Tsiolkovsky Station
Civilian Deck
"Main Street"

An almost eerie calm had settled over the Civilian Deck of Tsiolkovsky Station. The activities of the evening had for the most part yet to commence. But they surely would. The only thing of particular note to be seen was a pudgy, middle-aged man strolled casually across the Promenade, his feet echoing hollowly across the corridor. He passed 'Town Square'- a glorified rest area with a fountain, some benches, and a few old-fashioned analog clocks telling the local time at various locations. New York City on Earth, Eos Central on Mars, and a few others. The man noted the local time as he passed, just a few minutes shy of seven. He began walking a little faster.

The man was Dan O'Brien, in case you were wondering. And he was the proprietor of the Asimov Lounge, the greatest (and only) proper saloon on station. Admittedly, the Asteroid Hotel had a bar as well, but it was rather too fanciful- not to mention expensive- for the typical visitor. The Asimov's clientele cut a clean slice across several social classes, but the better part of it was made up of roughneck miners and mercenaries.

But that was neither here nor there. The Asimov Lounge was about due to open, and it couldn't very well do that without its bartender. Not to mention its proprietor and sole employee- all of whom were O'Brien himself.

He came finally to a large door, a sign over which read 'The Asimov Lounge,' and in smaller letter beneath, 'Est. 2391.' The barman passed his ID card in front of the scanner attached to the door, unlocking it. Stepping in and flipping on the lights, he beheld his favorite sight in the Galaxy.

The Asimov was a fairly large place, with a large, old style wooden bar making a loop toward the center of taproom. The walls, which were designed to mimic ancient Earth brickwork, were decorated with all manner of curios and artifacts. Here a 'real' deckplate from the UTS Sartre, there some historical mining tools, et cetera. Beyond the bar itself were clusters of tables and chairs, capable of seating a sizable crowd. A few doors to one side led to a storage room, a unisex lavatory, and to a couple of private rooms respectively.

And in the farther corner from the door, near the viewports (which offered a stunning starscape, by the way) were the pride of the establishment: A jukebox and an honest-to-God real pool table with actual balls. Most such things operated by means of a complex holographic projector, but not this one.

O'Brien took a few seconds, as was his custom, to proudly survey his domain before beginning to prepare for what would surely be an exciting evening.

Oh yes, it would be a fine evening indeed.

A six hour flight her travel documents said, Wow, they were sure has hell wrong. Twelve and a half hours later Atlas Dassun finally stepped off onto Tsiolkovsky Station arrival docking bay. Six hours in a cargo transporter was easy enough jump, she had time to catch up all her paperwork but it was the unnecessary four-hour delay in customs on the Crux Quadrant that really irritated her- all because the rookie pilot didn't declare his cargo correctly in his ledger. Atlas firmly believed that everybody needs to learn by their mistakes but after a few hours of painfully listening to the rookie and docksman argue back and forth she promptly decided to take matters into her own hands by obtaining both sets of documents... Within an hour they were cleared for departure with the pilot declaring that 'He owed her one'.

Standing at the edge of the ships cargo area the rear loading ramp slowly opened and she was greeted by the sight of a handful of Workhorse T66 loaders ready and waiting to dispatch with the ships cargo, while not the latest model of the Workhorse loaders the T66 were favoured due to their load carrying capacity and 'any idiot can drive' operating systems. Atlas stretched out with a yawn before hoisting her scruffy duffle bag of only possessions onto her shoulder, she felt a buzz of excitement passing the groaning loaders as she descended down the ramp.
Her first order of business was to find Docking Chief Salvador Rudd- her employer contact whom she had be liaising with for the transfer to this space station. Walking through the docks they didn't seem to be as busy as she expected but her watch told her that she had arrived right on shift change, a young woman dressed in a U.T.S overalls almost scurried past tapping away at a data pad when Atlas piped up "Excuse me".
The woman blinked at Atlas as she pulled her out of her concentration.
"I'm looking for Dock Chief Rudd, could- " Atlas was cut short by a pointed hand direction to the east and sharp interjection.
"Service desk, Bay three." Before Atlas could say anymore the woman went back to her data pad strutting off.
"Thanks" Atlas muttered to herself and looked in the general direction where the employee had pointed. On the opposite side of the hanger dated neon green signs marked bays 1 to 8, that's all she could see from where she was standing but her employee documentation noted that there were fifteen bays in total. Certainly enough to keep racking up the overtime. Eyeing Bay 3 she adjusted her bag and began making her way through the foot traffic and cargo being distributed.

