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+---- Thread: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA (/showthread.php?tid=96351)
Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Strichev - 04-01-2013
PILOT'S FLASK
OPEN AS LONG AS THERE IS ANYONE CONSCIOUS IN THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY
The rather infamous Pilot's flask bar, neatly situated near one of the not so well-known launch pads, serves as a gathering place for all kinds of space-faring people. And those booze hounds who rather keep their feet on solid ground. With individuals from all corners of Sirius stopping by, there is nothing alcohol related the bartender hasn't heard about. Be it Sidewinders Fang, or Southampton Shrapnel one can be certain the bartender will serve it. Just as certain that, if looking for a nice recreational fistfight, one will definitely find it.
The bar's owner is not generally known - a fact that bothers none. What does matter is that the prices are low, rumours numerous and drunken deals made. With a bit of liquid courage any seasoned space wolf can easily make new friends or foes. Sadly, as many can attest to, the ability to judge people quickly melts away as ethanol or any other substance does its thing. Worry not, though, as the distinct brewery-like smell of the place almost guarantees the person you're talking to is not sober either, for the billowing clouds of smoke and ethanol fumes get even to the lightest of drinkers.
The man responsible for security whose physical appearance bridges the gap between gorillas and humans will interfere in only the most urgent of situations. And even that only to assure the police won't waste precious fuel and man-hours by instilling order.
Everyone is welcome to degrade their liver and lighten themselves of the burden that are Sirius Credits in the best of all places on Planet Los Angeles.
The bar's owner is not generally known - a fact that bothers none. What does matter is that the prices are low, rumours numerous and drunken deals made. With a bit of liquid courage any seasoned space wolf can easily make new friends or foes. Sadly, as many can attest to, the ability to judge people quickly melts away as ethanol or any other substance does its thing. Worry not, though, as the distinct brewery-like smell of the place almost guarantees the person you're talking to is not sober either, for the billowing clouds of smoke and ethanol fumes get even to the lightest of drinkers.
The man responsible for security whose physical appearance bridges the gap between gorillas and humans will interfere in only the most urgent of situations. And even that only to assure the police won't waste precious fuel and man-hours by instilling order.
Everyone is welcome to degrade their liver and lighten themselves of the burden that are Sirius Credits in the best of all places on Planet Los Angeles.
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Strichev - 04-13-2013
A rather young man - the existence of his beard could be a topic of tumultuous academic debate - strode in and quickly took a seat at the bar. He peered haughtily down his nose at a bowl filled with sad looking lemon slices, then ordered a beer. Apparently the more frequent guests had some habits that called for large quantities of lemon juice. Unsurprisingly most lemon consumers also sported long sleeves and glassy eyes, telltale signs that shady types would frequent the place.
And shady types were what he was looking for. He didn't have much experience in such matters though, as Andrew Wheatfield had always been an exemplary student. Not anymore. He needed a ship, be it an old run-down-duct-tape-demanding rustbucket, or a coffin with an air leak. And for the ship he needed money. Sure, he could try to steal one, but considering his talents that wouldn't end well. He could try to sell his father's shuttle faking it being stolen, but he didn't need a ship that bad. Yet.
So he sat there, waiting for an opportunity to get a loan, or a bargain, or something.
"What the hell am I doing?" he said under his breath, before taking another sip at the beer.
RE: Pilot's flask - a bar on LA - Strichev - 04-22-2013
A few days have passed since Andrew's last visit. And things weren't going as planned. He still didn't have a ship or credits for one. This time he brought a sheet of polymers that served the same purpose as paper did. On it a typed message read:
"Looking for a loan/space ship. Every day at table 11, from 2 to 3 pm."
Otherwise the bar kept it's usual appearance. Only the music changed to a more popular style.
