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Alcoholic Establishment >>
Wouldn't it be grand if a certain red jacket and associated shoulder pieces..
..had some kind of
magical enchantment that alerted the wearer to their plight. Now that would certainly be something. Perhaps in place of that, the coat might come alive and devour the wrong type of person rather than its rightful owner, like a magical mimic. Wrapping itself around the unfortunate victim and gore them within its red fabric. Yeah. Alternatively, perhaps the heightened senses of the owner kick in and allow him to spot at a moment's notice a thief, swooping by and rending them limb from limb.
All of this is nice in theory but in reality: none
are reality.
Theft had transpired and Omi, beginning to fume over the lack of quality service as he perceived it, had not noticed the caper occur. Can't really say it's the first time. Hell, it was unlikely to be the last. He wasted a lot of job money on getting those made and tended to put them through hell least of all irresponsibly leaving them where any street urchin or deranged lunatic could make off with the vivid red garb. No doubt he would be infuriated later but much the way you would be for losing your keys; obnoxious and a little spendy to fix the pragmatic issues at hand but, not the end of the world.
That would be a future issue though. Again, the now's Omi Barsait wouldn't be paying attention to a lone woman exiting the bar unless that woman was approaching him with mugs of ale and perhaps a complimentary dessert for the extremely subpar atmosphere.
Too many moments had gone by without him, implicitly
him, getting his drink. Palming his own currency and then pocketing it with a cooler shade of frustration like a parent revisiting admonishing their young, Omi knew the score here. What was the only logical conclusion to people having alcohol and him not? No way this was upscale enough to be a reservation gig where only the "important" got through on a list, so the next best bet was in store: there
was staff.. as in past tense. And little of it. Maybe one overworked waitress or something. And they were what, out on lunch? No, there'd be a sign. Then it stood to reason they skipped off the job. They were doing their job previously, ergo the alcohol, but now they weren't doing the job anymore, thus him not getting his. This checked out logically, crossed off every box. But, if people were drinking their drinks now.. that meant they couldn't have quit or lazily avoided responsibility very long ago. Realistically that meant they were nearby. Probably funneling drinks to their pals and cooking the books on it. Real trash.
Casually exiting his seat and standing tall as he turned around to truly survey the room's inhabitants for the first time, realistically, it was likely one of these scumbags. Listening and listening to the pleas of patronage, inwardly snickering, and chugging down alcohol. Management probably didn't even know their one amateur rank employee was like this. Who'd tell them, drunkards? No. Hell, through Omi's bitter hyper focus, he heard someone shouting out they'd buy a round for everyone.
That can't happen, if there isn't someone to serve the rounds. Despicable.
Pop audibly cracked his tensing fists within their metal housings.
That would be
unforgivable if he figured out who it was. He'd have half the mind to harass them but, if he could just prod them into doing their job.. that would certainly be better for everyone. Self assured at his own forward thinking, Omi decided on a course of action. The only course of action.
He began to glare down at the seated patrons.
People give things away subconsciously you see. Even if it was a soulless monster who was skipping work, or a sultry concubine without a single ounce of moral decency, or a mischievous kid without a work ethic -- the movement and pressure would get them to make eye contact if only for a moment. That's how Omi'd deduce who the server was. Once that went down, he'd prod them behind the counter. Start off nice, hint about a tip. Hopefully they would see reason. But, he would then escalate if they kept playing dumb. In his line of work, the wild haired man had done his fair share of manipulation and taking advantage for money so he "understood." But you give your word you'll do a task, you do the task.
Now who was it. A man? A woman? An entity? He supposed it didn't really matter. There was no way this was a misunderstanding; this was now a duel at high noon with whomever had the misfortune to fall prey to meeting his judging eyes.
And somebody was gonna be wetting his lips real damned soon.
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