06-21-2014, 06:26 PM
Her first impression of Bar Dzhanki was right. It wasn't the sort of place a woman like her would go. Hell, the neighborhood was the sort her caliber would steer clear of even in the daylight. Which made it the perfect sort of place for Hood when he wanted to blow off a little steam.
He dominated a booth away from the door and sat with one arm across the back of the bench, and a large stein of cheap beer in his hand. The Russian stuff tasted about as bad as could be expected for this sort of dive, but even as watered down as it was, it was still strong.
For Dzhanki, it had been an annoyingly quiet night so far. There was no bouncer; the last two had been stabbed, and the one before that went down to a drug overdose in the middle of his shift, so the manager had just stopped trying. Most fights seemed to sort themselves out before too much damage was done, and fights didn't seem to scare off his clientele anyway.
Seated as he was, he could watch the door and see who came and went, although he had no real interest in anyone there. A few prostitutes had propositioned him and been turned away politely. Tersely, but politely. There were few women there that weren't either 'ladies of the night' or just as rough as the men present.
The door opened and he glanced it's way, and gave the new-comer a long, appreciative moment of his attention. A pretty one, no doubt about it. Dressed against the cold. Functionally to boot. Probably not another hooker. Call girl maybe? Surely too high-end a product to be in a place like Dzhanki.
She seemed focused yet jittery. B-lined straight for the bar and was throwing drinks down range with a gusto usually reserved for someone trying to forget something. Probably learning the hard way not to be in that part of town, no matter what the client is willing to pay. What sort of deviant shit had she experienced?
He chuckled quietly and sipped his beer, his attention slipping back to the room at large. She'd drawn more then a few men's gaze already, and the smarter ones were biding their time, letting those drinks sink in before making their move. A drunk woman was much easier prey, after all.
Eventually someone did make his move; a group of three someones. The men were Russian. Two lanky and thin, a long life of crime and drugs having left them wirey and twitchy. Not ones to be trifled with, but they were what passed as the top-dogs in Dzhanki at the time. Mostly thanks to their third friend, a large man. Steroid user, probably took horse tranqs to put to sleep for all the chemicals the man likely used.
The three crowded in around Zoya at the bar, and their leader, a man with a prodigious spike through his nostrils and no shortage of bad prison tattoos, very calmly laid a hand on her backside and moved to slid it into her back pocket. Not going for a wallet, but a bold and demanding feel.
They smelled about as bad as they looked; unwashed, bad food, terrible breath, drug-rotted teeth. But they were connected; knew people, and some of the other clientele wisely shied away as the three made their interest known in the new girl. She was just what they needed. Prostitution was legal in the CCD, but there were still those niche markets where a gal like her would go for a pretty penny.
"A woman like you only comes slumming in a place like this because she's looking for a good time. We can show you a real party."
His tone was as greasy as his looks; the man was clearly not going to take 'no' for an answer. His two friends leered at her; the three had no trouble sharing new playthings, apparently.
He dominated a booth away from the door and sat with one arm across the back of the bench, and a large stein of cheap beer in his hand. The Russian stuff tasted about as bad as could be expected for this sort of dive, but even as watered down as it was, it was still strong.
For Dzhanki, it had been an annoyingly quiet night so far. There was no bouncer; the last two had been stabbed, and the one before that went down to a drug overdose in the middle of his shift, so the manager had just stopped trying. Most fights seemed to sort themselves out before too much damage was done, and fights didn't seem to scare off his clientele anyway.
Seated as he was, he could watch the door and see who came and went, although he had no real interest in anyone there. A few prostitutes had propositioned him and been turned away politely. Tersely, but politely. There were few women there that weren't either 'ladies of the night' or just as rough as the men present.
The door opened and he glanced it's way, and gave the new-comer a long, appreciative moment of his attention. A pretty one, no doubt about it. Dressed against the cold. Functionally to boot. Probably not another hooker. Call girl maybe? Surely too high-end a product to be in a place like Dzhanki.
She seemed focused yet jittery. B-lined straight for the bar and was throwing drinks down range with a gusto usually reserved for someone trying to forget something. Probably learning the hard way not to be in that part of town, no matter what the client is willing to pay. What sort of deviant shit had she experienced?
He chuckled quietly and sipped his beer, his attention slipping back to the room at large. She'd drawn more then a few men's gaze already, and the smarter ones were biding their time, letting those drinks sink in before making their move. A drunk woman was much easier prey, after all.
Eventually someone did make his move; a group of three someones. The men were Russian. Two lanky and thin, a long life of crime and drugs having left them wirey and twitchy. Not ones to be trifled with, but they were what passed as the top-dogs in Dzhanki at the time. Mostly thanks to their third friend, a large man. Steroid user, probably took horse tranqs to put to sleep for all the chemicals the man likely used.
The three crowded in around Zoya at the bar, and their leader, a man with a prodigious spike through his nostrils and no shortage of bad prison tattoos, very calmly laid a hand on her backside and moved to slid it into her back pocket. Not going for a wallet, but a bold and demanding feel.
They smelled about as bad as they looked; unwashed, bad food, terrible breath, drug-rotted teeth. But they were connected; knew people, and some of the other clientele wisely shied away as the three made their interest known in the new girl. She was just what they needed. Prostitution was legal in the CCD, but there were still those niche markets where a gal like her would go for a pretty penny.
"A woman like you only comes slumming in a place like this because she's looking for a good time. We can show you a real party."
His tone was as greasy as his looks; the man was clearly not going to take 'no' for an answer. His two friends leered at her; the three had no trouble sharing new playthings, apparently.