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Melanie Tyler - 05-13-2013
Fumes hovered in the smokey air of the Pilot's Den, the duel poisons of alcohol and desperation mingling in the club. The night was still young, and the Den's usual patrons hadn't yet joined the night's revelries, leaving the bar to a depressing crowd of drunks, and a gang of younger men heartily slapping each other on the back as they split a tray of what could have been beers between them. Whether they were or not wasn't the sort of thing it was wise to give too much thought to in a place like this. Patches on the youth's jackets identified at least two of them as Universal Shipping pilots, probably celebrating an early run.
From the ape-like bouncer to the thin coating of dirt that ground underfoot, the whole scene seemed strangely surreal to the bar's latest patron. Hair tied back in a bun tight enough to challenge starship armor in a contest of density, Jane Hartman found did not fit the usual image of a Den patron. For one, she was sober. Secondly, she was a soldier. A full Commander of the Liberty Navy. It had only been days since she'd taken up the uniform again, but the civilian world still seemed as strange and frustratingly alien as ever. The bar's security had hesitated when she presented her veteran's card, but eventually relented. She found a seat in one of the room's corners, facing the door, and settled down to wait; eyes flickering between the door, the youths, and an ellipsoid communications station cupped in her hands.
Lewis wasn't late, not yet. Hell, if she was honest with herself, she hadn't sent her message out until her shuttle was halfway to L.A. For once, the flight had been uneventful, a fact Hartman was grateful for. A moment's peace meant an opportunity to think, and heaven knew she needed every one of those she could get. She wandered up to the bar, avoiding the pilot busying himself with another round, and, after determining that the room was not likely to be hiding any Rheinland Agents behind the booths, returned to her seat, glass in hand. It was an irrational fear, and she knew it, but it wasn't one she could force away. The same instinct that drove her to sit in the corner with the best visibility prompted her to scan, constantly, for any sort of threat, even in the heart of Liberty. Strange; how she could sit in the middle of the most militarily developed house in Sirius, and not feel safe in a bar. She flicked the glass absently, ripples dancing across its surface, and wondered how Lewis was coping.
From the ape-like bouncer to the thin coating of dirt that ground underfoot, the whole scene seemed strangely surreal to the bar's latest patron. Hair tied back in a bun tight enough to challenge starship armor in a contest of density, Jane Hartman found did not fit the usual image of a Den patron. For one, she was sober. Secondly, she was a soldier. A full Commander of the Liberty Navy. It had only been days since she'd taken up the uniform again, but the civilian world still seemed as strange and frustratingly alien as ever. The bar's security had hesitated when she presented her veteran's card, but eventually relented. She found a seat in one of the room's corners, facing the door, and settled down to wait; eyes flickering between the door, the youths, and an ellipsoid communications station cupped in her hands.
Lewis wasn't late, not yet. Hell, if she was honest with herself, she hadn't sent her message out until her shuttle was halfway to L.A. For once, the flight had been uneventful, a fact Hartman was grateful for. A moment's peace meant an opportunity to think, and heaven knew she needed every one of those she could get. She wandered up to the bar, avoiding the pilot busying himself with another round, and, after determining that the room was not likely to be hiding any Rheinland Agents behind the booths, returned to her seat, glass in hand. It was an irrational fear, and she knew it, but it wasn't one she could force away. The same instinct that drove her to sit in the corner with the best visibility prompted her to scan, constantly, for any sort of threat, even in the heart of Liberty. Strange; how she could sit in the middle of the most militarily developed house in Sirius, and not feel safe in a bar. She flicked the glass absently, ripples dancing across its surface, and wondered how Lewis was coping.
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Strichev - 06-18-2013
The guests, most more or less already in a rather ebullient mood, were slowly beginning to up their conversations’ loudness. An uninformed observer may attribute this to the decreasing number of free tables - and that wouldn’t be far from the truth. The more likely cause, as anyone with a basic understanding of human biology would attest to, could be found in the ever decreasing stock of various beverages. And the consumption would have decreased the stock at an even greater pace, if it hadn’t been for the (at least from a business oriented perspective) barely tolerable habit of younger guests to drink enough (of the cheaper liquids found in regular stores) outside and only have the one over the eight inside. Harsh economic times require desperate measures. And so does a supposedly thriving economy of Los Angeles.
