Silent. Not the word you'd expect for a bar, but at that moment, described it perfectly.
 
Two people shuffled in... and everyone else shuffled out. Hurriedly, forgetting about their drinks and leisure to get away from the newcomers, who's repuation precedes them so vastly that this scene plays out.
The bartender, black and white, stares ahead with a smile. Her face isn't flushed of all it's color: more like it was never there to begin with, as her monochome palette pops in comparison to the oak and mahogony of the bar, along with its polishings of marble and granite. The shelves behind her, illuminated with soft white lights, cast a shadow onto the bar. Her hair tied in a ponytail, characteristically cartoon-ish as the rest of her body.
 
The two newcomers wait until the crowd has left to step forward. The lady, in a small fur coat, business suit and briefcase, is almost as monochrome as the bartender. There is a dash of red and blue: on her lips and in her eyes, respectively. She sits at the bar, setting her briefcase down to her left and patting the seat next to her, eyes not leaving the bartender's solid black ones.
 
Then the other man, toned muscle and dark-skinned, steps forward and takes a seat, his own briefcase being placed on the right. His suit and vest allow his body to shine a little, the suit hugging tightly and his arms on the bar, casually displaying the intricate tatoos on each inch of skin.
 
Silence. Then... The radio clicks to life, on its own, beginning to play soft piano music. The man turns to squint, his dark eyes skeptical, but the lady doesn't break her gaze with the bartender, still absently cleaning a mug with a rag, her gloved hands with not a inch of tenseness in them.
 
"...Annabelle, when are you gonna tell me if that thing is alive or not?" the man finally speaks up in a steep tone, turning his attention back to her.
 
"I've told ya a thousand and TWO times now: it's just as alive as eeevery-thang else in here." the bartender responds in a overly-sweet yet biting and bitter country tone, while still maintaining her poker face. "Now, can Ms. A get you and your wonderfully colored friend here something to drink, or are we going to get lost in each other's eyes...?"
 
"I don't believe there's any DEPTH to your eyes, sweetheart." The lady finally speaks, her hands folded in front of her.
 
"Hah. True, babydoll, but all the same." She replies, setting the mug down finally. The glass *clinks* on the counter, filling the bar.
 
"Well, I'd like a beer. No ink, no ice." The man sits up. "And then we can get to business."
 
"And a tall glass of Patron on the rocks, if you'd be so forthcoming." The woman smiles, the first that she has all night.
 
Annabelle just nods and turns, grabbing the mug and topping it off before setting it on the smaller counter that precedes the bar and then grabbing a tall wine glass very daintly. The act of scooping out ice and putting it in the glass, and even pouring the liquid posion into it is handled with extreme care, as if it was being poured for a husband by a loving, caring housewife.
The lady figets a little, but it doesn't cause anymore than a glance from the man and a tilt of the head from Annabelle. She gently sets her glass in front of her, and hands the man his beer before ducking down and pulling out a bottle that boldy proclaims "VINTAGE XXX INKYARD VINE WINE" and popping the cork, the echo nearly shaking the rest of the bottles on the shelves behind her.
 
"Cheers Ricker! And Cheers, Betsy." Annabelle proclaims as she takes unbelieveably large swigs of the dark alcohol.
 
"It's Maitre, Annabelle-Day Mallaugrie." The woman crispy fires back, sipping her drink and continuing to bore holes into the cartoony lady in a dress.
 
"Now, now..." She pauses from her drinking, leaving the bottle hanging in mid-air, and the contents suspiciously paused from regular rules relating to gravity and liquids. "No need to bring that tone into a place of ree-lax-zation either, Maitre Delana." She snarks back before resuming to drink her bottle of wine, the wine continuing to empty as soon as her lips touch it again.
 
"Tch. I want you BOTH to behave. I can't take a good fight between you two anymore like back then, you know?" Ricker sighs into his mug, taking a big swig and setting it back down. "Especially when it's been a while."
 
"But Rikey, m'boy, you have to kick ass and take names every night at YOUR bar. Which reminds me..." She sets the empty bottle down and watches amusingly as it grows legs and stumbles down the bar and into the recycle bin on its own. "Why come to MINE and drive every smuck within a 5 mile radius to duck-and-cover?"
 
"That would be my fault, Anna. But in my defense, it's better to have no one see anything than a ton of people see "nothing." She says, almost affectionately. "I did want to bring some friends, knowing how dangerous you are, but at the same time, I'd rather not explain holes in them with ink."
 
"Holes in them with blood is a lot easier to 'splain, yeah?" She sneers, dragging a gloved finger in a circle around Maitre's glass. "I really hope you're not smuging your paint or chippin' a nail doing some dirty work, honey."
 
"And if I am, Annabelle...?" She squints her eyes. "It wouldn't be the first time. And it ain't gonna be the last." She quickly snarls in a fake country accent, slapping her hand away and downing all the hard liquor in the glass.
 
"..." Annabelle suddenly straightens up and looks away, not in Ricker's direction, but just to the backdoor, almost looking on the verge of tears.
 
Ricker just works on downing his drink faster to catch up with them. In accordance with Annabelle's rules to dealing in business, everyone involved has to have something to drink beforehand.
 
