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Description
The bar was decorated in what could only be described as early hodge podge. Assorted model aircraft hung from the ceiling. Sopwith Camels fought it out with miniature versions of Mk.VII Psi Fighters. In a dark corner, a Fokker Dr. I, pursued by a P-51 plunged to the dusty floor, disappearing and reanimating in holographic afterlife, eternally sending Richthofen to his fiery death

The light streaming in from the lone window at the front appeared to be that odd time between morning and noon. Thick dust motes swarmed in the air giving the yellow beams of light a filthy appearance. The bartender kept himself busy polishing the glassware

The archaic batwing doors opened slowly and a large figure entered. He was clad in a trail worn, black leather duster and slouch hat. He wore a Smith & Wesson .500 strapped to his right thigh and a pneumatic needle gun on his left. He surveyed the room and made his way to the bar with a noticeable limp.

"Afternoon. What can I get for you?" The bartender placed a glass on the battered bar top in front of the man. His left arm whined as if there were sand in it's actuators. The carbon fibre framework of the arm was visible where it had begun to rub through the simskin.

The man said nothing. He pointed at the row of bottles behind the bar. An unlabeled bottle of amber fluid was placed before him. The bartender caught himself before he made a quip about being the strong silent type. He noticed a scar on the side of the mans neck. It looked as if the flesh had been melted away. It had the dull yet shiny sheen of wax. The scar itself was straight. Too straight. As if it weren't from an accident or combat but deliberately inflicted. He thought it best to ignore it.

"Cold out there," he said, though the open doors and bright sunlight indicated the opposite. "Names Bill. Haven't seen you in here before."

"Haven't been here before." The voice was synthetic. It sounded as if it had come from a well after it had been placed in a bucket of gravel and shaken. It had a second hand quality. It fit the man and nearly caused Bill to soil himself. Bill left the bottle and began to enthusiastically clean the glasses at the farthest end of the bar.

A woman walked past the window. The sky behind her was black and speckled with stars as it always seemed to be. The door irised open for her. She was clad in formfitting chameleoskin armour. Had the bar been full of men, the heads of each would have turned. Not because of her obvious feminine attributes, but rather for the PP 3070 submachine glove she wore on her right hand and her Amazon proportions. She had to bow her helmeted head to keep from striking the ceiling. Even so, she still managed to disrupt a dogfight between a P38 Lightning and Bovian Star Stryker.

She sat down a few stools from the black cloaked man. She slammed her weaponed hand on the bar. "Beer," she ordered in German accented English. Bill produced the foaming mug almost before the word escaped her lips. The stainless steel of his skeletal left arm reflected dull light.

She gave a sidelong glance to the brooding figure down the bar. "Langlebigkeit," she said, raising her mug.

"Жить хорошо," he said, returning the salute. He gave her a grim smile.

"So, this is it," she asked him, switching to Solar Standard.

"Apparently," he replied in English.

The sky outside the window was a clear blue. A few wispy clouds were just visible. The iron bell rang as the roughly hewn wooden door squeaked opened on rusty hinges. A short, solidly built man entered. He wore patched but clean homespun. A large bowie knife hung from his belt alongside a Navy Colt revolver.

"This the place?"

"Yes Sir. Finest establishment around." Bill said, "What'll you have?"

"Whiskey. Jack Daniels."

"Only one brand, Sir."

"Whiskey then."

Bill served the drink. His wooden arm hung useless at his side. "Have a seat," he gestured at the bar with his good arm, "you're about to get started."

"Cheers," he said raising his shot.

"Prost," said the woman.

"Cheers to you."

They downed their drinks.

"Funny," the man in black mused, "I always thought it would be bigger."

Description
The bar was decorated in what could only be described as early hodge podge. Assorted model aircraft hung from the ceiling. Sopwith Camels fought it out with miniature versions of Mk.VII Psi Fighters. In a dark corner, a Fokker Dr. I, pursued by a P-51 plunged to the dusty floor, disappearing and reanimating in holographic afterlife, eternally sending Richthofen to his fiery death

The light streaming in from the lone window at the front appeared to be that odd time between morning and noon. Thick dust motes swarmed in the air giving the yellow beams of light a filthy appearance. The bartender kept himself busy polishing the glassware

The archaic batwing doors opened slowly and a large figure entered. He was clad in a trail worn, black leather duster and slouch hat. He wore a Smith & Wesson .500 strapped to his right thigh and a pneumatic needle gun on his left. He surveyed the room and made his way to the bar with a noticeable limp.

"Afternoon. What can I get for you?" The bartender placed a glass on the battered bar top in front of the man. His left arm whined as if there were sand in it's actuators. The carbon fibre framework of the arm was visible where it had begun to rub through the simskin.

The man said nothing. He pointed at the row of bottles behind the bar. An unlabeled bottle of amber fluid was placed before him. The bartender caught himself before he made a quip about being the strong silent type. He noticed a scar on the side of the mans neck. It looked as if the flesh had been melted away. It had the dull yet shiny sheen of wax. The scar itself was straight. Too straight. As if it weren't from an accident or combat but deliberately inflicted. He thought it best to ignore it.

"Cold out there," he said, though the open doors and bright sunlight indicated the opposite. "Names Bill. Haven't seen you in here before."

"Haven't been here before." The voice was synthetic. It sounded as if it had come from a well after it had been placed in a bucket of gravel and shaken. It had a second hand quality. It fit the man and nearly caused Bill to soil himself. Bill left the bottle and began to enthusiastically clean the glasses at the farthest end of the bar.

A woman walked past the window. The sky behind her was black and speckled with stars as it always seemed to be. The door irised open for her. She was clad in formfitting chameleoskin armour. Had the bar been full of men, the heads of each would have turned. Not because of her obvious feminine attributes, but rather for the PP 3070 submachine glove she wore on her right hand and her Amazon proportions. She had to bow her helmeted head to keep from striking the ceiling. Even so, she still managed to disrupt a dogfight between a P38 Lightning and Bovian Star Stryker.

She sat down a few stools from the black cloaked man. She slammed her weaponed hand on the bar. "Beer," she ordered in German accented English. Bill produced the foaming mug almost before the word escaped her lips. The stainless steel of his skeletal left arm reflected dull light.

She gave a sidelong glance to the brooding figure down the bar. "Langlebigkeit," she said, raising her mug.

"Жить хорошо," he said, returning the salute. He gave her a grim smile.

"So, this is it," she asked him, switching to Solar Standard.

"Apparently," he replied in English.

The sky outside the window was a clear blue. A few wispy clouds were just visible. The iron bell rang as the roughly hewn wooden door squeaked opened on rusty hinges. A short, solidly built man entered. He wore patched but clean homespun. A large bowie knife hung from his belt alongside a Navy Colt revolver.

"This the place?"

"Yes Sir. Finest establishment around." Bill said, "What'll you have?"

"Whiskey. Jack Daniels."

"Only one brand, Sir."

"Whiskey then."

Bill served the drink. His wooden arm hung useless at his side. "Have a seat," he gestured at the bar with his good arm, "you're about to get started."

"Cheers," he said raising his shot.

"Prost," said the woman.

"Cheers to you."

They downed their drinks.

"Funny," the man in black mused, "I always thought it would be bigger."