[center][h2][color=0054a6]Olin Ingersson Holmström[/color][/h2][/center]
[center][h3]Monday Evening, Swan Songs[/h3][/center]

 [color=0054a6]"To a good evening,"[/color] She clinked her glass to the other, before taking it straight. The second go-around seemed to be much, much harsher than the first, causing her to nearly need to scrunch up her face. She cursed under her breath the slightest, be for re-gaining attention on Victoria.

 In her mind she could only think of what a strange girl she happened to be. Although there seemed to be a more present sway in her words, or at least in her composure. Even for her frame she still happened to be holding herself pretty well. And nothing about the woman screamed anything below elegance. From how she had at first approached the group to how gracefully her every movement was. Not to mention she must've been [i]rich[/i]. A normal person wouldn't agree to pick-up the tab for anyone that rustled by, especially pure strangers. She reminded Olin of the local aristocrats her parents had field-days interviewing at whatever spot they poured into.

 More specifically, a heiress they'd met in Lyon, France. She could vaguely recall the woman. The same amiable nature that spent similarly (though, instead of drinks, it was five-course meals made by chefs that had their own TV programs) and seemed to know everyone as if they had skipped the 'stranger' period altogether. It wasn't something she wished to dwell on longer, or even had to. Alcohol or not Victoria seemed important. Someone that would definitely come in handy some point in the future.

 So she stayed quiet. And with the abrupt silence came an absence, and with that absence came a voice. Fucking [i]jazz[/i]. Not that the other musicians prior weren't aligned with the same genre... It just wasn't [i]fucking jazz[/i]. Like the type Olin had a few CDs of stashed around her place. The type you had to bob with, or swing, while flooding your veins with the voice. The type you could pop a pill to and slip into an endless haze, burrowing into the warmest depths of your breathing. Not only that - but the man was doing Sinatra justice. There was no way the man would be rolling in his grave unless he had a knack for good singers. She finally turned around for probably the first time that night, taking in the person on stage.

 She looked around the bar. The gentleman from before was the Sinatra. She re-trained her eyes on him as his melodious voice began to burrow further, and further, and further. Damn, although he was dressed the part he didn't exactly look it. If she'd known prior that he'd be doing such a song doubt surely would've been tugging at her. Of course Olin was an open-minded person. There just wasn't many people around that could pay such homage to [i]Pennies From Heaven[/i]. And of course the inevitable came. Once the song stopped he and the band hurriedly walked off stage, despite all of the applause they'd received. It became even more of a puzzling situation once Rupert, the owner of the place, huddled on in a mix between a nervous and defiant manner. On her brief escapades to the shop and peering over endless albums, she'd never seen him in such a way.

 In came a short speech. Olin, not quite the intellectual, would've summed up his words in a simple manner: Assholes were being assholes. It was further re-affirmed when the... [i]Musicians[/i]? [i]Prettyboys[/i]? [i]Guests[/i]? Strutted onto stage, reminding her of the arrogance her brothers shared and gallons of testosterone. Not to mention, she had at least taken the liberty to dress the part.

 Of course someone like her had no room to talk, but if someone disgusted Olin, it was safe to assume it was within fair reason. Even the slimiest, sewer-trap bars in Sol would've refused them to play. And that's [i]if[/i] they hadn't gotten jawed before taking the stage. 

 But it was chaos and interesting all the same. Although she felt ready to blow - mostly due to the fact Frank Sinatra (who was supposedly named Max) had been replaced with... them, not moral reasons - she was curious how things would play out. At the places she  went to a guy could get punched for ordering the wrong drink. With worse circumstances than that occurring, with many of Sol's much more 'cleaner' citizens...

 Then there was an outburst. From someone that looked out of place compared to everyone else, and... Shoddy, if you wanted to play it safe. He appeared weak above all, but the tone of his reaction seemed to imply otherwise. His voice seemingly became booming, blurting out jokes that ranged from ones Olin understood, and other's she had to think about the slightest (Contrary to popular belief, the Castro-one was not). She had to smirk. Especially at the dumbfounded look embodied by the audience, whatever-the-hell was on stage, and the man himself. 

 She was happy when Victoria waved him over. Hell, he deserved more than a drink. Surely after whatever ass-kicking (or worse) he was due to receive from the security or the... [i]Things[/i], he'd spoken out against. If the he managed to survive the night she'd be surprised. 

[@Pilatus][@Furiosa][@Robo27][@Monacho][@King Tai][@Voltus_Ventus][@Jay Kalton][@aladdin_sane][@RabidPorcupine]