Tap, tap... Tap, tap...

A band sits on top of stage. All male, dressed in jeans and leather jackets... a typical bar type band. Their name, as stated on the bass drum, are 'The Tyrants'. Nobody knows who they really are. They were just another starting out, 'not good enough for the big time' band...

Tap, tap... Tap, tap...

The drummer seemed to be testing out his sticks while the rest of the band sets up. His head moved back and forth in an unheard tune, tapping his sticks on the rims of his drums. He looked unimportant, the background, almost an exact replica of his band buddies; Jeans with holes at the knees, a leather jacket, and a Metalica t-shirt. His hair was a mess, a dirty blond, it spidered out in front of his face.

Tap, tap... Tap, tap...

He drummed out a simple rhythm. Although it did seem to captivate the audience, silence flushed through the bar for a minute. As if everyone had all the time in the world and their conversations could wait for later. They watched the guitarists warm their instruments and tune them just right. Their hearts seemed to pound a similar rhythm...

Tap, tap... Tap, tap...

The guitarists struck a chord... And the drummer came alive. The music started, lively, energetic. Fingers tapped, feet stomped, and the crowd came alive. Some cheered, some clapped, and some just appreciated the music for what it was. The lead singer came in with a rustic voice, belting out lyrics that were fully intelligible but oddly unnecessary. Only the energy mattered. They came to a climatic part of the music, the drummer bashed out a solo. A flash of silver came from the drummer's hands, maybe from a ring...

The club was not overly crowded but it was fairly busy. Patrons drinking, laughing and going about usual things. Servers weaved their way through the small spaces between tables. A thick smog of smoke hung about the air. A group of people showed their support towards the band by creating a mosh pit, screaming and shouting back to the singer's rough voice and semi-perfect tones. The band finished it's intro song and started bringing the heavy duty music. The drummer's head continue to sway, it was a different beat... But it seemed so familiar...

Faded is big. Too big, and too crowded, and the doors are mobbed by bodies swearing allegiance to whatever god will get them in. Cyril isn't at the doors. Knows better than that. Knows that no ID can get past some of these bouncers, knows that there's a fire escape in the back. Alarm trigger. No one would hear it through the noise, but he doesn't want to risk that.

He has friends, here. Or he pretends to. Mostly guys who run the place, not ownership but patronage. The steadies. The dancers, the dealers. He's made plans, good plans, where one slips back and he slips in. But the alarm wires are complicated. So he's waiting.

Waiting, and ignoring the music. The way his pulse keeps skipping, trying to skip in beat, trying to kill him with some rhythmic heart attack of life. Ignores the way he sways on his feet, holding back laughter. There's smoke in the air, heady with sweat and herbs but he knows that isn't it.

The door clicks open. A junkie girl leaning by the restroom wall smiles, big honest smile like she doesn't know or mind the intrusion. Like he's there just for her. And he isn't. Band nights are wild nights, and most dancers come for someone else. He comes for himself.

The mosh pit is a start. People crash by, he crashes by them. Throws his body in mimicry of theirs. Checks the floor for change. Checks the corners for jewelry. Tinsel. Anything. Long arms and shoulders crash by him, through him, shoulders just broad enough to squeeze through the cracks in the crowds. Skin flushed with pastels from the lighting system above. He can't hear the music, not this close. His ears are too sensitive. The noise is too loud. But he can feel the rhythm.

There's a quarter a foot away from him, a mile away stretched out in sweat and elbows and hair. Cy sees it. Glinting. A quarter isn't much, not in this city, but he could use it. So he dives.

Fingers with silver nails snatched the quarter before Cyril reached it. The fingers were attached to a man who looked oddly like the drummer on stage. But then again half the crowd did too and apparently the drummer was still on stage, bashing away. The man was definately strange to look at, he seemed drunk, wobbling too and fro. His every limb seeming attach to the movement of another. His head moving to an unheard beat.

The man noticed Cyril and grinned. The music seemed to quiet down, fading into a background noise, but such a change wasn't noticable to anyone. "Sorry there, finders keepers mate. Not alright to be all spralled about in this crowd, eh now?" He grinned, flipping the quarter. His head took a swing backwards setting his body out of balance, yet he didn't fall. "Now what's this, you look a might to young to be lying about this dungeon. I feel it'll be my sworn duty to fix this problem 'ear. Mind ya, good reason didn't hurt anyone now..."

Lips pull off his teeth and he's snarling, awkward human reaction that doesn't mesh right with the muscles of his jaw. His hands snap forward and he's grabbing at thin air, thrown back with the pulse of movement around him, too many people invading the space he'd claim to breathe. A foot hits his neck, steps down, Cy rolls into Too many people are moving, now, and with interaction he's forced to acknowledge them.

Panic is an ugly thing. He tries to swallow it down, edging away from the closest leg to slam into another. Words are blurred, fast and frantic. Fight or flight, but his body's screaming run.

