The Bar
JP with Jaxx, Redsword, Trustno1 and Cindy
The team burst into the bar at full tilt, their footsteps hammering against the scarred wood of the floorboards as they slammed the heavy double doors shut behind them. The hinges groaned, and the once-sturdy wood trembled as though alive, as if the malice of the building above sought entry even now. Breathless, their fingers scrambled for the deadbolt, sliding it home with a sharp snick before sagging against the cool brass. A faint whisper of wind teased at the edges of the doors, carrying with it the faintest strains of music, warped and distant, before all fell eerily silent.
Inside, the bar was a strange liminal space, a pocket of twisted nostalgia that reeked of stale smoke, spilled spirits, and something faintly metallic, like the scent of forgotten blood. The lighting was dim and diffuse, cast by a motley collection of neon signs that buzzed faintly, their edges flickering in hues of garish red and cobalt blue. One, hanging crooked above the bar, proclaimed the word "Strange Ways" in jagged electric script, casting jagged shadows on the walls like fangs.
Every surface seemed to pulse with relics of a forgotten rock-and-roll era. Vinyl records, cracked but lovingly displayed, were tacked to the walls alongside faded posters of an unmistakable band, their faces painted in otherworldly patterns of black and white. In one, a man with a fiery tongue extended it toward the viewer, flames curling in an ominous halo behind him. Another image depicted a figure holding a starry eye to the heavens, a beacon of cosmic excess that felt unnervingly relevant to the otherworldly dread that stalked them. If the team dared to look closer, they might notice that the band members’ eyes seemed to follow them, their painted gazes alight with something not entirely human.
Behind the bar, the bottles were a riot of eclectic offerings, each label stained with time. Among them, a glassy blue bottle stood like a sentinel, its bold, blocky font declaring "Cold Gin". The liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the neon light like quicksilver. Next to it, a pitcher labeled "Alba's Margaritas" seemed absurdly out of place—a frosted container of bright, tropical greens and yellows that seemed almost radioactive in the gloom. The etching on the pitcher bore the figure of a dancing woman, her outline strange and sinuous, her eyes lost to the blur of time.
The barstools were upholstered in a vinyl the color of fresh blood, with stitching that resembled jagged lightning bolts. Some of them still bore the indentations of past patrons, as if the ghosts of revelers lingered here, whispering silent toasts to the void. A jukebox, slumped in one corner, hummed faintly, though no song played. The air seemed heavy with the promise that it might spring to life at any moment, filling the space with some electric dirge that no one wanted to hear.
The chill of the place crept into the team members, not the dry cold of neglect but something wet and alive, like the breath of something hidden in the dark. Their ears strained for sounds beyond the hum of the bar, but the silence pressed back, deeper now, thicker. A peculiar unease seeped into the room, as if the bar itself were aware of their presence, watching them, waiting. And yet, amidst the tension, the faintest trace of music lingered—an ancient tune sung by voices long gone.
Alyssa sighed at the dark omen that seemed to permeate the room, "This doesn't exactly seem safe." Not meaning to say that outloud but not really caring that she did. "We need a game plan and fast. Any suggestions?"
"There's got to be something supernatural controlling this building. Would you like a drink Alyssa?" asked Sartre.
"If you can find anything non-alcoholic, I'd appreciate it." Alyssa responded to Peter. She wanted to keep her head about her.
Agent Powers gave them a smolder then said, "That sounds like a really bad idea. Who knows what's in those bottles. It’d be my luck it turns you into a zombie Alyssa." Ekaterina shrugged as she replied, "He does have a valid point Alyssa." Then Powers reached into his pocket and winced as he was searching for something and then pulled a juice box and smirked and handed it to Alyssa as he said, "I always pack a snack since I might have to wait out a long and loud shelling. This should hold you over till we get out of the building."
Alyssa smiled at Max, and took the juice box. "Thanks."
"I should probably fill all of you in on the knife. Apparently, it acts as a connection between Prue and myself. I get visions when I use it. The visions I was shown were apocalyptic type things. Cities under siege, bodies covering the ground, shadows swallowing Earth. Prue told me that, despite how it might seem, we must continue to fight and not give up hope - because hope is still possible. She also mentioned elders who might seem like demons. Actually, she described them as one being a demon with eyes of fire and a grin that mocks the abyss, one is silver-skinned, lost but not without purpose that will be clutching a bear that holds more than it seems. The third is a hunter, who hearts beat for the wild and the fourth is a star-wreathed sentinel, his gaze unyielding, his purpose clear. These elders are not our enemies, they are watching us. They are testing us and we cannot fail. They have their own way of fighting, Prue didn't explain what was meant by that just that we'd see it soon. They are not here to save us, but they are here to make sure that we can save ourselves." Alyssa remembered the message from Prue to her sisters, but that didn't seem like something she should relay to the group.