Floodwaters
Inactive Member
Dawn Station - Sector Four - Klimmeck's Hole - Late Afternoon/Early Evening
The working day had not quite ended long enough ago for the bar huddled at the ground floor of one of the monolithic buildings lining the streets of Dawn's industrial Sector Four, but while the mom-and-pop repair shops, laundromats, and convenience stores were dwindling down towards closing time, it was evident that Klimmeck's Hole was preparing for the imminent influx of dead-eyed drones shuffling in from the grind of the day's work, ready to empty their pockets of their hard-earned cash in exchange for mind-numbing poisons and a few hours of blissful, ignorant joy before the cycle would have to repeat for many of them. There was no visible smoke near the door, but as anyone approached the entrance the rich, pungent odor of tobacco was unmistakable, permanently staining everything it touched night after night over time so that practically everything inside radiated the smell. ORISEC turned a blind eye to the use of the substance, even though it was illegal in Yamataian space, so long as the patrons minded their manners and the bar did a fair job of keeping the shenannigans within from spilling out beyond its doors.
The lighting inside was still relatively bright, thanks to the light coming in from the street and the fact that most of the barely-functional fixtures were at full power, as bartenders and cocktail servers buzzed about making last minute preparations for the evening rush, wiping down tables, checking ashtrays and condiment racks, and lining up glasses along the shelves that sat in the middle of the enormous, pockmarked and scuffed dark wooden U-shaped bar that dominated the meagerly sized establishment, adorned with polished brass taps and backlit liquor bottles. Scattered around the rest of the serving floor was a plethora of tables of all shapes, sizes, and seating heights, all surrounded by dingy faux-wood chairs and stools. Vidscreens hung from the ceiling in an unrecognizable pattern, but none of them had been turned on yet.
Three early-bird patrons had found their way in already, one of which was seated against the wall to the left of the front entrance, and the other two were hunched over seats on opposite sides of the big central bar, facing one another, but unable to see each other over the pyramid of bottles and glasses perched atop the central counter. None of the men were talking to one another, and only one of them appeared to even acknowledge the presence of the bartender or any of the serving staff. That one was talking quietly with the woman standing next to the taps, a dark-skinned Nepleslian who dressed as if she were fifteen years younger, sporting a bright orange halter top and tight, shiny black pants. She was listening politely to the man's story, by all appearances using the conversation as a diversion from the lack of having anything better to do at the moment, but the bright smile on her face did a fair job of making it look like she was at least pretending to be genuinely interested. The man's head was shaved down to the scalp, his shoulders covered by a faded canvas jacket and his legs by torn and faded blue jeans. Most striking, however, was the bandage wrapped around his head, and tiny little splint across the bridge of his nose. When he turned his head, the light revealed a black and blue bruise around his left eye as well.
The working day had not quite ended long enough ago for the bar huddled at the ground floor of one of the monolithic buildings lining the streets of Dawn's industrial Sector Four, but while the mom-and-pop repair shops, laundromats, and convenience stores were dwindling down towards closing time, it was evident that Klimmeck's Hole was preparing for the imminent influx of dead-eyed drones shuffling in from the grind of the day's work, ready to empty their pockets of their hard-earned cash in exchange for mind-numbing poisons and a few hours of blissful, ignorant joy before the cycle would have to repeat for many of them. There was no visible smoke near the door, but as anyone approached the entrance the rich, pungent odor of tobacco was unmistakable, permanently staining everything it touched night after night over time so that practically everything inside radiated the smell. ORISEC turned a blind eye to the use of the substance, even though it was illegal in Yamataian space, so long as the patrons minded their manners and the bar did a fair job of keeping the shenannigans within from spilling out beyond its doors.
The lighting inside was still relatively bright, thanks to the light coming in from the street and the fact that most of the barely-functional fixtures were at full power, as bartenders and cocktail servers buzzed about making last minute preparations for the evening rush, wiping down tables, checking ashtrays and condiment racks, and lining up glasses along the shelves that sat in the middle of the enormous, pockmarked and scuffed dark wooden U-shaped bar that dominated the meagerly sized establishment, adorned with polished brass taps and backlit liquor bottles. Scattered around the rest of the serving floor was a plethora of tables of all shapes, sizes, and seating heights, all surrounded by dingy faux-wood chairs and stools. Vidscreens hung from the ceiling in an unrecognizable pattern, but none of them had been turned on yet.
Three early-bird patrons had found their way in already, one of which was seated against the wall to the left of the front entrance, and the other two were hunched over seats on opposite sides of the big central bar, facing one another, but unable to see each other over the pyramid of bottles and glasses perched atop the central counter. None of the men were talking to one another, and only one of them appeared to even acknowledge the presence of the bartender or any of the serving staff. That one was talking quietly with the woman standing next to the taps, a dark-skinned Nepleslian who dressed as if she were fifteen years younger, sporting a bright orange halter top and tight, shiny black pants. She was listening politely to the man's story, by all appearances using the conversation as a diversion from the lack of having anything better to do at the moment, but the bright smile on her face did a fair job of making it look like she was at least pretending to be genuinely interested. The man's head was shaved down to the scalp, his shoulders covered by a faded canvas jacket and his legs by torn and faded blue jeans. Most striking, however, was the bandage wrapped around his head, and tiny little splint across the bridge of his nose. When he turned his head, the light revealed a black and blue bruise around his left eye as well.
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