The dim light of the bar normally conceals the sordid business that takes place here. Hiding its patrons and their questionable business contracts in the shadows. Their voices are drowned out by the dull hum of the stations systems, and private dampening fields, converting into a stream of soft whispers. A thick layer of dust has settled on every surface. A grizzled man stands behind the bar, his stoic face reveals nothing of the secrets or information gathered from the whispers around him. This is obviously a Junker's establishment. Just the place I am looking for.
The dust on the floor is only slightly disturbed as the edges of my faded black duster glide along the floor. My black cowboy boots make only a small muffled thud as I approach the bar. Before I sit on one of the worn and dilapidated stools, I take a moment to look around. The few faces that can be seen in the murky air show no signs of recognition. These new Junkers have no idea who I am. This is fortunate. It means that no rumors of my whereabouts have sprung up. There are some who won't be pleased with my sudden reappearance.
The bartender looks at me with calculating eyes. No doubt he has noticed the large silver buckle on my belt. It's really the only item that stands out on my all black garb. Although the engraving has faded, the faint traces of the Congress symbol .:j:. are still etched into the rounded silver buckle. A broad toothy grin spreads across his face as he asks “what'll it be friend?” This is exactly the attention I sought to avoid. Perhaps I should of made an appearance in a different bar. This is, however, the establishment an old friend used to frequent.
I pull my black, bent, and beaten cowboy hat a little lower. No use in keeping my face covered with my black bandana. I know when I've been made. The 'toothy grin' is wiped from the bartenders face as the cloth is pulled from mine. Now I know for sure I have been recognized. “There's a fair amount of people that want you dead.” he states as the shock wears off. My voice is scratchy and guttural from years of almost no use, but I still manage to ask “Any of them folks here?” His eyes quickly scan the room, darting from one corner to the other. “Not that I can see, but your Congress boys will be looking for you and not all of them will be welcoming.” he states.
This is where it gets tricky. Not knowing who to trust is a dangerous thing. I need to be cunning since I've already lost any hope of remaining hidden. There's only one man I know I can trust. Getting him here might be a little difficult. “Hows bout a shot of that top shelf whiskey?” I ask while planning out my next move. As the bartender pours my drink the simplest of solutions hits me. I level an even stare at the bartender. He stands behind the dingy bar, bottle of whiskey in hand, waiting for me to take my shot. I don't, I just wait, and stare.
The bartender starts to get nervous. There is a slight tremble to his lips. Beads of sweat form on his dirty brow. Now's my chance. I break eye contact and throw my head back letting lose a loud crackling laugh. As the echoes of my laugh fade I focus on the bartender again. “The shots for you. Can't imagine what passes for a Junker these days tips well enough for a taste of the top shelf.” I state with a quick wink. He makes a nervous half laugh, and downs the shot as I slap a handful of Sirius Credits on the bar. “There's more where that come from. Now git on them comms an holler at JT. I ain't seen em in a long time. My guess is he'll be wantin to visit with an old friend. Oh, and leave the bottle, I've gone and worked up a thirst.”
