On Barrier Gate Station is a sleepy bar, hazy with the smoke of cheap cigarettes, hushed whispers, and the rhythmic clinking of self-medication. On the surface, business was invariably slow - with no more than four patrons at any given time, yet inexplicably, rarely fewer.
Even new, the sign up front never worked quite right, and in the intervening decades of operation, the locals took to calling it what they thought they saw - "Mimi's Diner," and many quickly learn to forget the mediocre, greasy food and barely passable drinks served by the ever irascible one-eyed bartender.
It is said that, once in a blue moon, Mimi's Diner offers a special cocktail known to draw an eclectic bunch from every corner of Sirius - one prepared personally by the elusive proprietor. Of the many that try to order this special, most lack the ability to pay and are disappointed by a regular drink. Beyond this, the locals know little and care even less about such things concerning a bar otherwise thoroughly unremarkable.
It was a slow Wednesday night, and the usual four patrons sat at their booths, slowly nursing long-stale drinks in their personal clouds of thick cigarette smoke.
The main door swung open, the bright lights and lively chatter of the outside streets piercing the thick, dim veil of the hazy interior. A young boy in his late teens marched in - the meticulously practiced surety of his steps betrayed a certain vulnerability underneath the thin veneer of confidence.
Without missing a step, the child made his way to the bar and awkwardly scaled the stool.
The bartender stared the boy down with his one eye, the metal cap of his eyepatch gleaming in the light as if to stand in for the other.
The boy pulled a trinket from his pocket - a service card, one given to confidential informants and outside contractors. The boy spoke in a voice barely masking his nerves. He set it flat on the counter and slid it slowly towards the Bartender.
"My father told me to give this to you. He told me said that you would know what it means, and that you will help me."
The bartender maintained his unbroken, unblinking stare as he retrieved the card, and brought it close to his eyepatch for several moments before setting it down again.
"What can I get for you, young man?"
The boy's voice began to quiver, the cracks forming on his practiced composure.
"A few weeks ago, p-pirates attacked our ship. We stopped like they told us to - they said they wouldn't h-hurt anyone if we did. Dad gave me the card before they boarded. Mom hid me in the panic room. They took everything, and they shot my mom and then my dad, and I could only watch. They left my parents to die slowly while they trashed our home in front of them - and I couldn't do anything and now I'm all alone..."
The boy sat quiet for several moments.
The Bartender remained motionless, continuing to stare.
"What is it that you want from me?"
Trembling turned to fury. The boy tearfully scowled as he forcefully put his hands on the counter.
"I want you to find and kill the ones that did this to my -"
The bartender interrupted with a booming voice.
"Do you know what your father has given you?"
The boy, startled, shook his head.
"It is the promise of a favor to be paid in kind for a service that he has done for us. His favor is now yours to spend as you wish, but I would suggest you not waste it on petty revenge."
The boy thought quietly for a few minutes of eternity.
"I want... to learn how to not be helpless. I want to be able to defend the ones I care about. I want to become part of something that can't be killed."
The Bartender nodded. He reached behind his counter and produced an effervescent cocktail and slid it towards the boy.
"Very well. Drink this, you'll feel better. Once you have finished, you can get started on your new life - and we will help you get what you want."
The boy eagerly drank, before slumping over the counter, unconscious. The Bartender reached quickly, cradling the boy's head back before it could hit the bar. Two of the patrons got up from their seats and came to pick the boy up from the stool.
"Take this one to the Institute in New Berlin. If he's half as good as his parents were, he'll make a good candidate for training."
The Bartender pressed a hidden button under his counter, and a holographic display terminal emanated before him. He inserted the boy's card into a slot in the counter, and he filled his log.
'Date: 768AS 09 12 ; Claimant on behalf of Rutherford and Marie Siegfried (Now deceased) - Kai Siegfried. Favor status: PENDING.'
It was another hazy night at Mimi's Diner. It was always night as far as the half burnt out station lights were concerned. Cigarette smoke lazily wafted about in the din of soft chatter and the clinking of glasses from the usual patrons.
The stonefaced Bartender meticulously wiped the glass in his hands, as an older man walked in. The old man's cane clacked sharply with each step, as he slowly but intentionally approached the bar and took a seat.
"I can hardly believe it," the old man said with a subdued smile and an unbroken gaze, "you've hardly aged a day."
The Bartender gave a curt nod, putting down the freshly washed glass that he was drying.
"Time and I cannot intersect here, Herr Siegfried. I am glad to see that cannot be said for you."
"Reminiscence is a hobby of old men. I see there's more work to be done, and I'm beginning to see that retirement does not agree with me."
Siegfried looked about the bar. The din of chatters and clinking glass had died down, and it was not difficult to see the patrons trying in vain to listen in unnoticed.
The Bartender's one eye closed as he stood perfectly still for several moments, With a grunt, he nodded and gazed just beyond the old man.
"The Gram is waiting in Bay 13 to take you back."
"I won't have to drink anything again, will I?"
The Bartender smirked.
"Only if you would like."
"No, I don't think that will be necessary this time."
It was 3AM, as it has always been, and always will be at Mimi's Diner. The Bartender's unbroken one-eyed gaze focused on a stubborn coffee stain on the side of a glass clutched like a tiny pearl in his gigantic hands. Oblivious to the low din of merriment and the odor of cheap booze and burnt coffee, he wiped with a damp towel. Only the slight twitch of his ears betrayed his notice of a rhythmic clacking in the distance, approaching faster than an old man had any right.
"Herr Siegfried. I trust your flight on board the U-42 was pleasant?"
"A very easy voyage. The new Oders are much more comfortable than the ones I worked on - though the captain was probably none to comfortable with an Admiral staying in his cabin."
"The 42 was commissioned only last month, was it not?"
"And Captain Liebnitz is also a new commission straight out of the Naval Academy. A bit excitable, but he seems quite reliable. I see a promising career in his future, given the chance."
"Indeed. I was instructed to transfer updated navigational archives concerning Inverness to the 42 before she departs in a few days. Shall I arrange for additional protection to accompany you?"
"No need. I'll be meeting an old friend - and if I'm in a position to need more firepower than an Oder, it'll likely be not enough anyway."
"Very good. In that case, I've taken the liberty of securing your old safehouse quarters for you - though, regrettably, the LSF seems to have also moved into the same pylon."
"Is Anderson still heading up the LSF branch here? I recall they had a half decent izakaya three levels down."
"Yes, the Yoshinoya Tavern is still in business, though it seems that they have failed their last three food safety inspections."
"No matter, I think I'll pay them a visit. It's professional courtesy, and I've been waiting years for a chance to repay Anderson that drink I owed him. Do you still have that bottle of 820 Bergmeister I left behind when the Liberty war ended? "
"We do, I will have it and some fresh clothes waiting for you in your quarters."