Rochester Inn

[Mr.Fabulous]

There hasn't been any activity in the last 17 days from the patrons... the inn became quiet... its drink bar empty... its tables and chairs all kept tucked in for the "neatness" of it. The bartender was happily wiping away at a shotglass, now becoming used to the pin-drop serenity...

The Junkers who took care of it were starting to enjoy the peace and quiet the emptiness brought...

"Serves them right..."





But their peace didn't last long, however...





In came this man who looked like he was reaching his 70's... He had snow-white hair, a full, long beard, wrinkles that lined parts of his face, but eyes that shone with the fire and brightness of a 16-year-old. He was somewhere around 2 meters tall, had a chiseled, rock-solid build, and his left arm was replaced with a thick, robotic construct that apparently didn't support any direct weapon systems, but seemed capable enough to pierce open ship hull panels with one finger. He wore a smile so devilish it's as if he used it in torturing someone until he killed him, then continued playing with the corpse anyway.

He had 6 multiple, painful-looking scars running all over his face alone: he had one horizontal scar that ran over his whole forehead like a blaster bolt narrowly missed its mark by a millimeter; another two intersected both eyes like a large, two-pronged knife had almost carved his eyes out; a laceration wound blotched his right cheek like an open crater; and two, parallel, horizontal cuts ran across his other cheek, like some massive claw from long ago had almost been successful in cleaving off his face.

His clothes were so rugged, shot-ridden, explosion-torn and dirt-covered it's a wonder they didn't fall apart yet, looking as if the devil himself used it for his frat party and didn't have the mood in him to return it without even a decent wash: he wore a brown, hole-lined, ankle-low, long-sleeved, heavily-patched trench-coat that had many, many pockets and zippers that contained various, mysterious objects in them; underneath it was a thick, black vest that looked like it went through 5 80-year-wars, and then some; his desert-camo cargo pants wasn't spared from the wear and tear, and it looked so patched up as well; his combat boots didn't fare well either, which almost seemed to fall apart any second...





As the old veteran walked into the inn no eye spared its glance from him. All of the Junkers have heard stories about this man: he didn't want to escape the many prisons he went into because they offered too much "fun" for him; an outcast family had put a hefty price on his head, but no bounty hunter has ever managed to even come close to touching him yet; he would attack a Bretonian Battleship in a Rhino just for the sake of the thrill the unbalanced challenge gave; this old veteran wasn't just another run-of-the-mill guy who seeks thrill and excitement in the form of death-defying acts...





The old man soon landed on a chair on the bar aisle directily in front of the bartender, who raised his eyebrow at the sudden comeback of the veteran...

[color=#99FF99]"We don't want any trouble here, or you're so-called 'fun', Katarn..."

The old veteran looked up to the bartener with a piercing gaze that looked like they indirectly issued a challenge, "... Oh? That so, Winston? ... Hahahaaaah..."

He flicked up his PDA onto the table, swaped a card onto its side, and the card suddenly lit up with the words of '500 SC' on them, "Here, then... Just give me 10 orders o' Black Grog. I'm sure these alone don't cause any trouble, see? HAHAHAHAHA!!!"

The bartender swiped the credit card from the old veteran's hand in a quick and decisive motion, then turned to get the orders with a low grumble in his voice.

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