someone flaps their hand in a small, but over exaggerated manner in the periphery of Corben's vision. This time, it's just a peace out that's tossed in the drummer's direction. It's responded to with a nod and a thumbs up before his feet carry him to the bar.
    "Double scotch," he tells the bartender. It's been pretty obvious that he's the deaf one here but his speech is clear with just a hint of a French accent.
    "That swill will kill you, yes," he asides to Michael.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
With the crowd dying away, the sound becomes a bit more manageable in the club and conversation for the sake of conversation doesn't require close proximity. Corben's arrival at the bar is first telegraphed by the visual of him in the side of his vision. There's a quiet shift of his free hand, closing the notepad in front of him. Picking it up, he slides it into a pocket.

He chuckles to the comment about the beer. "But at least I'll die knowing the taste of sweet sweet Guinness." He quips, turning his head to reveal youthful features, likely one that would probably get him carded in some establishments. "Or maybe it's acting more of a preservative." He gives a smirk, "Would you believe I'm in my thirties?"

Corben Kelly has posed:
    Corben squint and shifts to change the angle at which he's facing Micheal. "Something about guiness and thirties?" he says. "Sorry, I need to see your lips clearly when you speak." Something made possible by the slightly brighter lighting. "What is it they say? Fifty is the new thirty? So that makes you ten yes? Too young to be in here?"
    That double, scotch neat, goes down quick - now you see it, now you don't.
    "That guy that left a minute ago, I know him?" It's sort of a question, said in a way that leaves the 'I just don't know from where' unspoken.
    The noise dies down even more as people are ushered from the bar, they don't have to go home, but they can't stay here. Corben, on the other hand, doesn't get the 'shoo, go away' treatment. Instead the bartender catches his attention and yells, slowly, "Thirty More Minutes."
    Corben asks Micheal, "He just yelled at me, didn't he? They all think screaming makes me less deaf."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike cocks his head, somewhat reminiscent of a dog or a bird trying to better understand what's being said. The nod breaks the expression as he processes the information. "Ah." He adjusts his positioning, making sure to look right at Corben. "Basically Guinness tastes great and it's not aging me any."

His arm crosses his chest, reaching for a pen he had left laying on the counter. Taking it, he moves it into the pocket he just put the notepad.

To the question, he glances back to the exit Wade went through and then looks back to Corben. "Depends." He replies back, "Have you heard of Silver Round?" The smile fades slightly as the bartender yells at Corben before looking back to the drummer. Expression lightening again. "Yes he did. But to be fair. Sometimes we forget to take out the IEMs."

Corben Kelly has posed:
    Corben double taps the bar and assures the irritated bartender, "Last one, I swear," followed with a little cross his heart gesture. His attention back on Michael he offers, "And here I put mine in after the gig." With the noise at a bare minimum now, even the soft background music gone, Corben figures it's finally time to put his ears on. It only takes a minute for him to remove the cochlear implant processors from the little case in his pocket, attach them to the sides of his head magnetically and shove the right bits into his ears. It's something he's done a million times. "I hope he doesn't yell at me again now," about that bartender.
    "Aren't most of them dead?" he asks with the appropriate amount of respect and sorrow in his tone. "It's shame, yes." A beat and he adds, "How rude of me," he extends a leather clad hand, visible fingertips stained an odd purple, "Corben Kelly."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Watching the drummer put on his ears. A warm chuckle emanates from Mike in response as teeth are shown as he smiles, giving a nod. "Yeah okay. Good transition to that."

To the question about the band's fate, the smile falters. "Well. No." He replies. "There were four. So... half died. Straight. Down the middle." Mike drifts quiet for a moment as he glances to his glass, Corben's extended hand with the peculiar purple tips drawing him back in. "Ah. Well I forgot this as well so..."

