Trog's Tavern CLIII

[Rebonack]

"Odd," Ibby hums. "Was that the reason you and your compatriots were there? To investigate why the location was unusually resilient in spite of the caustic nature of the plane?"

As it so happens, the Far Realm is pretty caustic, too.

But...

That's more caustic in the literal sense.

The amoebic sea has this really nasty habit of dissolving anyone silly enough to pop up there.

And that isn't considering all of the other hazards a person would quickly find themselves beset by.

The pulse running through the realm, the awful monsters, the random formation and absorption of layers, the whole 'mutate and then go insane' part.

Plenty of things to worry about.

"Did you at least find whatever it was you set out to discover?"

[Lord Magtok]

Dramatic Entrance!

Spoiler

Show

Dramatic entrance!
The kind of entrance everyone wishes they could have

A robot enters the tavern.

Why would a robot need to go to a tavern? I don't know, probably because taverns are the place to be. Who cares about drinking? Who cares about eating steak? Nobody comes to taverns for those reasons (quiet you, your experience doesn't count because you're not sufficiently representative of the people who come to taverns for exciting reasons). Everyone comes to taverns for adventure and for the time of their lives!

This particular robot is a Malicebot. Imagine a Magbot, except better. And it looks like it was based off the designs of Marvel supervillain Ultron, kind-of, but it has a glowing M on its chest. And it has a cape. And it has a whip-sword.

That's what it looks like.

The robot, known to his friends as Malicebot#8, lets his cape flutter dramatically in the wind (at least, until the tavern door closes behind him).

As soon as he has determined his entrance was sufficiently awe-inspiring, the robot goes in the rest of the way, sits down, and orders a drink.

"It's him! He's the one who killed Pa!" shouts a young child's voice from the back of the tavern. Cowhide leather riding boots stomp forward angrily and spurs jangle excitedly as the youth races towards the Malicebot. A wide-brimmed hat and poor lighting keeps most of her face in shadow, but I think she has...is that tentacle hair? Weird, shoulder-length tentacle hair, a tan of brown not unlike her text color. What exactly is this kid, exactly? Well, whatever she is, the squid kid makes it about halfway to the showy automaton when her hand lunges for the revolver at her hip, a massive shooting iron far too bulky and unwieldy for such small, delicate little hands. Nonetheless, she pulls the instrument of vengeance out of its holster with the ease of a professional. She lifts her arm and the firearm to eye level, pulls back the hammer, and-

"Kiddo, I swear to gods, you run in screaming like that next time, someone's liable to cut you in half! You'd best learn to hold those horses, or you ain't avenging jack ****," chides the withered old man suddenly standing beside the girl, holding her gun up to his blue-tinted spectacles as she nurses her bruised hand and swears under her breath. Yikes, I didn't even see him disarm her, where did he come from? "Look at him. Look at both sides of him, kiddo," Malicebot #8's defender commands, shoving the girl forward. She swears again, but complies, moving to look at the right side of Malicebot's face, which she hadn't been able to see as she charged in from Malicebot's left. Drat, the old man was correct. It isn't her pappy's killer after all. She was close, though! Half-right. That's got to count for something, surely. I mean, how many drama queen machine men could this world really have, anyway?

"See? This fellow is fully machine. Innocent. You were about to shoot an innocent man, kiddo," he chides her further, before turning to Malicebot #8, who is probably feeling at least a little upset about all of this going on around him. "You have my apologies if the girl frightened you any, stranger," says the oldster who moved preposterously fast for a man of his advanced years just a few moments ago. The guy's dressed just as strangely as the squid girl, but with an entirely different aesthetic in mind. Old Ben Kenobi meets Cyberpunk 2099, I guess you could call him, if you wanted to be as succinct and easily misunderstood as possible. He's more machine than man now; everything below the eyes has been augmented or replaced with some hard silicone substance painted to look like skin, with a smoothness and shine that contrasts strangely with the worn, wrinkled forehead, flaky white beard, and sagging left cheek. There's a tattoo (does it still count as a tattoo if it's painted on top of something which definitely isn't skin) of a red bullseye in the dead-center on his neck, and a vertical bar code running behind his left ear. No sign of any lightsabers, though he did just convince someone that this isn't the droid they're looking for.

[5a Violista]

Dramatic Entrance!

Ha!
A little girl thought she could just run in and kill a robot? Her optimism is adorable.

