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Futuristic welcome in. | blade runner-ish 1x1
- Thread starter skyguy
- Start date
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
The city streets, as always, are crowded.
Once upon a time, cocktails bars were a place for people to mingle and share a drink or two, in a quiet, smoky, carcinogenic building. Then they ran out of space, and leases expired and renewal contracts skyrocketed in price, and Replicants were made, and the city itself became a carcinogenic thing, and bars, too, had to move into the streets. Not that Bartender would know; she had been alive for only a handful of years, her face owned by all the other Replicants in her company's street-side chain. It made them all recognizable: a Replicant with a short and clipped black bob that hung pristinely at her cheeks, her inhumanity indicated by purple eyes.
Not that they didn't have individuality: in fact, Bartender had met many of her fellow Nexuses (Nexii?--she never knew) across the city, and she thought they were all fairly recognizable and unique. Wanda liked to accessorize with clips in her hair. Rowan had married, and had taken in an electric pet of some kind. Sheila painted her nails. Bartender, for her part, liked to smoke, and that made her both an awful stereotype and very good at socializing, which meant she made a lot of money for her company. And a lot of tips. For her part, Bartender liked her name, even if her fellow tenders often disdained her for it, insisting she pick something else.
She tucked the antique lighter back into her breast pocket after lighting a customer's cigarette for him, smiling noiselessly at a loud world. This particular location was located on a particularly busy street, the sign reading Swann's Way drowned out by other neon advertisements in the halo of petrichor and acidic rain.
A moment later and there's a rustle of what sounds like a customer's plastic poncho as they go to sit on the waterproofed seats. Though they looked velvet and plush, they were waterproof, designed to hold up to the wind and the weather, what with the bar only having a shoddy little awning, like so many of the other restaurants in the area. Bartender wipes her hand off on her towel and dutifully crosses over to the newcomer--a Replicant, too. This she knows by how out of place they look. "Do you need a minute, or do you know what you want?"
battler
Once upon a time, cocktails bars were a place for people to mingle and share a drink or two, in a quiet, smoky, carcinogenic building. Then they ran out of space, and leases expired and renewal contracts skyrocketed in price, and Replicants were made, and the city itself became a carcinogenic thing, and bars, too, had to move into the streets. Not that Bartender would know; she had been alive for only a handful of years, her face owned by all the other Replicants in her company's street-side chain. It made them all recognizable: a Replicant with a short and clipped black bob that hung pristinely at her cheeks, her inhumanity indicated by purple eyes.
Not that they didn't have individuality: in fact, Bartender had met many of her fellow Nexuses (Nexii?--she never knew) across the city, and she thought they were all fairly recognizable and unique. Wanda liked to accessorize with clips in her hair. Rowan had married, and had taken in an electric pet of some kind. Sheila painted her nails. Bartender, for her part, liked to smoke, and that made her both an awful stereotype and very good at socializing, which meant she made a lot of money for her company. And a lot of tips. For her part, Bartender liked her name, even if her fellow tenders often disdained her for it, insisting she pick something else.
She tucked the antique lighter back into her breast pocket after lighting a customer's cigarette for him, smiling noiselessly at a loud world. This particular location was located on a particularly busy street, the sign reading Swann's Way drowned out by other neon advertisements in the halo of petrichor and acidic rain.
A moment later and there's a rustle of what sounds like a customer's plastic poncho as they go to sit on the waterproofed seats. Though they looked velvet and plush, they were waterproof, designed to hold up to the wind and the weather, what with the bar only having a shoddy little awning, like so many of the other restaurants in the area. Bartender wipes her hand off on her towel and dutifully crosses over to the newcomer--a Replicant, too. This she knows by how out of place they look. "Do you need a minute, or do you know what you want?"
battler
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battler
the witch—the witch's name was morgana—is me.
Mary has decided she hates the rain. Before today, it slid down windows like gravity itself and delayed her daily check-ups just long enough for her to read a chapter of a book. Before today, before today. Now, its waterlogging her flimsy shoes. It's bad enough to make her plastic raincoat stick to her bare arms uncomfortably. Her brown hair is mostly protected still, finger-waves framing her face like a picture, and the tiny curls held in place above her brows are only more securely stuck by the rain. Sitting down only makes it all more miserable—The seat squishes and the cold wind shoots an electric shiver down her spine. Maybe temperature receptors really aren't worth it in the long run. It wouldn't be the first time Dr. Seward was wrong.
