The door of the bar opened, admitting a young woman dressed almost entirely in brown, the flashpatch that was sewn on her ankle-length coat marking her as a Bad Slasher. She took a good look around her, noting the various people and nodding to those she knew before heading over to the bar and ordering a bright green drink called an Eleventh Doctor Sonic Screwdriver. It was a normal screwdriver with Midori in it, and one of the Bad Slasher's favorite drinks.

Maeryn sipped at her drink before taking a seat at an empty table, watching the people around her. Kaliel, her symbiote, would make sure she didn't get too drunk, but for now, Maeryn was enjoying her drink. She didn't know if anyone would be joining her, but she wouldn't mind if someone did.

Agent Suicide did not, as a rule, class himself as a social drinker in either sense of the term: he hadn't boozed in friendly company since his original death, and he was not at home to Mister Moderation. However, if questioned, he would admit that he was always open to the possibility of change--especially when a good-looking woman was part of the equation. And when weighed against the abovementioned good-looking woman, even engaging in social drinking could be considered acceptable.

As far as Suicide could tell (HQ time being what it was), he had been released from FicPsych about three days before. He'd been laid up there for almost a week, recovering from the combined mental and physical trauma inflicted by one Archir the Emerald, and had spent the occasional moment of lucid consciousness attempting to get to know one Nurse Jenni Robinson. (Ah, Jenni, who was sharp as a xiphos and got such an interesting look on her face whenever she read his medical records . . .) His plans to ask her out for a drink had been temporarily halted by a mission into a continuum he didn't know, but after fighting with both self-insert troll Sues and his own abysmal communication abilities, he'd finally managed to send her a note and arrange an assignation/date/meeting/thing.

To Suicide, the bar was a good spot for a rendezvous. It was fairly public and had decent lighting, meaning that if she tried to knife him, there would be plenty of witnesses to corroborate the facts and no way for her to hide the weapon--both important considerations in Suicide's past interactions with women. Granted, Jenni was a class act and therefore completely out of his realm of experience, but Be Prepared was the kind of motto he would've had if he had a motto.

Plus, the Bar had pretzels. He liked pretzels.

He perched himself on a stool by the taps, ordered something with three Xes and a biohazard symbol next to it on the menu, and sipped his drink while glancing around at the clientele. For a moment, Suicide thought he glimpsed an animated teddy bear in the corner, but he shook his head and double-checked his drink. Damn, that must be some good stuff.

If not, well, I'm seeking permission within the next few days, so no biggie.

Rookie Agents Steven Fontwell and Wallis sneak into the Bleeprin bar, slipping into the darkest corner they could find.

"Dude, I told you, this is going to be cool." Steve muttered, looking towards the bar, complete with all manner of alcohol and blee-products.

"Yub cha wa na?" Wallis asked, scratching his fury head.

"What do you mean 'how do we get it'?" Steve shook his head at his little companion. "Dude, no one can tell the age of an Ewok. You go up there, get the booze and we both drink it. It's a sure fire plan."

Wallis continued his confused look for a moment, before reluctantly nodding. "Yub yub." He said, before making his way towards the bar.

Ray slumps at a little table, one hand clutching a fuzzy ear and the other wrapped around a mug of rootbleep. She mutters something about a vampire infestation in the wrong kingdom.

Aster Corbett walks into the bar, hops up on a stool, and promptly droops all over the counter.

"I can't write this mission report. I don't want to think about The Hidden Secret anymore..."

Her clothes are rather disheveled. It looks like she has been on-mission for days...

Krisprolls, South and Whatever walk into the bar, order their Bleepbeers and start getting shitfaced. They then start a peanut fight.
"OW" says Krisprolls as he receives one in the eye.
"That was supposed to be for South" says Whatever.
"WHAT? You'll get one!" says South.
And so on.