A few sensory organs turn as the stranger enters the door, but most people here are more interested in the booze. Those few which notice him lose interest quickly, dismissing another ignorant dwarf-spawned gene trash. Of course, since I'm the stranger, I won't describe him quite so insultingly.
I walk up to the "gene trash" end of the bar with what could only be described as a "swagger". I'm not really into westerns, but I have some of that bad-ass attitude you only see from people walking into bars full of scum and feeling okay about it. Not that I consider myself a badass hotshot or anything, I'm too old for that egotistical crap. It's just how you walk after kicking enough ass, and you'd have to be Doc Holliday or Jesse Jones to understand, so don't bother.
After wiping off the one usable stool made for people my shape, I remove about 280 pounds from my feet and attempt to irritate the bartender enough to get served.
"You think maybe I could get helped over here?"
The multi-tentacled creature tending this hole of a bar glances my way and grunts before returning to his apparently much more interesting inspection of a shot glass. Accordingly, I glance in the mirror across from me, wondering whether I have "Retard" branded across my forehead in Andronese, or if this guy just really likes his shot glass. No brand is evident to my sight, just an average looking human of fifty or sixty earth years. Of course, the myriad scars and heavy build make me a fair cry from average, but this dipshit probably couldn't tell me from a sectoid.
Rather than acting on my first instinct, which would probably involve a lot of hassle later by the police and attention I don't want, I smile with nothing but my mouth and noisily deposit some cash on the bar. Looking up again from his Shot Glass of Stupefication, Mr. Personality begins a private debate over the poor manners of gene trash and the desire for income. Eventually his greed wins out and he manages to restrain his disgust long enough to stand in front of me.
"What want, dwarf-spawn? I is busy man."
His human is worse than my Atlantean, but conversation isn't why I'm here.
"What do you think I want, squid? This is a bar and I want a drink. Gimme Earth Vodka. A triple."
"Earth Vodka? You got any idea what that cost, gene trash?"
Another few bills on the bar seem to change his attitude. I've seen enough squids to know he just got scared, and with good reason. People who throw money around in places like this tend to attract the wrong kind of attention.
"Earth Vodka." The statement is delivered quietly and accompanies the object of my desire, a human-designed shot glass for triple drinks, thoughtfully holding several ounces of vodka. Probably some really nasty cheap brand, since that's what the Jor'kcians usually get when they purchase rare trading goods on unsuspecting sub-tech planets like Earth. Nasty and cheap is exactly what I want. Kind of poetic.
The squid backs off with my cash, retreating to a safer end of the bar to start running the program to open his strong box. Two of his free hands are within grasping distance of the standard issue particle beam cannon. He doesn't need to worry, though. The trouble's going to come messing with me, in hopes that I have more where that came from. Also exactly what I want.
The scrape of chair legs on the floor is an ugly sound. Cheap synthetics make for bad friction. Knowing what's in those chairs makes the sound even worse. I happen to know exactly what is in each chair and which chairs moved, because I paid attention when I came in and I have good ears. Real good. For instance, I can also hear one of the midget things in the corner with the eyestalks. She's taking money for bets on how long it's going to take these guys to put me down, and which one will do it. I don't really speak her language, but it gets translated by my system so fast I might as well.
***Sonics and Vibrations: Query***
*Nature of Query?*
***Tracking units labeled A1-A4, Simultaneous Amplification: Arc
5.9-6.7, one standard increase***
*Affirmative. Units tracking. Amplification is 2.5.*
I ponder, for a few milliseconds, powering up my Mangatech system to really put on a show for the goof bartender. I don't want to attract that much attention though, so the idea is rejected. I'm just here for a brawl and a drink, not a session with Galactic Contraband and Augmentation Authority.
Sonics track three bad guys behind me, clumped together enough to tell me they're punks and not pros. Amplification says they haven't pulled any firearms, so this shouldn't be too challenging.
"You came in to the wrong bar, gene trash."
His voice up close is even more grating than the chairs were. The triple shot of vodka goes down with a quick movement. Like a magician's slight-of-hand trick, the expression of my mouth has suddenly become a smile behind the glass. A hearty clunk accompanies the connection of the glass to the bartop.
"You hear me, gene trash?"
"Maybe he don't, he look old to me. Mamma sez that's why the top part
turns grey."
I am old. If I were an average human, I'd be mostly decomposed by now.
"Maybe we put you down like an old Santalan, yeah?"
The translators have a lot of leeway with Punk Galactic like these kids speak. Maybe they really have Santalans like we had horses, though. You never know. And, I don't particularly care. Minute air vibrations tell me how they're standing and where their "hands" are. I don't even have to use the grungy mirror. The thick frame of the shot glass crunches loudly in my hand, and a microsecond later I know where every fragment is, and just how to hold my hand. The next movement is too quick to follow with most organic reflexes.
It's an impossible shot. No one could throw those fragments with that much accuracy, all at once, even if they were looking. A human shoulder shouldn't even allow me to throw like that, behind me. Not the average human's shoulder, anyway. I know where every fragment lands to within a tenth of a centimeter. Every spot is extremely painful and vulnerable without being a serious injury. Like I said, I don't want that much attention. A story like this will just get dismissed as drunken fable, instead of calling in a death investigation.
The way those guys howl and thrash around contrasts very aesthetically with the absolute stillness of the other bar patrons. It's very important to make an art out of whatever you do best.
"Bartender, I seem to have broken my glass. How clumsy of me. Could I trouble you for another?"