"S-sorry." Yes, she hates this weather and that today is the day she finally got a small dose of what she thought she wanted. Her slippery fingers wobble on the edge of the countertop as she tries to sit up properly, perfect posture recovering. "Anything is fine," is what Mary says, because she doesn't know a single name for any kind of drink one might find in a Swann's Way. Eclipsing one of the many neon signs in the street in her choice of seat does, at least, do her dress a favor: Heavy beading and decoration shimmer like an oil spill, all glass and silly and old. Archaic, if it's to be believed. "I can pay."
The last time she can remember seeing other people so close as they were on the street is the Expo, her first and only display convention. Another replicant—She knows every model and number, of course, each iteration inside the living, learning catalogue of her mind—is a much more welcome sight than anyone else she's had the misfortune of bumping into so far tonight. The first one she's met that she's been allowed to talk to. Once she's sure the awning covers enough of her to be safe, Mary pulls down the hood of her poncho and scrunches her nose as a bit of water from it sprays on her neck. Eugh. When she realizes the bartender (hah.) is still looking her way with those vibrant eyes, Mary presses her thumbnail to her bottom lip.
Remember, you know how to talk to people properly. No sense being sheepish, dearest. / Perfect memory is a wonderful thing.
"Please," she adds belatedly, an awkward sort of smile bunching her cheeks 'til they go rosy.
"S-sorry." Yes, she hates this weather and that today is the day she finally got a small dose of what she thought she wanted. Her slippery fingers wobble on the edge of the countertop as she tries to sit up properly, perfect posture recovering. "Anything is fine," is what Mary says, because she doesn't know a single name for any kind of drink one might find in a Swann's Way. Eclipsing one of the many neon signs in the street in her choice of seat does, at least, do her dress a favor: Heavy beading and decoration shimmer like an oil spill, all glass and silly and old. Archaic, if it's to be believed. "I can pay."
The last time she can remember seeing other people so close as they were on the street is the Expo, her first and only display convention. Another replicant—She knows every model and number, of course, each iteration inside the living, learning catalogue of her mind—is a much more welcome sight than anyone else she's had the misfortune of bumping into so far tonight. The first one she's met that she's been allowed to talk to. Once she's sure the awning covers enough of her to be safe, Mary pulls down the hood of her poncho and scrunches her nose as a bit of water from it sprays on her neck. Eugh. When she realizes the bartender (hah.) is still looking her way with those vibrant eyes, Mary presses her thumbnail to her bottom lip.
Remember, you know how to talk to people properly. No sense being sheepish, dearest. / Perfect memory is a wonderful thing.
"Please," she adds belatedly, an awkward sort of smile bunching her cheeks 'til they go rosy.
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
Bartender hasn't been alive very long--two years since inception, if she remembered her birthday right (she never did), but she can't help but be a little enchanted by this oddball replicant. She hasn't seen any of their kind around before, but since Tyrell Corporation went down and the expiration date laws had been lifted, there were all sorts of new types of replicants on the streets. What had once been limited to a lifespan of four years is now allowed to grow and flourish. Bartender can't even recognize other replicants half the time. But this one -- this one simply appears fragile in a way a new bird might. There aren't many of those around.
She smiles a bit. Even though she's only been alive two years she can't help but feel a little watchful over someone so young. Maybe it's the way they designed her, someone supposed to listen and pour a drink and murmur 'that's too bad' / 'i hear ya, i hear ya.' "I'd sure hope you can pay," she hums, voice a little blasé, "We don't do handouts." She reaches over the fake wood of the bar top and pushes the vinyl sheet with the specials on it towards the newcomer. "Take a look and tell me if something sounds good." She pauses and leans back to assess them a little more closely, eyebrows scrunching just a bit. "Are you one of the ones with false memories?" Bartender has a few implants of her own, mostly how to make and mix drinks, some made-up bartender that's her and yet not her instructing the real-her with fluid movements. Why cutting a lemon is so easy. But she has no fake childhood or adolescence. Others of her kind would complain about that; feeling robbed, they might say, but Bartender doesn't mind it so much. She wonders if the new one is like that, too. Or if she simply has none. The old replicants, the ones that have the baked in lifespans and no fake lives to feel proud of, have mostly died off by now, but not all the new ones have the memory implants since it isn't a legal requirement yet.
