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It was loud, incredibly so as the laughs and cheers could be heard even outside the entryway of the building. It was in the underside of Capitol City on Daiban, but it was heavily populated even during the unsure time of war that descended upon the Orion Spur, and perhaps the galaxy itself, once more.
The Outrider's Reach was a well known and respected den for bounty hunters and mercenaries, all looking for food, a drink, a companion for the night, and of certainty, the promise of work. Official channels transmitted to displays near the main bar, while it was easy enough queue up and accept quick listed jobs and bounties. There were also less official channels accessible, jobs offered off the Federation registries and more into the seedier underside of Daiban. It was a fast and hard world, but it was, ironically, the easiest to enter.
And as she walked in, a freshly bought black leather jacket over the blue light armor plates of her base armor, Samus Aran was diving into that world. It has been little more than a few months at most since the maddening infiltration of Zebes, her own home, and the revelations left in the wake of her mission that could never be spoken of in public. Zebes was still considered far too strategically valuable as to let anyone outside a few select know it even existed, let alone the ships of the Ancients buried there and the living Chozo that remained. So everything she had done and been involved in had been coded black by Confleet and left her unable to even admit what she had done.
Which was otherwise fine. She didn't want to be a hero, and Dane had managed to convince Fleet HighCom that they owed her for her service and that of her parents. But she still felt she was being wasted. Appropriate she would find a place like to help fill her pockets for the time being here in the Federation, then.
A seat now taken at the main bar, making her order for a drink to the barkeep. The counter had a touch screen display showing a number of open bounties and general calls for mercenaries, and a number of listings that were no doubt covert marks. She was new to this, but Samus wasn't ignorant; even here on Daiban, the black market and the organized underworld had a presence. Only the supremely naive believed otherwise.
But that wasn't her. General bounties were enough for now. Get some work under her belt, establish the reputation that would warrant the nomination to the Star Hunter corps that Dane had put forward, and do what she knew she was best at.
Killing Kromus. And anything else that threatened everything her birth-parents had fought and died for.
Arne was familiar with bars and the rowdy culture around them. His time with the Wild Hunt and reconnecting to his home culture had taught him that any place with a large number of people who fought for a living and mixed them with alcohol was liable to be loud and raunchy. It was only recently though that he decided to participate rather than watch now that he was of age to do more than awkwardly sit in the corner in his power suit and offer lame excuses as to why he couldn't take off his helmet.
He had decided to try his luck in this place, even if he felt somewhat alarmed at being on this planet of all planets. It felt crowded and suffocating, and he hadn't seen a naturally growing tree so much as once. He appreciated the eclectic mixture of architecture and the thought that went into city planning, but that didn't stop the sheer amount of thought going on making his empathic senses serve like a second set of ears to get overwhelmed. So many people here were thirsty, and not of the kind that would see getting a drink as anything but a means to an end. It certainly made his actual purpose here harder to focus on.
He adjusted his coat, a simple windbreaker he could discard in a hurry when needed. Something he paired with some cheap tearaway trousers he could get rid of in a moment if he needed to change. The techskein under-armour he wore moved in accordance to his musculature without hindering him, letting him reach for the drink he had ordered without issue while his other hand continued to sketch something onto the foldable tablet he had with him with the stylus. His hands were steady and careful, each stroke measured even when he was looking down past his glass.
"What are you making?" He was asked, he glanced over for a few seconds at the green skinned alien who had asked him. They seemed honest in their curiosity even if Arne was always somewhat cagey with being made to show his sketches. Many times had he tried to lose himself in his drawings only for the Alimbics who were supposed to take care of him to take what he only did to relax and use it as yet another excuse to berate him. "Wasted time", "improper technique", "insufficient brevity of motion", even when he had never asked for such criticism nor had ever intended them to be shown to anyone else.