Bay 3 was reasonably empty other then a few disinterested civilian people who congregated in the seats provided and rather large black bearded bald headed man who stood casually behind a perspex fronted hole in the wall. A small sign posted on the desk stating SERVICE DESK reaffirmed that this was where she needed to be. Adjusting her navy blue U.T.S Vallhalla cap which kept her mop of ginger hair under control for the time being, Altas strolled up the service desk and was met with a dry drawling "Can I help you?" His eyes lingered on her face a little too long clearly looking at her burn scars, although she was used to people staring at her it still made her a little uncomfortable on occasion.
"Quartermaster Atlas Dassun.... I'm here to see Docking Chief Rudd" Atlas replied directly.
The beard man sighed, he picked up his phone, tapped a few numbers and held it to his ear.
After a few moments he spoke "I need the Chief........... Uhh some bird is askin for him... uhhuh... uhuh..... Yep, righto." He hung up the call "He's not here"
"What do you mean he's not here?" Atlas exclaimed.
"He's on leave, he left a few hours ago"
"I was supposed to meet with him"
"Not my problem honey"

Atlas shuffled her feet sucking her bottom lip in frustration, she wanted to punch this guy's face in but that probably wouldn't be the best start her time on the station. "Look, did he leave anything for me then?" She questioned him.
"I dunno, have to check wont I" With another huff he waddled over to a shelf filled with filling boxes "What's your name again princess".
"Atlas Dassun" she spat back, annoyed.
The clerk returned slapping a A4 envelope and room key onto the desk in front of her.
Atlas held her tongue so all he got was a thanks as she scooped up her things and walked away.

Atlas waited for the elevator to come to rest on the Promenade, she toyed with the set of keys she had been given, its small brass key ring embossed with the name Asimov Lounge and the number two on the back. Inside her envelope was a all the normal paperwork associated with the transfer and a hand written post-it note You're apartment isn't ready, still decontaminating... Room booked at Asimov.

The doors opened to reveal the Promenade, Atlas stepped out and began walking down the lavish corridor. Atlas had enough of today's drama and all she wanted was a hot shower and a nice crisp beer. Passing by people through the square she gave the occasional smile, remembering the directions that an actual helpful vending machine repair man gave she walked past the fountain and statuesque clocks So much for a change of scenery she smiled to herself as they reminded her of home.
Atlas veered around a large group what she thought were a bunch of off duty miners- in her experience they were always loud, brash and vulgar but always a helluva lot of fun. A few cat calls came her way but she shrugged them off. Finally she arrived at the a entrance of the Asimov Lounge.

“Dr. Brent Bradford”

Pulling in to the docking port, a Gold plated limousine containing the rich and famous Brent Bradford starts to prepare for the departure of this spacecraft. He opens his briefcase and glances over it to see if all his money making drugs are there. He smiles at the medicine as he quickly closes his briefcase as his eyes melt into pure excitement for opportunities to expand his successful...

Brent Bradford wakes up from his happy dreams, due to a small amount of wadded-up paper hitting his face. He shakes his head, his loosely-tied tie and a pool of drool are shaken violently away from him. He stops and tries to regain his vision after that tremor of a head shake. He opens his briefcase looking for his newly acquired pill case with one remaining pill. There's a note on the bottle stating what day he took the drug, to remind him in case the drug has made him forget short term memory subjects. Under the date is the name of the drug given by himself, deduced from studying the ingredients in the drug. This is so if he doesn't live to tell people this drug is deadly in the future, at least they will have a general idea on what this drug is. The last thing on the bottle is the safe combination written in a different language. He used to tell his friends it was full of all his possessions and riches, however in reality it contained his living will that only a member of his family could translate.

He writes on the bottle:
“cures mild cases of night terrors.
side effects may include night sweats and drooling.”

On to the next matter, who threw the paper at him? He looked around to find who had the guiltiest looking face. “Found you.” he whispers quietly to him self. He begins to stand up, just now remembering he was on a cheap transporter shuttle. Committed to make things even, he walks towards the thrower-of-papers, and grabs a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket and hands it to him. He congratulates him for waking him up before he missed his stop, and hands him the handkerchief. “This magic handkerchief is a pass me down in my family from generation to generation, the kindness you have displayed just now is more than deserving to be family to me. I want you to have it. It's self cleaning and it is lemon scented”. This handkerchief is infused with a drug called “tetraphyline”. It just so happens to kill 100% of germs, and has a natural lemon like scent. However, what Brent failed to mention was one whiff of this certain citrus smelling drug causes intense sneezing.

He turns around away from the gentleman and returns to his natural depressed state as he walks towards the ship's airlock. “Could've just asked if I was awake, jerk” he whispers under his breath. As the shuttle reaches the docking bay of the Tsiolkovsky Station, a slight gleam of hope awakes in the heart of the doctor, while job opportunities appear in his mind. He starts to smile... then it turns to a smirk.