A bare hand reaches over, taking the offered one. There's a roughness in certain spots of the hand. While the fingertips may seem typical, the ones just above the underside of the knuckle have an odd placement to them. "Mike Hannigan." Mike offers back.

Corben Kelly has posed:
    There's just a blink of a moment where Corben tenses when they first make contact. It's easy to miss to someone not very perceptive. "Now you sound like Mr. Roboto," he comments along with a grin. Once he pulls his hand back, he gestures vaguely to the side of his head. "Useful, but things don't sound the same." Things, music in particular. It's a loss another musician is sure to understand.
    "I imagine it would be hard to lose half your mates." He's not unfamiliar with loss himself. "So, Mike Hannigan, you play." It's a statement, not a question. He knows those callouses. He downs that second double and glances about the place.
    "Brad over there, he's grinding his teeth. See the clench of his jawline? He's going to crack them soon if we don't get out of here so he can clean up. Up for a walk?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
There's no grin to the Mr. Roboto comment, but there's at least no scowl either. Instead Mike nods to Corben's assessment. "You're right." Mike replies, "Would not recommend it for anyone." The general hint from the bartender to move it quicker than the previously indicated 30 minutes gets a nod.

Right. Finish up that beer.

"Sure." Mike responds, taking the glass and tilting his head back to down the remainder of its contents in one fell swoop. Empty glass set down he steps away without a concerned look coming from the bartender. Paying as you go has it's perks. "What way you heading?"

Corben Kelly has posed:
"Nowhere in particular," but the lack of a smile at his attempt at a joke doesn't go unnoticed. "Everyone sounds like Mr. Roboto. The implants, they make everything sound, well, robotic, mechanical." Corben offers the bartender a mock salute that shifts to a middle finger. It's all in good fun, really.
    He takes the lead on the way to the door. "Brad, he isn't a bad sort. We're just cutting into his time in the back room with his bar back," he offers as if Michael asked.
    "I would say that I'd like to hear you play sometime, but... I would like to feel you play sometimes." He turns and walks backward a step or two, facing Mike. "I hope that wasn't too forward." The words are followed up with the biggest grin he's had all night.
    Once outside, he stands there for just a beat, pulling his trench coat a little tighter against the cold January air. "But seriously, I didn't mean anything untoward. I like to feel music now, the beat, the thrum, the vibration of it, more than I like to hear it."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
When Corben tries to explain the joke, Mike's brow raises, "Oh." The expression seems almost apologetic. "I.. thought you were commenting on something else." He turns, following Corben, steps slowing as he makes mention of the identified Brad and his motivations. There's a crack of a smile to the comment. He looks back to Corben, "Should have led with that instead of barking out 30 minute warnings." He steps through the door, "I could have downed that beer ages ago."

Glancing back to the door, Corben's next words causes for him to blink, turning to look over to the other musician as he turns to look back to him. No phantasm powers are needing to be tapped to mirror the very grin he's seeing before him. "You're an odd duck, Corben." Mike assesses, chuckling, as he pulls a knit cap out of another pocket, bringing it up to tug it on. "Don't change that." There's no motion to pull on gloves as he instead shoves his hands into his pockets, listening to Corben's comments. "That's a thing about drummers." He comments, stepping over to be alongside Corben, head tilting just slightly to look him in the eye. "We love the rhythm."

Corben Kelly has posed:
    "Quack, Quack..." After his lame duck impression, Corben walks in silence along side Mike. It's not an uncomfortable silence, at least not for the deaf dude - he's quite used to silence. It's more just enjoying the chill are and company, no matter how quiet it is.
    A few blocks down, Corben cuts toward an alley that leads to the next block. Before he enters the alley, he turn and salutes. "This is my stop," he announces. Halfway down the alley he calls out, "Check your left pocket!"
    Should Mike do so, he'll find a business cared for Cafe De La Magie along with Corben's name and digits. Moments after he disappears into the shadows of the alley, a single raven flies over head and lets out a cacaw before heading off into the night.