Bleach Hereafter RPG

It wasn't really the kind of place that suited him, quiet and refined with accents in dark wood and soft lighting .. but it would be several hours before the next patrol was set to come through the Senkaimon so he could slip back through without too much fuss and he needed a place to keep himself low until then. Passing across the roof-tops up above, the Shinigami couldn't help but pick up a small sense of the Reishi that stood out from the others that milled about the city. With enough strength to rise itself above the rest of the chattel, Hattori couldn't help but be drawn to the place and a good sense of serendipity too. The place is quiet when he walks in, calm and almost completely empty. Perfect. Finding himself glancing around, his presence luckily doesn't stand himself out too much apart from being the only person in the place. A half-smoked cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and he's dressed in a simple set of modern clothing. Jeans baggy enough to provide that lazy, comfortable look and a pair of low-top sneakers that help complete the overall 'slacker' look of the man. A T-shirt bearing the logo of some band he probably has never listened to, and a simple bracelet of prayer beads looped about his wrist a few times to keep them in place.

"What's good to drink around here?" 

He raises his voice when he spies the one and only other person here in the bar area, and without waiting for an answer the man moves to find and occupy one of the seats at the stylish, black-wood bar. The man's hair is spiky, messy in a swept-back fashion and thankfully for the moment, the cigarette doesn't seem to be lit. "Whatever it is, pour me two, eh?" Hattori offers out to the stranger.  Watching him too, it becomes clear quickly enough to Koshou that the spiritual pressure he'd felt earlier that led him here must be none other than the man working the bar, now. The difference in their dress is evident, but it doesn't seem like Hattori is concerned about potentially being a little below the bar for the usual clientele in a place like this. Moreover, it's easy enough to tell by his demeanor that he's probably oblivious to MOST etiquette! 


Itsuki Hasegawa

Boredom had fully overtaken him. Reasoning and logic had begun to dissolve, eyeing the security camera above. Surely it couldn't see the spiritual effects any more than the naked, unattuned eye, no? Perhaps if it had some fancy, knock-off ghost-stalking show meter or lens or some nonsense. These cameras barely held an image most of the time. Free hand slipped into a pocket, thumbing the corner of his chamr like a lighter's sparkwheel. With each rub of his thumb across the corner a small burst of sparking orange burst free, dancing in the corner of his vision before being muffled out again with a flicker of the mind. It was simple enough practice, helping him control the amounts of spiritual juice poured out into the material world at a time. Besides, it was entertaining to use ghost magic as an invisble sparkler to amuse himself. Thumb cocked back for the next strike, the quaint black bell newly fitted above the door rang out in an energetic little peal.

Consummate professional that he was, Itsuki froze a moment, eyes alone shifting across to evaluate the customer. Although it wasn't a regular, something about him reminded him of them. Well, fuck it. Who was a barman to judge? Money was money. Donning his professional expressioned, smoothed as free of impoliteness or over-familiarity as his neatly ironed clothes, the pious alcohol peddler set up a simple black ashtray on the counter, motioning with a sweep of a hand.
"Of course. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to extinguish your cigarette unless you're to enter the smoking lounge in the VIP area." Came his simple direction. Despite that, a soft smile came to find a home on his face and he still went about setting out a tray with a rounded highball glass. It seemed he had no intention of refusing to serve drinks if he didn't stop.

Next from beneath the bar came a small wooden cutting board and a chef's knife, a bowl of fresh citrus fruits glistening with condensation followed by another glass, a crome bowl of crushed ice and two glass bottles. Itsuki expertly set to work, cutting one lemon in half and the other into eighths. Next, a grapefruit with one half used for segments. Using a gleamingly clean hand citrus press the lemons was juiced into one glass, the grapefruit into the other. "So what brings you to Club Jezebel tonight?" Interwove the enquiry amidst the quietest moment amongst clattering sounds. Gathering up the ice and severed segments, both glasses were sprinkled near full of the refrehsing mixture in accordance with their separate fruits. Next came two shots of shochu from a blue bottle into each concoction, topped off with club soda from the other bottle. Given a gentle stir, the alcoholic lemonade was presentled on a small black, Jezebel branded tray with a depiction of the green eyed woman that served as the bar's mascot.