“wishful thinking”.

Brent starts towards the bar, as is usually his tactic. Drunk people are honest about things. You can tell a lot about a man's problems when they are drunk. And if there isn't any one needing his assistance, he can slip a drink every now and then to help the day go faster. It's a win-win.

He heads that way and arrives moments later. He goes in and orders a beer and goes to the comfiest looking booth, waiting for anything or everything. he takes small sips out of his beer and begins thinking. “Bring the sick to me” he says in his head as he begins to smirk. “I can cure it all”!

Traz Varak shoved the human he was carrying into a holding cell, dusting off his palms, and saying "Well, that's that. Enjoy your stay." with a smirk. The man, stumbling as he stood up, pounded on the energy field of the cell "Thish *hic* ishn't over Traz! You *hic* haf no proof!" "I dunno..." replied Traz, waving a beer bottle in front of the cell. "This and the ten others we found next to you say otherwise, that prostitute's story is just icing on the cake at this point." A device on Trak's hip beeped, signifying the end of his shift. He left the man in the cell with a smile and wave, and went to clock out and change...

Walking through Main Street, Traz waved to those who recognized him, mainly shopkeepers and other officers. He shared a few passing greetings, Hi how are you, I'm doing fine, all that jazz. What he was really looking for, however, was his favorite place on the station: The Asimov Lounge.

Walking into the Asimov, and sitting down at the bar, he greeted O'Brien with a wave and a smirk. "Hey there Dan. Could I get a thing of Bloodroot ale?"

O'Brien was an old hand at tending bar, and managed to have the house pretty well set up before the evening crowd started to mosey in. The chairs were off the tables, the jukebox was playing a jaunty old tune, and the glassware had just been double-checked before the first few customers started to arrive.

Enter Atlas

Upon passing into the lounge Atlas would notice, if she chanced to look back at the entrance she had just traversed, a large portrait of the man for whom the establishment was named: Isaac Asimov, an elderly human in old-fashioned clothes with exceptional sideburns.

The bar was manned by a round, middle-aged human sporting a smart vest and a thin mustache, who was presently pouring a beer for a man who looked suspiciously like a vagrant with a top hat made of some shiny material (it may have been aluminum foil) resting squarely at the crown of his head.

The barman looked up, realizing the presence of an unfamiliar face. He gave a jovial wave before calling out to her.

“Welcome to the Asimov, miss! How about a dark and stormy? They're on special this evening.”

His voice carried, but could not properly be called a yell. It was almost like an unusually loud stage whisper. His accent was rather unusual, being difficult to place. One might imagine he was an American attempting to affect an Irish brogue.

Enter Dr. Bradford

O'Brien pours a beer for the psychiatrist, nodding genially at the fellow. The fella didn't specify which kind of beer he wanted, so he ended up with some kind of wheat beer called Sprachbund.

“This is a good'n. Here for a visit or are you staying awhile, stranger?”

Enter Traz

As the Jekult sat down the barman smirked. The officer had not been too long aboard Tsiolkovsky, but had quickly become a welcome regular at the Asimov.

“Sure thing, Officer.” he began, picking up a glass and angling it under the tap while pulling the handle with his off-hand.

“I'm just glad you're here for a drink and not to shut me down for the illegal card games I run in the back.”

O'Brien chuckled softly, setting the now-filled glass of whatever-that-stuff-was-anyway in front of the security officer.

“So how fares the thin blue line, Scales? Arrest any hooligans today?”

Before taking his seat: Brent replies "I'm here for job oppertunities. It may just be a visit, but if the clientele is good, I'll stay here until I can't afford to pay for my drinks". The troubled psychiatrist walks to his seat.

After a moment of a nice calming envirement, the Doctor Hears the familiar bartenders voice and looks up to see him talking to a space-Lizard. "A Jekult?" He whispers to himself. Brent only knows a little about the Jekult from his boxing days. They were in a class all there own due to the amount of hits they could take. An opponent would lose all there stamina before having a successful, damage inducing hit. Few heavyweight boxers try every year to fight in the Jekult class, but are rejected due to the number of previous boxers that have died while boxing them.

"Damn Lizards" Brent thinks.

A little while longer passes and Brent finds that his beer has magically evaporated into thin air. After a brief moment of thought, he realized that he may have finished it awhile ago. Concluding that to be the case, he approaches the bartender once again and says, "can I get another of what I just had, please?"
He reaches into his wallet and grabs some currency out of it and places it on the table. "This should cover this one and the last one", he thinks to himself, as he cautiously looks around for the Jekult completely forgetting there was one in the bar. While waiting for the bartender to bring him his drink, he quickly scopes out the place for any women who seem worth talking to.

