Mi Casa Es Su Casa

[Andrew Crest]

When most people think nightclub, they usually think downtown, bright lights, pounding music, lots of people. Guys dressed in slacks and dress shirts with the occasionally douche-bag popped collar. Women dressed to kill and showing ample skin with the occasional trampier than ever necessary vibe. If not a live band, then a DJ mixing the latest annoying hits and making them somehow sound worse than usual. Throw in drinks that are way too expensive and bouncers that are too smug for their own good and you’ve got most stereotypical twenty-one plus bars in the country. At least LA had some variety here and there.

The Haven definitely wasn’t one of those clubs. More like one of those “if you don’t know where it is, you shouldn’t ask about it’ type of places. Think warehouse district with those dark, emotionless, huge-ass buildings that no one seems to know what actually is inside. Brick walls with no noise or pounding bass and just two or three side door with a small line of people trickling and almost no street traffic.

Inside the sound-proof walls was a completely different story. Each door lead into a small foyer where bouncers checked IDs before ushering people inside the main club. And finally the guests got to see what they were in for. Three stories of industrial warehouse dance floor and bars and alcoves with booths ringing each dance area cat-walk style. Ground level maybe more tame than for the casual partygoer, but the second and third levels grew less and less mainstream with dance cages and more lounge chairs and couches than barstools.

That and what set the place apart from any of those downtown joints was that almost everywhere some sort of mutation could be seen. From the drunk guy at the bar that had more scales than skin, to the felinoid twins ignoring the real world for one evening and just having fun, to the four-armed bartender mixing a ridiculous number of drinks at once.

At the Haven every human and mutant was welcome here. Provided you didn’t cause trouble the aptly named Haven was a place where any and all could come to escape. Police and the government stayed away….mostly due to some deals with the club management…and the Haven stayed off the radar. The place was an unofficial ‘neutral ground’ in the human-mutant crisis.

And best to keep actions civil. Anyone that cause the least bit of trouble would be shut down and pitched out in an eye blink. Haven staff was not to be messed with…..ever. Follow the rules and everyone would be fine.

[Pernilla Fitzgerald]

A promise of thrill and wild entertainment lead a group of ladies to the seedy club known as the Haven, an infamous place where supposed mutants and humans mingled together. Clarice's idea initially, this was the kind of place where single women could vent without having to worry about their elderly bosses seeing them. Eliza, Clarice, Pernilla and Jasmin worked together at InfCorp, each serving as secretary to one of the board members. Neither of them were married or in a relationship for that matter and this was supposed to be just another splendid evening, specifically marked by Jasmin's twenty ninth birthday. Instead of the usual coffee and cakes ritual, arrangements were made and soon enough, four women were swaying to obscure electronic beats like there's no tomorrow. Almost blinded by the pulsating lights of the stroboscope, Pernilla glanced into her glass. Empty.

Turning a full circle on her heels, the redhead managed to visually locate the bar then made attempts to squeeze through the crowds towards it. Readjusting the black and crimson bodice upon emerging from the swarm of humans and mutants alike, she meandered to the bar and hopped onto a free stool. She crossed legs under her knee-length leather skirt and flipped copper locks away from her face before addressing the bartender. A casual glance around confirmed this was indeed a good spot to gawk.

"Double whiskey on the rocks." she said and smiled warmly, curiously eying the four-armed man serving her. Pernilla had never seen a mutant before.
"Even with four hands, there'd be more to grab." a coarse male voice sounded, causing Pernilla to cant her head sideways to catch a glimpse of the creature sitting beside her. Visibly intoxicated, the scaly mutant grinned, showing an array of razor-sharp teeth.
"Excuse me?" inquired the redhead, not quite sure what he meant by the comment. Even before she could react, a reptilian hand grabbed her wrist and tugged at it, pulling her off the chair and directly into his embrace. The smell of cheap vodka was obnoxious. Pernilla squealed helplessly, trying to wiggle out of his squeeze.
"I know what girls like you are here for..." the reptilian whispered in an ominous tone - "Here to try some mutant meat, hm?"

[Andrew Crest]

Another busy night at the club. Attendance had picked up a ton the last few weeks with the increasing hype of the California mutant registration laws on top of the new ‘ranking’ system the state had come up with. Or maybe it was just the shitty economy bringing people in again. End of the fiscal year and all that jazz.

Not that it really mattered why. What mattered was that every employee at the Haven had been working overtime and long weekends plus the new hires still hadn’t figured out the ropes yet. Also meant that security needed to be more on the ball. New arrivals weren’t that popular especially considering the Haven’s behind-the-scenes operations.

Andrew Crest happened to be heading up the security at the place. At twenty-five he was pretty damn young for the job, but the boss-lady put him there anyway. Andy was simply the best for the job.

He’d just finished up his sweep up on the third floor and chatted up the security staff for updates. Nothing too crazy tonight, just the usual belligerent drunks and assholes. Fairly boring from a security perspective and boring was good….especially with what some of the clientele (and staff) were capable of.

Andrew swiftly made his way through the crowd with the skill of someone who was well versed in traversing a throng of flailing limbs and bodies. Not even his dress shirt, long-sleeved and black with a red and silver tribal pattern running along the left side, ruffled out of place. He preferred not to wear the usually security uniform except for the employee nametag and security card. It made it easier to see what was going on without guests freezing up and hiding any less than polite actions from ‘the man’.

Even his trusty enforcement tool hanging at his waist, in all its bright plastic glory, really just got an odd look or a laugh.

All in all it let him get though the place pretty easily and see things someone in a security uniform with a nightstick wouldn’t. Like the sleazy drunk idiot man-handling a very sexy red-head up at the bar.

“Yo Lizard-face. Security. Mind your manners and watch your claws or your ass is out of here.”