Post by Wonder Woman on Sept 26, 2015 16:08:03 GMT -5
Lady Blackhawk:
Saturday Night, 2200h - Zin's Place, Lower West Gotham
Zinda Blake, formerly Lady Blackhawk of the Blackhawk Squadron, a group of crack pilots who survived the skies over Nazi occupied Europe and the Korean War to become some of the best first generation dog fighters on the planet, was "retired" from flight, so to speak. After a strange incident involving the Bermuda Triangle, a thunder storm and waking up 60 years later in Gotham Bay, she had hung up her wings and given up flying, but man did she miss it. The process of having herself raised from the dead was a long, difficult one, especially since for a 90 year old woman she still was in her thirties physically, having skipped the interam years completely, but she had managed to do it, and claimed her share of Blackhawk Enterprises, a transportation and logistics company managed by Bart Blackhawk the Third, grandson of the man who once said ladies couldn't fly, and that meant Zinda was no lady.
Blake had invested her share of the funds into a small bar operation, catering mostly to vetrans of various wars. By this time on a Saturday night the World War Two vets and Korean vets had fallen out, retiring to their nursing homes or, if they were lucky, their own apartments, luckier still their kid's homes in the suburbs, to be doted on by grandchildren. The Vietnam vets would be here for a bit longer, but they usually retired by midnight. It was the Gulf Vetrans who usually paid her bills on Saturday night, and for the most part they kept the peace well enough, though they were her least favourite. Many of them were cock and arrogant; they had the same feeling of entitlement that the rest of their generation shared, according to Zinda, which paired with the sacrifices they made on behalf of their country made for a volatile situation.
Typically the army grunts were the worst; as had been since the beginning of war, they were the ones fed into the wood chipper. Drawn from the lowest rungs of society, thrown to the wolves at the first hint of blood in the water. She was eyeing a group of them in the bar mirror as she wiped down the brass fixtures on the front of the bar. There were six of them, two had prosthetics, one had a droop to his mouth and eye which told Zinda he may have sustained severe nerve damage, perhaps from an explosion, to his face. The other three seemed physically undamaged; they'd be the ones to watch - the scars on the inside were the easiest to hide, and the worst to heal.
Huntress:
The soft purr of her bike cut off quickly as she pulled the key from the ignition and simply sat there for a moment in the alley way in which she decided to park. Gloves were removed from hands and as she sat back on the seat of the crotch rocket she tucked her hands into the worn brown leather coat that was wrapped around her form, and too big to be her size with the sleeves bunched up. To most people the day would have been special, to most the day would have been spent in celebration, in partying or even by stuffing their face full of cake but to Helena it was a day to be avoided. She’d admit aloud that she didn’t like the day on principle, after all who wants to go through the fuss of presents and embarrassing stories and the calories put on by cake? Internally though another scenario played out, and so she had chosen to skip away from her usual nightly routine of going on patrol with her partner and simply left him a note saying she was following a lead and would be back home later.
As the car pulled up in front of the bar she shifted and removed the helmet from her head, shaking her hair free and slid off of the bike as a young man, college aged moved out followed by three of his buddies all laughing obnoxiously as they moved into the bar. Storing her helmet she moved down the sidewalk after them, jean covered legs with knee high boots causing her hips to sway as she moved. Tonight she didn’t mind being noticed, tonight she had planned on it. The four moved into the bar, the seeming leader of the pack holding up his hands in an outward motion and then strutting right up to the counter like he could own the place and sat down, flashing Zinda a charming smile that clearly was capable of winning over at least the shallow types. “A pitcher of beer, best you got.” And then all four flashed down their IDs, all twenty-one as they kicked out the stools to sit, the other three talking amongst themselves.
Helena’s movement into the bar was much more subtle as she walked in through the doors moved a few seats down from the males and slid onto her own stool. Patiently she waited, eyes turned to what was in stock and crossed a long leg over the other at the knee while her stomach did one small flip. To her it was amusing, the fact that she’d be more nervous over slipping a bar tender a perfect fake ID that bumped her age up by a year from what she just turned than jumping down into a group of men holding automatic weapons.
Lady Blackhawk:
Zinda smirked and looked at the boys. "This here is a service bar, boys, our best is just the regular taps," she said. "And I don't open tabs for people I don't know, so someone's gotta put plastic down or all I'll be having all four of those driver's licences," she said with a gentle smile. Zinda was a busty woman, curved in the right places and had the ability to speak roughly but with a manner which made people agree to her terms easily. The leader of the pack put down a Visa card on the counter and Zinda smiled broadly. "We got MGD, Bud, Bud Light and Heinekin," she said pulling out four glasses. "Heinekin," they all agreed and she began to pour. With the head foaming over the lip of the pitcher she let the beer rest in order to attend to the other customer who had walked through the door.
She may have thought her entrace was inconspicuious, but Zinda could see there was something about the way the woman carried herself. She wasn't a soldier, no she had seen many female GIs, Airmen and Marines come through in recent months, most didn't quite have the same swagger this young girl did. Besides, judging by her face, Zinda didn't think she'd have been out of high school long enough to complete basic. "ID sugar," she said, watching her face, specifically the woman's pupils and the way they would dilate or divert upon being pressed. When presented she would pick up the small slice of plastic and inspect it with far more care than she had with the boys. Frat boys were pretty easy to spot, and these ones were clearly in their third year of riding daddy's wallet through college. This girl though? Harder to read.
Zinda's blue eyes would flick from the plastic to the girl a few more times before she decided it was a fake, but a close fake. "How old are ya really, sugar?" she asked, dropping her voice. "We're a service bar; ain't no man or woman in uniform can't get a drink her. You carry yourself like a cop, but you ain't so I'mma just gonna tell myself you're army and go my own way," she slid the id back to Helena face down. "What'll ya have?"
