Illogical Jim — Roleplayer Guild

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.”
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A Bleedin Bard

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