"Fucker."

His hands move, grasp, fall back. The backs are oppressive, the press of bodies impossible.

"S'my fucking quarter, and I ain't underage."

Language skills slip. A stiletto heel pans into his side, slow broad movement that doesn't stop when it hits interference. He feels like screaming. Wants to clutch onto anything, raise himself above the noise, but when he tries it gets louder and thicker and he falls, again, lost amidst an ugly tidal wave of shins.

Amongst the moving shins and the dangerous stilettos a hand appears again. It glinted with silver as the light hit it for just a second. The hand was being offered to Cyril in a helpful gesture. The man bent low and was grinning, he was strangely unaffected by the crowd around him. "How bouts we get out of this shin dig before we starts passing ownership of next to nothing. Hate to break it to you, but body surfing happens on the upside of the crowd."

The hand is grasped impulsively, tightly. Cy isn't strong enough to do damage but he seems to be trying, grip like a vice and fighting his way upwards. Someone laughs and he sends an elbow their way, all sharp corners and finally standing on his own two feet. The combat boots sway and stick to something melted on the floor.

"Thanks," Cy offers, suppressing the urge to add 'mate'. Accents are contagious to him and he still can't breathe, but looking at the guy from this angle is easier and more comprehensive and he manages a smile. He still hates him, but he's smiling.

"Wanna escort me to the door?" 'Love' is implied at the end, cocky grin and tone but there's nervousness underneath, skin still crawling at the claustrophobia setting in. His teeth clack together and he moves instinctively towards the door, any door, still attached to NailGuy by a clenched fist.

"Ha, the door, mate? You sneak in and now you sneak out? Eh, why don't you stay a while, keep an old drunk company, what says ya? Mind you I don't drink alone..." The man pulled Cy into the opposite direction, towards a table, creating a tension between the two vice grips...

Slow stiffening, perceptible but he wishes it weren't. A joint in his elbow cracks and he eyes the door, the bouncers, instinctive escape plans forming.

"Yeah, well, I don't drink."

Nasty word, spit between his teeth. Another tug at their linked arms but Cy's following him, now, glaring at the crowd and trying to make eye contact with anyone he knows, plea for help because he isn't in control of this situation and control means everything.

The man stopped "Don't Drink?! Well of course not, you're too young! But, always a good time to start I aways say." He continued to pull Cy to the table. His grip seemed unnaturally strong and Cy had two choices: go with him... or have his arm pulled off..

A hooded teenager sits at a table near the two. The hood on her cloak-like jacket was up. Two odd little bumps creased the hood from underneath. The teen was sitting cross-legged on its chair. The ends of its pants fell over its feet and hid them. Its wide sleeve ends covered its hands aswell. On the floor, badly and barely covered by its cloak, was a lion tail. The tail was attatched to the teenager. Its face was hidden and the only thing anyone could see were strands of white and reddish hair.

It turns its head and looks at the man and Cy. Underneath its hood, its eyebrows raised slightly at the scene. Finding an odd sense of entertainment in them, it turned its chair towards them and watched.

Brute force.

Control is everything and everything is control, and without the psych games and with free movement he can move. And he does.

Quick roll. Arm to his side, the man's side - if he were to dislocate the shoulder, it'd be easier from this angle. And he shifts, and he twists, and there's a 'cracking' sound which isn't good at all. But he's away. He thinks he's away and just stops thinking, because from here it gets worse and if the man latches back or if he didn't get him off to begin with, no thinking, just turn and forward motion and there's part of him, some deep-far-away animal part that registers Tanshari and builds up an immense hatred. But mostly he moves.

The two little creases move slightly at the cracking sound. Tanshari, the teenager, winces. The entertainment in the fight suddenly lost, Tanshari looks away and attempts to turn her attention away.

But, she sensed something.. something a little odd. It was hard to put her finger on, but she still sensed it nevertheless.

"Alright mate, no need to be going ripping yer arm off. You can go." Tym said, not really wanting to waste his time such a sad mortal. Besides there were other people to drink with. He let Cy go. "But I'm keeping the quarter, see ya around, mate."

Adrenaline fades, heavy rush and he's shaking, now, still moving but listening to the god, the man and part of him is dissapointed he let go so easily. His arm hurts and breathing is harder, strange connections of 'The arm-bone's connected to the lung-bone' and he moves past the strangers, the crowd, the door and the adrenaline leaves a hot afterwash along his diaphragm. Holding his arm. Hating the man. Digesting what feels like battery acid, and he's gone.

Tanshari, suddenly remembering she was in a bar, got up and pulled her hood off. She raised her eyebrows and sighed. She had forgotten she shouldn't really be in bars. Plus, she was getting bored anyway. So she strolled for the door.

Tanshari walks out and leans against the wall of the bar. She closes her eyes and tries to block out the two fighting men.