Tal Ravis entered the bar alongside an APM transport captain, his camouflage fatigues, vest, and helmet markedly contrasting with his associate's classic black suit and red tie mix. Smeared, bright tan marks dotted his sleeves and pant legs from constant exposure to the harsh desert sands of Planet Nauru, while his old, scratched and dinged up loaded carbine dangled loosely from his back, tied to a black shoulder strap.
The atmosphere was quite nice, definitely refreshing after several months worth of staring at nothing but the same sand dunes day in and day out, with various purple lights accenting the bar's sleek countertops. A very pleasantly pungent aroma filled his nose, masking the fact that he hadn't showered in about seven weeks. In the meantime, as he and his buddy walked with unbelievable confidence and swagger while perhaps the best song he'd ever heard played from the speakers, forcing him to not bob his head up and down for risk of looking unprofessional in front of such a packed venue.
A couple passed them by, on their way out, as the pair made their way to the center of the room where drinks could be ordered. Tal paid little attention to them, while the equally young transport captain had tagged the man's partner, a younger-looking female Core pilot with the most artificial red hair he'd ever seen, and followed her with his eyes as she left the room.
They eventually reached one of many well-lit bar counters, this one less crowded than the others, with the captain politely pulling out and seating himself on a stool. Tal instead opted to wrench the black bar stool away from the counter with a quick thrust of his left, gloved hand, creating a horrific squeaking sound as the chair's rubberized legs scrapes against metal flooring. He kept his left hand on the table from then on, leaning ever so slightly on the stool so that he could keep his spare hand on his weapon and keep it under check at all times.
Lucky would be a fairly good word to describe Tal, a mercenary working with Core forces on Nauru. Supplies ran low over the course of three months, and the only APM transport actively supplying installations on the barren desert planet was down an armed bodyguard. Naturally, he sprung at the opportunity to revisit civilization again, even for a brief moment, and take in the sights of space, it's stations, and the real women that inhabited it before he had to go sit in the desert and be content with twiddling his thumbs for another three months.
A bartender droid approached him, droning a request for an order. "Sweet tea," he had replied, well in need of southern Liberty's sweet nectar again. His partner had, in the meanwhile, ordered a Delta Dingerino, which was served to him in a fancy glass with a mini-umbrella on a toothpick for an adornment.
"Ah," he sighed, taking a deep breath after a tiny little sip, "Sometimes, Tal, you've just gotta experience the finer things in life. Strawberry synth gel with vodka, my friend, a lovely combination."
Tal never claimed to like this man for any reason other than he got him off of that burning rock for a few days.
"Pfft. Clear alcohols are for rich women on diets," he remarked, taking a long swig from a cup filled with some odd, light brown elixir that had just been placed on a neat little coaster bearing Erik Nodviet's face and "DOLAR TRANSIT GLORIA AETERNA EST" around it in bright white letters, whatever the hell that meant.
While his company was busy chatting it up with random women and slowly drinking his alcoholic beverage, Tal turned around to examine the bar's patrons, a miserable expression forming naturally on his face for some reason.
Mad Mako's crowd largely consisted of Core and APM personnel, mostly pilots and captains, which wasn't surprising in the slightest. He'd been in venues like this in the Colonial Republic and the Libertonian Marine Corps, although the latter instance consisted of him and two friends awkwardly making their way through a herd of offended officer wives that never stopped gawking at them like some kind of obscenity was growing from their foreheads.
Oddly enough, he hadn't noticed the rather large crowd of people surrounding Erik and what appeared to be some kind of futuristic space-ninja that looked so pale she'd probably burn up in the sun. She also had a weapon on her, some weird kind of hyper-lethal, micro-filament edged katana looking tool, and suddenly all of his worries about being kicked out for having a gun went out the window. Erik looked as he'd usually did, visibly glowing at the fact that so many people were under control.
In a random corner of the bar was a lone man at a booth, drinking a Dingerino. "Probably strokin' it or something over there," he thought, shifting his body around to look at the main hub.
Most of the pilots congregated at the large, circular main bar counter, with a crowd consisting of some random scene chick with artificial blue hair, a girl who was evidently high off cardamine or something, some creepy guy who looked like he was trying to get laid tonight, and a guy talking to some girl in a flight-suit, obviously actively in the process of trying to get laid.
It was an odd kind of culture shock that he'd never thought he'd experience, but for some reason this crowd of people was so diverse that it actually threw him off a bit, especially the space ninja wearing purple spandex and a tan scarf. Why was she even wearing that? At least he had an excuse to tote military-grade weapons and gear around.
"Yo, guy," he muttered, patting his buddy on the arm to gather his attention, "What did I miss while I was sitting in the middle of nowhere? Was everyone always this...weird?"
His companion shrugged lightly and returned to hitting on chicks. Tal facepalmed, sighing while reaching for his iced tea again.
Suddenly, going back to Nauru didn't seem so bad after all.