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Qual floated in his strange mechanical way over the Bar, towards the bartender who was filling a glass of whiskey for the heavily muscular creature sitting at a nearby table. Qual waited patiently for the Man to finish, scanning the whiskey while he waited [Trace amounts of fermented wheat in a solution of water and alcohol. 60 Fahrenheit. Alcohol Proof .75]. The bartender finished pouring the creature's whiskey and turned to Qual. "What can I get you?" He asked in a light British accent. Qual nodded, and then enunciated "Mercury", He didn't really "drink" anything, he wasn't even biological, but he did need some heavy metals to make change with. The Bartender cocked his head and looked at Qual with a quizzical glance, Qual nodded again. He asked "You're serious right" In a tone of voice that one used when he thinks the whole thing is a big joke. Qual didn't move, but nodded slightly and enunciated "Yes".

This this was one the stranger orders that the Bartender had gotten, but nothing had yet topped the time an energy being had asked for Plasmafied Uranium. The bartender bent down and grabbed a heavily insulated container from under the shelf and a dusty glass. He poured the Mercury into the cup, and slid it over the bar it to Qual. Almost instantly a metal tendril shot from under Qual's robe, catching the glass. "That'll be 28 INGCRED" Another tendril shot from under Qual's robe, depositing 28 INGCRED Iridium 1$ coins the bar.

Qual nodded, and enunciated in his strange binary voice "I'll take the whiskey to that fighter". The same tendril that had deposited the 28 INGCRED latched on to the glass of whiskey, and Qual quietly floated over to Daemon's table. "Sentient, I believe this is your drink" He enunciated, handing the drink to Daemon.

Notoriety was no man to back down. The present wouldn’t have existed if he did so in the past. All he would admit to him self that his name was given to him only to mark his future. This tournament he was about to enter upon only forced himself to build more on his journey. He did not enter this tournament for the fame. Nor for his own hearts legacy to be remembered. The simple motive was none other to protect anyone from any form of malevolence that would quake the worlds underpinning.

As he walked through the entrance his emotions fell behind him. He placed on the visualization that he was almost emotionless as he closed his eyes upon expectancy on seeing someone. No eye contact was considered necessary. “Why play along to a fools mind games” is what he thought. There was no uncertainty in his mind that he would not face the upset of a lost. He traveled far distances from his people just to protect them. He was given word that many people who have enthused him to become as well built as he was were here as well. This journey was primarily a search for knowledge as well.

There was not a nonentity that should have been to distinctive about this man. He was only an average 5’11 but held many physical aspects when it came to his strength. He only held a tattered black sack on his back that had no dents of creases. It was almost like there was nothing inside but that was what seemed most likely. A black sheet of clothing covered most of his body as he clenched it holding it maybe to obscure some of the physical features that could be vital to his upcoming fight. Now and finally he entered the room heard down giving the persecution that he saw no one.

He thought the judges knew nothing of him but that was of the last things on his mind. There was no need to state his name for he did not want to be well known they would sign him up but as an unknown name is what he’d expect. He only wondered if the man who knew the only diminutive information about him was here. “Show your self Danshin…”

Daemon turned to the mechanized wad of orange-splashed tentacles and raised a a slightly bushy brow. The mechanized critter before him seemed on odd choice for a waiting automaton, leading Daemon to believe the machine was actually a combatant. "Thanks," the Lieutenant said in his rolling baritone voice as he accepted the glass with a polite nod. He sensed no malice from the machine at this point and gestured for the combatant to take the seat on his other side from Ichi-gou as he took a swig from his drink.

