Kessler hunches over in resignation at the loss of his pills, bracing himself against the bar as he queasily reaches for his beverage and flashes a grimace toward the bartender. "More drinks...always good," he murmurs in between sips, desperately hoping it will interact with the meds. "Sure would like to hear that story - sounds like quite a tale. I mean, if you don't mind. Could skip the bitter memories part. Already got a tab here and no assignments scheduled for a while, so whatever it takes, right?"
He repeats his words back mentally, worried about coming off as insensitive. Truthfully, the biggest tragedy he'd experienced was nearly forty years ago, when the racing ship he'd saved years for was impounded and never seen again. Despite the countless stories and holotainment sims he'd been through, Kessler considered himself to be one of the least adventurous pilots out there, doing the regular grind to make a living, maybe retiring in a small pod condo on Curacao - and that seemed to suit him just fine. Kurumi, however...
Avenging deaths? Charm and brute force to get "anything and everything"? The heck have you gotten yourself into?
The audible crinkling of his ridiculously overstarched coveralls fills the bar as Kessler straightens up in his seat and shrugs, "And, um, don't worry about me. In a place like this, I'd feel better if you were armed." He slides his drink off the counter and rests it awkwardly in his lap, oblivious to the growing damp spot from the condensation as he smiles sheepishly, "Yep, a story sounds like it'd be just the thing for the nerves."