She smiles a bit. Even though she's only been alive two years she can't help but feel a little watchful over someone so young. Maybe it's the way they designed her, someone supposed to listen and pour a drink and murmur 'that's too bad' / 'i hear ya, i hear ya.' "I'd sure hope you can pay," she hums, voice a little blasé, "We don't do handouts." She reaches over the fake wood of the bar top and pushes the vinyl sheet with the specials on it towards the newcomer. "Take a look and tell me if something sounds good." She pauses and leans back to assess them a little more closely, eyebrows scrunching just a bit. "Are you one of the ones with false memories?" Bartender has a few implants of her own, mostly how to make and mix drinks, some made-up bartender that's her and yet not her instructing the real-her with fluid movements. Why cutting a lemon is so easy. But she has no fake childhood or adolescence. Others of her kind would complain about that; feeling robbed, they might say, but Bartender doesn't mind it so much. She wonders if the new one is like that, too. Or if she simply has none. The old replicants, the ones that have the baked in lifespans and no fake lives to feel proud of, have mostly died off by now, but not all the new ones have the memory implants since it isn't a legal requirement yet.
battler
the witch—the witch's name was morgana—is me.
Rather than responding properly, Mary props the sheet to stand on the counter and ducks behind it. Now only the string of engineered pearls circling her forehead and the curls poking over it show from the very top. She never considered before how strange it might be to try to read under anything other than pale, clinical lights, but the shutters behind her light grey irises flicker to account for the variation in ambience immediately. They're probably sending things back without her permission, but she can't exactly fault them. Function and fashion. Her dress clacks a little, glass on plastic, as her arms brush against it. More of the same.
"Me?" Blinking once, her head pops back up from the vinyl and she shakes her head once. "Oh—Oh, no, not yet. Perhaps later down the line." While it's true that Fields Systems might eventually replace her current data with a mimicry of memory, she won't remember it in the least. Later will be never for Mary, but it could be someday for that her, so she can't ignore the possibility. Maybe because of something in her coding, or in her creator's impassioned lectures, or both. Probably both. Still, keeping it to herself might be the better option; She smiles, the look of it more sweet than anything else. Like a model AI generated for pristine advertisements. "Can I have this?" It's a red, fizzy drink that she points out on the sheet with a perfectly moon manicured nail: red never fails. "Is that," one of her hands shifts so she can scratch at her cheek as her beaming softens under hesitation, "so obvious?"
Scrutiny isn't new for Mary, not from humans. Sitting under the unyielding eyes of someone like her, though is—She couldn't say it doesn't make a kind of inevitable tension flood her every receptor. Anticipation for the response. The humanity of worrying about being found acceptable. It's all a frivolous waste of energy, but still, it's not as though Mary can deactivate anything that might then weaken her primary functions. She can only hope she doesn't look as embarrassed by her own response (as non-offensive as it may be) as she feels about it.
"Me?" Blinking once, her head pops back up from the vinyl and she shakes her head once. "Oh—Oh, no, not yet. Perhaps later down the line." While it's true that Fields Systems might eventually replace her current data with a mimicry of memory, she won't remember it in the least. Later will be never for Mary, but it could be someday for that her, so she can't ignore the possibility. Maybe because of something in her coding, or in her creator's impassioned lectures, or both. Probably both. Still, keeping it to herself might be the better option; She smiles, the look of it more sweet than anything else. Like a model AI generated for pristine advertisements. "Can I have this?" It's a red, fizzy drink that she points out on the sheet with a perfectly moon manicured nail: red never fails. "Is that," one of her hands shifts so she can scratch at her cheek as her beaming softens under hesitation, "so obvious?"
Scrutiny isn't new for Mary, not from humans. Sitting under the unyielding eyes of someone like her, though is—She couldn't say it doesn't make a kind of inevitable tension flood her every receptor. Anticipation for the response. The humanity of worrying about being found acceptable. It's all a frivolous waste of energy, but still, it's not as though Mary can deactivate anything that might then weaken her primary functions. She can only hope she doesn't look as embarrassed by her own response (as non-offensive as it may be) as she feels about it.
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
Later down the line? Bartender can't help but marvel over how fast technology seems to advance even in a world that has supposedly found the pinnacle. "You look it over," she murmurs when a customer calls for her attention, shuffling away to pour a shot of whiskey for another patron, who may be human or replicant--it'd only been obvious, in the girl with pearls' case.
When she returns, Mary gestures to the drink on the menu, a Jupiter Cloud, and Bartender wonders what the humans who live on one of Jupiter's many moons would think of Earth liquor. Off-world seems like something the humans just lie about; but then again, that would mean all the humans who came from the stars would be lying when they said they visited the Swann's Way locations out there. Bartender is pretty good at telling when people lie. It's part of her trade: knowing when someone is lying, and when to call them out on it--some lies are good lies, after all.