In that first taste Daemon knew something was wrong. It was obviously no malicious act of the tentacle bot. This problem was far from dangerous and would've been a prank in worst case scenario. The flavor of the liquor was off and the kick was all wrong. Hell. Jager bit harder than this stuff. He set his glass down on the bar top starred at it with a perplexed look on his face. The slightly sweet aftertaste of the swill clearly pointed to wheat in the mix. A good deal of it at that. The wheat content was going a long way in explaining why the alcohol was so puny in the liquor. Eighty proof would probably have been a stretch if Daemon had to give a number. Though he hated to think it, signs seemed to point to one thing. The ultimate faux pas of a drinking establishment. A situation so dire that it would unlawful, nay, heretical to not call attention to such a grievous trespass upon the very being of bar goers everywhere.

"'Ey Barkeep," said the large technocrat, his voice dripping with menace as he continued, "This ain't the drink I ordered."

Ichi-gou’s ears, tuned as they were to…Lots of stuff, heard a ‘POP’ of displaced air over the hub-hub of muddled conversations, the scrap of metallic tentacles across the floor, and Daemon playing the part of a displeased customer. So he peeled his eyes away from the top-shelf bottles, turned, leaned back against the bar, and surveyed the arrival that had poofed into the lobby.

“Oh hey…”, Ichi-gou nudged Daemon with the tip of a finger, and pointed out to the new arrival. “Call her over here for a drink dude. She’s your size.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

”Breathe girl…Take a sec and just breathe.”

Those are, make no mistake, the thoughts of someone who was caught unaware with something possibly unwanted.

”WHAT THE HELL!?”

No, that’s no Ichi-gou sounding surprised. If you’re picturing a teenage male’s mental protest and outrage as echoing in his head you’re off by a mark.

The one sounding both shocked and a touch angry is a seven-foot tall anthropomorphic lady covered in jet-black and gold scales that had appeared very much out of nowhere in the middle of the Lobby (not in line). Fortunately no-one had been knocked out of the way by her six-foot and liquid metal covered tail taking up a good deal of space, and however she’d been warped from walking down a hallway on the Technocrat world Media, she’d been placed accurately enough that had equally metal covered two-toed feet, arms, or her snort-muzzled head had intercepted anything else in the way. Her slit-pupiled eyes were as wide as they could get, and the scale-covered feline-ears on her head were flush with her skull as she looked about herself in alarm.

Trisha Watkins, a psionic hybrid of the Technocracy, was assailed from every side by a multitude of buzzing thoughts (most of which about the coming battles, so the thoughts were on most counts violently aggressive), felt her nose burn with the sudden rush of various bodily odors of dozens of races, and fighting the urge to jump into the air.

Taking stock, aside from her liquid metal armor covering her figure, Trish found herself bereft of her standard equipment, and her armor itself wasn’t set to her standard configuration. It was skin-tight and fully responsive over the whole of her body, and that was all well and good. But a tendril of it extended down from her right wrist and formed into a seamless clasp around the handle of a metal suitcase on the floor that was tall enough to reach to the middle of even her larger and longer than average thighs.

Given that she’d recently been inducted into the Black Dogs Trish would have been a fool to not recognize the case as being one of General Asimov’s gear attachés. It was leashed to her armor, and whenever she sent a mental cue to the armor’s processors to detach the cable, or even roundaboutly bud off part of the liquid on her arm the command was immediately rejected.

And that got under her scales. A lot. The PMMS-armor was the closest thing to clothing she had on. It required direct neural contact to control, so underneath the liquid metal she had her scaley hide and nothing else. If someone had monkey’d with her suit she didn’t want to be surprised by it acting up infront of a crowd of who knows who wherever this place was.

At a mental beckoning the metal flowed up over her head and face, and through the metal a mesh of polymorphic fibers formed a visor, and on that visor Trish cued a listing of all recent commands and modifications. If the suitcase was a clue as to how she’d ended up here then hopefully the armor’s databanks would have some relevant information.

Highlighted in red, flashing for urgent attention, there was a message from an individual that made her heart skip a beat, tail to perk up, and ears to flare a bit. Sky Martial Tesla, the highest Naval officer of the Technocracy, short of Amon Vajra the First Executive himself.

