Owner	Pose
Harper Row	Tonight is special in the city. In this major metropolis, two mighty bands have been double-booked for the same mosh-pit equipped scene. Whether by accident or on purpose, it just so happens the two musical acts have the kind of rabid rivalry that has shades of the kind of vibe between die-hard Trekkies and devout Warsies. It's all too plain, if you want to see the epitome of popular post-punk you're here to see The Smash. And they rather like the colour Green and blue. If you're a fan of Hardcore Punk, then you must be wearing blue and pink and here to see Two-finger-nerve-pinch. Rumours of a special guest closing the show for both the previously listed Punk Acts have floated back and forth amongst the Punk community. Some manner of live act that could be the icing on this dummy thick cake that promises to go into the early morning hours. Mohawk tomahawk is the place and after 9pm is the time. Harper Row has shown up, managing to score a ticket while in town. Vibrating with anxiety and excitement, the promise of seeing at least one of the bands mentioned is imperative. The way these bands change names, drop members, get arrested or disappear means you gotta get in while you can, when you can. She's had to trade away some Patrolling on the rotating schedule to do it. She's going to head-bang, mosh-pit, toss 'em back tonight like a bomb is going off in Gotham tomorrow. Harper pushes in, decked out in spikes, faux-hawk, wrist cuffs, torn leggings and torn shorts. The only thing not torn is the inappropriate bra beneath the denim vest scrawled with old faded marker markings and buttons that'll be a liability in any Pit action. She tries to crawl her way to the bar to get hydrated. Even though...she's wisely pre-hydrated. "Coming through!" Jebus, it's gonna start soon! There are sound checks and everything going on!
Cir-El	It's been something of a rough couple days for Mia/Cir-El. Meeting a superhero, then meeting another superhero and trying to get some help with her fractured memories and weakened powers... only to discover that hey, she's absorbed enough sunlight that super-science needles can't puncture her skin! That's... greeeeeat. Yeah. Good. Supergirl (II) is more indestructible than ever! But it also makes putting the entire confusing mess of her life out of her head tricky. Fortunately, if you listen to loud enough music and get in a good enough crowd you can forget anything. Or at least that's her working theory. And with her costume safely secured in her closet, Mia's out in full punk rock style, the sides of her scalp freshly shaved down to smooth bareness, dark hair atop her head in a wild disarray that looks like she just put her head in a towel and went crazy with shaking it before hitting it with just a little hairspray. Of course, ignorant of CURRENT PUNK TRENDS, attire of black leather jacket festooned with safety pins and various buttons won't draw the ire of either camp. But the fact that she's wearing dark blue leggings with a variety of slashes to expose pale stripes of leg at various angles, aand that under the jacket she's got an almost freakishly neon green crop top... and a pair of round lensed pink sunglasses perked up into her bangs? The Kryptonian-human hybrid is a walking contradiction of which camp she's in. The back of that leather jacket might edge her appearance slightly towards being a fan of Two-finger-nerve-pinch, if only because the scowling Jigglypuff on her jacket is, in fact, pink. Fortunately, a sizable amount of attitude and... a /couple/ of judicious uses of her superspeed have helped her infiltrate this important happening. Because if you think it's hard to get past a bouncer with a fake ID, imagine being /from the future/ and having no ID at all! But once she's milling through the crowd, feeling the buzz of electricity, it's... good. Soothing. Tense and raw and so very much /different/ than the rest of the time she feels tense and raw.