That last part, of course, is an entirely irrelevant thing, something no one cared about. As long as the general growth indicators were in the positive zone it was all good. How difficult it is to get decent job is well known to any resident of LA that isn’t at the very top of the chain.
Such thoughts inhabited Andrew’s mind as he made past the entrance. After all he and his schoolmates were supposed to surpass the common lot of youths on all intellectual levels.
How conceited I am. But it’s all void, a pile of BS.
“A beer!” he shouted at the waitress while resting a fair bit of his 60 kilograms, spread across 183cm of skeletal frame, on the not yet beer drenched bar counter. He certainly wasn’t a dread inducing figure, and a peer of a bit sturdier build, who apparently didn’t care to wait for his beer, simply grabbed the oh-so-intelligent, most certainly to a bright future heading Andrew Wheatfield (that happened to be in the way), and quite literally shifted him to the side. The noise and music drowned the indignant hail of words, that wouldn’t pass any descent swear filter. So efficiently was the utterance lost that even the best of sleuths couldn't have heard anything.
With a bottle of beer and a firm grudge against the whole world Andrew then proceeded to look for a free table. Unfortunately his vision was slowly getting a bit unreliable and he missed a table or two; lost in the hazy air. So he headed towards the only table that seemed to resemble a vacant one. One person sitting there? Close enough! Only after already sitting down he remembered to ask whether it was ok for him to do that. Not waiting for an answer he started to talk; as many otherwise quiet people do in certain beer involving circumstances.
Hah, why? Why look bitter? I could be bitter. Because everyone who wishes so can (insert appropriate inappropriate word) move me around like I’m nothing? Well, I am nothing. We all are nothing without a spaceship! No future here!
That last part, of course, is an entirely irrelevant thing, something no one cared about. As long as the general growth indicators were in the positive zone it was all good. How difficult it is to get decent job is well known to any resident of LA that isn’t at the very top of the chain.
Such thoughts inhabited Andrew’s mind as he made past the entrance. After all he and his schoolmates were supposed to surpass the common lot of youths on all intellectual levels.
How conceited I am. But it’s all void, a pile of BS.
“A beer!” he shouted at the waitress while resting a fair bit of his 60 kilograms, spread across 183cm of skeletal frame, on the not yet beer drenched bar counter. He certainly wasn’t a dread inducing figure, and a peer of a bit sturdier build, who apparently didn’t care to wait for his beer, simply grabbed the oh-so-intelligent, most certainly to a bright future heading Andrew Wheatfield (that happened to be in the way), and quite literally shifted him to the side. The noise and music drowned the indignant hail of words, that wouldn’t pass any descent swear filter. So efficiently was the utterance lost that even the best of sleuths couldn't have heard anything.
With a bottle of beer and a firm grudge against the whole world Andrew then proceeded to look for a free table. Unfortunately his vision was slowly getting a bit unreliable and he missed a table or two; lost in the hazy air. So he headed towards the only table that seemed to resemble a vacant one. One person sitting there? Close enough! Only after already sitting down he remembered to ask whether it was ok for him to do that. Not waiting for an answer he started to talk; as many otherwise quiet people do in certain beer involving circumstances.
Hah, why? Why look bitter? I could be bitter. Because everyone who wishes so can (insert appropriate inappropriate word) move me around like I’m nothing? Well, I am nothing. We all are nothing without a spaceship! No future here!
Apparently the person with a comm device seemed a bit bitter to him.
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Rodent - 07-21-2013
It seemed that I could have chosen a better place. This place was straight out of a dystopian hell. Fumes wafted in the air, human figures mere figments of imagination intertwining in and out of the oppressive cloak. I'd visited my fair share of seedy bars, but lately I'd developed a preference for...cleaner places. A friend had recommended it, however...I'm guessing it was for the drinks.