It was a lowest common denominator sort of drink but by that virtue, usually one people didn't mind starting off with. More importantly the careful, swift preparation had given time for his unrefined third eye to open and gaze upon the aura of this visitor. No reiatsu was being exerted,that much was certain. What he had failed to realise, however, was that the thumbnail of his left hand used to toy with his charm had remained driping with his own molten reiatsu until the first cut with the knife.

"If these drinks are not to your liking I'd be happy to prepare you something else, Mister...?" He coyly tried to ascertain, unaware of his own self-exposure.

Rather than provide an immediate answer, the man takes an extended minute to consider and observe the man behind the bar. His eyes take stock of the man's appearance and dress of course, but more than that they look for what lies behind that. The professional expression painted on, the meticulous motions, the pristine presentation ... this man wore a Mask of another kind. But .. in the world of Men - this was common he remembered. He didn't carry many of his memories, but he could vaguely recall the pressures and anxieties of his mortal life in rare flashes like this one.

"Hattori." He offers his Surname easily enough, and though the cigarette dangling from his mouth isn't so much lit (but rather recently put out) it doesn't stop him from giving the man a brief nod and lifting a hand to snatch it from the corner of his lip to deposit into the sleek, black ashtray. The man's eyes cut toward the hand that pushes the ashtray toward him and there's a hint of a nod that Koshou gives to himself that's still easily catchable by the bartender, all the same. Taking the drink that's offered with one hand, Koshou raises the glass toward his nose to give it a little sniff before letting it grace his lips. Once he does though, he finds the drink fruity, somewhat tart, and ultimately pleasant enough that he soons drains the glass until there's only ice left to chink faintly against the confines of the high ball tumbler.

"In here?" Hattori does give a perfunctory look around, as if just now denoting the difference in elegance between the atmosphere of the place and his own attire, let alone HIM! His grin splits his face easily, letting his frame lean forward to rest one forearm onto the bartop with a casual ease. "It .. felt like a decent spot to kill some time." He gives a gesture toward the now empty glass, a clear indication he'll go for another. Reaching into a pocket, he'll leave enough money on the bartop to cover it and then some. Along with the bills, one chit or coin that definitely stands out from the other. One one hand, most people probably wouldn't even see it as most things from Soul Society are made entirely of reishi anyway. On the other - Hattori seems to be watching for the bartender's reaction when he puts the money on the table. 

"And you was blinking like a street light .." comes a belated addition to his answer, slipped in with sly but not subtle pause.


Itsuki Hasegawa

Safe behind his venetian carnivale of the social world, the masquerading monk nodded in response to the name. It was simply another surname, not one that rang any bells large or small. Itsuki held hie piece as the customer tried their drink as was right with new folks. An internal wince passed as recollection of his first day, talking the ear off of some poor old fool looking for a quiet drink and a place to smoke had resulted in them paying up and leaving without a word.
    Sure, Mr. Watanabe had found it funny enough but his pride had suffered a bruise.
    This, one Mr. Hattori, certainly seemed a bit sharply aware of himself and his surroundings. It was the job of a proper host to help the customer feel at ease so as neatly as the glass had been drained did the bartended nod along to his query, a single digit neatly rotating the tray in place to present him the grapefuit based drink next.
    Taking up the glass and returning that toothy grin with a more natural smile emerged in earnest, that lean in and emphatic strain on his 'felt' seemed like more than just a weird allusion to having a good time with himself. Smiling mask held, eyes faintly squinting in strain for understanding, stopped in place with his grasp about the empty glass for a halted moment of failed understanding on his part. Gestured indication set him back to motion, duplicating the process.
    Glimpsing up from pouring to the rustle and clatter of legal tender surrendered those spiritually perceiving eyes failed to properly notice what was amiss in the physical world at first.
    "It's a pleasure for Club Jezebel to be your choice tonight, Mr.Hattori." Itsuki said.
    Clank, went the refilled glass set down on the tray. Time to sort out that mo-...
    Ah.
    Brushing the mundane modern currency aside he eyed the stamped, ridged, golden slip. Plucking it up between delicately manicured fingers the masquerade lost some of its lustre, batied so easily by ignorance exposed.
   "And you was blinking like a street light .."
    "I can't accept koban as-" They'd spoken into each other.
Itsuki's eyed closed, hand falling gently to the rim of the tray still clutching feudal currency. He had barely been back in Japan 48 hours and he was already running into another one.
    Single, amber eye opened with an expression of exaggerated wincing against the feeling in his chest, caught red handed. Setting the rest of the money aside the fullbringer tossed the koban back on the tray, hearing his sensei's words about the afterlife being feudal Japan echoing inbetween his ears.
    "Shinigami, yeah?" Surrendered the masquerade to a casual tone.
    The booze peddling monk was damn lucky the manager didn't give half a damn about security tapes half of the time. Luckier that the other half of the time he was getting rid of them.

