A man not far past 41 clothed in a old faded flight jacket and jumpsuit walked into the bar. Darius had managed to land his Surveyor in a nice quite landing bay somewhere off the beaten track of the main Manhattan skyline, walked down a adjacent alley and found his way to the bar. Looking around he noticed the bar was only small. Booths clung to the walls, various patrons sitting in them either chatting or passed out. Bathrooms were nearer to the back. Managing to find a booth nearer to the back of the bar at the side wall he took out a cigarette lit it and sat back.
It felt odd to be back on terra firma, too long in space he suspected. Whenever he was away for the Prospect he always felt like this. Now sadly it was permanent for the foreseeable future, with the mining vessel docked at Allentown for repairs. Ever since the Outcast raid the Prospect had been gutted, some of his best crew killed. The old DU5-7Y was tough but not that tough. Now back in Liberty, (years since he was here last) he was back to helium extraction in Pennsylvania (something that he did not particularly relish) except instead of the BMM it was the DSE stealing his hauls. He missed flying through the gold fields of Dublin, the feel of the solar winds on his back and always looking over his shoulder for Molly's or the odd Corsair. The Mollys were no threat, it just gave the gunnery crews some target practice.The Corsairs on the otherhand they mean't business.
Looking round the bar he took note of the various patrons it housed. Up near the front was a bald headed pilot with a headset hanging precariously around his neck with his mouth going at a hundred miles a minute. He was engaged in rapid conversation with the barman over the counter. He had the look of a small-time trader eager in youth ready to make his fortune out in the stars, stars that only contained greed-driven corporations and equally greedy and desperate pirates. Opposite him was an elderly man, wearing a long black vest with slacks and shoes. Obviously Intelligence, Darius often tried to avoid their types not trusting their next move. A women sitting with the old man in the booth, was engaged in drunken conversation with him looking slightly off-put by his presence. She had the look of a Corsair yet with the uniform of a USI which slightly surprised Darius. With the Corsairs it was often a relationship of mutual necessity, they wanted the credits and you wanted you life and haul. It was like the economy everything had its place. Lounging back in his chair he mused trying to the remember, a thought tickling the back of his sub-conscious. Benitez yes that was the name he had encountered before in Dublin. They would take a share of the spoils and you would be aloud to keep your haul.
He raised his hand signaling to the barman at the counter "Barkeep get me you strongest cheapest drink something that at least resembles whiskey". He sunk deeper into his chair.[/color]None of these crap establishments every had any good quality drink. He looked at the elderly man again who was now fingering one of the bars fine examples of drink. Looking at him dredged up something he wished had kept suppressed. What did they call them, he flicked through the names as though going through a list that represented his journeying through Sirius and space. Bluies, Squid, Uglies, Nomads........... Xeno.
That last thought caused Darius to give out a small involuntary shudder. He ran his fingers across the shoulder-pad covering a worn and faded out patch. Tracing the letters he inscribed into the jacket the letters: A-N-S C-a-l-i-s-t-o. He pushed those back into his subconscious, that was another past life he would rather forget. Agitated now and noticing a Bounty Hunter who had stumbled into the bar proclaiming loudly at the top of his voice"Ah! Good old 'Hattan!" he walked up to the counter to try and get his most sought after drink.
