Do you know what made a good drink great? Some would argue the level of alcohol in it. Others, the preparation. Shaken versus stirred, for example. Others would say the bartender themselves. Jacob had always found that the glass was what made it for him. The feeling of the sweat droplets rolling down the side of the glass, cold just enough ot make his lips salivate. Jacob pressed his head to the glass once, sighing from the rush of cold air to his forehead, and started to press his lips against it when a bullet went whizzing past, exploding the bottom of the whiskey and spilling it and shards in every direction. Shit.
Jacob fell back, dropping awayto the floor as two more shots rung out through the bar, and a body slumped in the corner. The silver lining being that Jacob was not the target made him scramble to the wall away from the bar table, noting from the corner of his eye that the man lying dead was a Hunter, someone who devoted his life to bring in bounties. He used to do that work on the side. The original target was already out the back door as a passing Confederate Agent pushed inside to find the source of the commotion, gun drawn.
This was just one of the reasons that Jacob was done with Canaan. The promised land just wans't working out. It wouldn't be long, he surmised, until the Palestinians were granted a space near here by the EU and then the old war would begin fresh, some couple hundred years over like a vicious cycle. Looking down at the spilled whiskey covering his shirt and pants, he shook his head in fear and a twinge of anger. The shock would fade and he'd realize the absurdity of it all, but for now he was to meet with the captain of a ship, someone his friend had passed word along was looking for a pilot. But first, he needed to throw up.
He wiped his face down, hands still slightly shaking as he tossed the paper towel in the bin. He fought off the need for a stim, heading back out the door and towards the exit as more Confederates entered, beginning to investigate. He didn't have time, and he hadn't seen anything. He passed without so much as a second glance.
The footfall of heavy boots filled the back alleyway as sirens swarmed the area, no doubt hunting for the man. He paid no attention, knowing the first sign of apprehension would be his end. Instead, he headed to the rendezvous point. Sticking his hands in his pockets and pulling the old jacket up around him a bit closer, Marley Tso headed towards the docking station on Canaan. He pulled out his cred card as he approached the gate, swiping for entrance towards the turnstyle, and reached the bay a few minutes early. The hounds were out, sniffing for any paraphernalia He leaned up on an empty wall, scanning the area for anyone that seemed out of place. Civilian clothes with Agency eyes. He saw none. He was so transfixed on seeing someone that he didn't even notice the man stand up next to him.
"You the guy from the bar, huh?" the man said. He was shorter, bald, and wearing an old brown jacket. It looked like he had pissed himself.
"What of it."
"Just that a man that guns down a Hunter doesn't usually walk so calm to a docking station like this unless he has plans... or connections out." Jacob drew out his electronic cigarette from the carton shaped charger, drawing a drag. "And the only connections working out of this sector are for the NAU."
Marley felt the blood start to boil. His hand went for the gun at his side, and it took all his strength not to waste the white punk.
"You sound very cock-sure Mister American."
"That's because if I'm correct, we're waiting on the same thing." The bald headed man raised his hand in a wave as he saw some moving towards the crowd. "Jacob, by the way. Let's hope our mutual benefactor's as good as they say they are."