"Sure."

The response comes easy, but the man's face and expression doesn't seem to grow any more serious or hostile. He takes up the grapefruit drink instead and lifts that up to give it a quick whiff and then a taste. "Ahh ... this is good, too!" Slightly gravelly, his baritone is friendly enough as he takes a chance on the many varieties of cocktail that come with the ingenuity and creativity of the Living World. With an easy swipe, the ridged plaque is tucked away again - never really intended to be offered as payment in the first place but having done its job all the same. His voice remains quiet enough, despite the lack of virtually anyone else in the bar at the moment, but the man as go-with-the-flow as he seems appears to show some discretion all the same and just in case.

"But I ain't much interested, if I'm honest .." he says with a more quiet tone that's loud enough to just carry over the rim of his glass as he takes another drink. "I was on the straight, I just need a place to kill some time. This seemed like a place I could do that. Then again." His grin flashes for a brief moment like a clap of lightning revealing something of his inner nature before the mellow outward persona settles back into place. Setting the glass down, Hattori takes the opportunity to enjoy the fruity, tart bite of this drink a little more casually. It won't be long before he'll end up draining that glass, too. It's nothing like the staunch or basic alcohol of the Rukon where he'd spent many days drowning himself in the oblivion of the bottle. "Tell me something I can tell somebody else when I report back, and then I won't have to get too curious about it, eh?" Again that grin and smirk is affable, but that undertone hint of unstable energy is right there beneath the surface. Small bits of his reiatsu can be felt this close even if the bartender isn't looking. Raw, unregulated currents of power that ebb and surge like electricity.


Itsuki Hasegawa

Itsuki studied the expressions the shinigami made carefully. It didn't seem like he was up to any mischief, in fact he seemed just like any other customer. It wouldn't have been the first to get rowdy but this was a special case. From what he could grasp these Shinigami types were glorified police for the afterlife and most concerned with what happened on the side of the veil he was yet to cross.
    Well, save for those bone masked bastards.
    Such a casual demeanor and a snippet of praise put him at ease, the bartender straightening himself up with the first honest smile he'd expressed all night. Riding along with the theme of citrus drinks the mixologist monk plucked up a parfait glass with a faint tinkling as it brushed by neighbours, planted on the bartop. It only made sense to try to mix something in keeping with the tone of the discussion, even if his quiet comment had poke him in the side somewhat.
    Somehow this felt closer to how he would like life to be. Supernatural ghost magic was just another thing on his plate, some delectable hors d'oeuvre preview of dessert before the feast in which he hoped to find himself.
    Itsuki strained water against the side of the little vessel with the ice scoop before dipping it low to bring up crushed ice soon deposuted into the new glass, setting it back with an expression that spoke of carefree carelessness coated in satisfaction, just shy of happiness.
    Next came the French littered bottle of creme de cassis, filling just over a two finger length with that lush, bittersweet blackcurrent burst of flavour.     Those amber eyes shifted up to the shinigami with a quick, mild quirk of both eyebrows. That spark was different from the Professor's.
    "Showing me yours, eh? I suppose it would only be disrespectful as a host not to show you mine." He said, voice alight with mischief.
    Screwing the white lid back onto the bottle, he'd barely set it down before the knife was clattering against the chopping board again. Half a dozen oranges were offered up as sacrifice to the juice press, filtered through a neat, appropriately sized sieve meticulously selected and set to sit in the rim of the parfait vessel.
    Remains disposed of, what resulted was a sleek, orangey experience of a drink drifting down into a whisper of those cassis purples drifting free, the greater body of the creme pooled at the bottom.
    Brother Bartender slipped off his gloves atop the bar and washed his hands clean of the escaped sitrus.
    Rising back up a certain, quaint omamori was in hand, all black silk and gold emboss, free hand lifting the newly prepared drink to set it down upon the drinks tray as the next offering. As he did so, Itsuki clenched the charm tight with a moment of focus upon the pain of his first experience briefly smoothing his features. Orange fire burst from his grasp, a spiritual firework set off against his closed palm with sparks dancing harmlessly every which way before being caught up in a wind that shook to life a glassware applause. Sunrise-coloured flames licked up about him, littered with flecks of black. A flicker of a squint showing his concentration to shape and shimmy the ghost magic as he intended.
    Leaning upon the bar by the elbows, one arm left to lie upon it while the once charm-grasping hand now cradled his cheek our monks smile returned, if a little dimmer.
    Three globules of frothing reiatsu formed on his clavicle, occasions drips and drops running free to vanish down beneath his white button-up shirt. Shining like molten copper, it shaped into three nails piercing the bone, burning black about where it entered and exited the skin.
    Crystalline clapping ceased as the display abated, leaving those three invisible-to-regular-people things shining perpetually forge-fresh. "Like any good host, I have a few more tricks up my sleeve but I'm on the clock."

