Why Did I Come Here? (RP Log)

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Roleplay Log
Characters:
Location:
27 Mar 2014
Morn's Place [Deep Space 9]
By far, the largest section of the Promenade, Morn's Place is known far and wide throughout the Alpha Quadrant as /the/ place to have a drink and relax. One can either take a seat and have a drink or a meal, or take their chances at the Dabo table. Otherwise, with a little latinum and a lot of imagination, one can venture to the second level and utilize the station's only set of holosuites (booked by the hour).
There is a staircase which leads to the upper level of the bar, while the exit on the lower level leads back out to the Promenade.


Morn's is in full swing with people at the bar, people at the tables scattered around the place, and (much to Morn's muted delight) losers at the Dabo tables. A man sits at the end of the bar, his coat swept to the side of reveal an empty holster more out of habit than an actual desire to show off his killer legs. He is drinking what looks to be a plain ol' beer, his eyes glaring across to the back of the bar out of no particular malice. A Vulcan, wearing the blue uniform of the Starfleet science or medical division and lieutenant's insignia enters the bar. Taking a tea from a server, he proceeds to the upper level.

Senka leaves for Morn's Place - Upper Level.
The door leading to Promenade slides open.
Stelam leaves for Promenade - Section A.
Niian arrives from Promenade - Section A.
The door leading to Promenade slides closed.

A rather tired looking Inara almost runs up to the bar, looking like a chromatic flash in passing. "Give me something strong, my dear." She says to Morn, "Something to drown out the world." She says in an almost sing song voice, sitting herself down at the bar.

A Cardassian dressed in well-tailored clothing enters the bar. Taking a Romulan ale from a server, he finds a table near the middle of the room that lets him see just about everything going on, including the exit, and settles down. He begins to scan the room while appearing for all intents and purposes to be reading a pad in his left hand.

Reijat stalks over to the bar, duffel slung over her shoulder, a handful of credits in her hands. "You'd better have a decent kanar in this place," she says to the bartender, dropping the bag with a thump to the floor. Shoulders drawn and tense, silken black hair thrown back, it looks as if she could use an entire bottle.

Hunt looks up from his beer, glancing towards the woman who just let a bag hit the floor. He blinks once, taking a sip of his beer before he calls out, "This is a Bajoran-owned starbase modelled after a Cardassian starbase." He turns back to the bar, but glances over his shoulder to call out again, "Of course the kanar is shit." He returns to his beer, taking in a long gulp.

Inara is passed an ominous looking pitch black liquid in a clear glass. She takes a sip from it and frowns, taking another. She looks to her side and gives the cardassian woman a quick smile, pushing her chromatic hair out of her face.

"Now that," a voice says from behind Reijat, "is a tall order, even for this bar." The cardassian has stood up having heard her demand. Crossing to the bar with silent grace, he positions himself about a meter to her left. "They're going to try to give you replicated. The closest thing they have to decent is a single bottle of 2417. Personally, I think 2362 was the best year for kanar, but that, my dear, is just my opinion." His voice is soft and polite, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he studies her intently while actually appearing to study the bottles ranked like soldiers on the backbar.

Reijat narrows blue eyes at the human. "Thank you so much for the architecture lesson," she says crisply. The bartender comes up with a bottle full of the thick, brown liquid, and the look Anil gives him would turn anyone to stone. "Are you kidding me? You couldn't pay me enough to drink that." She turns, slowly, and her gaze considers the other Cardassian. Doesn't consider very much of him. "Well. Aren't you a kanar conessieur in an overpriced suit," she says, dropping a credit down on the bar. "Glass of the 2417." Her brow ridges furrow, the Bajoran ridges evident at such a close distance. "What, never seen a little quarter-breed before? You must be sheltered." The frostiness of her voice would put any drink in the bar to shame.

The Bajoran smiles brightly at the Cardassian woman. "Oh, Prophets, of course I have. I didn't mean to stare, my bad. Inara, by the way. She says, taking a shot of her 'drink'.

Hunt snorts silently to himself, looking back over his shoulder. He looks back to the bartender, calling out, "Another beer please?" He takes what's left of the beer he has now, turning on the barstool to put his back to the bar and look towards Reijat, "You're welcome. You seemed like you needed it." He shrugs, "Walk into a bar with a bag over your shoulder, asking for kanar. Considering the kind of place this is, I reckon you were lookin' to get pissed off more than piss drunk." He blinks once, watching Reijat carefully.

If he is disconcerted by the Cardassian-Bajoran-looking woman's manner, Vrillak certainly doesn't show it. "I suppose that depends on whether you'd call what I'm wearing a suit or what you'd say is its fair price, my dear. As for conessieurship, that too is a matter of opinion. I prefer to think of it as knowing what's available versus what I like." The smile remains right where it is.

Reijat rolls her eyes. "Just like home," she says as Inara mentions the Prophets. "I didn't mean you," she says to the Bajoran. "I meant him," she says, with a dismissive nod to Vrillak. "And if you want to help me, you can tell me where I can find a medic who will remove my Captain's head out of his ass. Former captain, whatever." She finally gets the glass of kanar and takes a sip. Oh piss, this is horrible, and her face shows it. "He'll tell you I don't need kanar to improve my mood." She takes another sip. "Depends. If that's real fabric and not replicated, maybe a warp injector. Three crates of power cells, charged. 20 pipes of tulaberry wine," she rattles off.

