A rather young man - the existence of his beard could be a topic of tumultuous academic debate - strode in and quickly took a seat at the bar. He peered haughtily down his nose at a bowl filled with sad looking lemon slices, then ordered a beer. Apparently the more frequent guests had some habits that called for large quantities of lemon juice. Unsurprisingly most lemon consumers also sported long sleeves and glassy eyes, telltale signs that shady types would frequent the place.
And shady types were what he was looking for. He didn't have much experience in such matters though, as Andrew Wheatfield had always been an exemplary student. Not anymore. He needed a ship, be it an old run-down-duct-tape-demanding rustbucket, or a coffin with an air leak. And for the ship he needed money. Sure, he could try to steal one, but considering his talents that wouldn't end well. He could try to sell his father's shuttle faking it being stolen, but he didn't need a ship that bad. Yet.
So he sat there, waiting for an opportunity to get a loan, or a bargain, or something.
"What the hell am I doing?" he said under his breath, before taking another sip at the beer.
