[attr="class","samjermain"]Nikita preferred dive bars. The seediness and rough atmosphere stood at odds with his typical demeanor. But, when he was drinking, he had no desire to be reminded of luxury. He did not want some fruity mixed cocktail that brought t mind Alolan beaches. No. He wanted to imbibe hard liquor in a place where no one would shame him for it.

Two empty shot glasses sat on the bar in front of him. The dredges still packed enough punch to make one’s eyes water.

Today, he found himself seated at the end of an oaken bar. His normal suit was replaced with a lazily buttoned undershirt. The cuffs were unfurled, the buttons long forgotten. With no work in the immediate future—due solely to his supervisor’s demand that he breath--the detective attempted to drown his mind in alcohol. It called for him to do something. To distract himself from that voice inside, his conscience. And, typically, alcohol did the trick.

Though, the fact that he was working helped sate the raging beast inside of him. A friend asked him to investigate a crooked gambling establishment. While not opposed to gambling itself, he found the act of rigging the games to be the height of uncultured buffoonery. It also tended to serve as an inroad t more heinous activities. Which, he supposed, made sense. Gamblers acquired debts. Those needed to be collected. And, in the underworld, form letters rarely did the trick.

While merely planning to observe, circumstances had a more active role in mind. Onyx acted just before Nikita stepped in—threatening to break the uncultured asshole’s arm. Glass shattered across the floor as his shot glass collided with the man’s thick skull. Unfortunately—like a wasp upon a bear, it only kindled his ire.

A cold stare was tossed the way of Onyx before Nikita stood up. Beneath that shirt, thin muscles were visible, and years were spent honing his abilities to find and target someone’s weak point. “I believe I speak for everyone here when I say we tire of your nonsense.” Blue eyes narrowed slightly as he moved to rebutton the cuffs of his shirt. “I would suggest you apologize.”

From beneath his feet, a Houndstone unfurled. Its crimson eyes stare piercingly up at the larger, ogre-like man. Its lipless jaw opens to reveal rows of deadly teeth.

Though his words were directed at the stung bear, his attention fixated on Onyx. He enjoyed cowards about as much as he enjoyed incompetence. Which is to say: not at all.

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[attr="class","samjermain"]As the other man reddened, Nikita’s nose wrinkled. Tantrums were something he frowned upon in children—much less in grown adults. The bear’s growl sprayed his face with spittle. A line of muscle tightened around Nikita’s chin. The drunkard’s muscles bunched in his neck and back. His intentions were as plain as the stickiness on the bar top.

What a buffoon. Nikita watched as he cocked his fist back. “I would advise you to reconsider.” The man’s bleary eyes darted to the dog at the man’s feet. The skeletal beast still laps at his bowl of locally brewed beer. The man snorted. “I’m not afraid of your boner you gerry—gary—old fuck.” With that, he let his fist fly.

"That is reasonable." The detective shook his head. "I have no intention of whipping it out."

Nikita leaned to one side. The aggressor’s fist hit empty air, unbalancing him. Beneath the stool, the spectral dog stretched out a back leg. The man stumbled, just in time for Nikita to grab his over-extended arm and pull. Using the other man’s momentum against him, he smashed him into one of the bar’s pillars. His nose cracked. Blood splattered against the old wood.

It landed on Nikita’s cheek. Tch.

With a grunt, Nikita threw the moron back. He collapsed against the table behind him, shocked and out of breath. With a grunt, he slid down to the floor. Sighing, the dark-haired man sipped from his liquor. Piercing eyes slid to Onyx. “I believe you owe me a drink —-” The HBIC agent took a moment to enjoy with a sigh, Nikita sipped from his drink.

As the drunkard staggered back to his feet, Nikita swiveled to face him. Up went a salt-and-pepper brow. “I trust you have come to your senses?” Or, at least, all of them that were not smell. He offered a kerchief from his inside pocket.

The man bolted. “What an impatient fellow.”

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