As I finish up my fourth triple Earth vodka, I notice for the sixth time the bartender giving me a nervous but hopeful glance out of the corner of his "eye". Apparently, it's now closing time for even this dive, and he's hoping I'm not going to stay any more almost as much as he's hoping I don't trash his place.
Well, I'll have time for more tomorrow night. Might as well get some training in before dawn. I don't sleep much these days, for various reasons I won't go into now.
Red and Black.
The only colors are Red and Black. Red fire, Red blood. Black ash, Black smoke. The earth...the Earth is Black. The sky is Black. Except where it glows Red. I used to feel pride at the color Red. The sensation which pervades me is indescribable. No horror novel or movie ever created such an emotion, or at least not in me. Only here, the place I know better than anyone, am I truly able to fear.
The only sounds are cries. Abject, purposeless wails of despair. Hope is only a word now, not even a memory. Ragged cries of pain and suffering. No one remains to ease their torture. These are the lucky ones. Outraged screams of anger. The idea of revenge is foreign.
But even this scene, even in some futuristic virtual reality projection, would never make me feel this way. The feeling within me comes from knowledge I bear all the time, now.
I did this. Again.
As I stand in the base shower, dissolving a week's worth of grime, I think about the dream. Not much to this one. Standard guilt trip, and I don't need a psychiatrist to talk to about it. A quick spray of water to rinse off the alkaline so I don't eat the surface off whatever I touch today, and I'm ready for a new day. My skin flows from the hump on my back to cover the rest of my body, color shifting through various hues to the "clothes" I've picked for the day. Soon the hump is gone and I look like the average human again.
In a few short hours the day's business is done and I have nothing to do but wait for everything else to catch up to me. The only place I can see a fellow human is in a slave shop or brothel, and those wouldn't be real humans anyway. I used to complain about people being sheep, a long time ago. I had no idea how much independence Earth had compared to the other gene colonies. Out of hundreds, the only one we found with any respectable sort of non-conformist attitude was JK Omega 7. But I'm wandering. I don't really want to talk about that right now.
After a few hours of training, the bar is open again.
"[click]I'm going to (untranslatable) your filthy heart out, squid![whrrr]"
Impressive. The equivalent of three in the afternoon, and this guy's already plowed. I don't even recognize his race, and I've got most of them on file. If my translator's having problems with his language, he must be from a real backwoods planet. Or maybe his speech is slurred.
"I'm sorry sir, we don't carry any more cash than that!"
What a loser. The squid might not have had time to get his gun, but I can tell from here he already hit the Police button. Not that they're going to get off of their fat asses until he and his shop are so much ash. This drunk is still gonna get hauled off, though. And did he expect to make a fortune robbing a place like this shithole?
"I'm gonna [click] count to...uh...three![buzz]"
He's pretty happy at coming up with such a big number. The bartender probably has fifteen minutes before Loser gets there. But, just to be safe, I should probably step in. After all, if this place gets shut down for the week, I'll have to spend time somewhere nice.
"Hey there, buddy. Why don't you put the squid down and get your ugly ass out of here before the police show up?"
I know there's no way I'm going to talk him out of a fight, but I'm going through the motions. That way, no one can say I picked it. Besides, Aranae would approve of the idea, even if I'm lacking the annoying politeness he'd use.
[click]"Who the (untranslatable) are you, shrimp?"
Shrimp? This guy doesn't look that big.
"I'm the guy who's about to break you like a twig, smiley. Put the squid down before I get rough."
His outraged roar is pretty impressive. I actually feel the support rods shivering. If I didn't have sonic dampening, that would have hurt.
Oh. I thought he was already standing. But now, he's getting up. And up. And up...how did he fold himself down that small? The squid gets tossed into the shelves, and covered with broken glass and liquor. He'll live.
I don't like craning my head to look at somebody. But that's okay, because this guy's about to come down.
[chunk]"Die little man![click]"
Somehow, the human-sized fist shooting down at me misses. "Somehow" means I dodged, but most people here missed it. Smiley hits the floor hard, and another record bellow rips forth. Judging by the impact, I can take this guy's strength and then some. So, when the second fist comes at me, I
catch it
and hold on. With one hand. Audible cracks and crunches ensue, quickly masked by the inevitable bellow.
Ahh, the Police. Without looking, I shift my weight and throw the dope through the open door into two surprised officers' car.
After some discussion with the groggy squid and myself, the Police leave with the goof in the car, growling and crying.
"Welcome to me, Earthman! My free drinks for you!"
This squid really needs to give up on the human-speak. He reminds me of a bad Nintendo translation. I won't complain about free drinks, though.
A few vodkas later, I'm feeling a little relaxed and the bartender has had enough time to get up the nerve he needs to question me.
"So Earthman, you very tough!"
I'm not sure if that was supposed to be a question, but I shrug regardless.
"So how you get so tough?"
The look on my face says I'm not interested in vocal communication at this point, but I'm loose enough not to reply with anything nasty right now.
"You no talk, huh? Trong silent type, huh?"
Trong? Oh, strong. Shrug.
"Tell what. You sit here, drink my free. Tell about you. Beat up troublemakers. Yeah?"
That one takes a while in my state. Oh, he wants a bargain.
Well, all right. I'm here for the next four days and I can drink enough to bury this joint, if the drinks are free. If he wants a story, I'll give him one. I used to talk enough for ten people.
"Deal, squid."
Where should I start? How about the beginning...except, that's already been done. Glitterboy and Aranae are better storytellers than I am anyway.
"Okay, how about if I tell you about the very first time I ever spent time at this station. Might have even been this same bar, with some serious remodeling..."