Trish, perplexed and now a touch more nervous, triggered the data-packet to be displayed for her review.

ATTENTION: Staff Sergeant Watkins, Black Dogs Corporation
DEPLOYMENT: Multiversal Disconnected Location, The Metaverse
DURATION: Indefinite, Temporal Loop Factored

OBJECTIVES
1. TO FACILITATE THE SAFE CONDUCT OF GENERAL ASIMOV TURSCADINE.
2. TO ENSURE SMOOTHER OPERATION OF GENERAL TUSCADINE’S ASSIGNMENT.

PROCEDURES
1. STAFF SERGEANT WATKINS, the chosen agent of LOMBARDI MILITARY CORPORATION INC. henceforth known for the purposes of this brief as THE AGENT, shall become attached to GENERAL TURSCADINE’S person as following the typical procedure (see section A6724.23B-6C of LOMBARDI MILITARY CORPORATION INC. Special CORPS Handbook: “Impersonating the Spouse of Your Commanding Officer”)
2. THE AGENT shall see to the proper maintenance and care of GENERAL TURSCADINE’S, henceforth known as THE GENERAL, personal equipment by any means necessary. Use of LETHAL FORCE is hereby AUTHORIZED.
3. To better his effectiveness and foster increased efficiency among the unit, THE AGENT shall anticipate and fulfill all personal needs of THE GENERAL.

MATERIALS
1. Temporary access to THE GENERAL’S private accounts shall be afforded to THE AGENT for the assignment. SEE ATTATCHMENT.
2. Wedding and post-wedding IMAGES of THE GENERAL and THE AGENT have been provided to maintain operation security. SEE ATTATCHMENT.

Read This and Tremblingly Obey

Her Exalted Highness,
The Maharani of Stark,
Sky Marshal Elliot Tesla

SS6Ψ6X-A2134F-345FG-4214Γ-RG5567-XS4421Ω-667

The running encryption sequence ended in a seemingly random collage of symbols, and the message promptly deleted itself from the armor’s databanks short of the needed attachments.

Trish, unbeknownst to anyone looking at the mewthree-female standing stock still in the middle of the lobby, was left with her mouth hanging open inside the solidified metal covering her muzzle, and her tail limp on the floor.

Rest and Relaxation

As the spell caster walked away from the registration desk, his airy gaze turned downwards to start at the floor passing beneath his feet. After a moment of introspective thought, he started looking around at the surrounding contestants again. All things considered, nothing seemed to entirely out of place. Not even himself, the spell caster thought quietly.

'The stereotypical mage...such a misnomer. I wonder if there's a barbarian woman with photon bazooka battle ax to best me.'

No sooner had the senseless words crossed his mind, did his head tilt towards his right before leaning backwards at a considerably awkward angle shared only by mental patients. A particularly feminine figure had caught his attention, one dressed in a standard blue uniform befitting some foreign military personnel. Despite her offset appearance, Windsor felt compelled to kill time quite possibly annoying her.

The robed figure straightened himself and passed through the crowd much as a ghost passes through walls, his magical aura still suppressed to avoid standing out more than he already did. Completely unimpeded by the brutes, machines and all manner of fighter around, he finally appeared beside the military woman with gaze raised into the empty air above him.

"Now this is certainly a surprise," he said with a slight smirk in his voice.

"What would compel such figure like yours to compete in a gladiatorial event like this? Surely, you have better things to do than wrestling with brutes."

Windsor never prided himself on his smooth talking abilities. It was never really that important to him in the first place. The thought of rejection never seemed to bother him, despite occasional overly dramatic acts to catch a womans eye. One thing was for certain though, it was most certainly fearless. Perhaps even "Napoleon" at times. This was quite possibly one of those times.

