As his glass disappeared, his frown bordered on a scowl. He registered disappointment, or a very loose approximation of disappointment. Kellogg didn’t seem to care much about anything, in A3-21’s estimate, which the android appreciated. So often people talked of him as the Next Best Thing, or Almost Up to Projections. He never simply was. Except with Kellogg, who didn’t seem to care much about anything, let alone the Next Greatest Prototype. There was something almost refreshing about being simply annoying.
So instead, his scowl turned thoughtful, and with similarly too-fluid motions he again flagged down the bartender with a polite, but by no means subdued, “Pardon me, ma’am. May I have another, but mixed with Nuka-Cola to minimize some of the more bitter flavors of the alcohol?”
He looked sideways at Kellogg, halfway between a challenge and a conspiratorial, knowing look. “Before the Great War, mixed drinks were quite popular. I have that in my database. I’m not sure why, as the knowledge seems quite useless. But I believe the drink will be more pleasant, so perhaps it serves a purpose after all.”
He took the proffered drink, ready for round two, and sniffed it. The same concentration of shit alcohol, but now mixed with flat, pre-war syrupy seltzer water. He took a sip. It tasted marginally better.
How irritating, but effective in the art of distraction. Not for himself, but the occupation of the woman behind the counter. Even despite the stiff and specific words, a large majority of the barflies that lingered stopped paying much attention to the awkward duo. Conrad simply pursed his lips, watching the calculated expressions of A3-21--an awful series of numbers to remember, quite simply because it made no logical associations within one’s brain--without overtly showing that he had been. His cold, collected gaze had instead been trained across the room.
“Garbage.” He grumbled bitterly before proceeding to drain the first of his two drinks, and pushed the cracked glass towards the taps that lined the inner-most edge of the countertop. His posture shifted into something a little more lax--uncaring as opposed to calm, of course--and he pressed his elbows into the chipped shellac that, once upon a time, held the wood’s grain in place to prevent it from splintering. But A3-21 might as well of had a miniature floral umbrella or some kind of dainty pre-war additive hanging off the side of his glass.
They did plenty of wrong before nuclear detonation, which had been what lead them to their worst case scenario. One of such things had been disgusting habits, such as mixing sugary beverages with dense spirits. But enough of his poor decisions in drink choices and back on track, lest they lose the target he had been sent to eliminate.
Kellogg turned his gaze down towards his knuckles, of which were scarred and unsurprisingly bruised.
“Look at the situation again,” he mumbled from around the glass, “what do you see?”
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