Chapter Text
From the outside, the bar was unassuming. It was in an old building, though it was well maintained, nestled at the dead end of a street, and tucked between a derelict old bookshop with odd open hours and a long-since abandoned restaurant.
The sign that hung above the door was yellowed with age, but the lettering was freshly painted. The windows were tinted black and faded stickers and dripping spray paint tags decorated the chipped brick walls. But the doors were new, and the lock was solid.
A tired-looking security camera drooped from beneath the eaves, next to the pigeon nest that had been woven between the tall, metal deterrent spikes. Oddly enough, the camera was pointed away from the door, instead focusing down the street on the people approaching on the sidewalk.
A sun-bleached fabric awning, picked threadbare in some spots by the birds who build the nest, cast the front in shadow. The building continued up, dully red and grey bricks looming overhead with a boarded-over window centered on its face. The foot atop the apartment was steeply sloped and mossy. It looked as though no one had been up onto It to clean it in years, and if anyone were to try to walk it they’d likely meet a steep and slippery fall.
It was on the inside of the bar that things got truly interesting.
There was no bouncer in the bar. There was no need when the patrons all knew to mind their manners.
In stark contrast to the almost intentionally worn-down state of the exterior, the inside of the bar was warm and inviting. The dark-stained hardwood floors were clean and polished, and you could only notice the rust-colored stains and small, thin nicks if you knew where to look.
The booths were placed around the edges of the room, arranged so that they provided privacy from the others but allowed for a clear view of the front door. Smaller tables dotted the rest of the room, flanked by comfortable, albeit mismatched chairs. In the far corner of the bar, two plush love seats sat on either side of an old leather couch across from a fireplace. Two fresh logs sat in the coal-scattered firebox, and a decorative metal grate sat on the hearth. The ash had been recently swept and a low fire crackled comfortingly along the base of the new logs—with several more stacked up on the hearth and waiting for use.
Balancing along the backs of the booth benches were strands of vibrant green leaves. Some were purely colored, some variegated with stripes of white and pink, others speckled with twisting holes that split along the veins. Their pots were mounted up onto the walls and their delicate stems reach down the cushions low enough to brush the top of a tall patron’s head.
Purple UV lamps lined where the walls met the ceiling, cords neatly managed and set on a timer that mimicked the sun.
The walls and ceiling were painted black and strings of lights swirled across the ceiling in abstract patterns that added an element of whimsy to the tastefully dim lighting.
The wooden bar was polished to a shine. Red leather stools line the patron’s side, as opposed to the lowered, butcher block counter of the bartending side. Bottles of various colors and shapes lined the wall behind the bar. An ice box was tucked under the counter next to a small fridge that was stocked with fresh fruits, juice, cream, and garnishes.
A finicky-looking coffee machine was balanced on the end of the counter. It looked like it was on its last legs; the milk steamer screamed a tad too loudly and leaked a small stream of scalding water when not in use. The portafilter never snapped into place on the first try. Half the parts were scavenged or refurbished but it was humming with energy and kept on running.
The espresso grounds were running low and next to the old machine, a figure leaned against the counter and watched as dark beans tumbled into the grinder and spilled into the attached canister. His red shoe tapped lazily on the wooden floor as he waited.
The grinder switched off with a click, the light flicking from red to green and the figure hummed, straightening up from his slouch and stretching slightly—back popping noisily—before grabbing the canister and refilling the espresso machine.
A scarred hand dipped into the apron tied around his waist and pulled out a clean white cloth from where it had been half tucked into the front pocket. He carefully wiped up the scattered ground from off the counter and into the garbage bin below. Two of his thin fingers were crooked, joints slightly askew as though they’d been broken and healed wrong.
Stepping back for a second, he surveyed the bar, taking in the clean-swept floors and stacks of sparkling glasses. Humming happily to himself, he pulled open a small drawer and grabbed out a hair tie, pulling his thick green curled back into a half ponytail. A black face mask was also pulled from the drawer and tugged over his mouth.
He snagged the white dish towel from the rack below the bar and slung it over his shoulder. With one final glance around the bar, he strode to the front door and flicked on the open sign.
As dusk settled around Kamino, the shadows in the alleyways deepened and stretched and figures emerged.
Izuku Midoriya settled into his spot behind the bar, polishing an already gleaming glass with practiced ease.
The Alibi was open for business.