Qual took the invitation and set down, his tentacles flowing over the chair and falling into a limp hang. But... The bulky man had gotten mad at the barkeep, and was yelling at him in a loud and angry voice. He had ordered Whiskey, and by Qual's logic, the barkeep had done nothing wrong. Whiskey was a rather weak drink of fermented grain on some worlds, paint thiner on others, and the whole Alcohol selection of a cluster of galaxies really boggled the mind of anything with a mind smaller than a hyperspatial AI.

Qual enunciated "Thanks", and took a look at the creature the man filled with necromantic energies was pointing at and making snide references. A mage had walked up, and was already making an advance on the [Species: Human: Gender: Female: Naval Rank[Force Unknown]:[Force Unrecognized: Rank NOT-ID][/Note-12D-43654H: Just ask Humans: They Talk][High-Level Energy Readings: Bio-Mech Invasive: Keep away from Machines: You Want Chassis to Remain your own]

He turned his attention back to the Man, who had gotten the right drink now, mostly because the bartender wanted his limbs intact, and asked "So Human, where are you from?". He took a sip of Mercury, but really it was a complex interplay of his field effectors on matter, and the conversion of the Mercury to structural elements and spare INGCRED change via said interplay. The actual moving of the glass was purely symbolic.

OOC Note: I'm talking about Ryand-Smith''s character, not Mewtwo. o__o

OOC: Profile approved, waiting for in character post.

Black Magic Mambo

"Well, I want to see how good my new powers are, and prove that I am the best of my sisters!"

The smaller mage had heard everything she said, though found those particularly memories before mentioning of "sisters" drove everything to the back of his mind.

'More...like her?'

The thought was tantalizing to say the least and managed to slow the mighty Bishop's powerful mind to a crawl as only images of this military siren and fellow beauties encircling her danced about his mind. Giggling girls with assorted hairs of pinks, blues, greens and even yellows and browns dressed in halter tops and pajama pants hitting each other with pillows had stunned Windsor physically as his gaze stared tipped slightly at the woman beside him while his jaw began losing control over itself. Of course, in his daydream, the Arkanus caster found himself in the middle of a massive, chest pillow attack that smooshed his face and knocked his glasses and hat off before getting hit smack in the face by a rogue pillow that knocked him back into reality.

"I am Subaru Najima, of the Googleplex. Pleased to meet you."

'Damnit! I didn't catch her name!!?'

A swell of hideous laughter crept into his mind from the endless depths of his spirit and mind, each finding the spell casters actions pathetically humerus.

The woman looked nervously away for a moment, an action that the spell casters keen eyes were more than capable of observing, despite his slightly infatuated slump that was fortunately hidden somewhat beneath the shadows of his wide-brimmed hat and heavy crimson robes.

"I'm from Santa Monica, just outside the Googleplex, a Dyson Sphere complex. Where are you from?"

Windsor quickly righted himself from his awkward staring and slightly hunched over position, to a more straightened and confident stance with a puffed chest and arms folded behind his head. Behind the orange lenses of his glasses, crimson eyes marked with black crosses shifted to hers, just barely visible and for only a moment, locking onto her own. In that moment, the woman would have found herself in a slightly euphoric and almost hazy state, as his alluring gaze turned it's power against her senses to suddenly stimulate adrenal output along with other chemical reactions within her body. It wasn't something he actively started, but rather a passive attempt at seducing the military beauty before him, something that came as natural to the spell caster as winking. As a master of the metaphysical, his "seductive" stares came with power.

"Well...my name is Windsor...Arcanum," a pearly white smile appeared from beneath the shadows of his hat as the spell caster tipped his head upward.

"I can't say I've heard of Santa Monica...or the Googleplex...or Dyson Sphere, though they all sound fascinating to say the least. Judging by your uniform, I'd say it must be a fairly advanced culture. Blue...hmm...Navy, I suppose? An intergalactic space force, I'd guess." the spell caster began rambling, exposing the underlying nerdiness of his position, for all classic wizards seemed to be book worms. Windsor was setting his "kind" back a couple thousand years, easily.