Bartender nods. "Sure." She steps away to pull the liquor from the back shelf, fingers jostling against familiar rims of glass for the rum, then moves to the citric juice, a replacement for lemon juices since lemons were so hard to come by these days, various other ingredients, and of course, the grenadine to give it that red hue that had been calling the other's name. Shaking, straining, pouring. Bartender slips a soft napkin under the drink and pushes it in front of Mary Beads of condensation are already beginning to form on the outside of the glass, little jewels of faceted light under the reddish lighting of the bar. The Jupiter Cloud is an interesting first choice for an alcoholic beverage, being a sweet, sour, and slightly herbal thing. But it does look rather appealing, its color tilting a soft fuzzy shade of ruby thanks to the help of the above lights--then suddenly its rim cuts neon blue thanks to the advertisement on the other side of the street suddenly changing its own color. Someone else dips under the balcony of the external facing bar, tugging off the plastic hood of their poncho, but it's only to light a cigarette. Weird, that cigarettes have persisted when artificial drug use has dominated everywhere else.
"It's only so obvious because I know what to look for. You seem very new. Most of us don't look so eager-eyed after a year." She smiles softly, a soft circuit of a thing that makes her comment cut more thoughtfully than cruel--Bartender isn't one to shy away from the circumstances of her existence, or this world that felt like it was slowly giving up the ghost before all humans could fully immigrate off-world--but she isn't one to hate the world for what it is either, choosing to accept it instead. "It's strange they're still doing things to you, though. That must be a new development, too."
When she returns, Mary gestures to the drink on the menu, a Jupiter Cloud, and Bartender wonders what the humans who live on one of Jupiter's many moons would think of Earth liquor. Off-world seems like something the humans just lie about; but then again, that would mean all the humans who came from the stars would be lying when they said they visited the Swann's Way locations out there. Bartender is pretty good at telling when people lie. It's part of her trade: knowing when someone is lying, and when to call them out on it--some lies are good lies, after all.
Bartender nods. "Sure." She steps away to pull the liquor from the back shelf, fingers jostling against familiar rims of glass for the rum, then moves to the citric juice, a replacement for lemon juices since lemons were so hard to come by these days, various other ingredients, and of course, the grenadine to give it that red hue that had been calling the other's name. Shaking, straining, pouring. Bartender slips a soft napkin under the drink and pushes it in front of Mary Beads of condensation are already beginning to form on the outside of the glass, little jewels of faceted light under the reddish lighting of the bar. The Jupiter Cloud is an interesting first choice for an alcoholic beverage, being a sweet, sour, and slightly herbal thing. But it does look rather appealing, its color tilting a soft fuzzy shade of ruby thanks to the help of the above lights--then suddenly its rim cuts neon blue thanks to the advertisement on the other side of the street suddenly changing its own color. Someone else dips under the balcony of the external facing bar, tugging off the plastic hood of their poncho, but it's only to light a cigarette. Weird, that cigarettes have persisted when artificial drug use has dominated everywhere else.
"It's only so obvious because I know what to look for. You seem very new. Most of us don't look so eager-eyed after a year." She smiles softly, a soft circuit of a thing that makes her comment cut more thoughtfully than cruel--Bartender isn't one to shy away from the circumstances of her existence, or this world that felt like it was slowly giving up the ghost before all humans could fully immigrate off-world--but she isn't one to hate the world for what it is either, choosing to accept it instead. "It's strange they're still doing things to you, though. That must be a new development, too."
battler
the witch—the witch's name was morgana—is me.
Mary's head tilts thoughtfully, her pupils widening and narrowing for several seconds before settling on a middling setting as she admires Bartender's expression. A few of her fingers tap on the drink's rim. Is it strange? "Oh," is what she says. She lowers her gaze to the neon flashing against her glass--Which feeling is this? Embarrassment? Naming them has become a pastime rather than a duty, but it's never been so frustrating as this / Someone waiting for her reply, treating her like anyone else. She should be grateful her processes aren't accessible through the network here. How silly would she look then? "That does make sense. I've never seen so many others," replicants, "until today."
