All-out War at Warriors
Unlike most of New York, Petra loved her job. It wasn't for getting special treatment or anything for being the big boss' daughter, she'd put a stop to that the first time she got a hint of it. It wasn't the tips, although she'd long since established the perfect margin for cleavage, skirt-length, and makeup to maximize them. It was being part of the family business. Daddy had turned one bar into a mounting international franchise of upscale but still family accessible bar-and-restaurants. Interplanetary, actually, considering there was one on Oa as well.

Her job was her pride and joy, waitress or not. That and her collection of boots anyway.

And boy was that about to be tested.

It turns a few heads at first as some brightly dressed individuals enter the place, but it's not so uncommon. Plenty of regulars come in costumes of their favorite heroes and villains, or make their own togs. It's when the occasional use of tech or metahuman powers starts getting noticed that some people start asking for their checks. Soon, the place is emptying out in a slow but noticeable flow of customers.

Then one of the other waitresses, and a waiter as well, both of them rather fetching, get pulled in to sit with them at the large booth they're taking up like a mentally imbalanced football team (bit repetitive there, but still).

Petra scowls, cracks her neck, and strolls over, pulling Tara and Byron out and shooing them off. The air starts to get colder around her.

"Alright guys, your drinks so far are on the house, if you clear out right now. No need for this to get uglier than you sitting down already made it."