Arnold's eyes shot open as he awoke, slumped over in his first-class seat. His head ached like someone had beaten him without mercy, and his eyes mourned the darkness of sleep. Even in his not so modest accommodations, (sponsored by his now voided company credit-chip,) spaceflight still ripped through his very essence and nearly tore him to shreds.

Arnold was finally here, "Tsiolkovsky Station". Some nowhere station in the middle of nowhere space. The Mining Authority needed a new Foreman here, so instead of sending a capable veteran of actual mining...they sent a glorified businessman. Arnold was not pleased when he got the news.

Arnold collected himself from his seat and grabbing his suitcase and his arm, (damn stewardess made him put it in the overhead bin because "it could be a distraction to other passengers"). He was one of the first to exit the shuttle, a much better deal then sitting all the way back in Economy-Class waiting half an hour.

The station itself wasn't as horrible as he expected, but he wholly felt overdressed as he passed miners and space-folk alike. As he walked, Arnold popped in his prosthetic like he was slipping on a large metal glove. The device latched onto his arm and twitched into life, flexing every servo and joint to make sure nothing was damaged in the flight. He cracked his knuckles loudly as he joined his two hands together, ready to deal with whatever came his way.

Arnold stepped up to Bay One, hoping to learn how he could retrieve his things. He swiftly learned that he need to go to Bay Six by a fifty-year old cow of a woman and that he need to talk to the "MA representative." He sighed, pushing of the woman's desk and walked all the way over to Bay Six were a younger sweaty gentleman sat staring into his terminal monitor.

"Excuse me," Arnold greeted with the voice of an executive, "I'm from the Mining Authority and I'm trying to get ahold of my things. I've been transferred from Mars." The kid's eyes bolted up to Arnold, red with blood and cloudy with exhaustion.

"Oh thank god you're here!," the rep comment as he wiped sweat of his forehead. "I've had different managers and people off-station contacting me all day making sure you got here on time. I've never been this worry about my job in my life! When do you get here?" Arnold looked around, puzzled by the reps crazed behavior and held back a mild chuckle.
"Look, I just got here..."

"Good! Good, ok. Look here's a key for a room at the Asimov. Not the best place on the station but it's cheap. Your apartment is undergoing sanitation right now after the...uh...loss of the former Foreman. Your first day is tomorrow, seven A.M. station time."

"I'm taking the guy's place too?"

"Yes! What are you stupid?" The kid's eyes grew wide, realizing what he had just said. "Sorry, sorry! Too much pressure for one day. So sorry!"

Arnold took the key and raised his hands up, throwing an uneasy smile as he backed away from the rep. "It's fine kid," he lied as he backed away more and headed towards the Civilian Deck. Goddamn freakshow, he thought to himself.

After a short lift ride to the Promenade, Arnold was on his way to the Asimov. The walk there was nice, with a fountain that almost looked like a cheap knock-off of the one back in Eos Central and some clocks that displayed the time to places no one probably cared about. A gentle mix of humans and varied alien-folk made up the majority of the people ahead of him, either giving him a strangle look for wearing a nice designer suit or his obviously mechanical arm. People preached unbiased respect for all, but put a guy with a robot arm in the room and people gets jumpy. At the moment the only thing Arnold wanted most was something so strong and vile that he'd forget the last forty-eight hours. That or some coffee. Maybe both?

The entrance of the Asimov just smelt old fashion, designed to look like the type of place grandfather's grandfathers drank at and played pool. Too no ones surprise, it had an actual pool table. Along with that, a godforsaken jukebox sat in the corner pristine like they day it was manufactured. Arnold snickered to himself, amazed at the ends people would go for a classics vibe on a space station thousands of lightyears away from Sol. He took a seat up the the bar, dropped his newly acquired key and a wad of Terran currency. His tab for the night.

He looked around and noticed the mustachioed barkeep, a reptilian Jekult, some other guy with an empty beer, and a cute red-head. Arnold would probably send her a drink later if she wasn't preoccupied. Nice to see that this station wouldn't just be a sausage-fest of miners.

@Illogical JimTraz chuckled at the joke about illegal card games, saying "I couldn't shut you down, where would I get my drinks!?" Traz took a large gulp from his drink. “So how fares the thin blue line, Scales? Arrest any hooligans today?” O'Brien asked, and Traz was quick to reply. "Just Chuck from Maintenance. Again. Damn fool doesn't know when to stop with the 'women of the night', also had at least ten beers on him. He'll be spending a good bit of time in the drunk tank, probably get put on probation for the umpteenth time, and nothing will come of it...." Traz sipped his drink a bit before looking up to the Bartender. "Sounds like you have a customer to attend to. I'll be here when you get back."