"Mm. I've heard of this, but only in passing ... " 

The comment that comes from Koshou is more for himself than for the man resting along the other side of the bar but the display doesn't seem to surprise the Soul Reaper so much as catch his attention as he watches the display that borders on a measure of entertainment the way the human uses it. Eyes turn to settle onto the crucifix-like nails that seem to pierce through the man's clavicle for the time being, and there's a clear sense of study or determination that crosses the man's features. If there's any sense of being out of his own depth, the Shinigami tries to keep it under his hat as best as he can, trying not to let anything except the casual back and forth that he and the bartender had been exchanging to show in his features and expression while certain memories take the time to flash through the back of his skull. 



"All the more reason to make this my rest stop" he murmurs, before taking up the newfound drink in hand that's been offered. This one is a little different, orange and creme and blackcurrant ... they mix into a delicious swirl of sensation and flavours along the tongue that the Soul Reaper cannot hide the enjoyment of, even if he does manage to keep his visage fairly neutral otherwise. "I don't think I really caught your name .." He offers next, belatedly recalling that he'd been sidetracked from capturing it before. Eyes remain on those three nails, and out of nowhere he says .. 

"That reminds me .. of something from before ... something from ...hrm."


Itsuki Hasegawa

Not privy to the thoughts inside the guest's head, Itsuki simply gazed on in wordless respect of introspection or recollection. Visitors, clients, even the boss often took moments to sit and dwell sometimes. Still, a small measure of disappointment hit him. With the talk of some sort of report he'd half expected to be asked half a dozen questions.
    Eh, probably just dwelling on his prior experiences with cops a bit too much.
    Subtle shifts in expression this way and that, a slight twitch of the lip or creasing of the brow, even gazing off into the distance beyond the floor or over his shoulder. It all added up to someone who was distinctly at some sort of loss.
The pious taverner's own brow arched as the murmuring came out, nodding in mild acceptance. It might be somewhat difficult for the regulars to see you but I suppose that's fine.
    "Itsuki Hasegawa, it's a pleasure." He said, straightening himself up and gave the routine, trained polite bow. Rising from it, he saw that expression still in place.
    The guest's musings hung in the air. Clearly something was lodged in his cognition.
    Pinching thumb and forefinger together together, a nail vanished from his collarbone, flashing to life in that loose grip. The head of the nail was facing up towards Hanyo, Itsuki clearing his throat to draw attention.
"Perhaps a closer look? I promise these are quite safe to handle." The bartender shrugged. "I have to admit I'm curious now. Did someone else possess a similar ability?"

Koshou can't help but give a side-eyed look up past the rim of his glass which he lifts to take another drink from before offering the faintest sense of a quiet chuckle. There's a definite shake of the head, but it's subtle and meant only for Itsuki. 

 "They remind me of a crude bit of humor about Jesus" the Soul Reaper finally explains, having to take another drink in order to contain the momentary bit of chuckle that the bit of low-brow thought brings a bit of laughter to his eyes nonetheless. Another brief shake of his head comes, this one a little more than subtle and it goes to contrast with the quiet but very serious turn of his tone as it comes.