When she lifts it, her fingers around the glass go pink; Trying new things is new in itself for Mary. Whether she likes the drink itself or not may not be up to her. She doesn't really mind though. "I'm not, um," Mary glances toward the people closest to her and squints, trying to ascertain whether she's speaking too loud. Her voice goes only a bit above a whisper, sweet as sugar, almost flustered, though by what isn't obvious. "I'm not really built to be out here yet. Not exactly. Today is a present!" Her shoulders twitch--so lifelike--as a bit more water drips down the back of her neck and, to avoid feeling even more embarrassed, Mary chooses then to take a sip.
Not sickly sweet like many of the drink flavors in her extensive database, but not terribly bitter either like alcohol is treated in old films. Even if it's not what she expected from the color, Mary thinks she can enjoy it well enough. She's always liked tea, after all. Many of the ingredients and components in it that file themselves away in her memory are used in different teas, too. Juice and cocktails and brews. Someone made it for her. That makes it even better. She doesn't realize she's paused in place, simply staring into crimson after finishing her taste of it, until a moment later. "Th-thank you!" The purse under her poncho requires some finicking to get to, but she parts the plastic sea to find her borrowed wallet and payment credentials. "I mean--What's your name?" This is all out of order!
When she lifts it, her fingers around the glass go pink; Trying new things is new in itself for Mary. Whether she likes the drink itself or not may not be up to her. She doesn't really mind though. "I'm not, um," Mary glances toward the people closest to her and squints, trying to ascertain whether she's speaking too loud. Her voice goes only a bit above a whisper, sweet as sugar, almost flustered, though by what isn't obvious. "I'm not really built to be out here yet. Not exactly. Today is a present!" Her shoulders twitch--so lifelike--as a bit more water drips down the back of her neck and, to avoid feeling even more embarrassed, Mary chooses then to take a sip.
Not sickly sweet like many of the drink flavors in her extensive database, but not terribly bitter either like alcohol is treated in old films. Even if it's not what she expected from the color, Mary thinks she can enjoy it well enough. She's always liked tea, after all. Many of the ingredients and components in it that file themselves away in her memory are used in different teas, too. Juice and cocktails and brews. Someone made it for her. That makes it even better. She doesn't realize she's paused in place, simply staring into crimson after finishing her taste of it, until a moment later. "Th-thank you!" The purse under her poncho requires some finicking to get to, but she parts the plastic sea to find her borrowed wallet and payment credentials. "I mean--What's your name?" This is all out of order!
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
Bartender is curious, but tries not to let it show so much--she opts instead to dry a few glasses down, working the inner rims with the corner of a rag as she listens. A present? Strange replicant. It isn't uncommon for some older couple to take in a replicant as a child and hover over them like they might have a flesh-and-blood child, but regardless: that's a personal performance, put on by replicant and family, and Bartender gets the sense this is different than that. "Well, welcome to the great outdoors. I hope you like rain." A tinge of chagrin to her voice, but not much. Don't let the city get to you / don't let the world beat you down - this is what we have, this is what you must love no matter the cost. Acid rain and all - and Bartender does. She has worked very hard to get to that point.
She's called away to serve another drink so she misses the moment that Mary finally takes a drink, stirring up an old-fashioned. It's a shame to miss a customer's first ever sip of alcohol. Everyone gets such funny faces. But oh well. Bartender pushes the drink forward with a smile and the words "please enjoy," on her lips, before she makes the round to talk to the evening's most interesting customer once again, circling back in front of the unusual replicant just at the moment that Mary is digging through her poncho for her wallet. Poor girl. Hope she doesn't get mugged. Most replicants have self-defense training programmed into them -- employers must protect their investments after all -- but still...it's not fun being jumped on the walk home.
"At bars, you don't have to pay per drink," Bartender explains, inclining her head slightly to the left so the cut of her bob dips her cheekbone into shadow, "You just tell me when you're ready to close your tab." She dips the top of a glass into salt. "Also, be careful flaunting where you store your purse like that. As for my name, I'm Bartender. Who are you?" The person sitting next to Mary throws a handful of dollars onto the bartop as a tip and nods once in a curt farewell, tugging their hood over their head and disappearing back into the throng of the city. It accepts them eagerly.
It's the time of night where Bartender has to raise her voice a little to be heard more clearly above the ever-growing crowd that is pushing through the street the bar is located on. "When you are ready to pay, we take cash or, if your credit is good enough, card." Having good enough credit in this city is a joke, only the elite of the elite could ever pay with card anymore, but they did still accept it. At least it was a clear indicator to the replicants on shift which clients needed to be babied, dolled up with the highest shelf liqueur, offered escorts to the black market for street drugs, et cetera..
