Post by Nathan Landry on Apr 27, 2015 18:05:40 GMT -8
It had been a long week. There had been too many debriefings, and then subsequent briefings, too many required reports that didn't give wiggle room for any of his artistic talent. There'd been visits to sickbay, too--their initial 'welcome back home, glad you didn't die' visit, where the nurse on duty had told them--though he could've saved her the trouble, really--that they'd been under the influence of some kind of mind-altering substance the entire time, by the looks of it, and they'd probably have some form of withdrawal or something, and wasn't that nice? They'd been dosed and cleared for a return to duty...but, naturally, it hadn't ended there, either.
Alyssa. Alyssa took everything personally, it seemed to Nathan, to the point where if anything bad happened to the ship in general, it was somehow her fault. Not that Nathan was a professional. Which was, of course, why he'd encouraged her to see a professional. He'd met B'ranon Loch, after all, the resident professional. He was tolerable, as counselors went. Not that that had mollified Alyssa, at all, but he'd tried.
She'd taken his advice, though, which was a step up from a few months ago. Unfortunately, that left him bereft of companionship for the day, which was sad since he'd finally caught up on the backlog of paperwork and reports that had somehow accumulated on his desk during the scant weeks they'd been back out in deep space. And now, at least, he had a new place to discover. Sans Alyssa. Not that he missed her.
He did miss her. He missed her a lot.
So, with nobody to talk to (unless he wanted to go hunting more people to discuss the Pewdin crisis with, since he still hadn't quite nailed down the pattern of events...except the only person who was left, seriously, on his list was Lt. Commander Sur'Shess, and...well, everybody knew how well curious interviews with her usually went), he found himself joining the stream of sundry warm bodies that were heading to the moonbase.
He'd never been there, which meant two things: one, there were likely to be fresh, new things he'd never seen before--cultural things, things he could learn about and then pull out as fun talking points when he wanted to sound smart. Second, there were bound to be alcoholic drinks in plenty, probably of a variety that could neither be replicated or procured elsewhere in the galaxy. There was one good thing about not being out with Alyssa today, at least: she would have frowned upon drinking a ridiculous amount of booze, but he really needed a drink, and if he could sneak one or two or maybe a dozen while she was busy talking to Loch...well, today could work out for both of them.
The tavern was a vortex. That was the closest word that could be used, because 'magnet' was too sanitary and clinical a term, while 'black hole' didn't quite cover it. There was too much light, for one thing, and Nathan had the certain conviction that, all appearances otherwise, there was definitely some kind of central authority in this place that could drag a person out of whatever hole they might choose to hide in, except perhaps the hole that you'd summarily get thrown into. Despite that, the place was full of the sort you'd expect out of a watering hole attached to a place that, above other considerations, was best known for its ability to handle smuggled goods with discretion (that, at least, Nathan was quite sure of: whether anybody else on the Talon was aware of it, the entire place carried with it the dilapidated, seedy air of a place that was definitely used for less-than-honorable means of making it in a galaxy that didn't give a flying peseda about people). There were the obligatory soaks, slumped over the same table where they'd been moved by the bouncers, likely drowning in their own vomit until somebody saw fit to drag them off some place where they could die or wake up in peace, whichever came first. There were a few people clustered here and there, shoulders angled inwards in the universal signal of don't-touch-me-i'll-shoot. Several amiable patrons, blissfully unaware of what was happening a few tables away. A few gamblers, taking advantage of what were probably better odds than those at the casino. And then a couple fresh, clean-shaven faces that Nathan would've bet more latinum than he had on hand were Starfleet.
He steered clear of the Fleeters, mostly because he'd made a sincere effort to look like he belonged in this place. Sure, there was still a commbadge on his chest, because that particular token of respectability decreased his chances of getting knifed, even out here. But otherwise, he prided himself that he still possessed the knack of pulling off the slightly debonair bad boy vibe. It was reassuring. After all, if everything suddenly went south with Starfleet, it was good to have a backup plan. Or three. Not that he was planning on that happening, mind. It just paid to be prepared.
The bar stretched along the back wall, par the course, shelves and decorations that might pass for tasteful once a person was really, really hammered behind it. A tall person stood behind it, cleaning a glass with...his proboscis. It had proboscis. Or maybe they were tentacles. Either way, they were on the thing's face and were methodically cleaning a glass, while more tentacles below did something out of Nathan's line of sight. Hopefully cleaning another glass. And hopefully he would get the glass down there, not the one by the thing's face. The bartender--it had to be a bartender, there was nobody else--turned his eye on Nathan. There was only one of them, bright blue against the paler blue of his skin. "Yes?" it asked, in as impertinent a tone as Nathan had ever heard from a bartender. Or someone with that many tentacles.
"I want to get drunk," Nathan managed, because to be quite honest, the tentacles were still throwing him off a bit. He'd spent a good deal of time with people who couldn't, precisely, be termed 'humanoid', if only because the two arms and two legs bit tended to get a bit iffy, but this was a whole new level of different. If anything, the creature looked like what would happen if you animated a chunk of spaghetti. Spaghetti taller than a grown man. Interesting.
The bartender nodded and turned away briefly, doing something that involved a lot of tentacle waving. Nathan slowly pulled himself up onto a stool, careful not to touch the underside of, well, anything. Some preservation instincts shouldn't be questioned. The bartender came back, not so much moving as pulsating along the floor, and thumped a large glass down in front of him. "This will make you forget your own mother," it wheezed.