But he felt that this person in particular was honest enough to show briefly. "Fighter craft." He said honestly. He felt they deserved that much, and briefly showed the somewhat intensive sketches he had drawn up of various ideas for planes over the few moments. He had a new fighter craft to call his own now following his secret mission on Sentus Primaris, and he could finally retire his first child to somewhere it wouldn't be threatened with damage and the idea of collecting more certainly appealed to him. The weregild he had claimed on the Dead Hand; presenting remains from Mercy, Quietus, Cyrus, Veil, and even the severed central head of Viper had left him with rather full pockets, and he had no idea of what to do with it. The alien took a few moments to look at the designs and give some fluff comment about liking it before letting Arne pull his tablet back to himself.
Almost nobody else alive in the universe would know of what transpired on that former Alimbic Fortress world. The black ops program he had shut down could not afford to admit what they had done if they wanted to avoid investigation. Most of Zurvduat's restorationist Alimbic faction died when he turned the planet's defenses on them. The IMC lost virtually all useful records from the base. He of course, felt the need to retire his old Valtamr persona for the safety of those it had associated with. But all people knew about his new Sylux identity was that it had shown up one day at the planet of Skeggi and claimed the blood price put on (at least most of) the Dead Hand for the death of his parents and the Winter Claw warband. Beyond that, he was a shadow.
He liked it that way. The sort of intense scrutiny that came with fame was something he hadn't fully adjusted to. And now, he felt like he could start to move on. He had his justice and had spent the past few months mostly doing ground level work. He was troubled by the revelations that the Sylux project was only part of a wider conspiracy, but they had seemingly gone to ground after he had so spectacularly destroyed their investment and all they had hoped to gain with the aid of a team of scientists from a species of superhuman geniuses. But he didn't let that affect his mood too much. He was able to relax and take it easy on his own for the first time in his life, and he felt good.
Good enough to flick his scarlet eyed attentions to the blonde who had taken a seat near him. Cute, but he could sense she wasn't here for a warm body to wake up next to so he put those thoughts aside. She seemed a bit different from most of the other humans here, she moved more like he did than everyone else. Enough for him to mentally catalogue as someone to keep an eye on. But he'd wait for her to give a sign that she was ready to make conversation before introducing himself.
Though, speaking of requests and people he needed to be introduced to. He checked the mission board himself to see if anything interested him. He needed to stay sharp, and under his new alias he had to build up his reputation from scratch all over again, taking out the Dead Hand was enough to get people talking but he needed to prove that wasn't just a fluke. His fingers stopped moving the stylus even as he fully shifted his attentions.
A clanking would announce the arrival of Seeker as he went through the check-in point fresh from a job, Uniform singed in a few places and plating scuffed. The metal man was glad to be in civilization after his two decades of isolation in the endless void, there was only so much that the QEC could do to alleviate the sense of smallness when cataloging thousands of life-less systems. Unfortunately, it seemed that the people here were prone to chaos, crime, and conflict, and the law keepers were hopelessly outnumbered and occasionally outgunned, making mercenaries necessary in many cases. They were more than willing to accept his assistance, and he had been doing jobs for them ever since he landed here, using his skills as a medic to minimize casualties. If things ever got this bad back home though... the militia would probably step in and restore order, not the case here, the Imperial couldn't understand why they didn't.
The scout would head towards the bar, planning to check the job listings again before turning in to repair, recharge, and rearm. A drink would be purchased but untouched, the fatigue clad fellow's voice echoey with a touch of static as he mumbled to himself whilst flicking through the bounties on his screen.
Post by Eliza Silvermantle on Jan 26, 2020 21:46:55 GMT
Eliza was no stranger to the more chaotic areas of Daiban, and had visited this very establishment on more than one occasion, each time under a different guise, masking her identity as the CEO of one of the larger defense conglomerates in the Spur. After all, her status as a bounty hunter, while not exactly secret, wasn't necessarily common knowledge, either, and she preferred to avoid her presence as herself to go unnoticed in such rough establishments. As a result, the Witch's normally ashen-white hair was altered by use of a rather clever spell, appearing instead as a thick mane of magenta hair that framed the angular face of a Yl'fin. Across her forehead and cheekbones, it seemed as though she'd been marked with ritualistic patterns, further distancing herself from her natural appearance. However, despite the rather elaborate disguise, the manner in which she carried herself as she strode into the interior of the dimly lit bar suggested rather strongly that she was not a fellow denizen of the underworld. Her gaze was too direct, movements too precise. What others might discern was another matter entirely, and she counted on pragmatism to dismiss the issue, provided she didn't create trouble within.