The robed man quickly regained his senses, completely losing all power and ambiance that may have been established before. He was now just a strange short guy in pristine red robes next to a proper woman. This had quickly become an uncomfortably familiar situation to Windsor, which the voices within took great delight in laughing and taunting him over.

'Shut up! Gods, you guys are annoying!!'

'Awww, wuzzit matta? Da big bah' Crimson Bishop havin' trubble wid da girlz?!'

'Oh this is always funny! Go on 'stud,' use that stare again. Might wanna put some duct tape over your mouth first!'

'Where are you from?!?'

The Boltzmann at his side suddenly broke into the tumult that was raging silently within the confines of Windsors mind. It's sagacious nature seemed lost to the moment at this point as every indicator in the spell casters mind, particularly that of the casters reactions to the goading daemons within, alerted the powerful rifle to the mage "going down in flames" with this first encounter.

'What?'

'She asked you where are you from. Are you just going to keep standing there like an idiot?'

"Oh shit!"


Meanwhile...Not Outside of a Golden Corral on a Tuesday Night

As the massive contest warred within the spell casters mind, his body had grown limp and useless again, though still managed to stand up right though completely frozen in time. His arms fell from behind his head and hung limply at his sides, the casters head aimed forward as his body was now squared straight forward with his new acquaintance. This was all during the awkward silence and now there was an awkward scene. Truly this was becoming an incredibly awkward moment. There was a slight twitch in Windsors head before he suddenly burst to life once more.

"The Multiverse!"

'Shit! That's not right!'

'Oh Lord Chaos!'

'What part!?'

"UHhhh...Currently, I reside within the Technocracy, planet N'argue, city of Badweather...it's...a sort of rough neighborhood," the spell caster had finally seemed to recover, gaining motor functions as well as he found the line had already moved forward a step.

"I've thought about moving back to Aristotle but the fresh air and bright lights just don't agree with me too much."

Windsor Arcanum, Crimson Bishop of the Fallen Church of Arkanus, Expeditionary Force Gunslinger of the Technocrats and stumble-bum with women.


Behind the Scenes

While this scene was taking place between Windsor and Subaru, another force within the crimson draped form was moving. It was the presence of another taking particular note of his actions as well as the womans actions that was watching from a nearby bar once again. Unlike the behemoth and his idiot friends before, this presence was slightly more impressive and seemed content with his observations. The spell caster didn't particularly like being left in the dark about characters that were taking an interest in him, especially when their interest manages to attract the attention of someone the spell caster is attempting to get closer too. It tended to throw things out of balance, or so he felt.

As the casters alluring gaze fell over the woman for a brief moment, another force within the Crimson Bishop had stirred. A power archaic and natural to only himself. The multiplicity that came with an exposed mind and soul. While Qual watched from afar, he would've taken note of the spell casters back side while Windsor spoke with the military woman. At that angle, a face would've morphed from the shadows that fell over the spell casters body beneath the widened hat. The face contorted and twisted amidst the inky blackness there before revealing the true stare and crazed grin of Windsors inner demons. With eyes burning red, emblazon upon empty black crucifix's upon his face, the crazed face in the back of his head began to move forward, pulling away from the pool of shadows around it. It wasn't long before the face pulled out the body of a raven dripping with crimson power that moved like blood.

As the bird was pulling itself free, it flew away and into the air before circling back to the bar to take a seat in the rafters, the spell casters eerie black face with piercing eyes and white fanged smile staring down at Qual. Unknown to him at this moment, the apparition was only able to be seen by the cybernetic construct. That was how the spell caster willed it, a very powerful, very definite message.

'If you are going to stare at me, I'm going to stare at you right back.'

As soon as it became apparent and obvious to Qual, the casters voice would've broken into his mind to re-iterate the message at the same time. Such was the power of Windsor's black magic. And so the deformed creature perched in the bar rafters waited, ever staring and unblinking behind a grin of madness. It seemed only those who were familiar with the Crimson Bishops magic would be capable of understanding what was truly going on at this moment.