The comforting scent of beer on tap and the cheerful bartender lifted her mood instantly. To be honest as much as she wanted a change of scenery it rather nice to be in an establishment with such a homely feel. Atlas sat her envelope and key on the bar before her and dropped her duffle bag on the ground, she took a seat on an empty stool at the nicely crafted timber bar. Atlas removed her cap and loosening her gingerbread coloured curls before retying back into a ponytail and smiling back at the sharp-dressed gentleman who welcomed her. She considered his offer for a rum laden cocktail, rum certainly was her preferred taste but it was never pretty and it usually ended with her doing the walk-of-shame with a wicked hangover the next morning. That will not happen tonight.

"No thanks" she shook her head "Pint of pale ale if you have it though?" Atlas swivelled around casually to take in the vibe... And suss out her fellow patrons.

Drudging down main street was Spanner. A rude name really for one of the better engineer's on the ship. His slightly longer limbs making him stick out like a sore thumb. The lights beating down on him as he walked down the lanes, illuminating the shoddily made cobblestone streets. Stepping over the large holes that have popped up after one too many cart has been pushed over it. You would be shocked at what the technicians say they do to what they really do. Reminds him of a old mining ship that was rumoured to be many light years away from earth called Ruby Midget or something, had a radiation leak that killed all on board. The ship was famed for its lack of good technicians and engineers that flop like fishes. Anyway, there was rumours that the new doc had arrived, the new quartermaster had touched down and had a rough down with the man behind the desk and the new foreman had arrived after the last... incident that we don't talk about.

Fresh from the engine bay was spanner. Covered in grease and grime from head to toe he was still on duty, going to fix the air vents in some of the shops. The bar happened to be on the list, scheduled for a check up. Would be fine to have a look in on ole' Dan's bar. Maybe he forgot about last time, man I hope he forgot about last time. I mean, he diddnt know it was his mother! Grumbling as he walked down the road, it wasn't even his job, the technicians should be doing this not an engineer, but because of annual leave they both left to get married! Now he has to spin a propel-la.

Stepping into the room with his equipment looking at them all, each one more strange then the next, a scaled sheriff. A man with what seems to be one arm, whoever the man with the briefcase is and a redhead, poor bird. Has no idea what she walked into. "Hey Dan! Come to fix your vent!" when coming in the last thing he heard was "Pint of pale ale if you have it though?" looking to her, a smile on his face "Put it on me Dan, let the Kid have a free drink, call it a welcome to our little patch or hell." with that he walked past the bar and grabbed a ladder.

What an odd sort of patrons gathered around in the bar, her first impressions of the notable few that stood out- A strong set dark haired man with melancholic look about his as he drank his beer That guys needs a new hobby, a slick suited businessman who obviously had been through a similar tragedy regarding his arm as like her Trouble.... Businessmen are trouble. The her eyes fixated on the reptilian humanoid talking to the bartender on the other side of the bar. Atlas had never seen such a creature before, sure she had seen her fair share of space travellers but nothing like him, she stared at him for the longest time. Well... That's something you don't see everyday

"Put it on me Dan, let the Kid have a free drink, call it a welcome to our little patch or hell."
Atlas's attention switched to the lanky greased up tool boy that strutted in and hollered at Barman O'Brian, she blushed at him as he walked past "So are all the grease monkey's this easy to get a drink out of here?" She chuckled.

O'Brien raised his eyebrows, regarding the psychiatrist for a moment. His answer to such a simple question was rather vague, even cagey. The barman wondered briefly if the man was harboring some past secrets. Perhaps he was on the run from the law. Or maybe he was just that sort of man that feigned mystery in an attempt to seem more interesting. But, he figured, analysis was not really his job.

“What's your line, then? Sales?” he asked, pouring another Sprachbund.

Enter Arnold

The barman set the drink on the counter before Brent as another unfamiliar face appeared. This one had a metal arm. A real weird crop of patrons tonight. As the newly-appointed Foreman entered, that Godforsaken jukebox began to play a new song, unbidden. Although the contraption was on the surface an entirely accurate mid-Twentieth Century reproduction, it housed a simple AI possessed of a crude facsimile of will and personality. It chose to play that song, though one might opine it had chosen that song a little late, or perhaps a little early.

Dan glanced at the stranger, extending his arm to a friendly point, smiling thinly. He spoke informally, but politely, as was his wont.

“Welcome to the Asimov, guy. M'name's Dan O'Brien, and I'm the proprietor of this establishment. Dark and stormies are on sale tonight, and we've got more beers on tap than any bar between here and Tau Ceti.”