First, drinks, she thought, and then to find some jobs worth her time. Eliza was relatively new to the field, and she was well aware of the importance of seniority, but talent could at times overcome such boundaries, as some individuals had already proven. She already had a few successful bounties under her belt, including one that had proven to be quite unusual, and the Witch was hungry for more valuable bounties. As she sat at the bar, her piercing emerald eyes swept the area, silently taking measure of each of the patrons present within her line of sight. Eventually, however, her attention fell on the bartender, and full lips curled into a grin less hardened individuals might have found unsettling. "I'll have a bottle of Orbital Bombardment," she stated, sliding her credit chit over to pay for the rather potent rum-like beverage.
If you did work in Daiban, you knew the Outrider's Reach. And Eligos? He did plenty of work in the area. The doors would open, allowing the cyborg to pass into the bar, his dark eyes blinking softly as they adapt from the bright nightlights from the streets to the dimly lit interior, the familiar stench of sickly sweet alcohol, cigarette smoke making itself known, a familiar aura that brought comfort to the young man. Mechanical digits of mate ceramic black and glistening flesh of onyx hue moving across his raven hair, feeling the prickling sensation of the freshly-shaven sides, the middle dropping down over his forehead in the loose form of an ungelled mohawk.
He had just returned from a trip to the ever faithful Doctor, the scent of silicon gel and oil clinging to his form as he moved straight towards the bar, cutting through the superficial haze in the atmosphere. Oh the good old Doc had done wonders! His cybernetics felt brand new! Sleep and scuff-free, each motion sending sweet ceremonies across his nervous system as his body got accustomed to them. Not only that but the flesh felt good too. Strong, healthy, the skin bearing a bleached pale tone that he tended to enjoy, eyes vivid and free of any blood-shot veins for once, giving him an extra hair of inhumaneness....something that actually gave him points given the usual crowd.
He sat upon the bend, the chains hanging from his faded, ripped black jeans and studded double-belt jingling softly against the faux leather, his digitigrade configuration making due by resting the talons upon the steel bar that served as a barrier between the bottom of the stools and the bar itself. Dark digits drum along the bar to summon the barkeeps attention, the card holding his tab held between two digits as he signals for his usual: A six-shooter round of Kalashnikovs, a great way to start a fine evening after a metaphorical span day. As the drinks are being poured, clear vodka filling each glass almost to the top, a lime wedge balanced at the mouth with a sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon before Absinthe is poured over the wedge till each glass is full, he would turn on his seat and take sight of the bar at large, absent-mindedly attempting to spot any of his fellow chrome-heads, both out of a desire to show off his repairs and to comment on the disappointment of the latest job, labelling yet another corp as an unreliable payer.
A hand reaches behind him, bending impossibly at the elbow to grab one of the glasses, the fingers of his other hand snapping right above the wedge, an unnecessary flair as the built-in taser produces a small charge, igniting the alcohol with a faint blue hue. The scent of caramelising sugar and burnt cinnamon fills the air, overpowering the mint-flavour of the absinthe and the heady alcoholic scent of the vodka before pursed lips exhale, putting out the drink. With one tip, he swallow the warm fluid, before biting into the sweet lime, chewing away the flesh of the fruit before placing the skin inside the now empty glass. He had no urge to pursue jobs for now, this was pure downtime for him, and the new crowd proved to be more...interesting.
