Umbrella Surveillance System
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Ares Buchanan Sometimes when life gives you lemons, the best thing to do is buy tequila, which is exactly what one man is currently doing at the bar. Not many of the regulars here would know him, but he was a regular at the original location for the brief time he was there.

He's dressed in a light t-shirt with a denim jacket thrown over it, faded jeans, and work boots. His clothes paired with the way he calls the various servers ma'am and sir makes it easy to assume that he's likely from the southern United States.
Bob It's a pleasant afternoon and people are at the bar to take advantage of the even more pleasant presence of alcohol. One of those people is Bob Delgado, coming in off of the street to parch his thirst. "Yo," he calls out to the barman upon entering and giving the guy a friendly wave. It doesn't take him long before he ends up at the bar, seated near to the dude in the denim jacket, to whom he gives a friendly nod. Then it's on to his main objective, securing a beer by saying to the barman, "Lager, my good man."
Chase Dalton Seafoam green; something not often seen on guys. Chase wears it rather well, at least in shirt form. The shirt, paired up with some well-worn blue denims, and a pair of white sneakers, might put some weight toward convincing folks that he's just some random civvy, and not a Fed. At least, it might convince those who've never met him before, who don't know the man's true nature. He keeps his wallet/badge/ID tucked away in his back pocket, next to a pocket knife and smartphone. His FBC-issue pistol is tucked into a small-of-back holster tucked into the waistband, beneath his shirt. He moves into the bistro, grabs a table, and orders up a quickie soup/bread-bowl, and a Jack-n-Coke. Should he get any nods of acknowledgement from his FBC companions, he'll return them in kind, otherwise he'll maintain his "I'm-just-a-civvy-here-for-some-nomz" disposition. No harm, no foul.
Esa Esa Collins walks in quietly and removed the thin-framed sunglasses. He wore his usual Gabardine Trench coat, opened and headed for the bar. Taking in a quick glance, he spotted Bob and proceeded his direction; pulling up a cheer and settling in "Yo Bob." He stated with a smile.
Ares Buchanan "Howdy, howdy." The man at the bar, Ares Buchanan, greets with a slight inclination of his head. "How's it goin'?" He sits up straight and stretches, a bulge in his jacket suggesting a shoulder holster or something similar. When the stretching ends he takes up his shot glass and downs some more clear tequila.
Molly Molly walks into the bar with a very worn crimson red sweater with a pair of dark denim jeans that have seen better days given various holes along the calves and at the knees. A pair of very old combat boots upon her feet that look more or less like hand-me-downs because they seem a little big on her. Her face lacks any expression or emotion as she makes her way to the bar and grabs a seat. A nod hello given to all whom are present as she uses a nearby stool to prop up her feet.
Bob After accepting his beer from the bartender, Bob looks in the direction he'd heard his name called from and spots Esa. "Hey brother. What you up to today?" And then he's turning back towards Ares, giving a grin when he hears the word 'howdy' being spoken, "I'm good, man. Got some time before I need to be anywhere so I figured it's about drink o'clock." As he twists around on his stool toward his beer there's a slight bulge under his sweater at the 4 o'clock position. Apparently everyone in here is strapped. "How about you?" Molly's entrance nod gets one in return from Bob, "Yo."
Esa Esa shrugged "A few minors at work caught the attention of a few important people." He said hush like before he looked to Ares "Hey; Guinness please." He asked politely before looking around; noting the other two FBC officers quietly before looking to Bob again "Liking your gig?" He asks casually.
Chase Dalton The bread bowl and drink arrive, and Chase promptly digs in, totally focused on stuffing his face. Professionally, of course. He lays down a napkin, and everything. Chunky clam chowder in a sourdough bowl, hot damn. If ever a face could be called an 'orgasm face', Chase's would be it. No squirming, just.. definitely pleased with whoever cooked his food. Omnomnom.
Molly Given Molly's size, it is a bit hard for her to hide the two holsters are her hips that have her beloved pistols within them. Her attention then looks to Ares as she asks "Got burgers here? Haven't had a chance to look at the menu. Also any cinnamon whiskey?" Only after Esa places his order, she isn't really one to interrupt people, nor really talk much.
Ares Buchanan "Had some time to kill, so I figured I'd swing by. Been a minute since I had ah drink at Jack's." Ares replies to Bob before Molly speaks up. "Yes ma'am they do. An assortment ah burgers and sliders. Can get some Fireball too. But I wouldn't drink too much of it, that stuff's responsible for more than ah few babies bein' born."
Chase Dalton "Fireball's weak shit," Chase comments with a grin, not looking up from his meal. He pauses to continue, "You want a kick in the ass, you get some Bruichladdich Single Malt. That'll put some hair on your chest, man or woman." And then right back to eating.
Esa Esa shrugged a bit as the beer is given to him. "You want a fun drink.. Try a Concrete Mixer." He said casually to Chase and Molly; a small grin crosses his lips as he spoke.
Molly Molly rolls her eyes at the mention of babies and comments "I'll take my chances. Not what I get pleasure from anyway. So I'll take both. Burger medium rare with cheese and bacon. And the Fireball." Then her eyes flit to Chase as she comments "I'll stick with the weak shit then. Rather not grow hair in more places than I already do." Then her gaze looks to Esa as she comments "Not in the mood for fun, in the mood for familiar. Thanks though."
Esa Esa chuckled as he looked to Molly. "I see. So what drinks are you familiar with, Mrs. Finnegan?" He asks calmly before taking a sip of the beer.
Molly Molly wrinkles her nose and corrects "Miss.... not misses.... not married... never will be... but I like my Fireball." Her arms stretching above her hand for a bit as she shifts on the stool then relaxes them once more.
Esa Esa nods slightly as he looked to her "Sorry about that." He replied calmly, shifting a bit to look at her. "You did good the other day; glad you were able to join us."
Molly Molly hints of pride echo within her eyes but nothing seem to reflect the emotion upon her face as she responds "Just doing as I have practiced for years. And why I enjoy." Her hands brushing over the handles of her pistols for a moment affectionately before grabbing her shot of Fireball and downing it. She swallows and no face in made.
Esa Esa gave Molly a partial look out of curiosity before taking another pull from the beer. His eyes shifted to take in those around him quietly; but no more words are spoken.
Molly Molly has that effect sometimes. She is flat out strange, creepy, weird, psychopathic... and other various many adjectives to describe someone not quite right in the head. She rolls her shoulders as she asks "Know when we might be going back in the catacombs again?"
Esa "Not for a while." Esa replied as he looked to her, then around the room "At least, not until they decide to open up to the public again." He noted with a shrug.
Molly Molly sighs with disappointment as Esa replies to her and comments only loud enough for Esa to hear, "Pity. I wouldn't mind helping clear out more of the zombies. I love watching those fuckers drop." Seeing as Ares is busy, her hand reaches behind the bar to grab the bottle of fireball and pour herself another shot. Her eyes flitting momentarily to Esa as she asks "Want one?"
Esa Esa smirked at Molly and shook his head. His phone buzzed and he withdrew it. "I am afraid work just called me back in." He said apologetically. "Maybe another time?"
Molly Molly offers a nod to Esa and comments "No prob." Her hand bringing the shot to her lips to disappear once more just as her burger arrives. Her attention now focusing upon eating.