It Was Ninety-Nine Cents! [Ilya]

[Ilyα Cяσw]

As soon as Tifa exited the stall, Ilya was on her way out to free them from the stench of Clorox and grease, talking as she took surprisingly wide strides for someone as miniscule in size as she. "I, ah -- well, probably. I don't speak Spanish well. Need-o el plastic le bag-io?" She paused, visibly embarrassed by her lack of culture for Spain; that was a gross mesh of bigoted French, Italian and Spanish to say the least; and she was cultured, being a drifter of the continent, but even as she was pulling Tifa's leg she felt like even that was an insult. 

"Que podría conseguir una bolsa de plástico para mis cosas?" Ilya spoke with surprising fluency to the restaurant's cashier, who was staring both her and Tifa down in what was either amusement, shock or disgust by their outfits. She winked in response to the reaction and accepted a paper - not plastic - bag gratefully and treated away with the toss of it in Tifa's direction. "Gracias!" She called over her shoulder. Apparently Ilya was a woman on a mission with the way she did not wait for absolutely anyone or anything. 

"You could protect the bag by tuckin' it in ya wee britches; instant butt-popping action, am I right?"

[Tifa Mikhail]

"'Don't speak Spanish well', my ass." Tifa caught the bag, stuffing her clothes in and tucking it back under her arm. It rested against her hip like a baby. Or, one of the flour-bag babies they used to give out in schools, if we were being realistic.

"I think I'll pass on that suggestion, though. Maybe they have a 'bring a bag, get in free' coupon wherever we go." She holds the door open for Ilya and continues to lead them on their quest for the first club they see. Hopefully, the first nice club they see.

The sun had officially set on the city, but it was still just a bright. Tifa decided to lose the sunglasses though, stuffing them in her paper bag. What kind of person wears sunglasses at night? Assholes, and people with astigmatisms, probably.

"Oh! How about that place?" Tifa gestured to the black building with a growing line at the front. There was even a security guard at the door and everything. "Looks fancy."

[Ilyα Cяσw]

Ilya, too, removed her sunglasses and tucked them in the destroyed collar of her t-shirt dress. The clomping noise of her velour boots were audible even past the bustling of club-goers, evening drunks and the throbbing base of house music. She was an impatient one, that Ilya, and ogled the club's line as if it were an arch-nemesis. "Are you ready to flash a bouncer?" Ilya inquired leisurely as she approached the front of the line, and as usual, did not wait for an answer. 

"Buenas noches, querido," Ilya started, leaning her weight against the velvet rope that kept them divided from the entrance. "Podría dejar que dos mujeres extranjeras bellos de esta noche si le damos un regalo?" With that, the man would reply in a low and merciless voice, "Qué regalo?" And Ilya would gesture blatantly to her chest. Smooth, Ilya; who was, conveniently enough, not packing in that area. This ensued an eye-roll from the man, who just then registered that the two were dressed like absolute absurd, psychedelic tourists. Maybe he was impressed by her Spanish and their get-up, or simply pitied the two crazies -- regardless, they were let in without a single flashing, and Ilya howled with triumphant laughter. 

"YES -- yes, yes yes! Margarita, tequila, pina colada!" 

[Tifa Mikhail]

"Wh- Ilya, no!" Tifa hurries after the queer woman, avoiding the gaze of the other patrons in line. As Ilya showed her prowess in the Spanish language, Tifa tried to make herself less threatening by hiding behind her bag of clothes.

She gaped at the man as he let them inside without making them expose a single nipple. She dipped her head a few times in thanks and garbled out a mix between 'thanks' and 'gracias' as they rushed inside before he changed his mind. "I can't believe he let us in!" She squealed like a little girl and hooked her arm in Ilya's. "To the bar, my friend! You're a miracle, I swear."

She drags them to the less populated area of the bar, plops her bag on the counter and follows shortly after. Luckily for her, the counter was clean and dry for her derrière to slide upon. "Choose your poison, Miss Ilya Crow." She gestured towards the hundreds of bottles that lined the wall, as if she owned the place, or could even afford a plethora of them.

[Ilyα Cяσw]

It was strange for Ilya, being on the other side of the bar; the bartender becomes the bartendee, and she was very much adoring it. She followed suit and placed herself, clumsily and awkwardly, on the bar top -- this brought a hairy eyeballing from the 'tender at first, but he -- a very handsome, brown and lean Spaniard -- approached them with an easy smile. He surely had seen such shenanigans before. 