One could always tell the regulars from the newcomers. They way they carried themselves, the way they dressed. Cautious, way too focused on the job listings...The old pros knew that the best jobs weren't even listen. Not the REAL jobs anyway. Those...required a face. A John. An anonymous in-between that provided the full info and the up-front payment. No paper, no trail, no accountability. Simple word of mouth and reliance on skill. Those were dangerous jobs, illegal jobs. Often corporate traps as he had come to find out. But the pay...even just the up-front one, was more than worth it, financing his basic needs and the incidental repairs. As of now...there were a few curious faces. Some that were attracting some attention from the other regulars, intense, withdrawn or simply oblivious....
The Dr. moved through the crowded Daiban streets looking for a bar that was rumored to have information brokers of all sorts til he eventually clumsily made his way through the doors of the establishment that he thought could lead him to where he was looking to go.. Wherever that was.. Macabre had never been a large fan of bars spending very little time in them enough that you might be able to count the times on a single hand. He looked around awkwardly for some sort of coat check where he might leave behind his jacket but instead finding a man more interested in stripping him of whatever weapons he may be carrying on his person which could be considered very little with the exception the surgical scalpel he carried with him at all times in it's tiny black sterile case.
Moving into the bar he stood around for a approximately 10 seconds before moving his way towards the bounty board giving nothing more than a brief cursory glance before moving on towards the bar. Pulling up a stool he taps on the counter three times "Excuse me sir, might I inquire as to a menu? Or what is the specialty of this given establishment?" he inquired aloud to the man behind the counter a completely serious look on his face.
He thought to himself wondering who he would need to talk to in order to find the sort of information he was looking for, but figured that with the underworld types such as these it was not so much a you find them type of deal, but instead a they'll find you.
Samus glanced around, noting the various species that populated the bar, the newer arrivals that appeared to be far more old hands than her in this world. Something she was being mindful to watch and observe.
Blue-green eyes tilted to the screen embedded in the bar counter. Plenty of open jobs and general calls. Opportunities for work and keeping herself occupied. Much was made of the Federation wide open bounty on Kromus forces, something she would be all too eager to bring in proof for. But that wasn't exactly what the admiral had advised. Plus, she was trying not to make herself a high profile presence. Not yet at least.
Though she could feel some eyes on her already. She stood out, no doubt, being the new face in an old market. Her scar was itching, she noticed as she casually rubbed the lower part that ran over her left cheek. That brought her attention to the young man seated near her. White hair, and seemed to be red eyes that were stealing momentary glances at her. Sizing her up, it seemed. Probably normal behavior when someone new came into the mercenary field.
Her senses prickled. Turning slightly, she saw a violet haired woman enter, someone with clearly more familiar confidence in the Reach, and also what appeared to be two different kinds of cyborg; one appeared to be a full body conversion, the other merely limbs.
"Miss, your redheaded slut."
She blinked as she turned back to the barkeep. "My...what?"
"Your drink." The Yl'fyn female held up the drink glass. "Old terran name for the mix you ordered, with some Firekka fire water for an added kick."
Realization dawned, and Samus gave an embarrassed nod as she tapped her credit chit to the console reader in front of her. A cursory examination of the drink glass, realizing she was likely getting a few strange looks after that little moment, and the girl took a taste. Peach and cranberry she recognized, but the alcohol itself barely even tinged her senses.
The trouble, she had long ago learned, with a metabolism and healing system that ran five times or more as fast as a normal human; even the buzz was lucky to hit.
At least it meant she could operate with a far more level head than most. And it would do her good to make some acquaintances at the least in this business. She was a rookie, she wasn't Guilded, and everything she had read up on, and watched on Big Shot Network, said that the more people you knew made for a better career.
The Alien next to him soon stood up and left, leaving the seat between himself and the blonde empty. Not ideal, at least in his mind. He had counted on having more time to size her up without her noticing, but he caught her looking back in his direction a few times. He guessed they were new, yet that they had also lived. She did not strike him or his empathic senses as someone who shied away from confrontation, even when their eyes met for the briefest moment; red-orange to blue-green. Likely noticing the mark on his cheek, thin and jagged from his adoptive father striking him across the face with an open claw. A wound he had never sought treatment for to remind him of what he had survived.