Whilst awaiting a response, O'Brien briefly returned his attention to the security officer. All he could do was nod and roll his eyes at the mention of Chuck. Charles 'Chuck' Cohen was something of a celebrity on Tsiolkovsky Station- a perennial troublemaker who presently held the stationwide record for most arrests. If he was just a little less proficient at his job, and the station a little less desperate for able hands, he would almost certainly have been forced out years ago.

But he was a very accomplished drinker, and moreover an occasional patron of the Asimov Lounge. So, was he really so bad a guy? The barman certainly couldn't say so without at least a few minutes' consideration.

Before he could do much in the way of considering, O'Brien first had to consider the young lady's request. Not that it was much of a puzzler. He had quite a variety of pale ales, and none too few on tap. He promptly came to a decision and picked up a glass, angling it beneath a tap and pulling the corresponding handle.

“Here you go, pretty lady.” he began, quickly covering the few steps between them and setting the drink down before her.

“This one's called Reinhardt Ambrée. French, I think. At least originally.”

Enter Spanner

He glanced toward the front door as Spanner, one of the station's engineers, called out to him. Something about the vents. Was there something wrong with them? Dan didn't know much about that kind of thing and, even though he was unaware of any such issues, reasoned that there could certainly be such a problem. Never mind that Engineering would certainly never waste a capable employee on anything not immediately life-threatening.

“Yeah, uh...” he managed to utter, before the engineer kept talking. It seemed he wanted to buy the young lady's drink. O'Brien did not much care who paid for the drink- so long as someone did- but he really could not tolerate such unfortunate references to what was surely his favorite place in the Galaxy- Tsiolkovsky! Especially from somebody like Spanner.

Sure, it was a little off the beaten path. It was perpetually understaffed. Rough and tumble sorts often passed through. And the safety protocols were woefully, occasionally even lethally inadequate. But still! It was home, dammit.

“Now I hardly think there's call for that kind of talk, pal. This is a mighty fine space station. Never mind that its the only one for at least ten light years.”

Brent looks towards the bartender after receiving his drink, and responds. "I am a psychiatrist. I help those who have problems such as depression, night terrors, suicidal thoughts, abstract thinking, and anger management." He takes a sip of his beer and sits for a moment. He notices a younger looking lady with some discolored skin, but nothing too horrible-looking to say she isn't a pretty lady. She also seems to be getting a lot of attention from the rest of the members at the bar. "It would be foolish to try and start a conversation with her, she would think I'm just another drunk trying to buy her a drink." he says in his head.

Brent sits and continues sipping on his beer. He thinks to himself, "This is beer number two. judging by the condition I was in, I should be able to have at least seven before getting too hammered. But perhaps I should try to stay somewhat sober, maybe even talk to the nice looking lady once the crowd dies out." He looks towards the bartender and asks, "So, get a lot of business around here?"

Zhen Lin Shi rose from her sleep abruptly as the transport ship lurched to a stop. The passengers that joined her on the eight-hour journey began to stir from their chairs as a tinny feminine voice announced that the ship had arrived at a place called Tsiolkovsky Station and repeated the message in Chinese.

Zhen groaned at the mere thought of getting to her feet again. She had been traveling from station to station for the better part of a year now, and this last stretch had been one of her most pleasant traveling experiences by far. Arriving at a small trade way-point station deep in UTS space, she had done last-minute bookkeeping for a trader whose accountant took ill, and he had given her a substantial amount of money as payment, enough for a decent seat on a flight to this station and a good meal (a human delicacy called a BLT). She was harassed by a racist customs official for "looking too wealthy for what she was", but comparatively she would have still taken it over scrounging to get the cheapest flight on one of the older bulk passenger ships. Sure the leather seats on this flight weren't perfect, but compared to flying towards the back end of nowhere on a glorified cargo ship, the trip to this station was practically luxurious.

Noticing the crowded line to the exit thinning, she delicately got out of her chair and began milling towards the exit, trying not to draw much attention to herself. Slowly moving towards the rear of the plan, she heard the telltale sounds of a customs official interview. Bracing herself for the worst, Zhen forced herself into a more dignified pose as she stepped off the ship. There were a couple of teams there, and she found herself directed to a gray-haired older man with striking resemblance to a Xiang vulture, assisted by a younger looking Asian official with short dark hair and a round face standing off to the side, who actually smiled politely at her when she approached. The vulture-like man, on the other hand, looked offended at everything about her, from her well-worn clothes to her blue-streaked tendrils.

"Great, another one of these four-eyed punks," the official mumbled irritably. "You want to translate for this one, Chang?"

"My name is Russel, Captain..."

"I speak English fluently, sir," Zhen said respectfully. The vulture man looked briefly surprised at her sudden understanding of English before sheepishly returning his focus to his small datapad.

"Name?" he demanded.

"Zhen Lin Shi."