"Foreigners?" He offered at first, at which Ilya nodded enthusiastically. Tourists got better deals, or at least that was her rule when she tended drunkards. "Beautiful foreigners," He added with a cheeky wink, his Spanish accent caressing his words in a heavenly manor. She knew then that she had herself a catch of a server; soon enough they would get drinks on the house.

"In this club you've got to have a specialty drink, yeah? Give us what's popular!" Ilya replied, shouting shrilly over the noise of the bustling club. She then took on an expression of thought. "And two -- mm, two shots of, ah, your finest whisky! No -- let's get two fireballs as well, please." She then looked to Tifa, a challenging and mischievous squint to her eyes; she had a strong feeling the beaut hadn't a clue on what fireball was. 

The bartender, which Ilya found out was named Emmanuel, brought first two glasses of a bright red and thick-looking liquid -- their fireballs; two glasses of whisky with the taste and fiery spice of cinnamon, stirred with a hefty splash of a hot sauce of the 'tender's choice. She was excited to see Tifa try it, making it look easy by taking a few large gulps followed by a satisfied sigh; it might pack a punch, but the drink itself was delightful to the taste buds regardless. Emmanuel then brought out two glowing, acidic-looking purplish drinks in a pair of eccentric pieces of glass work, garnished with mint and ice cubes of frozen flowers and fruit. Well, this was going to be a night of pure bliss and drunken fuckery. 

A tune of ambiance for the club (LISTEN TO IT, DION): Years & Years - Desire (gryffin remix) 

[Tifa Mikhail]

Tifa waggled her brows at Ilya as the handsome man came over to tend to them. It was in his job description, but whatever. As he and Ilya weaved words together, and the latter worked whatever magic she had, Tifa let the booming bass wash over her. It was as calming as a tidal wave smacking you in the face, but the song sounded good, despite the fact that she could barely hear the words over the commotion that was the dancefloor.

After Ilya ordered for them both, she bit her lip. It was true, she had no idea what a 'fireball' was, other than the kind from the Mario games. Still, she didn't let that lack of knowledge frighten her (too much), as she kicked her legs to the beat of the song, nudging Ilya with her elbow.

"You're gonna get me killed, aren't you?" She said as she met Ilya's gaze, but shook her head without waiting for the other to respond. The Egyptian hopped off the bar, if only to stand in front of it like a normal patron. Plus, it'd be much easier to catch herself if she passed out after the first drink.

Speaking of which, it had arrived in what must've been record time. She grimaced at the look of the first choice, with its flaming colors, but as Ilya swiftly downed hers, Tifa decided to do the same. It burned her mouth like hell, and her throat too, but she managed to hold down a hiss as she swallowed.

She had barely been able to empty the first drink before the second came, but Tifa wasn't going to be outdone by her new buddy. Probably a stupid challenge on her side, but a party was a party. As the music crescendoed, Tifa grabbed the second glass, knocked it against Ilya's, and threw her head back in an excited yodel. Then, she downed it. Mint, ice and all.

[Ilyα Cяσw]

Oh Gods, was this a challenge? How in the bloody hell did Tifa inhale that entire cocktail, mint garnish and all, like a vacuum? Was she, too, a bartender with a long history of alcohol tolerance and dulled taste buds? Was the way she clinked her glass against Ilya's, how she nudged her and winked at strange times a cue for a remonstrance? Ilya has never been -- and never will be, she affirmed -- out drank by anyone; not a sailor, nor distillery owner, nor whisky-pro alike. She cocked a wink of her own and leaned her body over the bar, gesturing vaguely to the menu and the drinks behind the bartender with an exchange of hushed tones. 

Before she knew it, because granted this bartender was quite on point with time within a busy club, a tray was brought to them with twelve shots, divided into six for her and Tifa to share equally. They were golden, with a beautiful dollop of cream and dried flakes of dark amber -- it was a popular and renowned drink in Europe, a honey-spiced vodka, and Ilya took to staring Tifa down with a wicked smile.

"So, the goal here is to down all six shots before the other," Ilya explained, lining their shots up in a row. "I'm ready when you are. No vomitin' allowed."

