The dull orange light flickers overhead, sparsely illuminating the bar you’ve just entered. Its peeling walls are decorated with stains and bullet holes, and the wooden floor creaks with every step of your boots. The ribbon of your dress trails gently against the floor- you suppose you’ll have to wash it when you return hive. An indigo bartender eyes you up and down, the scowl on his scarred face filled with suspicion.
It’s perfect.
Your name is FLECKE UBOZOA, and you have tests do to.
You take a seat at the bar, crowded with patrons that look much less out of place than you do. The bartender walks over to you, merely grunting as opposed to asking your order.
“Hm.....Ii’ll taakee....” You begin, a dopey grin across your face as you feign indecision. It doesn’t really matter what you get; you’re not here to drink. “...Soomeethiing sweeeet, I guueess.”
The bartender lets out a frustrated huff as he walks off, presumable to prepare you something decidedly not sweet. You absent-mindedly palm a small vial in your palm as you wait. The shouting behind you is tuned out in favor of listening into the conversations of the trolls around you.
Not too long after, the drink returns, a bright pink with a cherry floating on top. After a single sip, you find it to be pleasantly sweet. Color you surprised. Regardless, your gaze drifts over to an oliveblood a few seats down, back turned to the bar as he chats up a young tealblood, looking visibly uncomfortable. Perfect.
You get off the bar stool, your boots hitting the ground with an audible clack. You drift over towards the bathrooms, accidentally bumping the oliveblood in question with your hat, which falls off your head and onto the floor.
“My goooodness! I’m soo soorry-” you begin, but he quickly interrupts you with a “Don’worry about it, sweet cheeks” and a grin as he bends over to pick your hat up. With a swift, practiced motion, you empty the contents of the vial into his drink before he has a chance to get back up. The tealblood, thankfully, uses this as an opportunity to leave. You take the hat back from him and bow your head, quickly rushing to the bathroom.
You count exactly 120 seconds standing in the bathroom, then wash your hands and exit. It takes less than 30 to walk back to your seat, and before you can even settle in, you hear a thud.
The oliveblood from before is collapsed, face down on the ground. There’s a commotion as the trolls around try to get him up, try to get him standing again, but you know he’s not going to. Less than three minutes, you think. You quickly make your exit, leaving a mostly-full drink and a hefty tip on the counter.
