The door to the bar swung open, bashing loudly against a wall. Grem stepped in with a stretch and a smile. She gave the door hinges a passing glance, glad that they held this time. The familiar sights and sounds, and even smells, of her regular hangout came flooding into her senses. A wonderful change of pace from blood and soot. Not that the bar didn't have its touches of that. She adjusted her cloak and swept back her short, pink hair with her oversized gauntlets.
Stepping by all the weary and dreary souls, Grem made her way to the bar proper and climbed her way up onto a stool. The chilly air made goosebumps erupt across her grayish skin. She leaned onto the bar table and smiled at the bartender.
"Racking up a tab today?" he asked.
An Ork. Roger. Nice fellow, despite what others might have thought. Or maybe Grem only thought that because of the leniency. He didn't really acknowledge her presence with a glance, just idly wiping away at a cup. The same cup. Over and over.
"Me? No. Mr. Johnson's paying for this one," Grem said. She tapped on the bar. "Anything. Anything at all! I'll drink it all! Just not Goldschläger, alright?"
"Not sure your Mr. Johnson can afford that anyways. Assuming he didn't take all the cash in the job."
"Oh, right, the job." Grem snickered.
Roger sighed and shook his head.
"Search and retrieve. Know what that means, right? Smashing through doors, breaking Rigger toys, and most importantly, busting heads."
"We can skip the theatrics. I'll knock a drink off the tab if you spare me the details. Fair trade?" he asked.
"Serve me up, then, I'm dry."
Out came the first glass. Seemed like Roger grabbed any old thing off the shelf and tossed a couple of ice cubes in. Whiskey.
"Not a bad start," she said, holding up the glass. "Gonna be a long night, so you keep just slamming them down, alright?"
"Mr. Johnson didn't pay you that much."
"That little detail is between me and my client." She chuckled and slyly smiled. "But yeah, it's a lot. Had to grab--"
"Between you and your client."
"Look, who the fuck's gonna blab?" Grem turned back to the bar, raising her glass. " 'Ey! Anyone here gonna talk? None of ya would spill the beans on ol' Grem's work, right?"
Some disinterested heads turned her way. Most souls at that hour didn't even seem conscious, just occupying a space in aged booths and withered tables. She scanned across the room, landing on someone a little out of place. Not a Norm. Not an Ork. Not even a Dwarf. That was a damned Elf, a knife-ear.
"What's with prince charming over there?" Grem asked, nodding to the Elf. "He's not from around here. Should be..." She drank some of her whiskey and shook the glass about. "Out hugging a tree. If he can find one."
"Fired. Just got dumped from one of those AA Corps. Real rising star type," Roger said.
"Ooh, you give him a nice, friendly ear? Didn't think you the type, Roger."
"No. He wouldn't shut up about it. All kinda stopped after his fifth bottle."
Grem's eyes flicked back over to the Elf. Blonde, slicked back hair sat atop his head, which had begun to lose some of its oiled luster. A tired, but oddly vulnerable expression. Like he had been through war but still had youth to spare. The rest of his attire was as corporate as it got. Some sort of embarrassing vest that probably had a coat to go with, a tie tucked into that, and awfully tight pants. He was nursing a simple beer bottle, shattering whatever aspirations he had at looking official.
"He looks like he needs another one, huh?" she cooed, then snickered. "Me, too. Bring it on. Another round of whatever. Let's make it a real parade tonight."
"Makes a man wonder what else you spend the cash on."
"Almost like you wanna insult me. Dwarf needs nothing other than a cold drink by her side. Nothin' else. Not a thing." She banged the glass on the table. "Now I'm gonna ask again, and this time I want something strong going into this here glass."
Roger shook his head and plucked out another random bottle.
"Look, buddy," Grem started, "you're a bartender. Mix me something up, will you? You're getting paid, right? Hm? Yeah? Right? Put in the effort."
With a slight pause, Roger plucked out a few other bottles and began his work. Gave Grem more time to gawk at the stranger at the bar. She had dealt with elves, sure, who hadn't? But not once had she ever seen once so utterly sad and dejected. Almost funny. In a depressing way. That hoity-toity demeanor was nowhere to be found.
"Slick! How's it going?" she asked.
The Elf didn't budge. Grem rolled her red eyes. She stood up on the stool and marched across the row of seats over to him, settling next to him.
"I said, how's it going? Look at a girl when she's talking to you." Grem dug the glass into his side. "Polite business, this should be your domain."
The elvish man perked up and looked down at her. Bemusement played across his face before it fell flat into despair again.
"I don't have any money to give," he said.
Grem turned her head, brow furrowing and smile widening. "Schmuck, I don't want your cash. Bet you anything I've got more cash kicking around than you. 'Specially now, am I right?"
He gave a dejected nod.
"Roger, give the knife-ear whatever you're making for me. He needs a kick to his gut to wake him up." Grem smacked the Elf's back with her gauntlets. Just gently enough to knock the wind out of him. "Ain't that right, pal? Buddy?"
"I don't feel much like being a buddy right now." He winced.
"Too bad. You already walked in this place. We're like family now, going to the same drinking hole. Almost wonder how you stumbled in here without getting puke on your shoes."
Roger came walking over and set down his shaker, catching Grem's attention. She rattled her glass and set it down. A fizzy thing came pouring out. Were it not for her nose picking up on the scent of scotch, Grem would have thought she was scammed out of a drink.
"And one for the elvish, if his gut can handle it," Grem said.
"If he can't handle a scotch and soda, he's in the wrong place," Roger said.
"A scotch and soda? I thought you were gonna mix up the fancy stuff."
"Last time I offered the fancy stuff, you went on about how 'fruity' it was to have a drink like that."
"That was for me when I was working class," Grem said. "Now I wanna splurge. For me and my friend here." She reached over and pulled the Elf into a side hug, jostling his stool. She picked up the faint traces of cologne on his body as her head pressed into his side. "What's your name anyways? If we're gonna be drinking buddies, I have to call you by something when I yell at you. And if you got a weird frilly Elf name, just shorten it, will ya?"
The Elf looked at her with a touch of disdain. Something in his gaze told her that he was beyond uncomfortable. All the grime in here must've been sinking into him, making him squirm. Grem offered him a smile and nodded. Some of his guard melted away and he straightened out his posture. A raised hand greeted her.
"I'm Harrison," he said.
"Wow, never met an Elf with a simple name. Cut your ears and you might be a Norm."
She joined his hand, shaking it, gauntlet dwarfing it entirely. Despite that, he had a firm grip about him. Something told Grem he had stared down more corporate jockeys than she ever had.
"I'll try and take that as a compliment," he said.
"Well, ya know." She pulled back her hand and shrugged, taking a swig of fizzy drink. "Depending on your angle of perspective."
Roger had already placed down a glass and filled it up for Harrison. With a seemingly weary, but renewed vigor, he picked up the glass and put it up to his lips. He winced and continued on, downing the whole thing in one fell swoop.
Grem whistled. "I know that was just scotch, but that was impressive. For an Elf, that is. Stomach isn't doing knots, is it?"
"You get used to the messed up drinks they serve at corporate parties. Money can push a drink to absurd levels." He loosened his tie a little, letting it flop out of his vest.
"How much for an absurd, fancy drink, Rog?" Grem asked.
"More than you have."