He turned his attention back to his drink shortly and noticed that the chocolate stout was starting to run low. "Another glass if you'd be so kind." He said, his diction was formal and polite, and he casually suppressed his usually rather thick Grendakish accent to speak in a more easily understood manner. "Here you go, sir." Came the reply soon enough, as this was his third drink so far in about fifteen minutes and the bartender had the bottle of his preferred drink at the ready. He took the offered sweet and only moderately alcoholic drink out of her hands and gave his sincere thanks as he started to down it with the sort of attention a child gave a glass of chocolate milk. He couldn't ask for his favoured frappes without drawing undue attention for being the weirdo drinking a milkshake in the bar without clearly being somebody's designated driver, so this would have to do.
Once he got his refill, he'd take a quick gander at the other presences that he had felt directly gazing at him. He dismissed the ones who were simply giving him bedroom eyes out of hand and counted the most interesting ones. An yl'fn looking magenta haired woman who carried herself in a manner suggesting familiarity with the place. At least two cyborgs, one clearly more fully converted than the other from a casual glance and his frequent encounters with those who had their bodies replaced with machinery to varying degrees. And a clearly overeducated and underarmed man who gave him the creeps who stumbled in here vomiting out the thesaurus, probably worked in an academic field he surmised.
With that assessment out of the way he took a second stock at the work to be found here. He was aware that this sort of open job posting was rookie shit, but he needed a bit of a break from extremely high stakes capers. Something to pass the time and fish up some extra money that he could use to fetch something easily compatible with his suit and ship here. He had plenty as is, but transferring United Clans Eyrirs to Federation Credits gave him a longer paper trail than he would have liked.
Some of the work looked interesting enough, tickling his fancy in one manner or the other. Some of it struck him as much too pinkerton for his tastes. Some of it struck him as the idle rich looking to associate with more dangerous crowds. But ultimately, he knew enough from his time with the Wild Hunt that usually the best work tends to come to you after you've established yourself. He sometimes wished he could return to them, but they knew him as Valtamr, not Arne or Sylux and they had only allowed him in the first time around because of Elmorni and Zurvduat.
However that seat between him and the blonde remained open, almost yearning for a newcomer to take it. That is, unless he decided to take it himself; sliding in fairly casually. She had his interest at least. "Mind if I sit here so we can skip all the silent sizing up?" He asked, more relaxed now. Best to be honest about his intentions.
After some minutes of browsing the listings with his usual filters, Seeker would glance at his untouched drink, to either side of him, back at his drink, then again to his neighbors. He was stuck in a bit of a predicament, he couldn't actually drink, but he had to order something to avoid slighting the bar tender, and allowing the drink to go to waste would upset his own sensibilities. The one to his left, a young blonde female, likely human. The one to his right, a young sickly-looking male, likely human with prosthetics; the fellow didn't look like he ought to be drinking, and yet here he was. Looking about the room, only a couple others would stand out, an Artificer/alchemist looking type, and an elf with an unusual air about her. The Imperial sincerely hoped he wouldn't end up needing to neutralize any of them in his future jobs, that'd be a bit awkward.
Returning to the most pressing matter at the moment though, the automaton glanced over to the healthier looking of his neighbors whilst carefully presenting his glass, a thick unknown accent slightly twisting his words. "Excuse this one, but would you care to take it's beverage. It can't actually drink, but etiquette demands that it purchase something. You appear to be healthier than it's other neighbor, so it shouldn't be an issue health-wise." Glancing over to his right, the Imperial would again speak. "Sir, are you healthy? You appear to be unwell, are your prosthetics not integrating well? Are you malnourished? This one is trained in administering remedial care if there is an issue." Being that pale couldn't be a sign of good health, even the most sun-starved Imperial had a healthy tone to their epidermis.
