[ Hei's footsteps crunch across the pavement, a quiet echo to Korra's. Logging their surroundings on instinct, he gazes absently up at the sky, clearer here than in the big cities. The patterns of the false stars are unrecognizable, nothing like the ones above his flat in Tokyo -- but their stale glow is equally illusory. The length of the town's commercial strip stretches out before him for a handful of blocks, detailed in the wan starlight and neon-glow with an almost antique softness. He might have picked a bar in a different periphery, found a more anonymous chain establishment, but there is something about the district that he likes, something that strikes him as simultaneously stalwart and seedy. ]
[ Certainly it doesn't look like the kind of place where anyone will ask a lot of questions -- even if the visitors are an 'Indian woman' and a 'Chinese man.' ]
[ The cantina -- ironically named Chances -- is nothing fancy, a honky-tonk more than a bar. Glossy cedar-paneled walls, dim golden lighting, a few pool tables, a sunken dancefloor, a couch. Over the hubbub of laughter and conversation, the music is some kind of smoky late-night jazz, like he hears in the old black and white movies that he watches sometimes in the motels when he can't sleep. The walls are lined with the stuffed heads of animals: a bison, a bear, a gigantic ten-point buck. He estimates about forty people at the bar and at the tables, and that the place can accommodate maybe twice that if no one is paying overly close attention to fire code limits. ]
[ Slipping onto a stool, Hei orders a glass of steelhead. Murmurs to Korra, beneath the relentless thump of music, ]
Enjoy your dance.
[ He'll guarantee that once she's out there wiggling her moneymaker on the dancefloor, she'll have her pick of punters within five minutes. She can fuck whoever she takes a fancy to. ]
no subject
[ Certainly it doesn't look like the kind of place where anyone will ask a lot of questions -- even if the visitors are an 'Indian woman' and a 'Chinese man.' ]
[ The cantina -- ironically named Chances -- is nothing fancy, a honky-tonk more than a bar. Glossy cedar-paneled walls, dim golden lighting, a few pool tables, a sunken dancefloor, a couch. Over the hubbub of laughter and conversation, the music is some kind of smoky late-night jazz, like he hears in the old black and white movies that he watches sometimes in the motels when he can't sleep. The walls are lined with the stuffed heads of animals: a bison, a bear, a gigantic ten-point buck. He estimates about forty people at the bar and at the tables, and that the place can accommodate maybe twice that if no one is paying overly close attention to fire code limits. ]
[ Slipping onto a stool, Hei orders a glass of steelhead. Murmurs to Korra, beneath the relentless thump of music, ]
Enjoy your dance.
[ He'll guarantee that once she's out there wiggling her moneymaker on the dancefloor, she'll have her pick of punters within five minutes. She can fuck whoever she takes a fancy to. ]