"Search her bag," the vulture captain ordered his assistant. Shaking his head, 'Russel' stepped forward to look through the rucksack that Zhen handed him, while the captain asked a few more questions. She recited the details of her alternate persona flawlessly, thanks to months of practice. It didn't sit well with her to be so dishonest, but Zhen didn't want to broadcast that she was exiled royalty while she traveled along the galaxy. She didn't know if her uncle was still trying to catch her or not, but Zhen had no intention of making that job more necessary by drawing attention to herself.

"...and your reason for visiting?" the captain finally asked her.

"I'm looking for work," she responded.

"You should talk to the barman at the Asimov Lounge, name's O'Brien," Russel interrupted, handing the rucksack back to Zhen unharmed. "Look for the big sign at the end of the promenade, can't miss it."

"Right, you're free to go," the vulture captain said bluntly, still staring at the information on his datapad.

"Welcome to Tsiolkovsky Station!" Russel continued brightly as his superior called for someone else to come over. Zhen bowed respectfully to both of them and scurried off, deeply relieved that the disembarking went easier then expected. Ignoring the overhead instructions directing passengers to the baggage claim area, as she already carried everything she owned, Zhen wandered around the docking bay before finding a lift in the back area and riding it until she reached a level designated as the civilian deck. Stepping off into the soon to be populated Promenade area, Zhen felt more optimistic then she had in a long time. Tsiolkovsky Station at a glance wasn't much different from any of the dozen or so spaceports she visited during her exile, but there was certainly something more inviting about this place compared to everywhere else. Zhen couldn't quite put her finger on what drew her to this station of all places, but as she looked at all the vendors and shopkeepers setting up for the evening rush, she couldn't help but feel that after so many days of wandering, going hungry, being harassed by xenophobes, and sleeping on hard metal surfaces, things were going to be okay.

Finally, Zhen reached a set of large open doors with a sign overhead, reading "Asimov Lounge". The familiar sounds of an interstellar bar suddenly reminded her of how thirsty she was. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a few leftover coins from the quick bookkeeping job at the last station. Thinking it would be enough to get a small drink once she talked to the 'O'Brien' who owned the Lounge, she stepped through the doors in her usual dignified manner, taking a moment to look around at all the strange ancient human curios, especially the physical pool table. The game had fascinated her the first time she saw it, and no matter where she went she always took the time to play a few games. She had gotten pretty decent at it too, and had won herself a meal on more then one occasion with a little craftiness. The chance to play on a real, physical pool table was extremely tantalizing, but Zhen restrained herself, promising to indulge once she found some employment first. Distracted from the strange crowd assembled at the bar, she took a seat at the far end, closest to the pool table she was admiring from a distance.

Looking over at the red head "Notice how I am the only one that sent you a drink. Everyone else in this bar happens to have their balls up there arse!" pointing to the array of colourful characters. "Note as the room slowly turns against me, much like a time I was in a fight on Baxter 12. Technicians and Engineers fought against the admin team and the security. That was how I got my name I think, 'spanner' from when I grabed a spanner and knocked out the Chief of security!" he laughed at this as he pushed his cart through the bar "Infact unless I am mistaken you remind me of someone. Cant rember who, but someone none the less" chuckling and giving a smile he walked on.

Getting to the fan he pulled the grate off and started working on the mechanism. Such a shame that these things break all the time, the station should get better technicians. Ones that did there job and turned up on time. Any way, memorys of a fruit cake and all that. Hitting the command modual once the fan started going. Clunking and grinding but moving. Sealing the vent he hoped off the ladder "And for my services Dan, I would like whatever my lady freind is having! She can pay for this one!"

@UserSipping his drink, Traz grumbled to himself as Spanner walked into the bar, and immediatly began flirting with the closest woman. Traz never did like Spanner, amazed at his ability to gloat about himself and insult everyone around at the same time. When Spanner started yelling about everyone's balls and commenting about how everyone would turn against him, Traz yelled out "Just fix the damn fan already!". Spanner eventually did, and asked for drink, commenting that the woman he bought a drink for should pay. "What happened Spanner? Run out of enough 'Gentlemanly Charm' to pay for your own drink? Leave the poor girl alone, and maybe I WON'T give the next UTS ship that passes by a call, huh?" Traz called out at him, a fang-filled smirk upon his reptilian face.

