Rule Number 3
starter for @ronmanmob
Neon lights easy against the bar top. Dances in the dark liquor in his glass. Blue that tracks every movement. The underlying thrum of music from hidden speakers. It's one of the reason he'd stayed instead of walking in and right back out. Its not so loud here. Not packed to the walls like so many other places. Not a writhing drone that rattles things not flesh and bone. Its a design flaw--he's working out the kinks. Fingers that are still of his original make wrap around the glass. Bring it to his lips, knock it back. A head coming to rest in make believe hand.
He's tired.
He should go home, but that space feels empty. Has for years. It's just somewhere to sleep. Busy as he entirely keeping his head above water. The one people come to when they need things made. Things that maybe not everyone has the knowledge to make down here in Down Town. But that came with the territory of what he used to do. Tactical Engineer for Weyland-Yutani. Living the dream. Only it hadn't really been that. Not unless he forgot somewhere along the way the dream had been to get fucking blown up. He still had a few years left him after though, but not many. Kicked to the curb because why pay to maintain someone when you can just replace them?
The bar keep refills his glass, as he rolls out a glitch in his shoulder. Something kept catching. He's going to have to look at that when he gets home. In the meantime he still has a few drinks to get through before he's buzzing enough to stumble home. So he gets back to work--or was about to when...
Come on---playing all night---
GETCHA FUCKIN' 'ANDS OFF ME!!
Rule number 3 : never hit a woman, even if she hits you. incapacitating however is allowed.
Three second bursts. That's how memory works. Three second bursts that your subconscious fills the gaps in between with logic later. But in the moment? Its just flashes of movement. Standing up from the stool he's been occupying for less than half an hour. Heavy booted feet that eat the fifteen feet of space between him and---a hand not made of flesh and bone finds its mark. Cutting off the man's ability to breath properly let alone keep speaking. And his voice sounds every bit of how he looks. Like wet gravel being grated between rusty cogs.
"She fuckin' said no."
The guy's taller but that's nothing new for Baz. A lot of people were. And maybe that makes the scene just now a _little_ funny. The half doubled over way Bastian's grip is forcing the asshole to be. And its a fraction of a second in reality but it beats weird in his not quite all flesh and bone leg. And time moves forward again, like nothing had occurred at all.
"Chips for the drinks, asshole. Bar top. Now."
Its done in between the sputtering garbles and flailing movements the man makes. Baz easying up just little bit on his grip. But not enough to make it hard for him to force the man to look the lady in the eye.
"Apologize."
I-mmm so---sorry.
Whether the guy actually means it or just doesn't want to die--it doesn't really matter. And Baz is moving again. Hauling the man backward until his feet come right out from under him, Bastian dragging him the rest of the way. The door opened and the jerk tossed right out of it. Where he crashes in a bit of a tumbled roll onto the side walk. Another rolling reset between flesh and not flesh, as he turns around. The door allowed to fall closed again his in wake. Baz more concerned with the hitch seeming to have moved to his fingers. God damn it what was causing that?
And maybe he gets a little distracted by that and forgets about what just happened. The scene he'd just caused. And also the fact he's come to a stop in an awkward part of the room. In but not in the walk way. Doesn't feel the eyes on him now, with how sudden and how quickly the violence came and went. Not real fingers flexing and fisting, trying their best to locate a seemingly moving target, while a single eye HUD runs rapidly through scans.