Seeming amused in an understated way, Vrillak points to her glass, "2362. Or at least something older than that, clearly. And the fabric is quite real. Though I don't barter," he adds in a deadpan tone of voice about the equipment list. "Credits only." He sips his ale, his half smile not faltering, clearly waiting for whatever comes next.

Senka arrives from Morn's Place - Upper Level.
Senka leaves for Holosuite Corridor.

Hunt glances towards Reijat, pointing towards his beer, "2425." He pauses, the grunts, "Maybe 2524. It's a little skunked." He then looks towards Vrillak, narrowing his eyes. He seems to be considering the man's suit more than the Cardassian himself. He looks towards Keijat, "That's a fair assessment. I've got two questions for you." He takes another gulp of his beer and asks, "Can you put such an exact price in bartered goods on anything, and what crawled betwixt your love bumpers and died?"

Niian smirks slightly at her. "I do hope that isn't a bad thing, Madame. She says, looking between the cardassian and her drink.

Senka arrives from Holosuite Corridor.

"Pity. It's a good thing I'm not buying," Reijat says, withering. As if the rough repair work on her blazer doesn't give a hint at her budget. Her blue eyes turn to Hunt, and for the first time, look at him like he isn't a vole that crawled out of a vent. "I know what things are worth. And what they're not. And what people are wiling to pay to get what they want or need." She stops, cold, at Hunt's question, and that glass of kanar stays in her hand a long time. Then a brittle smile comes to her lips. "Hope. And it was a long and painful death," she says, tossing back the kanar. She drops the glass a little harder than she needs to. "I would rather have a root beer than have another glass of that."

Signaling to a server on his offside, Vrillak says something too low to be easily overheard. Whatever he said, it results in a glass of fizzing root beer ending up in front of his neighbor. He says nothing about it or the death of hope, merely taking in the scene with an expression of mild curiosity.

The Vulcan officer reenters the bar, taking a table rather than a barstool. He pulls a book from his duffel, an old volume by the look, and takes up his place in his reading. When a server approaches, he orders a Vulcan spiced tea.

Hunt almost marosely watches her toss back the drink and slap the glass down hard on the bar. He looks back towards Riejat and hmms, taking another gulp of his beer, "I'm sure whatever it was died happy." He glances over as the root beer arrives, "Right. You should probably sit down." He turns towards the bar, taking the root beer glass and sliding it back and forth to check its traction. When he has determined that the glass lacks significant stick to the bar, he slides it right down towards the other end and right off the ledge. Without comment, he calls out, "Get this woman a root beer, please?" He looks towards Reijar, "Well, if you're making up prices of goods in trade, at least you've got attitude. That ain't nothin'." He then adds, "You should sit down."

Niian thinks for a moment and mumbles under her breath as she turns to face the bar. "I'm not sure that was meant literally..." She shrugs and looks up at the barman, waiting to be served.

The first glass of root beer arrives, bubbling and sickly sweet. Anil's eye ridges go up and she nods with grudging thanks to Vrillak. Her ridges stay up as Hunt talks about hope dying happy. "Glad something in me was less than miserable," she says to Hunt, her sarcasm dripping more thickly than the remnants of the kanar. And then Hunt takes her glass. "I was thinking about ignoring that," she says, right before the glass slides past her and onto the floor. "And now I can't ignore it. Thank you so much, Mr..." She waves her hand to get Hunt's name out. Oh yes, attitude she has, and then some.

Niian shakes her head and sighs. She takes a short sip of her drink and puts it down, the glass clinking against the bar surface as she puts it down a bit forcibally.

"Sir!" One of the assistant bartenders comes over to Hunt looking indignant. "I'm afraid we can't allow that. That glass you shattered was one of our non-replicated stock. you're going to have to pay for it, I'm afraid." For his part, Vrillak is far too experienced an operater to let what he's thinking show on his face. He watches his token gift to the woman seized and destroyed, and he watches her reaction to it. Standing, he leaves a small tip on the bar for his own drink and turns towards the door, having apparently had enough unpleasant atmosphere. "It's been charming," he tells Reijat pleasantly. "I have the clothier's shop across the way if you need anything. And welcome to the station." His polite smile and cultured tone never falter in the least.

Senka raises an eyebrow as the glass explodes near him. He gives the human a coldly impassive look before turning back to the mess, where he finds someone already cleaning it.

Hunt turns on the barstool to face her, "Of course you are. I'd be downright fulfilled if anything died happy in me." He shrugs, adding with sarcasm to equal Reijat's own, "But then, that's not surprising. I'm a giver." He reaches up to tap his chest, right over where his heart would be, "Right here." He then raises his eyebrows, correcting, "Captain." He swallows more of his beer and continues, "Captain Michael Hunt. I didn't go to Evil Starship Captain school to be Mister anything, thanks." He looks towards the server and nods his head, "I reckoned as much. You can't do a bar slide with a replicated glass. Too stick." He looks towards Reijat again and shrugs, "Then again, it doesn't look like I can do a bar slide anyway." He looks back to the bar assistant, nodding his head, "Seems fair, sir. Just put it on my bill, and I'll pay up in due time."

"Cardassian trappings controlled by the oh so charming DRB? I'm not planning on staying long, but thanks for the welcome," Reijat says to Vrillak as he leaves. She looks at Hunt - Captain Hunt - with an appraising look, like she was valuing that bit of information. "Captain Hunt. Hope you fly better than you slide glasses," she says. "What kind of outfit do you run?" She's brusque, that's for certain, especially for a Cardassian, but she's found being direct works. Or doesn't work, but at least she saves herself a lot of effort.

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