"Excellent," Nathan said, swallowing the follow up remark that rose to mind ('will it make me forget your face, too, because it's sort of weirding me out'), and picked up the glass. He'd learned from long, hard experience that, when faced with an unfamiliar something you were supposed to swallow, the best thing to do was just take the whole thing in one fell swoop. So that's what he did. Lifted it, put it to his lips, guzzled.
Tag: Lieutenant Eden Nivans, Any
Alyssa. Alyssa took everything personally, it seemed to Nathan, to the point where if anything bad happened to the ship in general, it was somehow her fault. Not that Nathan was a professional. Which was, of course, why he'd encouraged her to see a professional. He'd met B'ranon Loch, after all, the resident professional. He was tolerable, as counselors went. Not that that had mollified Alyssa, at all, but he'd tried.
She'd taken his advice, though, which was a step up from a few months ago. Unfortunately, that left him bereft of companionship for the day, which was sad since he'd finally caught up on the backlog of paperwork and reports that had somehow accumulated on his desk during the scant weeks they'd been back out in deep space. And now, at least, he had a new place to discover. Sans Alyssa. Not that he missed her.
He did miss her. He missed her a lot.
So, with nobody to talk to (unless he wanted to go hunting more people to discuss the Pewdin crisis with, since he still hadn't quite nailed down the pattern of events...except the only person who was left, seriously, on his list was Lt. Commander Sur'Shess, and...well, everybody knew how well curious interviews with her usually went), he found himself joining the stream of sundry warm bodies that were heading to the moonbase.
He'd never been there, which meant two things: one, there were likely to be fresh, new things he'd never seen before--cultural things, things he could learn about and then pull out as fun talking points when he wanted to sound smart. Second, there were bound to be alcoholic drinks in plenty, probably of a variety that could neither be replicated or procured elsewhere in the galaxy. There was one good thing about not being out with Alyssa today, at least: she would have frowned upon drinking a ridiculous amount of booze, but he really needed a drink, and if he could sneak one or two or maybe a dozen while she was busy talking to Loch...well, today could work out for both of them.
The tavern was a vortex. That was the closest word that could be used, because 'magnet' was too sanitary and clinical a term, while 'black hole' didn't quite cover it. There was too much light, for one thing, and Nathan had the certain conviction that, all appearances otherwise, there was definitely some kind of central authority in this place that could drag a person out of whatever hole they might choose to hide in, except perhaps the hole that you'd summarily get thrown into. Despite that, the place was full of the sort you'd expect out of a watering hole attached to a place that, above other considerations, was best known for its ability to handle smuggled goods with discretion (that, at least, Nathan was quite sure of: whether anybody else on the Talon was aware of it, the entire place carried with it the dilapidated, seedy air of a place that was definitely used for less-than-honorable means of making it in a galaxy that didn't give a flying peseda about people). There were the obligatory soaks, slumped over the same table where they'd been moved by the bouncers, likely drowning in their own vomit until somebody saw fit to drag them off some place where they could die or wake up in peace, whichever came first. There were a few people clustered here and there, shoulders angled inwards in the universal signal of don't-touch-me-i'll-shoot. Several amiable patrons, blissfully unaware of what was happening a few tables away. A few gamblers, taking advantage of what were probably better odds than those at the casino. And then a couple fresh, clean-shaven faces that Nathan would've bet more latinum than he had on hand were Starfleet.
He steered clear of the Fleeters, mostly because he'd made a sincere effort to look like he belonged in this place. Sure, there was still a commbadge on his chest, because that particular token of respectability decreased his chances of getting knifed, even out here. But otherwise, he prided himself that he still possessed the knack of pulling off the slightly debonair bad boy vibe. It was reassuring. After all, if everything suddenly went south with Starfleet, it was good to have a backup plan. Or three. Not that he was planning on that happening, mind. It just paid to be prepared.
The bar stretched along the back wall, par the course, shelves and decorations that might pass for tasteful once a person was really, really hammered behind it. A tall person stood behind it, cleaning a glass with...his proboscis. It had proboscis. Or maybe they were tentacles. Either way, they were on the thing's face and were methodically cleaning a glass, while more tentacles below did something out of Nathan's line of sight. Hopefully cleaning another glass. And hopefully he would get the glass down there, not the one by the thing's face. The bartender--it had to be a bartender, there was nobody else--turned his eye on Nathan. There was only one of them, bright blue against the paler blue of his skin. "Yes?" it asked, in as impertinent a tone as Nathan had ever heard from a bartender. Or someone with that many tentacles.
"I want to get drunk," Nathan managed, because to be quite honest, the tentacles were still throwing him off a bit. He'd spent a good deal of time with people who couldn't, precisely, be termed 'humanoid', if only because the two arms and two legs bit tended to get a bit iffy, but this was a whole new level of different. If anything, the creature looked like what would happen if you animated a chunk of spaghetti. Spaghetti taller than a grown man. Interesting.
The bartender nodded and turned away briefly, doing something that involved a lot of tentacle waving. Nathan slowly pulled himself up onto a stool, careful not to touch the underside of, well, anything. Some preservation instincts shouldn't be questioned. The bartender came back, not so much moving as pulsating along the floor, and thumped a large glass down in front of him. "This will make you forget your own mother," it wheezed.
"Excellent," Nathan said, swallowing the follow up remark that rose to mind ('will it make me forget your face, too, because it's sort of weirding me out'), and picked up the glass. He'd learned from long, hard experience that, when faced with an unfamiliar something you were supposed to swallow, the best thing to do was just take the whole thing in one fell swoop. So that's what he did. Lifted it, put it to his lips, guzzled.
Tag: Lieutenant Eden Nivans, Any