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(Setting) Lock and Barrel Bar
| >Despite the age and its obscurity, the bar is still populated. It's drinks and food still being ordered by those who dwell in the shadows; even after all these years. Though the place has seen some action care of more modern woes of the city, the bar continues and its patrons persist.
| The more things change...
>A man in an azure suit walks into the quiet room with faces new and old. The menu above the bar is still misspelled, the old-time digital PDA-style menus at the tables still flicker.
"Blue Moon Tea, half-spice please."
>He approaches the bar and orders a drink he can only get here. Less a house specialty, more that it was the only place that served the unpopular non-alcoholic drink. Warm, soothing, and and altogether charming.
| >The door opens and a blonde haired woman with blue highlights on the tips walks in. She breathes in the musky, nostalgic air and takes off her white trench coat, hanging it on a nearby coat rack. Underneath she's wearing worn jeans and an old t-shirt that bears the slogan "World is a Fuck, Born to Die."
"Hell, ah miss this place..." >She says as she approaches the counter and orders some fried pickles.
| >The azure suit is served a teacup of near-black tea, when the bartender sprinkles some blue crystals into it and stirs, the cup swirls into a dark blue with a shining white full moon in the middle.
"That's just what I needed."
>As the blonde pickle-ordering gal sits at the bar, the Azure man raises his tea cup.
"Nothing else like it anymore these nights."
|
| >A man in a slightly worn coat walks in. His boots dully thumping against the floor of the bar. He doesn't bother taking off his coat, and instead sits on a bar stool, ordering eggs and black coffee. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and hanging one off his lips. He looks at both the blond and the man in the suit
"You guys mind?"
> He briefly puts a hand through his black hair and sighs.
| >The blond munches away at her fried pickles and looks up, her face covered in crumbs.
"Go on, but the pickles are all mine," >She says, resuming her feast.
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| >In a tucked away corner of old city from which the rest of GCity grew and consumed, there is an old bar. It's decorated with non-functional firearms of various eras. The dance floor lacks the holographic magic of it more modern competitors. The bar is a scuffed and scratched oak; oak-colored patches of WoodMend(tm) concealing old bullet holes.