Harper Row	The two factions in this sporadically underlit establishment are like where two seas meet, one freshwater and one salt. The two don't so much stir together as buffet to and fro, the bar serving as a kind of DMZ where some very harried looking bartenders act like UN peacekeepers handing out refugee supplies. In this case mostly supplies that come in dark brown bottles and easily crumpled cans. No one is actively requesting any girl-drink-drunk alcohol due to the immediate pile-on that would happen. But the night is ~young~. Drinks are almost thrown to grasping hands. This kind of energy could be an echo of a Stock Exchange floor, or betting at the race track. Harper's own buttons snag temporarily on a few chains and accoutrements of her fellow patrons. She's not the tallest here, but she is one of the better conditioned. Her voice hollers and she receives almost exactly what she asked for: A tall can of cheap beer with a pull tab sharp enough to never be allowed on a commerical flight. "Okay. Okay! Thanks!" she yells, which robs it of a lot of sarcasm. She is jostled away from the bar, the streams of coming and going people meaning she's not going to try and slurp the drink yet, but hold it aloft like an olympic torch. The FitBirb watch on her wrist strobes on the upraised hand, steps inadvertantly adversing she's well over 15000 today. Such a keener! It's like a bomb detonator that's going up rather than counting down. Mia's garb is managing to cause a stir amongst the crowd she passes through. Pit helmets turn, pierced eyebrows arch and lips sneer at the synapses she's causing in fellow Liveshow enjoyers. Is she openly mocking them? Challenging them? Who does she belong to? Which camp can claim her as one to bolster their numbers or promise yet another adversary? The energy is indeed raw as anything. Sandpaper strokes along the inside of the forearm. And not just because she's not easily quantifiable, but because she's got presence and je ne sais quot up the ying-yang. A few of the more aggressive sorts grunt and grumble and don't immediately get out of the way, which may result them in being very surprisingly finding themselves moved. "UH! ONE ONE TWO!" If a rusty half-corroded barrel could speak, it might sound like the lead singer of T.F.N.P. Their voice coming like a scrapyard gaining sentience and needing to tell everyone about the state of decay promised for all things metal and shiny. "I SAID ONE TUH-TWO! FUCK YOU!" Cacaphony. They are rough. They are loud. And they explosively start belting things out without much more warning or hand-holding. Harper is almost carried directly into Cir-El diagonally as the two factions make the crowd a human PB and J.
Cir-El	Cir-El's content to take advantage of the bar's neutral territory while trying not to draw much attention to herself, even if she's pretty damned unassailable, the occasional overenthusiastic punk that stumbles into her with a bit more force than expected finding her thick soled boots seemingly glued to the floor, 'cause she sure ain't moving. At least not until she's taken a few breaths, found her rhythm, attuned herself tot he vibes... and pushed down all that annoying, confidence-sapping /worrying/ about problems that just don't belong at a concert. She can worry about time travel and super powers tomorrow. Tonight? Tonight's about unwinding. Which is what sends her not quite barreling into the mosh pit, but she's moving with confidence and control, and just in time to be a bulwark for Harper as the crowd surges and flows, and she reaches out to brace the blue haired Gothamite, flashing a broad grin, "Oh! Hey! Cool Jacket!!" She flashes a broad grin, leaning in, not quite /enough/ of a lean to be a bump, but a little greeting of shoulder to shoulder tap at the very least. Dark haired gal heaves out a sigh and rolls her eyes as one of the concert goers behind her /rebounds/ off her like a pinball, like it happens all the time and she's more annoyed that it might've mussed her hair than that the taller guy now careening off was even worth considering an 'impact'.
Harper Row	The song sets its sights on some significant woes of the young generation. The lyrics invoke jagged images of an umbrella of concrete supported by rusty rebar spokes and supports. The efforts of keeping it aloft, overhead, not just to keep it from crushing them, but rain of venom. The impossible position of trying to eek out an existence. The crowd rushes into that central mass, hopping like kernels thrown into a pan of hot oil. Touching off with a pretty popular song but the energy you can't catch on a recording. They really aren't easing anyone into their setlist. No threshold or gates, just a gauntlet of sound. Not everyone is ~dancing~ but everyone in the central mob is moving to different flows. Suddenly physical violent outburst of energy where limbs swing like windmills. Pockets of shoulder-to-shoulder headbangers pounding invisible nails with their foreheads. Harper is saved from the worst of her delivery thanks to Cir-El's being like a fortress of fortitude. Harper's eyes are surrounded almost bandit-like by the thick mascara applied with a supreme effort to not look like an effort. Like some garbage pail kid Robin for a DumpsterFire Batman. Her cornflour blue peepers snap up to more vibrant blue of the girl-of-tomorrows. It's arresting in a stupifacting way. She's not making the best first impressions maybe, with her mouth open and the erratic lighting glinting off her teeth and piercings. She might just look like one of those other punks bouncing off her. Harper catches snatches of purple or red hair looming up against Cir-El and then being repelled by her like she's more real and doesn't suffer fools. Harper tilts her head, within the seemingly invisible shield, her mouth cocking into a wry grin. "Hey thanks!" she blurts out. Harper's shoulders in against the Cir-El, following the flow of the ground, moving according the beat around her. More friendly shoulder baps, though Harper attempts to weather her own so she doesn't get thrown into the helpful soul before her. Her can of cool brew cracks like a .22 going off, the Gotham girl bopping her head, judging the right time to sip. But she offers the first pull off the can to Cir-El before her lips have smeared her lipstick onto the rim. "I like!" she offers, huffing out a breath just before a swell of caustic melody is swelling up the crowd like the antithesis of the beat dropping during an electronica concert. "You're awesome! Oh shiiiiit!" It's not a mosh pit anymore, it's the inside of a pinball machine going full tilt. It's a bingo raffle, the blower a thunderdome and the bingo balls are morningstars. "Kick 'em in! Kick 'em in! Kick 'em in!" Cannibalistic three-note chords of the guitar and bass unify behind the singer screaming so hard tendons stand out on his throat and his eyes nearly pop out like a Klingon screaming a murderous death cry. "Shrapnel! Money! Crash! Window! Glass! Smash!"