The empty glass was lowered by the bar, next to its still filled brethren, another randomly picked from the tight cluster, arranged like a revolver's barrel, an a appropriate name for a six-shooter round. The vast bar was now surprisingly populated, particularly by newcomers, a strange feat since they usually went to the private booths. Interesting. Another snap of mechanical digits. Another spark followed by the blue flame of burning alcohol. He allowed it to burn for a while longer before blowing it out, picking the lime away and taking a single long sip...And halting mid swallow as the professor type to his left asks for the menu. The burning sensation of the beverage gets stuck on his throat, causing it to constrict, sending the fluid to his nostrils which just causes him to cough, loudly, spewing the beverage all over his arms and into the air in front of him, a few patrons having to actually move away from the alcoholic spray.
"Sorry, sorry..." He coughed, slamming the now empty glass on the table, nearly knocking all the others off and angrily biting into the lime, completing the drinking ritual out of spite before turning around and raising a hand for the barkeep, snapping his fingers repeatedly until a towel is provided "Thanks bud..." He mutters between the lime rind spitting it loosely towards the empty glass as he proceeds to clean the sticky, sugar-laced beverages from his body, least it get caught in the nooks and crannies of his arm. "Ok...did you just order the fucking menu?" He asked to the well-dressed man as both of his hands slam down upon the counter, the 6 shot-glasses jingling between the mechanical palms. He tilted his head to face the man, dark brown eyes taking stock of the figure before him, eyeing him up and down with a stern, incredulous eye. A Human. Upper class one from the looks of it...and absolutely not in the right environment. "...Avoid anything spicy or any unknown names. Odds are they are not human-friendly." He finally advised, shaking his head from side to side as he slowly pushed one glass way from the others, tapping it with his index finger to set it alight.
And then the unknown...Cyborg? Android? spoke, causing him to once more pause. What?... He blinked. Once. Twice. Head slowly turning to face the mechanical faceplate of the humanoid at his side, the rest of his body frozen in place as he simply took in the speech. Oh, fun he WAS serious. Amazing. Leaning forward he would put out his drink, only to grab it between two digits and hold it right before his face "I am perfectly well. Just came back from the shop and had a wonderful, full-body maintenance done. And, as the distinguished cybernetic user I am, I decided to supplement that with a fine dose of sugar, and vitamin C" He mentioned with a joking tone, swallowing the shot and biting into the caramelised lime, ripping the flesh from the rind and placing it in the now empty glass, sliding it next to the other two. "Why do you ask?" He humoured the robotic fellow, his voice carrying the tone so common across Daiban.
Post by Eliza Silvermantle on Jan 27, 2020 0:28:06 GMT
A slender brow perked upwards as Eliza surveyed those nearest to her, smiling faintly as she found the events unfolding to be mildly amusing. Overall, the bar was no more or less rowdy than it usually was, but the patrons at present seemed to be more unusual than average. At first, she'd turned her attention towards the blonde woman, barely more than a girl if she had to guess. She seemed to be laughably unfamiliar with drink names, yet, to the Witch's surprise, she barely reacted at all upon imbibing the concoction. Strange indeed, given that she was almost certainly human. Eliza made a note to speak with that one later as she poured a glass for herself, then took a lazy sip, enjoying the sweet flavor of the Yl'fin export. Her gaze meandered away from the blonde, however, falling next on the strange man beside her, though only briefly. He was clearly a bounty hunter, but for the moment, nothing yet jumped out at her beyond his species being one she was not at all familiar with. But was that a Machine Man? Wait, no..the construct was too obviously artificial. Some sort of AI of unknown make, she guessed. Another one to keep an eye one, and perhaps question, if their capacities were superior to Veska's.
Eliza sat where she was for a few moments longer, sipping on her alien rum, then gathered her glass and bottle, and moved over to sit beside the stranger she'd yet to place any distinguishing features to. "An interesting crowd tonight, wouldn't you agree?" she commented idly to the alien man, easily adopting a gentle lilt that those familiar with Terrans would identify as Irish, though the dialect shared similarities with Yl'fin Terran Standard, as well. "Call me Elsha," she added, smoothly providing an alias she could adopt for the night, and shed as easily has her present form. It would not do, after all, for Eliza Lockheed to be found in a place like this.
