Umbrella Surveillance System
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Trixie Late evening in Paris, on a partly cloudy night; not quite the gay, starlit French capital of romantic movies and tourist brochures, but not too far removed, either. Trixie would find it more romantic if she weren't trying to find her way via a tourist map printed in French. It was the only map she could find, and her French is, at best, limited. Worse, she's lost her way back to her hotel.

Thankfully, a sign leaps out at her amongst the French ads and business signage along the walk. The name is nowhere near French. Comfortingly not. With a modicum of hope, she turns and strides into Jack's Bistro, half-folding her map on the way inside.
Jack Roark "Bonjour, mademoiselle," Jack's voice rings from behind the bar where he's scrubbing the polished surface down with a towel. Horrors, more French! But then he goes on, saying "Pardon mon Francais, je ne suis pas de Paris," tossing the towel over his shoulder as he moves out from behind the bar to head across the room towards her and the entry. "Parlez vous Anglais?" Do you speak English?

The curious man with his terrible (incredible) fashion sense plucks up a menu from a holder next to the large wooden sculpture of an Italian-looking chef holding a stack of them like a pizza, straightening his running pants as they sag a little around his lean, trimmed waist. What a problem to have.
Trixie "Um, bonjour m'sieu?" Trixie begins uncertainly, offering a shy fingertip wave and beginning to think she's made a mistake. But then he asks her if she speaks English, and her relief could fill the room! "Mais oui! Yes, I do speak English. Thank goodness!" Trixie cries, hurrying over to the barkeeper. "I can't find my way back to my hotel, and the only map I could find was in French... I feel like some stupid tourist out of a comedy film or something." Not only is her accent clearly American, but Midwestern. "By the way, this is a nice place you've got here. Very homey."
Jack Roark If she feels like a stupid tourist, Jack looks like one. He's got a bright printed button-down on, spattered with very loud images of classic red GTOs, its wide collar spread like a bird of prey. Add to that his red sunglasses, ostentatious and large, clipped into the v of the shirt, and his black track pants that he keeps pulling up to keep them from sliding down over his ass, the man does not look anything like a Parisian restaurateur. And yet... here they are.

"Welcome to Jack's Bistro, darlin'," he replies easily, sauntering back across the room towards a table about midway inside, plopping the menu down at a seat. "Glad you like the digs, I been doin' my best to get the place lookin' nice and cozy, get that lived-in feel like Momma's double-wide before the tax evasion charges came through." He might be joking, that broad smirk doesn't look too serious. "Get you anything t'drink while you look over the menu?" He's got a basket of fries out on the bar that he's dipping into, shoving a few shoestrings into his mouth and munching noisily, turning to lean back against the countertop while he waits for her response.
Trixie "Is the drawstring broken in those pants? I could give you some paracord to fix them," Trixie offers softly, taking the offered seat and trying not to look at the apparently too-big pants. "I have some in my purse." She has to stifle a chuckle at the jokes. "Just water is fine... I probably shouldn't take anything strong, since I'm sure I have some walking to do before I get back to my room. And you've got a point... I haven't had anything to eat since noon. Let's see what's on the menu, then..." she muses, opening the menu and beginning to read.
Jack Roark The menu is a pretty standard interpretation of what was on the list at Jack's Bar back in Raccoon City, with a few French specialties thrown in and, of course, the offer to cook almost anything by request if it's at all possible to do so, known simply as 'Jack's Promise'.

"If you need some help, I can probably look at your map for you," Jack offers around a mouthful of fries. "And 'ppreciate it, but really I just need t'get a new pair, the elastic in these is all shot." He wears his pants low, anyway, and there's no poofy boxers poking out of the waistband either, just a hint of tan skin. It only takes him a second to duck behind the bar and fill a glass of water for her, thumping it down on the table and tossing a wrapped straw beside it. "Where you in from, anyway? Sounds like you're from out west."
Trixie "Thank you so much. I'm from Colorado, actually. I /was/ from Raccoon City, but... well, it's not there anymore. I still count myself as being from there, even if it's just a memory. She deserves to live on somehow," Trixie replies sadly. "I've been considering putting down roots in Denver." She sets the menu down. "Think I'll just have the deluxe cheeseburger and a side salad, please."
Jack Roark "No shi- no shoot," Jack amends, realizing how young his newest customer appears to be and choosing a slightly altered syntax for her ostensibly more innocent ears. Gotta be professional, after all. "I ran a bar in Raccoon City right before everything went ti- uh, went downhill. And don't mention it, sweetheart, it's my pleasure. Always happy to help out a fellow American."

Ducking his head into the kitchen door, he yells, "Hey Francois, would you put together a side salad and a deluxe cheese for me? Make it medium, alright, none of that bloody nonsense, I know it's a travesty but I got an American out here." The bistro seems fairly empty tonight. Almost totally empty, in fact. It's a new place, they're struggling a little. "Denver, huh?" Jack asks, coming back over to prop his butt up against the bar again. "That's a little ways from here."
Trixie "You don't have to worry about censoring yourself, M'sieu Jack... I may be nineteen, but I was a police officer when I was living in Raccoon City. I'm sure I've heard lots worse, even on campus PD," Trixie replies, her smile turning wry. She stifles a giggle at the relaying of the order. "It is, definitely. I miss it. "
Jack Roark "Hah." Jack chuckles quietly, shoving a few more fries into his face. The man is an eating machine, and at least they're French fries, right? "Well, I didn't realize I was serving one of Raccoon City's finest again," he rejoins, grinning broadly. "Drinking age is lower in France, you sure you don't want anything stronger than water? I can keep it tame for ya if you're worried about the walk home."
Trixie "I was S.T.A.R.S., actually. I don't usually advertise it, since the department's long gone. I gather you had a lot of cops as customers? You must've had quite a place. I'm sorry I never saw it, but I /was/ underage," Trixie says warmly. "And I'm sure, for now. Maybe after I'm more familiar with the city, I'll try something stronger."
Jack Roark "Stars, huh?" Jack is too lazy to be arsed into proper punctuation, and the acronym is well-traded in Raccoon after all. "Stars upon thars." Like Dr. Seuss. "If you're sure, I won't pester you. Let me check on that burger." The man excuses himself briefly to step back into the kitchen, where the sound of pots and pans clattering around can vaguely be heard. "One damn burger!" floats out distantly on the air.
Trixie Trixie stifles a giggle at the shout. "Seems it's still hard to find good help, even in gay Parii," she murmurs.