Cir-El	For her part, Cir-El's practically gone without makeup, even if there's a bit of unfairness in just how good she looks /without/ effort. There are in fact benefits to being genetically engineered even if one doesn't know about it. Fine cheekbones are, apparently, if not a priority, a happy accident of her genetics. But no matter how immobile she is, or how confident that bracing set of hands on Harper's shoulders are, there's no moment of music cutting out, no long slow pause of time like a plot beat in a movie. Instead there's just the near-grimace of the girl of tomorrow practically flinching like she thinks a giant neon sign flashing 'TOTAL DORK' has appeared over her head. At least for a moment before she reminds herself she's totally /cool/ and like, no one knows she's a dork. Or from the future. She gives a little uptilt of her chin, "No problem!" And then she's being offered a pull of that drink! Well hey, she's like... she's /pretty/ sure alcohol doesn't effect Kryptonians. She thinks she heard that, and so she accepts graciously before she's beginning to move. Fortunately it's not /too/ much movement, just swaying and bouncing in counterpoint to the motions of the crowd, giving a few bumps back here and there without putting any effort into it. Yeah... Kryptonian mosh pits are definitely a thing she's going to remember suggesting be /clearly/ and definitely outlawed by international treaty.
Harper Row	It's rather crazy how if Harper stays closer to the formidable stranger, it's like being in the eye of a storm. A curious slim bubble of sanctuary amidst the tumult just inches away. She still gets tagged, but it's not the bumper car of doom at a nightmare carnival. And the sound is threading through the people like its passing through so many waffer thin membranes. Which it is. It's a rough and a force of nature. Not coercing but demanding mortals adhere to the thunderous noise pollution that people are throwing themselves into and sucking up like so many addictive cigarettes and pipes. "Oh my gawd it's loud!" Harper screams, eyes watering with how much she's squinting at times. Her eyes shunt from side to side, catching glimpses off chaos. Spit and breath huffing and puffing, sometimes in great gusts as bodies collide. Harper manages not to bite her lip as she gets into and sends her hair into arcs off colour as she tosses it back and forth. Cir-El's presence, her very superhuman qualities, seem to act as a kind of oasis or focal point. The ecosystem of the place as one song screeches into another with barely a moment to breathe, the stew of people dropping their cares and stomping on the lot of 'em. The crowd is moving, and now it's revolving, it's circling. It's circling Cir-El. It's not a perfect circle. As it revolves clock-wise, and then counter. Like the issues of the day, there are course corrections and changes. But soon enough it's like a mad clockface where the numbers are obscured by warm bodies. Or more like a ship's wheel in a storm, first rotating one way before spinning crazily the other. The lights of the club swing, blasting the stage, though some come to slash past Cir-El and the whirlpool of mortals. And Harper, wide-eyed now, careening up against her with her back to her, like she was taking part in some sort of trust exercise. And her cracking voice screaming out some sort of exhultation of wonder and terror at so much movement and momentum.