The Prosthetic user looked downright anemic and was largely lacking skin pigmentation, yet reported no issues. This was most confusing, and Seeker feared that he had made some sort of error somewhere. The aliens here in the spur were unusual, perhaps he used the wrong pronoun, or perhaps this wasn't human and the colouration was natural. "You appear to be unnaturally pale, something usually associated with anemia, malnutrition, insufficient UV exposure, genetic disorder, etc. among the humanoid races of the empire, you appear to be human, is this one correct? There was a lot of alcohol in front of the individual, and the Scout feared that the fellow's lower organic body-mass may adversely effect his ability to withstand it, all to often, gnomes would be hospitalized after trying to out-drink dwarves, and the same went for individuals with extensive prosthetics. If there wasn't anything wrong, Seeker would just have to hope that the individual doesn't simply drink themselves into unconsciousness or attempt to operate any machinery tonight.
She had just finished her first glass when the request came from the white haired young man seated down from her. A shrug as she signaled for another drink. "It's a free Federation. I'm just here to find work, so keep that in mind." Less awkward on receiving her drink this time. Even if it wasn't human culture persay, Samus had a lot to get used to here on just Daiban, let alone the larger Federation. "Judging from your attire, you look like more of an old hand around here."
There were a few notices that caught her eye. Most work was going to be bail jumpers, small time criminals who were running and weren't worth the resources of sending the actual police after. That was where the blunt system plugged holes and filled the gaps left. One might not think that fourteen billion officers in the Federation Police was an understaffing, but compared to a population of about twenty trillion over ten thousand light years, and the deficient became more obvious.
And then there was her, and her aims to make sure Dane' nomination of her to the Star Hunters was not wasted.
Her drink was downed so much smoother this time, and after setting the glass down, Samus used the scanning node aside the screen to officially log herself into the system and put herself in for a pair of open marks on what was listed as a set of lower level syndicate thugs who had fled custody and were wanted for testimonies. She could leave within the hour and make their last logged whereabouts in less than half an hour at full speed, barely even warming the flux drive. "So I'm admittedly a little green on the registry, but I've read it on the Big Shot archives that it never hurts to make business friends."
Emphasis on "business". She'd also heard how fast and loose some played it in the field with their partnerships and professionalism. As it was, she had no need of that for now. "So, hopefully, my sense of judgement isn't taking a day off. The name is Samus Aran."
At least on Daiban, no one knew who the hell she was...
The glass was lowered and placed next to the other three, a long exhalation following the swallowing of the lime, lips twisting into a soft grin as he feels the effects of the alcohol finally making themselves known, a sense of lethargy flooding across his skin, his eyes blinking slowly now. Ah...one of the fun side effects of the surgery. His body became easier to please, both in terms of nutrients and in terms of vices. He separated the empty glasses from the full ones, pulling the later ones closer to him and pushing the former away, allowing the barkeep to take them away as he straightened up in his seat.
He could hear the mechanical one talking, and slowly turned in his seat to face him. Digits would reach into his pocket and pull a sleek, black metallic cylinder. one end having a worn, gunmetal hue as he placed it upon his pale lips. From his other pocket came a steel flip lighter, featuring a carved, organic skull along it, the end flicking open with a practised motion, but instead of flame there was a spark of energy that flowed into the cylinder, the tip lighting up with a bright red. He closed the lighter and grasped the cigarette with two fingers, breathing in deeply, allowing the stimulants in the cartridge to flow freely into his lungs, warring in his bloodstream with the lethargic effects of the alcohol. His nostrils flare as he exhales, multi-hued smoke flowing from them, in shades of grey, purple, pink, green, red and blue, vivid and ever-changing, his eyes becoming dilated as they open.
