Mystic Message Bar & Grill

Unfortunately, our dear Vassa is having a panic attack about her situation. As of this moment, I am unsure what has set her off, but once I do I will let you know. 

She smiled at Vega. “Even if I do end up dragged into the fray, you can’t do much on that ankle, you know. I don’t even know how you plan on making it into your bed tonight, to be honest.”

“Thanks, though, Vega,” Vassa said, after a pause. “I appreciate the sentiment. I’ll probably make myself scarce for a bit over there until boss is either confirmed dead or the power play fails. I’m certainly hoping he dies. That would be a treat.”

“Anyway, I was more suggesting that I do it. Y’know. Hitman, after all. Pretty good at it.” Their phone started chiming - was… that some kind of Tibetan alarm? The fuck, Vega. Apparently, it was what told them the curry was done, because they popped the lid off and gave it a good whiff. “But keep me informed. Don’t necessarily need a good leg to operate a scope, and I’m pretty tricky.”

“Mm, that ankle doesn’t quite look fine to me. But you should get yourself a cane anyway, make things easier on yourself.”

She glanced up and frowned. “Vega, I know you left the organization, but… I-If I do like Yoosung… Should I leave, too?“

Wincing, they returned to their place by the counter. They certainly are favoring that ankle, and it’s debatable how well their shift behind the counter later is going to go. “You wouldn’t be able to leave easy, though. But, hey. We’ve got a really rich guy, a hacking god, an ex-secret agent, and a woman who’s seen Hell and lived to tell the tale all in the same group. Pretty sure I paid for at least two big favors with all of that…” A vague gesture with the beer can. “Mint Eye shit.”

She glanced up and frowned. “Vega, I know you left the organization, but… I-If I do like Yoosung… Should I leave, too?“

Wincing, they returned to their place by the counter. They certainly are favoring that ankle, and it’s debatable how well their shift behind the counter later is going to go. “You wouldn’t be able to leave easy, though. But, hey. We’ve got a really rich guy, a hacking god, an ex-secret agent, and a woman who’s seen Hell and lived to tell the tale all in the same group. Pretty sure I paid for at least two big favors with all of that...” A vague gesture with the beer can. “Mint Eye shit.”

It’s easy to tell which door in the complex is Vega’s, namely because there’s a small whiteboard velcro’d underneath the peephole with Vega written in big, bubble letters. Also, stars. And a small doodle of Saturn. They really are a space nut.

The door opens after about thirty seconds, revealing Vega in all of their roughed-up glory. Most prominent are the scratches on their cheek, long, scabbed over marks from their nightly excursion, but there’s also a considerable bit of bruising right above their left eye (presumably where they smacked themselves on a branch) and a split in their lip that looks fairly painful. They grin though, looking down at Vassa with a dopey smile on their face, and limp aside to let her into the apartment.

They really have mucked up their ankle, haven’t they? It’s bandaged up, but honestly, from the looks of it they ought not be walking on it. Good luck telling them that though, as they hobble back over to the kitchen counter. “Just in time, I need that oil just about now.”

Vega’s apartment has… character, from the eclectic mix of photographs lining the walls to the layer of lived-in clutter that permeates everything. Scenes of different landscapes - the desert, the mountains, fields of flowers, outer space and hey wait is that one of V’s photos - hang on the walls, and there’s not a lot of blank space… anywhere, really. Beer cans are stacked up in a perfect pyramid on the coffee table, which seems baffling, honestly, if they’d gone to the effort of stacking them why not throw them away, but whatever it’s Vega. Various other sorts of alcohol dominate the rest of the surface area, and, tucked away in the corner, there’s a guitar case.

It’s a condensed place, with only the main room and the door which, ostensibly, leads to the bathroom. Vega’s ‘bedroom’ is on a loft, with a ladder by the fridge which leads the curtained off area, and it seems like they’ve got their desk up there as well. The smell of curry - and good curry, at that - permeates the small area, making it impossible to escape from the scent of food.

“Clearly, I did,” she responded, handing them the grocery bag. “I bought you some vegetables and a lot of water. You need something other than beer and whatever shit you eat, you dumbass alcoholic.”

Shrugging, they put out their other hand, using the counter to support their weight as they navigated themselves back to their cooking.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, little miss “won’t-eat-broccoli”? I eat plenty of fruit n’ grains and shit. What do you think they make cider and beer out of, eh?” They eased the amber bottle of fish sauce out of the plastic bag, then rattled around in the nearby drawer until they found a measuring spoon. Portioning out a small quantity, they added it to the pot, then glanced back at Vassa to check out what she was doing.

She grabbed an empty bag and tossed the beer cans in, moving over to the various other cans and bottles lying around. “It’s trash, Vega. How can you stand to live with all this trash lying around?” she asked.

She stuck her tongue out at Vega’s dubious look, rolling her eyes. “But you’re right, this is rather clean for you. More importantly, how’s your ankle? You really shouldn’t be walking on it. Don’t make me call Vanderwood over here.”

This was a shift for Vega - into something serious, into something more contemplative. “I felt… stupid. Did things I didn’t really get, felt things I didn’t really get. It made me softer, kinder, but anxious too. Felt happy when he spoke to me, and always worried about what he thought.”

It’s easy to tell which door in the complex is Vega’s, namely because there’s a small whiteboard velcro’d underneath the peephole with Vega written in big, bubble letters. Also, stars. And a small doodle of Saturn. They really are a space nut.

The door opens after about thirty seconds, revealing Vega in all of their roughed-up glory. Most prominent are the scratches on their cheek, long, scabbed over marks from their nightly excursion, but there’s also a considerable bit of bruising right above their left eye (presumably where they smacked themselves on a branch) and a split in their lip that looks fairly painful. They grin though, looking down at Vassa with a dopey smile on their face, and limp aside to let her into the apartment.

They really have mucked up their ankle, haven’t they? It’s bandaged up, but honestly, from the looks of it they ought not be walking on it. Good luck telling them that though, as they hobble back over to the kitchen counter. “Just in time, I need that oil just about now.”

Vega’s apartment has… character, from the eclectic mix of photographs lining the walls to the layer of lived-in clutter that permeates everything. Scenes of different landscapes - the desert, the mountains, fields of flowers, outer space and hey wait is that one of V’s photos - hang on the walls, and there’s not a lot of blank space… anywhere, really. Beer cans are stacked up in a perfect pyramid on the coffee table, which seems baffling, honestly, if they’d gone to the effort of stacking them why not throw them away, but whatever it’s Vega. Various other sorts of alcohol dominate the rest of the surface area, and, tucked away in the corner, there’s a guitar case.

It’s a condensed place, with only the main room and the door which, ostensibly, leads to the bathroom. Vega’s ‘bedroom’ is on a loft, with a ladder by the fridge which leads the curtained off area, and it seems like they’ve got their desk up there as well. The smell of curry - and good curry, at that - permeates the small area, making it impossible to escape from the scent of food.

“Clearly, I did,” she responded, handing them the grocery bag. “I bought you some vegetables and a lot of water. You need something other than beer and whatever shit you eat, you dumbass alcoholic.”

Shrugging, they put out their other hand, using the counter to support their weight as they navigated themselves back to their cooking.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, little miss “won’t-eat-broccoli”? I eat plenty of fruit n’ grains and shit. What do you think they make cider and beer out of, eh?” They eased the amber bottle of fish sauce out of the plastic bag, then rattled around in the nearby drawer until they found a measuring spoon. Portioning out a small quantity, they added it to the pot, then glanced back at Vassa to check out what she was doing.

Tibetan mastiff. Like having a pet bear. Who probably won’t eat you. LOL