Cir-El	It's a little surreal on Mia's part as well, the way having this stranger with her in the midst of motion and chaos and so much driving bass is just... relaxing. Clarifying. It's definitely not the one sip of beer because like... god, if alcohol /can/ effect Kryptonians what if she's a lightweight?! Oh no way, that totally can't be true. That'd be ridiculous. Stupid even. Unacceptable. Hypothesis rejected. All these entirely nerdy thoughts rush through her head while she's trying to split attention between bumping back against eager concert-goers without bumping /too/ eagerly, and checking out the stage show and keeping an ear out in case anything /truly/ troublesome happens in the nearby city surroundings. But like... there's plenty of costumed heroes to handle that report of a brawl outside a bar, and that radio call about someone called a 'Condiment King'. The /real/ trick is in modulating her own voice so she can shout to Harper over the music without discovering she has some sort of Super Voice, "Oh my god, this is /crazy/ and like... wicked awesome!"
Harper Row	Harper has seen wild turkeys do weird doom circling, and she's seen dolphins bunching up tasty fish, but she's never been in a mosh pit tornado. Good gawd it almost feels religious. She lifts her chin, staring at Mia, able to hear her words over the bone-rattling music and the stampede of congealed voices making a torrent around them like this was a crazy merry-go-round. Harper is hopping about in place, and she's nearly lost her jacket when someone that looks a lot like Lobo joins the whirlwind of meat, leather and dyed hair. The snarl of the Czarnia-looking dude is all feral glee and abandon of troubles. There's a number of them, caught in a mixture of heavy-metal and punk, sporting a few pieces of flair and thick spiked hair. Oh lordy, maybe they're even someone's ~spawn~ unless someone has been through a cloning machine. At least they're not turning the place to pulp but adding their energy to the vibe and the crowd. Harper's own voice pipes up, unaugmented but perhaps discernable to those special ears. She's hoping up, her words more pronounced as she gets closer and closer to Mia's ears. "Owe. You. Drink." Her lips almost brushing Mia's cheek as she tries to deliver her words. "It is! It is!" Her breath of blueberry bubblegum can't really compete with the scent of beer and ozone and cigarettes but it's in the mix. If her feet are occasionally getting stepped on, she can barely feel it. "Let it out girl! You rule!" she screams like a hoarse cheerleader into Mia's face.
Harper Row	It was bound to happen sooner or later. Harper was getting overconfident, bouncing up and down, flailing away. She catches a hand upside the face that momentarily makes her eyes cross and splits her lip. Taking risks, feeling ~Invincible~ and in the center of it all. ~whip-whap~ her head snaps back.
Cir-El	There's a firm, small nod from the Kryptonian as she's doing her best to make sure this fiery, energetic new friend doesn't spin away into the maelstrom of manic energy, even as she finds herself laughing and reeling and... is this what being /high/ is like? She can't remember being this exhilarated in her life, and she's not even considering the fact that there are gaps in her memory you could fly a spaceship through, it's just... consuming, energizing /excitement/ from the crowd and the bands and the whole situation. But not so much that she loses control... well, okay, maybe at one point there might be a /tiny/ crack in concrete dance floor that wasn't there before, but that could have been random chance. She leans in and laughs out, nodding wildly, "After! Outside all...!" She swings her arm in a slow, encompassing arc. But she's locked in step with Harper, friendship forged in the pressure and chaos of punk concert! Her own breath smells of mint... because it turns out A) The Avengers mansion has a little mint bowl by the reception area and B) You can stuff your pockets if you wait for the receptionist to be busy. And then Harper's head is flinging back and there's a moment where time slows down, just a brief moment of super speed while Mia scans around... confirms it was just one of those things that happens when chaos is bordering on absolute pandemonium, and she calls out, "Ouch! C'mon, we'll find like... uhhh... paper towel! And drinks!"
Harper Row	In slow-mo vision mode, Harper's head is coming back upon her slender neck to complete a slow nod. Her mouth open as if in surprise, a bit of blood and spit streaking along her cheek like ruby molasses. Her eyes cross, eyelids unsynchronized while things in her head reset and try to jenga back the blocks of linear time. To Harper her registering the hit is not following the standard progression of time. There's a burst of white light and then she's glimpsing upwards, and then her gaze is coming back to Mia's face. Her own voice sounds like its coming from far away as she agrees and reaches out to steady herself for support, managing to keep her feet. She's taken some hits before, but it always seems to unexpected ones seem to pack the worst whammies. She smiles stupidly. "I'm gooooood!" She's not. Maybe a little time-out to regroup is definitely a sensible idea for the mortal. "Did you see license plate of the bus?" she slurs. "That one felt fresh off the fist of one of the Joker's jerks." she slips.
