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[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
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[personal profile] concierge
The annual Nexus New Year's Eve gala began at 8 in the evening. Too grand to be contained by the lobby or dining hall, the gardens at the front of the hotel were employed, with long strings of white lights forming a twinkling canopy from the front doors all the way to the hedge maze. The weather was temperate and calm, and the night perfectly clear.

Drinks were served at various bars set up throughout the gardens and lobby, with champagne cocktails being the specialty of the night. Wheeling through the crowd was a bartender with golden cart providing warm drinks on the go: Tom and Jerrys, rum punch, negus, and Irish coffee.

Crisply-dressed wait staff wove through the collected guests with an abundance of hors d'oeuvres for all different tastes. The Bistro remained open with a limited selection of items for those who were wanting something more substantial.

Above the front doors was hung a large, gold-rimmed clock counting down the last hours, minutes, and seconds of the current year.
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[personal profile] matt_murdock
Winter of 1944 | A field hospital in France

He can't remember the last time he spoke to a pretty woman.

WWII AU | ONGOING
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[personal profile] matt_murdock
As he sidles up to the long, polished length of the Smoking Room's bar, Matt is distinctly aware of not being remotely good enough for this particular drinking establishment. Not good in the moral sense—Although that's certainly questionable—but in terms of wealth and entitlement. The floor is marble and the chandeliers have real crystal in them. He's a long, long way from Josie's comforting stench and pock-marked tabletops.

"Scotch and water," he orders as he settles onto a stool, white cane propped against the bar beside him. He sips, wondering how much this is going to cost him, and draws in a slow breath as he listens.

Lavish as this place may be, just like the hotel around it there is more diversity within its walls than most streets in Manhattan. Some patrons lounge with privilege, but just as many are roughly raucous or scented with cheap shampoo. A few lift their glasses with calloused fingers and drink with the deep resignation of the working class. Some, he thinks, may not even be human.

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