A small shrug, and I walked in, trying to take in my surroundings as well as I could. It was not easy, but many battlefields looked like this, with one exception. The screams of the wounded and the cacophony of war was replaced with...rock? It was not entirely unfitting for the place.
More important was finding out how safe this place was. The sane part of my mind argued that this was mindblowingly pointless, no threat could possibly arise here...but in this case, the sub-conscious was usually the victor. A cursory glance left me with a favorable opinion. The bouncers were alert and could see all movement in the room, or as well as could be managed. No one looked particularly shitfaced or likely to start trouble...
Good.
Locating Hartman was easy, she was the only one looking decidedly out of place and uncomfortable. Nothing to be done about it now, this was the place we were in. I walked over and took a seat.
"Hey. Sorry if I was late."
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Jane Hartman - 07-21-2013
"I can let it go once. Not sure if our guest can." She nodded across the table at the still swaying Andrew Wheatfield. Agitation rippled through her at the intrusion, but she quashed the emotion, filing the aggression away. There were, after all, the people she had given up nineteen years for. Bars had a way of making her doubt the wisdom of that course.
"You look well, Lewis." Hartman stood, a smile rippling across her scarred face as she engulfed Lewis in a hug firm enough that she could feel her coat buttons through her shirt. Plenty of soldiers she had served with had handed their fitness in with their discharge paperwork, muscle giving way to fat as the luxuries of civilian life took hold. Lewis wasn't quite there yet, though his features were softer than they had been when they'd last met. After a moment she relaxed her grip, stepping back to survey the distance between them. "You've been keeping alright?"
"You look well, Lewis." Hartman stood, a smile rippling across her scarred face as she engulfed Lewis in a hug firm enough that she could feel her coat buttons through her shirt. Plenty of soldiers she had served with had handed their fitness in with their discharge paperwork, muscle giving way to fat as the luxuries of civilian life took hold. Lewis wasn't quite there yet, though his features were softer than they had been when they'd last met. After a moment she relaxed her grip, stepping back to survey the distance between them. "You've been keeping alright?"
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Rodent - 07-23-2013
I was a little surprised at the intensity of her reaction. People who know me can attest I'm not really the expressive type, and public expressions of emotion discomfort me. But I was glad to see someone from the old days. More glad than I'd expected. The military life doesn't let you go easily. Already, in a moment of weakness I'd applied to the Admiralty for some sort of advisory position. They had not replied, but it still showed how much I still longed for something to do.
"Glad to see you, Jane", I said, noticing that she seemed happier than when we'd talked last. The re-enlistment with the Primary probably was the reason. Again, that bit of longing. I stamped it out.
"Bored as hell, but it's a relaxing life. Needed to put the gun down for a bit, you know?"
I stopped, holding back a sneeze. This bar was really not a good choice for a quiet talk. More like the place to get absolutely wasted so you wouldn't notice up from down.
"Heard you re-enlisted. I guess it's hard to let go, huh?"
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Jane Hartman - 07-23-2013
Lewis squirmed a little at the contact. A trickle of amusement registered on Hartman's face. Here was a man who had faced down the Chancellor's fleets and stood vigilant against the nomad incursion shying away from a hug. There was something irrationally comical about it. Her smile froze on her lips as her own encounters with the creatures came flooding back. Compulsions. Emotions that weren't hers driven into her psyche, tearing as they went, as surely as a round through flesh. At least the Rheinlanders fought in terms she could understand. Plasma and warships were human creations, complex in design but ultimately brutally simple in purpose. She could fight them. The aliens were different. How did you fight an invader that weaponised your mind?