Cir-El	Cir-El manages like... the /best/ poker face, because she looks so totally super concerned about finding a paper towel for Harper's split lip, and not at all like she registered 'Joker's jerks' as a thing. At least until she's managed to guide Harper through the mosh pit... /possibly/ using a little super strength to do some solid straight-arm shoving... and short of just gripping the back of Harper's jacket to scruff her and carry her like a kitten unless the blue haired gal insists upon it. The dark haired Kryptonian tries to find a spot that's got a bit of quiet, some cool air, all the best things for recovery. And paper towel to offer up as she gasps for breath, tugging at her jacket collar, unzipping it to bare taut, muscled abdomen and that neon green halter that's got patches of darker coloring now from her own sweat as she rasps for a breath, "Wait! ...Did you say the Joker punched you once? Like... the clown guy?" She clicks her tongue and shakes her head firmly, "Not cool. I mean, not just hitting a girl, but like... in general. Dude seems like a a real load." Tactfully, she does not explain what he seems like a load of. Because keeping it vague makes it /more/ insulting you see.
Harper Row	Harper gets hoisted along to safety, and it's the weirdest kind of ejection via Bouncer she's ever had. "I didn't drunk dit mooch." she stammers and then her brain catches up. She's not being thrown out, she's being helped to an area to collect her marbles. The elastic band of current events is slowly snapping back into place. Harper swallows and thankfully adrenaline is a hell of a drug in itself. Addictive as hell, but comes with some benefits. Her eyes focus on Mia and she offers an apologetic grin as her gaze takes a detour. "Oh...Oh yeah. Comes with the territory but I'm tougher than I look! I can take care of myself." Obviously. Right. "It's okay, I hit back pretty good. I'm a work in progress!" she declares proudly and extends her tongue to dab at her lip. "This is nuthin. If you're ever in Gotham, don't worry, I'll protect ya. I'm tuff and rough and know my stuff." Her lip swells up a bit more. Pretty early in the show to sport a souvenir. Harper summons up a wink from somewhere and tries it out with her left eye. Forgets. And then offers it with the right as well, suave and sweaty as heck. She reaches up to loosen her own collar, but all she's got is a choker with spikes and her finger runs along the circumference as she sucks in air. "Thanks angel. Pals call me Harper."
Cir-El	Cir-El's all... just... measured, serious, patient, strangely authoritative blank 'You are going to realize what is going on' stare at Harper as she insists she's not drunk like she's being bounced. It is, in a strange way, perhaps the most like Superman Cir-El has ever looked. Minus the big S on her chest, or like... her arms crossing. Also, she's not floating a few inches off the ground. (Superman 100% totally floats a little bit when he's doing that Truth, Justice, and American Way paternal patient stare). But as Gothamite vigilante brain recovers and catches up, Cir-El's biting her lower lip to fight back a grin, her eyes bright, sparking practically, gleaming as she laughs softly, "Oh! Well then, I guess I could've just let you take a few more thumps if you can handle it and all. Or we can go find some more trouble. I mean, y'know, whatever happens on Concert Night uhh..." She tilts her head, "Okay, it can't like... /stay/ in Concert Night because eventually the sun comes up... but uhhh..." She hisses out a sharp breath, "Dang, I can't think or... remember... a catchy... slogan kinda thing for like... y'know, keeping it secret?" She grins and runs her fingers through her short hair, flinging her head back for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before her head snaps forward again. "Well, nice to meet you Harper! You're pretty hardcore. Friends call me..." She trails off for a moment, "Huh. I haven't really got any right now I'm... new... in town! Yeah. Call me Mia." She glances around in exaggerated fashion, "Soooo, Harper... what else do you do for fun? I mean, we can't just /call it a night/!" Oh yes, this is a brilliant idea. She's sure of it.