Saturday Night, 2200h - Zin's Place, Lower West Gotham
Zinda Blake, formerly Lady Blackhawk of the Blackhawk Squadron, a group of crack pilots who survived the skies over Nazi occupied Europe and the Korean War to become some of the best first generation dog fighters on the planet, was "retired" from flight, so to speak. After a strange incident involving the Bermuda Triangle, a thunder storm and waking up 60 years later in Gotham Bay, she had hung up her wings and given up flying, but man did she miss it. The process of having herself raised from the dead was a long, difficult one, especially since for a 90 year old woman she still was in her thirties physically, having skipped the interam years completely, but she had managed to do it, and claimed her share of Blackhawk Enterprises, a transportation and logistics company managed by Bart Blackhawk the Third, grandson of the man who once said ladies couldn't fly, and that meant Zinda was no lady.
Blake had invested her share of the funds into a small bar operation, catering mostly to vetrans of various wars. By this time on a Saturday night the World War Two vets and Korean vets had fallen out, retiring to their nursing homes or, if they were lucky, their own apartments, luckier still their kid's homes in the suburbs, to be doted on by grandchildren. The Vietnam vets would be here for a bit longer, but they usually retired by midnight. It was the Gulf Vetrans who usually paid her bills on Saturday night, and for the most part they kept the peace well enough, though they were her least favourite. Many of them were cock and arrogant; they had the same feeling of entitlement that the rest of their generation shared, according to Zinda, which paired with the sacrifices they made on behalf of their country made for a volatile situation.
Typically the army grunts were the worst; as had been since the beginning of war, they were the ones fed into the wood chipper. Drawn from the lowest rungs of society, thrown to the wolves at the first hint of blood in the water. She was eyeing a group of them in the bar mirror as she wiped down the brass fixtures on the front of the bar. There were six of them, two had prosthetics, one had a droop to his mouth and eye which told Zinda he may have sustained severe nerve damage, perhaps from an explosion, to his face. The other three seemed physically undamaged; they'd be the ones to watch - the scars on the inside were the easiest to hide, and the worst to heal.
Huntress:
The soft purr of her bike cut off quickly as she pulled the key from the ignition and simply sat there for a moment in the alley way in which she decided to park. Gloves were removed from hands and as she sat back on the seat of the crotch rocket she tucked her hands into the worn brown leather coat that was wrapped around her form, and too big to be her size with the sleeves bunched up. To most people the day would have been special, to most the day would have been spent in celebration, in partying or even by stuffing their face full of cake but to Helena it was a day to be avoided. She’d admit aloud that she didn’t like the day on principle, after all who wants to go through the fuss of presents and embarrassing stories and the calories put on by cake? Internally though another scenario played out, and so she had chosen to skip away from her usual nightly routine of going on patrol with her partner and simply left him a note saying she was following a lead and would be back home later.
As the car pulled up in front of the bar she shifted and removed the helmet from her head, shaking her hair free and slid off of the bike as a young man, college aged moved out followed by three of his buddies all laughing obnoxiously as they moved into the bar. Storing her helmet she moved down the sidewalk after them, jean covered legs with knee high boots causing her hips to sway as she moved. Tonight she didn’t mind being noticed, tonight she had planned on it. The four moved into the bar, the seeming leader of the pack holding up his hands in an outward motion and then strutting right up to the counter like he could own the place and sat down, flashing Zinda a charming smile that clearly was capable of winning over at least the shallow types. “A pitcher of beer, best you got.” And then all four flashed down their IDs, all twenty-one as they kicked out the stools to sit, the other three talking amongst themselves.
Helena’s movement into the bar was much more subtle as she walked in through the doors moved a few seats down from the males and slid onto her own stool. Patiently she waited, eyes turned to what was in stock and crossed a long leg over the other at the knee while her stomach did one small flip. To her it was amusing, the fact that she’d be more nervous over slipping a bar tender a perfect fake ID that bumped her age up by a year from what she just turned than jumping down into a group of men holding automatic weapons.
Lady Blackhawk:
Zinda smirked and looked at the boys. "This here is a service bar, boys, our best is just the regular taps," she said. "And I don't open tabs for people I don't know, so someone's gotta put plastic down or all I'll be having all four of those driver's licences," she said with a gentle smile. Zinda was a busty woman, curved in the right places and had the ability to speak roughly but with a manner which made people agree to her terms easily. The leader of the pack put down a Visa card on the counter and Zinda smiled broadly. "We got MGD, Bud, Bud Light and Heinekin," she said pulling out four glasses. "Heinekin," they all agreed and she began to pour. With the head foaming over the lip of the pitcher she let the beer rest in order to attend to the other customer who had walked through the door.
She may have thought her entrace was inconspicuious, but Zinda could see there was something about the way the woman carried herself. She wasn't a soldier, no she had seen many female GIs, Airmen and Marines come through in recent months, most didn't quite have the same swagger this young girl did. Besides, judging by her face, Zinda didn't think she'd have been out of high school long enough to complete basic. "ID sugar," she said, watching her face, specifically the woman's pupils and the way they would dilate or divert upon being pressed. When presented she would pick up the small slice of plastic and inspect it with far more care than she had with the boys. Frat boys were pretty easy to spot, and these ones were clearly in their third year of riding daddy's wallet through college. This girl though? Harder to read.
Zinda's blue eyes would flick from the plastic to the girl a few more times before she decided it was a fake, but a close fake. "How old are ya really, sugar?" she asked, dropping her voice. "We're a service bar; ain't no man or woman in uniform can't get a drink her. You carry yourself like a cop, but you ain't so I'mma just gonna tell myself you're army and go my own way," she slid the id back to Helena face down. "What'll ya have?"