How many faces did this unimpressive mage have?

Punctuation was a fickle thing for the Hephaestian as his entrance from the beacon was swift and quiet, walking in a lazy stride along the marble path. His mind swam in a sea of daydreams and he seemed to pay no attention to much of anything around him, his eyes staring straight ahead without noticing any other details besides the building not far from him. As Valkyarc neared the building, he almost fell forward when he brought his foot up to take the first step, regaining his balance and walking up the series of steps that led into the building as if it was natural. He even ignored the two masterfully sculpted figures on each side of the entrance as if an everyday sight.

The black armor that covered his entire body had him sticking out like a black dot on a white piece of paper as he entered the large lobby of the tournament, still lazily walking forward paying no mind to the other competitors who were interacting with one another. Valkyarc moved past anyone along the way, finally stopping when he reached the desk at the far end of the room, his eyes beginning to wander as he had snapped out of his drifting thoughts. He glanced down to pick up a form sheet and soon finished the form, sitting the pen down and placing the sheet on the proper pile before taking a few steps back and walking back to the entrance of this place, taking a seat on the top steps.

“Excitement has seemed to escape me for this event.” He said to himself while sighing, repositioned his halberd to lay horizontal with the floor.

OOC: Character approved, please make an in character introduction.

Discipline absently set the solid-state memory crystal that had his registration information at the desk and turned away, eyes brushing the crowd. My job doesn't actually start until the tournament does, so I guess I have some free time. Heh, it's been a long time since I've had any of that. I've practically forgotten what alcohol tastes like. He wandered over to the bar, setting his briefcases next to the mage, who was apparently hitting on the pert little military type across from him. Tapping his unsnapped faceplate on the counter, he asked for, and received, a draft beer. Mmm. Delicious. Foam dribbling off his chin and an amiable smile on his face, he ambled back over to the table where the mage and majorette were sitting. "Mind if I join you two?", he asked, setting down his beer and faceplate.

He stepped into the registration room, his azure eyes slowly glancing around the area. He noticed all the other fighters in the area. He walked up to the registration table, he scribbled his name down on the parchment infront of.

Touch competition, Don't know if I can beat them.

As he made his way between the the doors,auras from the other fighters, his katana slightly tapped the marble steps as he walked. "It begins."

Skallagrim watched as others headed towards what after a moment of study revealed itself to be a tavern or bar of some sorts. Looking at the ones who were with him curiously and since they seemed to be locked into their own battle of wits, Skallagrim wrapped the dusky cloak about his form and tread softly towards the bar area.

Constantly noting the various forms of life be it metallic or organic Skallagrim was intrigued at what the holons of existence managed to produce in all it myriad forms. Stepping into the bar area, Skallagrim shuffled off, away from the door as to not be trampled by the other contestants who seemed to be engaged in loud and boisterous talking.

Finding a small shadowed corner table, Skallagrim sat down, the chair creaked softly as the chain clad figure leaned forward. The chain scrapping and denting the wood and as he was easing his elbows upon the table the amethyst energies swirled and misted around his face drifting off and dissipating into nothingness. Gazing across the tavern, seeing the other contestants Skallagrim merely watched and observed them.

OOC: Profile approved, in character post pending.

“I really hate dimensional travel.”

Jessie held her stomach with one hand as she passed through the portal. The other lay on her hip just above the grip of her gun, she really wouldn’t have gone through the portal had she not decided that her skills needed a bit of polishing. Old age was starting to show its wear on the ex-assassin, as it was getting harder for her to keep up with younger, more powerful beings in the Multiverse. Perhaps the only thing that had kept her alive thus far was the fact that she had the experience to know a lot about a battle that she could use to her tactical advantage before her opponent. However years of killing defenseless old armchair generals and upstart business men with pockets bigger than their heads had dulled even her expert tactical senses.