She's called away to serve another drink so she misses the moment that Mary finally takes a drink, stirring up an old-fashioned. It's a shame to miss a customer's first ever sip of alcohol. Everyone gets such funny faces. But oh well. Bartender pushes the drink forward with a smile and the words "please enjoy," on her lips, before she makes the round to talk to the evening's most interesting customer once again, circling back in front of the unusual replicant just at the moment that Mary is digging through her poncho for her wallet. Poor girl. Hope she doesn't get mugged. Most replicants have self-defense training programmed into them -- employers must protect their investments after all -- but still...it's not fun being jumped on the walk home.
"At bars, you don't have to pay per drink," Bartender explains, inclining her head slightly to the left so the cut of her bob dips her cheekbone into shadow, "You just tell me when you're ready to close your tab." She dips the top of a glass into salt. "Also, be careful flaunting where you store your purse like that. As for my name, I'm Bartender. Who are you?" The person sitting next to Mary throws a handful of dollars onto the bartop as a tip and nods once in a curt farewell, tugging their hood over their head and disappearing back into the throng of the city. It accepts them eagerly.
It's the time of night where Bartender has to raise her voice a little to be heard more clearly above the ever-growing crowd that is pushing through the street the bar is located on. "When you are ready to pay, we take cash or, if your credit is good enough, card." Having good enough credit in this city is a joke, only the elite of the elite could ever pay with card anymore, but they did still accept it. At least it was a clear indicator to the replicants on shift which clients needed to be babied, dolled up with the highest shelf liqueur, offered escorts to the black market for street drugs, et cetera..
battler
the witch—the witch's name was morgana—is me.
Mary's lips form a visible letter "o" as Bartender speaks, and she nods in response -- It feels quite obvious now that she's said it. How many stupid movies has she been made to watch where it all plays out just like Bartender's said? Maybe she's letting the air get to her more than she meant to. It's just so overwhelming: Crowds filtering like electricity through circuits, the sky's acid showering them all, halos of light forming over every umbrella and hood.
"Thank you," she drops her hands carefully onto her lap but still they smack of plastic. A little sheepish chuckle slips from her lips. "I'm Mary." Taking up her drink once more, she offers a handshake with her other palm, grey eyes shining in the reflection of blue and red and purple from the street. "It's a pleasure, Bartender."
A good name -- Someone who enjoys their work, or would rather do it than anything else, at least. Utilitarian but still unique. Not many replicants will use something like that, human conventions of naming always preferred by the masses. It's a name that Mary can understand more than fancy titles or the made-up meanings of names. It does leave her wondering what it might be like to choose her own name, though. Is it fulfilling in a human way? Could she feel that, too? "Could anyone really pay cash, hah.." Her nose scrunches a little at the taste, but not enough for her forehead to really wrinkle. "Probably about as rare as days without rain now, huh?"
"Thank you," she drops her hands carefully onto her lap but still they smack of plastic. A little sheepish chuckle slips from her lips. "I'm Mary." Taking up her drink once more, she offers a handshake with her other palm, grey eyes shining in the reflection of blue and red and purple from the street. "It's a pleasure, Bartender."
A good name -- Someone who enjoys their work, or would rather do it than anything else, at least. Utilitarian but still unique. Not many replicants will use something like that, human conventions of naming always preferred by the masses. It's a name that Mary can understand more than fancy titles or the made-up meanings of names. It does leave her wondering what it might be like to choose her own name, though. Is it fulfilling in a human way? Could she feel that, too? "Could anyone really pay cash, hah.." Her nose scrunches a little at the taste, but not enough for her forehead to really wrinkle. "Probably about as rare as days without rain now, huh?"
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
"Mary," Bartender repeats back, affirming that she heard the replicant's name, taking Mary's hand in her own to give it a shake. At the moment she lets go of Mary's hand, her attention is captured by a growing fight in the street breaking out - the din of arguing suddenly pushing into full on shouting, crowd parting around the fighters. Bartender can only purse her lips curiously over what has the street in such an outrage. But then again: fighting isn't exactly unusual for the area. She lets her attention get taken for about thirty seconds, blankly staring out into the rain-drenched street, eyebrows arced curiously underneath the pristine level of her bangs, then promptly gets back to work, which is easy when someone calls her away again for a second gin and tonic.