Lewis was talking. Hartman dug her heels in and hauled herself back to the present. A series of cheers rang out from a pool table that looked old enough to have personally accompanied Liberty from Sol. Money exchanged hands and more than a few crestfallen faces returned to their drinks with lightened pockets, grimacing as their cash lined up for a second visit to the bar. One of the Universal pilots was among the winners, and returned to his table with a full tray of drinks. A second round of cheers went out as he began distributing the amber fluid. Hartman had to take a step forward to hear Lewis over the din.
"Harder than they say. All those years in mess, I guess the choice of food in civie land overwhelmed me." She was only half joking. Lifestyle hadn't been the only factor in her decision, but the Flask was hardly the place for that discussion. Normandie could wait until a saner hour. She doubted the rogue warship would vanish any further in the interim. "But I'm sure you know all about that. As I recall, you were in longer than me."
"It's mighty strange, you know. Looking up at the flight roster and not seeing your name on it. There was a bet on that your details were bolted to the screen." She sighed in mock exasperation. "Five bets, actually. Two of them sayin' you hadn't really left, that you'd been grabbed for special operations or some similar nonsense. I'm not rightly convinced the rookies didn't spend the entirety of their leave working on it." Gambling was, of course, forbidden while on duty. That did absolutely nothing to stop it from happening, much to Hartman's chagrin.
"How have you been filling the days? Can't say I found running tours down in the memorial a bundle of fun." An old friend from the Corps had offered her the job of guiding groups through the Houston's war memorial a few days after she finalized her release paperwork. She'd lasted a day before she crumpled and took work out in the country.
Lewis was talking. Hartman dug her heels in and hauled herself back to the present. A series of cheers rang out from a pool table that looked old enough to have personally accompanied Liberty from Sol. Money exchanged hands and more than a few crestfallen faces returned to their drinks with lightened pockets, grimacing as their cash lined up for a second visit to the bar. One of the Universal pilots was among the winners, and returned to his table with a full tray of drinks. A second round of cheers went out as he began distributing the amber fluid. Hartman had to take a step forward to hear Lewis over the din.
"Harder than they say. All those years in mess, I guess the choice of food in civie land overwhelmed me." She was only half joking. Lifestyle hadn't been the only factor in her decision, but the Flask was hardly the place for that discussion. Normandie could wait until a saner hour. She doubted the rogue warship would vanish any further in the interim. "But I'm sure you know all about that. As I recall, you were in longer than me."
"It's mighty strange, you know. Looking up at the flight roster and not seeing your name on it. There was a bet on that your details were bolted to the screen." She sighed in mock exasperation. "Five bets, actually. Two of them sayin' you hadn't really left, that you'd been grabbed for special operations or some similar nonsense. I'm not rightly convinced the rookies didn't spend the entirety of their leave working on it." Gambling was, of course, forbidden while on duty. That did absolutely nothing to stop it from happening, much to Hartman's chagrin.
"How have you been filling the days? Can't say I found running tours down in the memorial a bundle of fun." An old friend from the Corps had offered her the job of guiding groups through the Houston's war memorial a few days after she finalized her release paperwork. She'd lasted a day before she crumpled and took work out in the country.
RE: Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA - Rodent - 07-24-2013
"Longer than most."
I had to laugh at Hartman's quips about my long career. There was a time when career men were more common, but the war had made us a definite minority. An illustrious minority, however...sporting amongst us men like David Hale and Jack Malrone. It had been a while, but I was still faintly surprised that Hale retired so soon after I did. The poor man had finally had enough, and I couldn't blame him.
"For all they know, I am in spec-ops, looking for insurgents on Denver or something inane like that. Doubt attempting to grow cabbages would count as counter-terrorism though..." I said, smiling. "As long as they are betting on harmless things, you'll be fine."
Now that I think of it, what had I done after retirement? A whole lot of resting, and forgetting about the horrors of war, maybe becoming just a normal civilian like the rest. But the same long career which had blessed me now cursed me.
"Didn't finalize a job, really. Wandered down to the academy on Denver a couple of times, helping in training and drills. Money isn't really a concern, and I don't know where else I'd be useful."