"I am indeed human tin-man, something the folk here love to remind me off. As for the paleness...As I said I just came from the shop. Got myself a full submersion treatment, the gel and oil blend used having a bleaching side-effect when combined with the laserwork. I should be fine if I keep off the sun for the next few days. I operate mostly at night anyway. Name's Eligos. And You my friend, are obviously not from anywhere around there parts" He stated matter-of-factly, pulling the cigarette from his lips after another drag, elbow resting upon the bar, seemingly amused by the mechanical being...He seemed intelligent, dangerously so, yet containing the expected naivety of an early-service droid. There was some odd damage on the clothing, suggesting extreme environments....prototype perhaps?
"Is it?" The beat he left at the close of the question in response to "it's a free federation" indicated that he was probably joking or at least good at making whether he was ambiguous. "Fair enough, I'm not here to get laid either; just looking to find something to pass the time and make a bit extra. Get used to going from mercenary work to bounty hunting." He was being truthful about his reason to be here good thing too, he was bad at spinning lies from wholecloth. Loki hadn't quite blessed him in that regard to his misfortune. But as long as she didn't probe too deeply he figured he'd be fine. "I ran with a lot of Clan mercenaries and varangians. It runs in the blood so to speak. Solo work is new to me though. But whether I'm new to here though? I'm a first timer to this bar, I'm just handy at reading crowds." Also another quartet of technical truths.
He wasn't very fond of taking bail jumping work, it felt like beating down on the poor to him. So he ignored all the postings that listed marks who were seemed like they weren't able to make ends meet. And to be entirely fair to Arne's sense of morality; the fare for such work was a pittance. So he eliminated those postings based on his minimum fee.
Wealthy marks who could have been expected to pay high bail offered significantly more return on time investment even if they were rarer and were regarded as more challenging. Organised crime marks also tended to pay more; much riskier of course as criminals tended to get organised to maximise profit and minimise risk; such as having armed hunters gunning for them; but he had handled himself well under worse pressure than most gangs or mobsters could put out. So he figured he'd go after some and dip into the field of bounty hunting and see how much of his mercenary career he could apply. Though due to the requirements set by his ship he remembered to avoid jobs that required bringing large numbers of marks alive; he just didn't have room.
He ordered a fourth drink, which had a few eyebrows raised at his ability to down chocolate stouts without even blinking. While not quite Vodka, those weren't the sort of drinks to down like school milk cartons by any means. Something that seemed to register on him when he sensed unwanted interest. He made a mental note to slow down the rate he was drinking at for the future before he heard Samus' next statement.
"I'm not entirely familiar with how things are run in this country but I know the sellsoldier life. The Wild Hunt was a good teacher. Good enough to have told me much the same." That they were, even if the exact sort of gun for hire service was a world apart from what bounty hunters pursued. Theirs was the work of soldiery, not constabulary. The name Wild Hunt was more famous coreward where they had made a name for themselves over the course of fifty years and he doubted that they'd inspire the same sort of awe here that supercommando units like they and the Dead Hand did back home. Still, it was a complete truth he could give out safely.
"You thought rightly. I'm a man of the Clans and honour is part of my soul." He said, making the eagle symbol with his hands after letting go of his drink, ceasing the geasture and returning the hand to where it was to make sure nobody got any ideas about either his tablet or his chocolate. "Volsungr Sigurd." His grandfather's middle name and the lineage name of his father. Easy enough for him to remember to answer to.
However he had indeed noticed the Magenta haired woman sitting to his other side and spared her a glance. "And hello to you as well, Elsha.. I see you took up my old seat." He said, trying to focus his limited empathic abilities on her to get a basic read of her mood and intent. He couldn't properly mind read the way a proper Alimbic could, but this tended to allow him to quickly categorise people into threats and non-threats and give him a bit of extra time to react based on what he thought they were intending to do. Cold reading with more precise instruments essentially.
He was pale to be sure, certainly appealing to those who preferred their men to be of a more boyish, lean cut. Based on his appearance he was definitely in Samus' age group, and whether he was even twenty was dubious at best. But if one were psychically sensitive they might notice the young man had more to him than meets the eye. Human he was; and certainly he'd resent the idea that what he'd been through made him anything but; but there was likely a little more than just the genetic abnormalities that gave him his silver-white hair and red-orange eyes to him beneath the skin.