Just as quickly as the fight settles into the beating heart of the street, it dies -- presumably someone had bumped into someone else and had not properly apologized--fights were rarely serious here, if ever, and the only time anyone felt they had to be on guard was the moment a blade runner came down, distinguishable only by their usually more-than-fancy coats, the collars pressed tightly to their faces to keep the heat in. Bartender didn't have any problems with them on a personal level, but it was hard not to feel uneasy around someone who had sold their soul to defending what could only be called "the sanctity of life," whatever that really meant -- if any of the blade runners actually believed in that. They usually look miserable, so maybe not. And blade runners make good customers. Nursing their stiff drinks, one after the other.
"I think, per my records, it was last sunny 34 days ago," Bartender comments when she can continue the conversation where it had left off--of course, being a bartender, she has all these little bits of conversational knowledge that don't do much of anything. She can also tell Mary, if she were to ask, that it was a mere 57 degrees on that Tuesday, an offsetting chill that had contrasted starkly with the bright light that graced the city. "It's been rainy and cold since then."
Just as quickly as the fight settles into the beating heart of the street, it dies -- presumably someone had bumped into someone else and had not properly apologized--fights were rarely serious here, if ever, and the only time anyone felt they had to be on guard was the moment a blade runner came down, distinguishable only by their usually more-than-fancy coats, the collars pressed tightly to their faces to keep the heat in. Bartender didn't have any problems with them on a personal level, but it was hard not to feel uneasy around someone who had sold their soul to defending what could only be called "the sanctity of life," whatever that really meant -- if any of the blade runners actually believed in that. They usually look miserable, so maybe not. And blade runners make good customers. Nursing their stiff drinks, one after the other.
"I think, per my records, it was last sunny 34 days ago," Bartender comments when she can continue the conversation where it had left off--of course, being a bartender, she has all these little bits of conversational knowledge that don't do much of anything. She can also tell Mary, if she were to ask, that it was a mere 57 degrees on that Tuesday, an offsetting chill that had contrasted starkly with the bright light that graced the city. "It's been rainy and cold since then."
battler
the witch—the witch's name was morgana—is me.
The shouting and struggle set Mary's teeth on edge. Both her hands wrap around her glass anxiously, pupils adjusting once again to the dark of the streets--She can see a fist nearly meet a jaw before things settle again. The voices ring in her ears clearly even beneath the din of the rain; Everyone continues forward like red blood cells in a vein afterward. Their shoes splash in puddles and rain sprays over hats and umbrellas.
Her shoulders are still rigid when Bartender returns. So many new sensations at the same time--Mary wouldn't be able to describe it exactly if asked, but it's overstimulating to a degree she's never experienced before. If more rain splashed on her now, she might forget she's mean to respond at all! It must be a malfunction--
"Oh," her brows droop sadly, grey eyes following suit with a pitifully pretty look of grief. Whether she feels so awful or not remains to be seen, but the change in expression is immediate. Mary is meant to love the sun: She knows this to be true. Mary is meant to be pure empathy: She knows this to be true. ( Can she love the rain and the sun? Can she find it all fascinating and not as awful? She doesn't know, she doesn't know. ) "How unfortunate." Another careful sip, both hands still around her glass, but she's not human. They don't shake. "Do you get tired of it? All the cold and rain creeping in on you?"
Her shoulders are still rigid when Bartender returns. So many new sensations at the same time--Mary wouldn't be able to describe it exactly if asked, but it's overstimulating to a degree she's never experienced before. If more rain splashed on her now, she might forget she's mean to respond at all! It must be a malfunction--
"Oh," her brows droop sadly, grey eyes following suit with a pitifully pretty look of grief. Whether she feels so awful or not remains to be seen, but the change in expression is immediate. Mary is meant to love the sun: She knows this to be true. Mary is meant to be pure empathy: She knows this to be true. ( Can she love the rain and the sun? Can she find it all fascinating and not as awful? She doesn't know, she doesn't know. ) "How unfortunate." Another careful sip, both hands still around her glass, but she's not human. They don't shake. "Do you get tired of it? All the cold and rain creeping in on you?"
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
Unfortunate? They picked the wrong city to put a Replicant with a taste for a certain kind of sunny weather -- but then again, are preferences scripted or otherwise? Bartender's not sure. She loves her work. And was made for it. Is her love for it artificial? Is that worse than an authentic one?
