The Dark Horse

Want a beer? Want a few shots of tequila? Want to see a barroom brawl between a guy who can turn into sentient dust and a woman with arms made of lasers? Yeah, I thought so.

Mersey's only (?) underground posthuman bar is a very interesting place. In order to keep the place off the radars of those who would probably prefer to see it firebombed, several security measures have been put in place. No-one is allowed entry unless they are accompanied by a regular, and a weekly password is also required. The owner's boyfriend is a skilled psychic who can tamper with memories as easily as one cuts a hated ex out of a holiday photo. And the bar is carefully situated so that one can walk the last thirty or forty metres to the entrance out of sight of annoying SP-iCams.

Inside, there isn't much that's that exciting to look at. Few regulars wear "the uniform" to their favourite bar, so those few who are dressed in brightly-coloured unitards tend to stand out a bit, although those behind the bar are usually kind enough not to deny their custom. More so than in other bars, the patrons are a varied assortment of young and old. In fact, in a somewhat drastic stab against the government, the bar's unspoken policy is not to ask the ID of anyone deemed worthy of entrance. The owners and employees are well aware of the dangers of sozzled superhumans, though, so they have a tendency to cut their patrons off whenever they feel the need.