Milk Run: Shot Takers
Posted on 28 Jan 2022 @ 2:23pm by Commander Calliope Zahn & Commander Bruce Kensforth
Mission:
M2 - Sanctuary
Location: Kalara, north side
Timeline: MD11 1130HRS
1031 words - 2.1 OF Standard Post Measure
Milk Run: Shot Takers
Bruce and Calliope stepped through the doors into the space that could be loosely described as a cantina. There were beverages clearly being served and patrons enjoying them, but there wasn’t much about the place that was familiar, or inviting for that matter. Coming from Bruce, a well-traveled former alcoholic that had whet his whistle in some of the seediest places in the quadrant, that was saying something. Of course, the ambiance was only the start of the almost hostile air of the place. As they’d stepped through the door you could almost hear the record scratch. Like the wayward Cowboy pushing open the saloon doors and drawing every eye his way, Bruce and Calliope had stepped in, both looking about curiously.
“Thinking we’ll want to see a Doc after this visit,” Bruce whispered under his breath.
The natives were difficult to spot at first, as everyone seemed to have either already been too sluggish to be moving much or else had suddenly paused to lift one side of a lip in disdain. The poorly lit room was almost cool thanks to having shut the rays of Loki completely out of the dense mudded walls. There was no window in the place. Calliope folded her sunglasses into her pocket and allowed her eyes to adjust. As she strode in beside Bruce she realized what she had expected now in this quarter of Kalara- there weren’t any off-worlders straying into this end of town besides their foolselves. She wondered if it had always been this way as she had thought her tipsters said something about the earliest Obsidian Starfleet personnel once frequenting the place.
There was only one bit of evidence of that history… a very neglected piano had been pushed against the wall and left to collect a generous layer of dust. Calliope was sure she could take out her tricorder and ascertain at least a decade of build up there. Her fingers itched to see how badly it was out of tune.
“Well. I thought I’d seen some seedy dives…” Bruce mused, cocking his head towards what he suspected had to be the barkeep and the main bar. “But this takes it. Lead on,” he smirked, glancing at the piano and cringing. “Assuming they don’t run us out,” he added under his breath.
The pair of them approached an elder man who, by the looks of him, wanted as much to do with them as he did tooth rot, but was left dealing with it. Bruce wondered if maybe it wasn’t worth his effort to run out two Starfleet Officers. The inner politics of this place were a mystery to him, but he’d been around long enough to recognize when he wasn’t wanted. Of course, he didn’t give two shits anymore.
“Good morning,” Bruce grinned, bringing Calli up to the slab of a counter that was obviously the bartop. “My friend and I would like a drink,” he offered as innocently as if he was ordering on the station.
After a hard stare, the bartender blinked and Calliope snapped her fingers. “Ah, right.” She fished out two local coins which she was fairly certain were more than the price of a couple cool ones by a fair shot and dropped them on the counter. Probably the Kalarans were not especially interested in the Federation ideal of share and share alike.
With a quintessential long, bony Kalaran hand, he gathered the coin into an unwashed apron pocket and brought two, short, sand-worn glasses up to pour into. At least money still talked, Calliope thought as he thunked the glasses out on the bar in front of them.
A couple of the patrons resumed their talk in one of the dialects that the translators were sluggish parsing. Or maybe it was how low they were speaking. Or how many Kalaran swears and colloquialisms they were using. Calliope instinctively rubbed her ear even though that was hardly a solution for the gray interpretation.
“Thank you.” She managed neutrally as she lifted the glass to the lamplight to make sure no dead bugs had been left in it before the pour. Something solid was definitely sitting at the bottom.
“You’re supposed to eat the worm,” Bruce winked at Calli. “What’s this called?” he asked the barkeep, hoping his polite inquiry wouldn’t be taken as some kind of an insult.
The bartender shook his head, “Drink first. Then I will tell you,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk as he poured out a yellowish liquid.
“Right. So made from something we don’t wanna know,” Bruce grinned, grabbing his tiny glass. He raised it to Calliope. “Cheers to you, Commander.”
She smirked, and gave a return nod and raise of her own glass. “Cheers.” It couldn’t possibly be the biggest risk she’d taken in her career. It was best to jump all in with things like polar bear swims, fugitive tracking, and alien alcohol. All the better if you could share the experience. She slugged a swig back along with him.
“Wow,” Bruce half choked, “Now that’s something…,” he said, consulting his empty glass and then setting it down on the bar top. “I think I’ll have another. Calli?”
Whatever it was burned like hell, looked eerily like urine and smelled like the inside of a dead targ but, despite that all, had a strangely sweet taste to it. Bruce didn’t know what it was and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he could do with another.
Rather amused at how easily the smaller framed man sucked down the shot, Calliope polished the last half of her first glass in a second swallow. “Let’s have it.” She said through the sand that was the back of her throat. She put down two more coin.
After a couple more calls for refills with the overpayment adding up, the bartender left them a bottle of their own liquor before Calliope had gotten to the bottom of her petty cash. It was difficult keeping up with Bruce but she did her level best.