Shaking off the feeling that she might sully the grandiose steps of the even grander building, Jessie took a look around her, clearly dwarfed by the colossal nature of it all. She had heard about the Grand Tournament only once before, whispered rumors among secret societies of gamblers and businessmen who staked their fortunes on the strength and bloodlust of fighters and gods. Though she herself had never considered herself a fighter or a god of any sort, apparently someone did as she was sent a message and a portal from a faceless source to join the current Grand Tournament. It only meant that someone somewhere thought that she would be able to hold her own against people with more power in their pinky finger than she possessed in her whole body.

“They certainly are over compensating for something.” Jessie muttered to herself before lightly brushing her finger against her gun. “Well, if it’s the will of god then what kind of vassal would I be to deny?”

With that she set off up the steps of the building, still dwarfed by the nature of the room as she entered the cavernous halls. There were people around, none of which Jessie preferred to look at for too long, though she once again felt small and normal in comparison to those with intricate armor and large weapons. Jessie herself wasn’t very much to look at, she was wearing a sleeveless red shirt and a pair of loose jeans over her black body armor that had been specially designed by a group of hired scientists. At her hip was a single gun with the engraving ‘God’ etched into the side with a flowing script. She looked more suited to doing a secret mission than fighting in a tournament of warriors.

Despite her out of place appearance, she held herself with a willful pride and walked up to the desk at the end of the room as instructed by the large marble stone in the center of the room. Once again ignoring everything around her she started to register herself for the tournament, doing her best to note down everything that she was supposed to without being sarcastic to a piece of paper. In her younger days she might have made little snarky side notes on the registration, but time and experience had forged her into a more reserved sarcastic bitch.

OOC: Profile approved, please post an in character introduction.

Its funny what boredom will drive one to do. Some might spend sometime at home, reading a book, playing some sort of game, or maybe catching up on some neglected house work. Others might go out, see a movie, maybe get drunk, pick up a girl, that kinda thing. Kiyoshi Kazami, on the other hand, found himself standing in line to fight some people from other countries, worlds, and dimensions. Perhaps it was the soldier in him crying out for some action, but even though he debated for awhile now on whether or not he should have just stayed home, the allure of the whole matter was quite strong. It wasn't a simple matter of pride or ego boosting he was after, it was just to see where he stood after being on such a hiatus.

Eventually, the waiting in line did end. He had signed up, picked out a room, and made his way into the bar. Dressed in his black and gold Technocrat uniform, indicating that he was a part of Paradigm Inc., he strode over to the nearest empty table and sat himself down. Not that the he thought the designation would matter much where he was at. He wasn't entirely sure how many from his own plane of existence were here, as of yet. With a brief wave of his right hand, he flagged down a nearby waitress, who's nice rump caught Kiyoshi's gaze hidden behind the dark sunglasses he wore.

She walked up to him, Kiyoshi noting the false look of happiness. Probably not looking forward to having to take a myriad of orders before the day was through or maybe something deeper. Personal matters didn't amount to much to him when it came to people he would have no personal connection with in the first place.

“Rum and coke, please,” he said, returning a similar look of fabricated positive sincerity. The waitress nodded then moved on, others calling out their orders. Sitting back, he floated off into his own thoughts. Was he even up for all of this? He hadn't been any kind of confrontation in sometime, the last major one leaving him in a state he wasn't too pleased with.

The sound of a glass being placed on the table brought his aimless drifting to an end. He gave a polite nod to the waitress then brought the glass up to his lips. He drank slow, it had been awhile since he had had any sort of alcoholic beverage. He never was much of a drinker, and typically only turned to the vice under social situations. The problem at this moment was he didn't feel like being sociable. His only prerogative at this moment was to get an idea of what was to come.

Bringing the glass back down, he brought his hand up to remove the darkened lenses to glanced around the room. Taking a subtle breath he knew, win or lose, it would simply feel good to be in the old game again.