A/N: I would like to thank the people (no longer person) who have reviewed this ficcie. It makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside. I won't beg for reviews and I won't spend two pages having the main characters talk to each other about how reviews make the creative process speed up. I hate it when authors do that, so now that I'm on their side, I in turn won't do that either. Sorry for that little ity bitty rant, anywho, thank you for reviewing and if you don't want to review, then don't. smile Another thing for those who bother to read the author notes, as much as I hate original characters clogging up a story, I have added one. No need to fear, he will not take over the fic and turn it into an original story with brief mention of X-Men.

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Remy took a swig out of yet another replacement shot. His eyelids slid down his deep vermillion eyes and his surprisingly long lashes swept at his cheeks. He let go of the rigid control on his head and let it fall back. His tablemate, whose eyes where taking in the haze of the room, tried hard not to stare at the perfect curve Remy's neck made. John was falling fast like a hefty bag fill with tomato sauce being dropped from a ten-story building. To keep his mind away from the perfection in the Cajun's lean form, John slid out of the chair and sauntered into the haze, with his shoelaces dancing up a chorus.

Blunt, square fingers, belonging to a delicate feminine hand reached for a soiled rag at the end of fake-wood bar. The rebellious college student to whom the fingers belonged dejectedly blew some of his mousy brown hair dyed a brilliant turquoise out of his startling grey eyes which were covered by black spiral contacts. Yet again, the thought filtered through his nicely proportioned head to cut his hair, but yet again, he shot that idea down. His hair, while a nuisance, hid the headphones that connected to his white iPod which was decorated with demonic symbols scratched on with a bic. As the unintelligible sounds of screeching Swedes filled his ears, his blunt fingers tipped in black nail polish began to clean a slimy glass with a filthy rag. Tonight, of all nights, was a curious one. Normally, this type of place would attract bozos looking for a cheap drink. Drunks, cheaters, and dealers would stumble in, sit at a table, and then careen out of here when police sirens were heard. Though tonight, no one was coming to the bar. In fact, the people that were here dressed in what looked like clean clothes. Like many random thoughts do, his mind suddenly started thinking about what his Bostonian parents would think to see him working here. They were probably clicking their tongue right now as they used their mother-of-pearl fountain pen to write on expensive stationary a letter containing a nice, fat check. Mark, as his birth certificate read, lived for those checks which made his life so much easier to stand. The buxom waitress, who called him Spike, stumbled to the bar and in a slurred voice said, "Hey Spike! Two more bourbons!" Mark blindly reached for two classes and carelessly poured bourbon. The bourbon sloshed out of the glass as the waitress placed the shot on her stained tray. The other glass mysteriously made its way towards her lipsticked lips and was gone with in a second. The apparently drunk waitress threw Mark a sumptuous wink and haltingly staggered to the lone New Orleans native who sat with his head thrown back.

Mark was turning up the volume on his demonic iPod when a punky cyber chick and a lanky blue-eyed tall person sat themselves on barstools and asked for, out of all the horrors of the world, service. Mark paid those two who dared ask for service no mind as he rocked to his precious Swedish progressive depressing thrash death metal band. Before he could counteract such a display of evil, a bracelet covered arm reached out and cruelly ripped the earphones out of his ear. Mark gave them a sullen look; they just ruined his day. Very slowly, the earphone murderer said, "I want a Long Island ice tea and a strawberry daiquiri. You do know how to make those, right? Or must I tell you? For the ice tea, take equal parts of rum…."

Mark, doing his best zombie impersonation, whipped up a strawberry daiquiri. Before diving into the motion of making the ice tea, he took out a frosted glass for it and some of his magic medicine for the headache this presumptive chick had given him. He grabbed for some of the pills and pulled out three. As he tilted his head back to down the pills, the stupid cyber punk smacked him outside of the head. Apparently he wasn't working fast enough. His hand erred for a bit, but then, after giving her an evil glance, swallowed the pill he had in his hand. As the pill slid down while he started pouring alcohol into the frosted glass, he wondered where the other ones went. But, since he was Valedictorian at his prep school, he knew that if he only swallowed one, he must have only grabbed one.

Jubilee gave Bobby a disgusted look. "Apparently," she started off, "this guy is too high to realize which direction his head faces." Bobby raised a delicate eyebrow as she started cracking her knuckles. It seemed to Bobby that Jubilee was planning on adjusting his head so that the freaky bartender knew exactly which way his head faced. After an interlude long enough to fit a freight train through, the, erm, unique bartender pushed two glasses towards the bored teens. Jubilee, to Bobby's surprise, grabbed the strawberry daiquiri and took a deep chug. Bobby stared into the depth of what seemed to be his alcoholic beverage and said to Jubes, "Hey Jubilee, I thought you wanted the Long Island." Jubilee wiped her mouth with the back of her biker glove and replied, "Well, I figured you needed a heavy pick-me-up. Hope you enjoy it." Bobby hesitantly grabbed the drink. As he was about to take a small sip out of the drink, a thought often repeated by his roommate John at all hours, be it day or night, ran through his head. Carpe Diem, said the little John in his head. Seize the day, take a large gulp. You never know, tomorrow you may be gunned down for your mutant gift and never see the light of day again. Come on, chug chug chug. Bobby didn't try to prove this voice wrong. His girlfriend was shamelessly hitting on a muscular smoker twice her age, best friend was planning a night of fun with the mansion slut, and to add insult to injury his ears where starting to register the cacophony of shoelaces dancing near. Marie, Logan, Jubes, shoelaces, they all rushed around his head. All prodding him, all begging for a sip of elixir. Bobby caved in and took a huge gulp as the smell of lighter fluid and ash assuaged his nose…