In her words, she deals in alcohol first and foremost, and everything else after.
 
"What? Did that sting? Oh please, I've seen you take bullets with more finesse." Maitre pouts, her mood growing more and more sour.
 
"It hurts comin' from YOU, Maitre. Especially since ya know I wished you weren't running around with those goons." She looks at her slowly. "Especially since we were partners." She places both gloves hands on the bar, them slightly filling out every vein and nerve in her hands. "And 'specially since ya apparently still got the GALL to be a Monochrome Missy in my sight!"
 
Ricker very noisily places his empty mug onto the bar and Maitre's attention snaps to it. She then looks back over to Annabelle, who's adjusting her gloves and now standing firmly between them both on the other side of the bar.
 
"Alrighty, then. So, what is it that you need from lil' old me?" She says, suddenly back to her normal tone of voice and transgressions put aside.
 
Ricker looks over to Maitre and raises an eyebrow, signaling who's supposedly in charge to speak, but she's looking down. Down at her briefcase. He huffs and then clears his throat.
 
"On the behalf of our higher ups, they sent Maitre and I to ask if you can possibly assert control over any potential F-dog set-ups around your bar."
 
"Oho... You want ME to handle your garbage for you?" She scoffs. "And what could I possibly do besides end up with rubble and selling water?"
 
Silence for a beat, and Annabelle snaps her fingers, summoning a bottle to hop off the shelf and present itself front and center as she continues.
 
"I'm one woman and a bar. And ya can spit the extra stuff I do as making me more of a threat, but that has some limiting factors. Like, it's all situational, fer starters. I walk up to their doorstep and make an enemy. Then what? Jus' worry that I'll open the door to some soldiered goons one morning when I get the paper?"
 
"You'd have our respective branches to help you out if they do try to get over on you. We just want you to keep them out of this area so we can-"
 
"I don't care WHAT, in any version of hell, you're planning to do with that "liberated space." All I know is that if I don't see them, I'll see you and your ilk. And that..." Her voice drops as she shoots a glance over to Maitre, who has reverted back to staring through her. "That ain't something I can take. At least not with the cops steppin' up THEIR control procedures."
 
Ricker bit his lip. This is why he didn't want to even bother. They were friends, yes, but times have changed. Bridges have eroded. There was no way she'd risk her neck, thin or otherwise, for organized crime.
 
"...Not even if-" Maitre started, but she was silenced by Annabelle's bottle popping its cork.
 
"No. I lost you to them. Don't know why, Don't wanna know why, and ain't nothing gonna change just like that."  Annabelle says in her monotone, stoic voice, mocking her as she lifts the bottle to her lips. "Might as well tell yer "bosses" that I'm "thinking 'bout it" so you don't wind up demoted or dead or something."
 
Ricker grumbles and stands slowly. "Annabelle. You know we'd be doing something better if we had the option."
 
"Yeah. I know. But you're on a contract now, so... 'less something happens to that, you're just as likely ta have a gun at your head as anyone else in your "business." Or just anyone else in this city, nowadays. Just... Stay alive, through this. I want us to all have one more drink, y'hear?" Annabelle warbles, tipping the bottle and clicking the lights off for the shelves.
 
"...C'mon, D. We've said all we can to her." Ricker mumbles, the beer sitting heavy in his gut as he offers a hand to his female partner. But she sits steaming, unwilling to let this slide. She suddenly stands and leans across the bar, raving.
 
"No we have not! She knows that we came to her as friends and not just some other thugs! We weren't here just to ask for her to reserve some space! We want you to-" She's silenced by Annabelle moving the bottle and kissing her firmly on the lips, a black, dripping heart floating away from the scene.
 
"Love you too, Betsy. And I'd get that coat washed. Looks a little ratty, and they carry all manner of pests." She chuckles, as she makes her way to the backdoor, and holding it open for them.
 
Maitre just whirls around to face Ricker, a look of realization on her face; however, there was a look of restrained laughter on his. The black kiss mark completely overpowered the metric ton of red that was there before, and Ricker found that hilarious considering how much she put on after every engagement.
 
"...Ricker, let's go." She said, picking up her briefcase and making her way to the door.
 
"All right, all right..." He nods, chuckling as he collects his own and nods to Annabelle, who winks at him.
 
As soon as they're out in the alley, the door slams behind them and they look at each other again. Maitre draws a finger to her lips and takes off the coat, inspecting it before finding the additional "button" that it didn't have before on the inside. She looks at it and then to Ricker, who's expression was confusion and then stone.
 
She knew. Maybe it was when she looked away that she saw it, or maybe when Maitre swiped at her drink. But she knew that they were listening. And that if they had the chance to listen to it, it could spell problems.
 
So they walked and casually discarded it into a barrel fire, remarking that "it was ugly and shoddy" anyway, much to the confusion of the homeless gathered around it.
 
Annabelle had just did them a solid, even if they weren't on the same team anyway. But for how long? They'd have to come back eventually. And Annabelle would be there, ready to shut them down all over again. Hopefully it was enough that they were sent that she got the message: It's time to do something, before she's caught in a storm.