((Open for anyone to join.))

The Bad Panda is a little-known underground club, commonly inhabited by the dark and pop-outcast of the mortal Unnish world. PVC and heavy make-up are common, as well as spikes and whips and masks with funny little zippers over the mouth.

The creak of stressed leather.

The music is loud and throbs through the air like a living thing. The crowd seethes, ebbing and flowing like a dark tide, a giant black heart beating in time to the all-pervading music. And a tall figure makes its way through it, stroking cold, bonelike fingers over flesh and faces and costumes, greeting the lives around it as though they were all close, personal friends. Someday, the will be.

Modesty is not a concept that seems to have occured to this fellow. A black mesh tanktop covers his thin, pale chest-- if that's is the right word for the meagre covering it offers. His belt is large and heavy, studded with a double row of long, wicked-looking metal spikes. The belt holds up a schoolgirl-like kilt that appears to have been made from black leather. Tight black leather pants adorn the resy of the pants in a only slightly more masculine way, down to just below the knees where the black leather lace-up boots take over.

His arms are long, dancing through the crowd, touching his followers. The arms are covered in fingerless black gloves that reach nearly up to his shoulders. his fingernails are black.

His lips, pulled into a wide grin, are black as well. His hair is about three inches long, pulled into strict, needle-like spikes, making his head look almost like a dandelion in seed. His eyes are lined heavily with black eyeliner, and further adorned with grey/purple eyeshadow and silver sparkles. The eyes themselves, surrounded by all this dark, are shockingly white-- white cornea, black ring, white iris, black pupil. Target-like, almost, and very strange.

Ah, he loves it here. These people need him. They worship him. They desire him, and the never even know he walks among them.

Death smiles, and makes his way to the bar.

Clare walked in to the club. She prided herself as being the only one in colour in the club. Her colourful patches shone out like an open sore. She loved underground clubs, where no one gave a crap about the world. Just smoking, doping, dancing and chugging. Clare was home.

She decided start her night at the bar. She intented to end her night at the bar. And just for kicks she'd just spend the whole night at the bar. She wove her way through the dark people and signaled to the bar-keeper. "Rum, straight up!" She called. She lit a cigarette while bobbing her head to the music. She looked around at the leather clad nobodies and thanked god she wasn't that far gone. Especially the man in the skirt. She watched him with interest, he was even stranger then the others. And what were with those contacts?

Just a few feet from his goal-- the bar-- the man in the skirt pauses. his fingers snake out, stroke along a girl's jaw, turning her to face him. He leans in close, an oddly intense expression on his grinning face. He whispers something in her ear. She supresses a shiver. He pulls away, and she stares after him for a moment.

And then the crowd swallows her again, and he's taking a seat at the bar, juggling his thin frame into a sprawlingly casual position that speaks volumes of confidence and luxury.

He watches his people-- and it's obvious, in some subtle way, that he does consider them to be his people.

Melk walked into the bar wearing her favorite dress. It was, of course, leather...and black and only went to the top of hre thighs. It had blood-red flowers on it that looked as if they had been painted on. She wore a red hair-band with spikes on it and short (only going to her ankle), zip-up, leather, high-heeled boots.

She searched over to see if she knew anyone. Nope, though he looks familiar, she thought when she saw the man in his skirt. She walked over to the bar and sat down, her hair fell over the back of a chair. She looked over at Clare, rolled her eyes, and turned her head back around. People like that shouldn't be around here. Though, it is nice that they stop by sometimes, more fun for us if we don't like them. She looked back around at her as the bar-keep er asked her what she wanted. "Just water for me tonight," she told him. she didn't want to be just some whacko drink lasing around for no good reason.

As Clare's philosophy went, when in Rome it's best to hang out with the Romish guy out there... Or something like that. She picked up her rum and cigarette moved to the stool beside the man with the white eyes. "Yo Marilyn, care if I join you for a drink?" She grinned and placed the rum on the counter.

"What's your poison anyway? You don't look like a beer drinker... And if you do, you shouldn't. Takes to long ta get drunk." She really had a way with words...

The white-eyes stranger turns to glance down at Clarity. He lifts his brows and offers her a smile.

"I don't?" he says. There's something odd about the voice, but there's something odd about everything in the bad Panda.

"Well, then... make it a Belgian Chocolate Liquor."

((Melk's turn.))

Melk, who had gone with the ever-so-simple water, looked back over at the familiar voice. She'd never mat the guy, or knew his name, but she had seen and heard him very often. She layed her upon him, wondering over, checking out his style. It went with the rest of him. Finally. Someone who knows what they're doing. She decided to speak with him also. "So, what's your name anyway? I'm Melk." Her voice was cool as satin, and she sure felt like it, too. As the bartender layed her water on the bar, her hand glided over. She didn't look at it, just kept staring at White-eyes.

Were they already talking before she got here? Clare didn't think so. Clare didn't want to be the third wheel. She sat silently and watched the two. She'd probably stay and if the two develop a relationship Clare was sure to ruin it. If she wasn't happy no one else should be either. She smile as she downed her shot and signaled the bar-keep for another. She then took a long drag of her cigarette.

The white-eyed stranger glances over at Melk as she approaches, grinning at her in greeting.

"Call me Az," he says, and looks over at Clarity to include her in this introduction. He leans back, placing himself so that the three of the form a group instead of a loose coalition of people.

He offers Melk a quick smile then says to Clare, "Where's that liquor?"

Melk sat and thought of the name he gave her. Az...I wonder if that's his real name? I don't give out mine, but Melk's just short for Melenie K. But, no parents would really name their kid Az. And...that smile.

As she pondered this, she left the other two alone. She never did like to screw up a good converse, so she just sat there, drinking her water silently. A slight smile, even smirk, grew on her face as she looked at the others in the club and their styles and everything else she could figure out without screwing with anyone.

(('Screwing with anyone' isn't refering to powers, or anything nasty, just...talking or walking close, scaring them.))

"You got to look at bartender like you desperately need it. With your eyes, I'd bet that if you stare at him for five seconds you'd get the quickest made drink the bartender ever pulled out of his hat." She watched the bar-keeper intentionally to prove her point.

When the bartender came over to hand Az his drink Clare added two more shots to her order. The bartender would have to make less trips this way. He quickly poured them and slid them towards her. "If you want the drinks to come faster don't get a mix." She winked and downed her second shot.