"I'd never let someone else take my sword from me ... you shouldn't either" Hattori offers, with a slow and deliberate blink. It's clear he's not speaking in literal terms but altogether seems to be confident that he's getting his meaning across. And of course, he's not. The somewhat lost looks from Itsuki and the collected manner in which he seems to manage to cover some of that help to make the Soul Reaper catching a quick breather at his bar mostly oblivious. He doesn't make any sense or intent to reach for the man of course, having declined what seems based on his expression what he makes to be a somewhat foolhardy offer. "Don't get me wrong ... you're interesting. I got no ... but I could never." He gives a soft exhale of breath that puffs up his lips a moment before he turns to let his roam throughout the bar for a moment, clocking anyone else who may have entered the establishment since he'd arrived. His time was approaching close now, not much longer to wait ... but this man brought many more questions that Koshou just didn't have any answers for. Whatever the Soul Reaper's interest, it sounds more like personal curiosity as opposed to anything he intends to file in an official report.

"In any case, I'll have to make this a regular spot maybe. You are curious and curiouser."

Itsuki yielded a more open, hearty laugh to the unexpected response, shrugging into the outburst with his smile broadened. The monk nodded along with what else was said as his joviality levelled out.
    Tap, tap, tap, went the nail on the bartop.
    "I have to thank you for that choice information." Curled up the reponse with his lips back into a more mischievous slant. "Unlike your blade, I have no particular trouble recalling these to my side." With a lazy flick of a wrist the single luminous shard clattered along the ground harmlessly behind the patron, a gesture from the bartender wordlessly declaring 'just like so'. Smiling away, his hands came to rest behind his back as the stray melted away and faded back into existence, slotted into bone, as if some antiquated light slowly waking back to life.
    It seems we both gained something from this interaction.
    The bartender emphatically clapped the top of the bar and pressed a lively nod and expression, his tone matching it. "You're always welcome at Club Jezebel. I must ask that if you are to enter while not physically tangible that you give me some sort of indication, that way I can at least throw a reserved sign out and make sure we don't get anyone unknowingly sitting in you." Itsuki tapped the tray of empty glasses, the ice within the vessels slowly melting with the occasional clink. "Fancy another drink, oh seeker of curiosities? Let's say it's on the house in exchange for a little more about yourself." Coaxed the glorified waiter.

Itsuki shrugged against the comment of his supposed advantage.
    He didn't especially see himself making daring melee blows and grand strikes, not in his ailing condition. What could he even do with a handful of nails anyway, punch or stab with them, maybe?
    "Truth be told, any training I had was more along the lines of kendo than whatever an army man might know how to do with something like nails." He said, a hint of playfulness still alive in his voice.
    After all, why spoil the surprise about all of those rituals he seemed to be able to manifest?
    "To be even more honest, I was hoping you could just tell me whatever crosses your mind about the place we all go to, that feudal time beyond death. I got a crash course, yes, but as someone nearing crossing the veil myself it seems like a good time to make friends on the other side." Came further elaboration.
    The bartender shrugged again and set about work again, the mischief formerly in his voice having shifted to a glimmer in his eye.
A pitcher emerged, the freezer beneath the bar opening. Clanking bottles of chilled, fine ingredients rose up. Bottle after bottle of clear liquid, all in different languages. A cluster of limes. Some glass-bottled cola with a dog's head on the label.
    Vodka, gin, tequila, rum, triple sec. One by one a generous quantity of each was sacrifice to the glass maw of inequity that was recreational boozing. Two-- no, three limes shed their vital juices into the concoction. A larger cube of ice was presented, enough to fill his hand, cracked apart with delicate taps of some small silvered hammer until nothing remained in his grasp but a small ball of frost. Half-full, the jug begged further ministrations. The ceremony continued, spiralling stem of a silver spoon reaching deep into the guts of liquid debauchery for the liver, stirring away until sweet condensation began to shine on the cooling exterior. Abandoned, the silver stem gleamed like a drill lodged in sobriety's bedrock, the chop-chop-chop of the remaining limes being prepared filling the air with citrus. A wheel of that green met a fresh highball that'd been fed a scoop of drained off ice from the bucket. Cola came next, the satisfying pop of the bottle yielding just the right amount of fizzing, frothing caramel-toned liquid to fill the jug below the neck, safe from overflowing by a few fingers. Again that spindly spiral whirled the concoction, a rain of fresh lime pleasantly consumed by the potion of a party offering, pushed up another finger in volume.
    It was a mess of a drink, the type students from abroad liked because it went down easy, tasted pleasant and was twice as strong compared to what he'd served so far. Looking so innocent as iced tea, the pitcher glistened in alcoholic invitation.
    Itsuki helped things along, pouring it into that highball, furnished and garnished.
    "I want to know if Shinigami are the police they seem to be, I want to know what people inside those black robes are actually like."

Koshou