It doesn't matter; it is there. That is enough. Bartender hums a nonessential cloudless tone in response to Mary's question before it shapes into the beginning of a thought. "Not really. I think I'm more surprised when it is sunny. And I've got one of those light blocks in my apartment; not that replicants need something like that, but at least I can 'turn on' the sun so to speak. It gives me some reading light." She decides to pour herself a shot of something, help the day pass. She can't get drunk, but she can reach that eternally blissful state of 'tipsy', her temples buzzing if she has enough.
To show off her well-manufactured manners: "Do you want a shot on the house? I thought I'd have one to help the time pass by." Bartender pulls out a second shot glass just in case. "Have you been outside in the sun yet?"
It doesn't matter; it is there. That is enough. Bartender hums a nonessential cloudless tone in response to Mary's question before it shapes into the beginning of a thought. "Not really. I think I'm more surprised when it is sunny. And I've got one of those light blocks in my apartment; not that replicants need something like that, but at least I can 'turn on' the sun so to speak. It gives me some reading light." She decides to pour herself a shot of something, help the day pass. She can't get drunk, but she can reach that eternally blissful state of 'tipsy', her temples buzzing if she has enough.
To show off her well-manufactured manners: "Do you want a shot on the house? I thought I'd have one to help the time pass by." Bartender pulls out a second shot glass just in case. "Have you been outside in the sun yet?"
battler
the witch—the witch's name was morgana—is me.
Mary knows what she likes because she's told every day. She doesn't mind so much as she finds it a little patronizing--As if she could forget things so integral to her existence! Her preferences aren't as meaningful to her as they are to her creator, but that's all the more reason for her to cling to them. Remembering them makes people smile.
"Oh! Thank you!" Shyly, she sets down her glass, her voice soft as carnival candy floss. "Do you like this kind a lot? You must have tried everything here a thousand times."
She rests her chin in her palms and watches Bartender with unabashed admiration for her impeccable skill. "And, ah. No. I don't really go out. Only on the balcony, really." Mary gives a good-natured shrug. The earth turns and the sun hides behind its blanket of clouds; But Replicants have never lived on a planet where as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow was still true, have they? Her smile is warm, open and casual. "I don't mind, though! Waiting will only make it nicer once I do get to, right?"
"Oh! Thank you!" Shyly, she sets down her glass, her voice soft as carnival candy floss. "Do you like this kind a lot? You must have tried everything here a thousand times."
She rests her chin in her palms and watches Bartender with unabashed admiration for her impeccable skill. "And, ah. No. I don't really go out. Only on the balcony, really." Mary gives a good-natured shrug. The earth turns and the sun hides behind its blanket of clouds; But Replicants have never lived on a planet where as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow was still true, have they? Her smile is warm, open and casual. "I don't mind, though! Waiting will only make it nicer once I do get to, right?"
skyguy
without love, the truth cannot be seen.
"I like everything," Bartender replies, pouring a shot for her and a shot for Mary, "I was programmed that way. Tequila, absinthe, vodka...could probably stomach rubbing alcohol, although I haven't tried that." Were she a little less dry with her humor, she might accentuate her comment with a wink. "But a thousand times...yes, I'm sure I have." She pushes the shot glass across, watching when it catches the dimmed lights and turns into a mini-prism of colors, changing the inside liquid from clear to ruby haloed by dark blue.
"Your balcony -- it's nice?" Bartender doesn't have a balcony. Nor do many people in her area. There's a roof to stand and smoke on, the tiles littered with abandoned pens, cigarettes, and e-cigarettes, but it isn't good for much other than a quick smoke. She doesn't watch the sunrise from there, not sure if she even could with the pollution. When day exists, it's as a foggy orange, the sun beating harshly against the acid rain remnants and the smog of the city. Losing, too, probably. Bartender loves it for trying anyways. She picks up her shot and taps it on the bar ceremoniously before tipping it back, the liquid sliding harsh and cool and sharp down her throat. Automatically her nose wrinkles. Funny they gave her that automatic response too.
"Your balcony -- it's nice?" Bartender doesn't have a balcony. Nor do many people in her area. There's a roof to stand and smoke on, the tiles littered with abandoned pens, cigarettes, and e-cigarettes, but it isn't good for much other than a quick smoke. She doesn't watch the sunrise from there, not sure if she even could with the pollution. When day exists, it's as a foggy orange, the sun beating harshly against the acid rain remnants and the smog of the city. Losing, too, probably. Bartender loves it for trying anyways. She picks up her shot and taps it on the bar ceremoniously before tipping it back, the liquid sliding harsh and cool and sharp down her throat. Automatically her nose wrinkles. Funny they gave her that automatic response too.
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