"Bingo"

Seeing the disturbance arise, Brent knew that this would be a great place for business. Brent ponders to himself, "The engineer, a somewhat unpleasent fellow, has caused a reaction in the Lizard. Was it something he said, or something he did. Or Perhaps the Lizard has never been a fan of him. Which would mean the Lizard comes to the station often, or he may even work here. He is obviously an officer of the law, It would make sense if he worked here. The Lizard could be a nice client. Law enforcers see some terrible things causing night terrors, which turns into insomnia, which causes depression, which could lead to anger issues. The engineer might be good for business too tho. Working day in and day out. One of the most important job with a station full of ungrateful savages. He probably works his heart out and hardly ever gets the gratitude he deserves. His "thank you's" comes in the form of a paycheck, but never from the people's mouth. Not being recognized as an important person can sometimes cause depression, and in his case, could turn into alcoholism."

Brent knew that he could easily stop this situation, but letting it continue would help him gather more information about the two men. Perhaps a rebutle by the engineer is necessary. However stopping it now would keep the chance of violence at a low.

@User Without a concrete plan in mind, Brent called out across the bar, "Splinter, was it? If you need a drink, i'd be happy to buy a few for you. I was just thinking to myself it was getting a little warm in here, but now that the vent is fixed, it feels great. Let me pay for your next couple drinks as my appreciation." Brent motioned for the engineer to come on over to the section of the bar he is sitting at.

Atlas thanked O'Brian and took the frosted glass. She took a sip, the delightfully cold beer was already going down smoothly. She did expected some sort of retort from the glorified fix-it man at her friendly dig at his profession though the sudden outpouring of confidence from the lanky man caught her by surprise, raising an eyebrow as he proudly spoke of how he received his nickname.
Wow! Real winner of a place you picked here Atti She rolled her eyes before turning directly to him "Spanner huh?" Looking him up and down deliberately, something about him rubbed her the wrong way. He was obviously a few years older than herself and wasn't exactly unattractive but certainly not her particular style. Atlas thought back trying to place his face as he spoke of her being familiar to him, she had done a few station rotations in her career like most of the people in her line of employment but she couldn't place his face and that irritated her. A smirk crept onto her lips as she heard the reptile man demanded Spanner to get to work, Atlas turned away and reached into her pocket retrieving her credit card, she slid it towards O'Brian with a thanks as Spanner began tinkering with fan. Atlas made a mental note to gain access to the personal files on her first shift tomorrow for curiosity sake.

A few more patrons came and went as Atlas quickly finished her beer, business was obviously good tonight for the bar, captive market really. A Xianluon that had entered caught her eye, a little shorter than the ones she had dealt with before but intriguing none the less, Atti was always fascinated by their skin such beautiful original colours and patterns covered each creature and she had never met any two that were exactly alike.
And for my services Dan, I would like whatever my lady friend is having! She can pay for this one!" Spanner called out.

"What happened Spanner? Run out of enough 'Gentlemanly Charm' to pay for your own drink? Leave the poor girl alone, and maybe I WON'T give the next UTS ship that passes by a call, huh?" the reptilian called out again, there was clearly some animosity between the two patrons by the sound of his voice.

The a third party chimed in "Splinter, was it? If you need a drink, i'd be happy to buy a few for you. I was just thinking to myself it was getting a little warm in here, but now that the vent is fixed, it feels great. Let me pay for your next couple drinks as my appreciation." It was quiet dark haired fellow on the far side of the bar.

"There you go, looks like there's you won't be short tonight" she quipped at Spanner.

Atlas relaxed a little more and motioned to O'Brian for another glass.

"This is your stop, Doc, good seeing you again." Ts'Kul said. Ts'Kul was a Jekult, standing a 6 feet 7 inches, well built, and usually in some form of battle ready clothing, with a sidearm on his hip. "Yeah, good to see you, too. You keep those meds, they'll help with those bullet holes." She says, with a slight smile, before gathering her gear, packed in a Backpack, two suitcases, and a Trunk which follows her on an electronic 'leash.' She stepped out of the ship and into the docking ring, heading straight for the Passenger Check-In. She goes up to the desk, and says, "Hey, I'm here for the Chief Medical Officer Job. This where I check in?" The man at the desk takes a look at her papers, and hands her the papers she needs to fill out. Upon doing so, he directs her towards the Medical Bay, and says,

"It's good to finally have a Doctor. The nurses are all well and good, but still, we're lucky there hasn't been anything major..."

"yeah, I'll make sure that you're all taken care of." She says, walking of towards the Medical Bay.

Getting to the Medical Bay, Lena encounters the Head Nurse, who directs her to her office, and goes back to work. "Ah, now to find a good drinking establishment." She says. Doing a quick search, she ends up finding out about the Asimov, and notes the location for later. After this, she begins the process of settling in.

At the end of the day, she gets up and stretches, cracking her back. She then makes her way over to the Asimov Lounge, and upon entering, she goes up to the bar, saying, "So, this is the Asimov Lounge, huh? Nice place. Could I get a Whiskey on the rocks, Bartender?"

((OOC NOTE: Her robotic arm is obvious))