[Tifa Mikhail]

"Oh, great Gods." Came Tifa's highly sophisticated response. She stepped back, cracking her neck, knuckles and fingers. "I hope you're ready to drag me out of here by my feet."

"One-Two-Three Go!" She shrieks, counting as fast as an excited child would, and grabbed the first glass. A quick glance was sent at Ilya, and then down the contents went. The taste washed over her tongue quickly, but she had no time to savour, or even contemplate over the exact taste as the next glass was gathered in her hand and shoved against her lips.

In the meantime, she glanced over to gauge how Ilya was doing, which proved to be a mistake as she got distracted by how good that girl looked in vintage clothing. 'Laundry chic' clothing, rather. Mixing that with her way with words, and she was a damn keeper. With a quick shake of her head, which in turned displaced her wig, Tifa downed the second shot. Not now, gay thoughts.

[Ilyα Cяσw]

As soon as the count down commenced, Ilya paid absolutely no attention to Tifa as she had a very important reputation to uphold; three shots were downed in a matter of thirty seconds or so, and she took only a wink of a second to catch herself so that she wouldn't be drooling expensive honey-spiced vodka like a savage, or gagging down the last shot with heavy regret. The regret would still be there, yes, but hangovers were no match for this tiny menace -- she finished the fourth and fifth in another fifteen seconds before finally sparing a small glance Tifa's way, only to find out she would definitely win. Her assumptions of Tifa were not as authentic as her skill in drinking and keeping down her alcohol. The sixth shot, emptied, was slammed onto the bar in triumphant excitement and she raised her tattooed fists in the air, howling.

"A-HA! AAAAAAAA. AHA--" And her battle cries were stopped short by a massive belching, which Ilya nurtured out by pounding against her chest. The bartender was watching from the distance, his features contorted into something of revulsion and shock. And of course, Ilya was miles past her wits' end and was as drunk as could be; she did a sort of dance-like whipping motion of her head and her wig and moustache went flying into the crowd of club dancers. Bye, disguise. You will be missed.

[Tifa Mikhail]

Tifa had just picked up her third drink when Ilya let out her cry of victory. She fumbled with the glass, nearly dropping the thing and shattering it on the floor.

With a pout, she turned to Ilya and stuck out her tongue like a petulant little girl. "Oh, fine. You cheated." She nurses the drink like a normal person, now that the impromptu contest was over; looking in the general direction that Ilya's accessories had flown. Her eyes stick to the silhouettes of the various dancers for a long minute before she reaches for Ilya's upper arm. "Let's dance."

Her tongue slides across her upper lip and she finishes her drink quickly. Then she takes two more for the journey to the dancefloor without looking back to see if Ilya was following as she shoved away from the counter. It was an assumption, but she figured they came to dance and get hammered (and one of them was already there), so why continue to delay the inevitable?

Soon, she had pushed and elbowed her way to the middle of the dancefloor, shaking her hips to the beat and flipping around to Ilya, if she had been following.

[Ilyα Cяσw]

Ilya obliged, following Tifa in a witch-cackling fit of laughter at how splendidly stoked she was in her ridiculous thrift, trend-less fashion statement. Ilya was never a dancer, with limbs too lanky and aimless, but she did so anyway with no second thought. She spun around and hit dancing strangers back and forth like an intoxicated pinball, with elated shrieks and ugly, bubbly giggling along the way. It was, without a doubt, a mess. At a point in time she was asking club-goers to feel her boots, because the velour was an other-worldly kind of soft. She then tried to tango, salsa, what have you with Tifa as if they were a pair of talented ball-room dancers.

The patrons would make way for Tifa and Ilya, as one would when a drunken tornado of two strange, psychedelically dressed women were heading their way in a twirling tangent, and even the DJ and light managers recognized their reckless hilarity with a single blue spotlight shining on them. It caused Ilya to squint and stare ceiling-ward.

"Okay, that's cool that they're, like, you know -- putting the light on us 'cause we are so-good-dancin' -- I mean, such good dancers, right? But it kind of reminds of me of, like, an alien abduction; imagine a space ship just relaxin' all cool 'cause it likes our moves," Ilya rambled in slurs, waving her arms in the direction of where the light came from in a 'hello', or maybe a 'thank you'. Drunk folk are ridiculous.