And Cyben Kenopunk must already know that replacing parts of your body with robot apparently makes you weaker when controlling the Force; that's the only reasonable explanation why he doesn't have his lightsaber.

Malicebot#8 turns towards the girl and smiles, accepting the old man's apology. "Glad to know I have an everyman face for a robot," he says. He's survived heroes (granted, at that time, his orders were to "delay the hero" and he interpreted that as "have a swordfight until the hero proves too much") and villains (for other reasons) and other things, so he felt pretty confident in not reacting.

...
Besides, to be honest, robots like him can keep an eye on somebody behind them, especially if they barge in running and shouting. In fact, he decides to grace the girl with this lesson. "The old man's right, you know," he says. "If I were afraid of somebody with a gun, or if I actually were the killer you thought I was, then you probably would be dead."

"Just so you know, there are sensors that can detect how fast your heartrate is going and so on, and so if you came charging in, shouting and jumping to conclusions like that, you'd be the next victim and your vengeance would fail badly."

He nods.

See? Robots can be totally wise people, too.

[Morty]

"Odd," Ibby hums. "Was that the reason you and your compatriots were there? To investigate why the location was unusually resilient in spite of the caustic nature of the plane?"

As it so happens, the Far Realm is pretty caustic, too.

But...

That's more caustic in the literal sense.

The amoebic sea has this really nasty habit of dissolving anyone silly enough to pop up there.

And that isn't considering all of the other hazards a person would quickly find themselves beset by.

The pulse running through the realm, the awful monsters, the random formation and absorption of layers, the whole 'mutate and then go insane' part.

Plenty of things to worry about.

"Did you at least find whatever it was you set out to discover?"

"That were the reason I was there, aye. Some of 'em just wanted jink. Could've found an easier place to get it," Michalson says. "End of the day, we didn't turn up much. But I did find a very curious weapon, which I have to this day. Not here, 'course. It's a gun, that seems to be chaotic in nature, but not entirely. Spent years tryin' to find the dark of it."

[Hattish Thing]

[Bar]

Darsy winces a bit.

Oof, yeah, okay. Now I get why you wanna learn how to fight.

She finishes her third mug of beer now. Well, third that Marco has seen. And there's number four, ready to go. How the hell does a woman this small drink this much?

Marco appears to notice after a moment, debating whether or not to mention anything before deciding to go on.

"You going to be okay?"

[KerfuffleMach2]

[Bar]

Darsy raises an eyebrow in confusion.

Huh?

Then she follows his glance to her mug, and does the math.

She chuckles and waves a hand idly.

Oh, don't worry. Takes a lot of beer to get me drunk. Years of practice.

[Rebonack]

"Unfortunate that you didn't unravel the mystery," Ibby sighs. That's exactly the sort of thing he would love hearing about. Often times outliers such as what Michalson described provide very useful insights into the underlying mechanics of magic and reality.

And that sort of subject is right up Ibby's alley.

Speaking of things up his alley...

"You know, if you found the opportunity I might be able to offer my services regarding the unusual weapon you uncovered," Ib'Bahali says. "Acquiring information is something of my specialty. I may not be able to simply inform you of the device's nature, history, or original purpose, but at the very least my auguries should be able to tell us where information on the weapon now resides, if any information on it still exists of course."

Having a guy around who knows how to grab the universe by the collar and give it a good shake until it spits up the pertinent details can be rather handy to have around.

"I do charge for my services, but I think I could get by with charging only for the materials I need to perform the reading," Ibby says. "After all, you supplied me with a quality drinking partner and a few fascinating stories. Information in exchange for information strikes me as a fair enough transaction."

That could be useful, right?

[Morty]

"I won't say no to that," Michalson says, raising his glass. "I did manage to catch a skeg or two on it. Enough to keep it in shape and make ammo for it. And to know it's not a toy. I think it's related to the burg we visited. Maybe the reason it was there to begin with. It's chaos, but bound with order. I can tell that much."

[Rebonack]

"Perhaps they were working on a way to bind the mercurial stuff of the plane into more concrete forms, things with a bit more permanence," Ibby suggests. "I know that's what I would be trying to figure out if I found myself in such a dreadful place. Can you imagine how frustrating that would be? Write a book and then stop thinking about it for too long. POOF! No more book. These gith must practice some truly titanic mental discipline to ensure that all of their artifice doesn't simply dissolve away into a chaotic soup."

It's sounding more and more like a curious place to visit.

It might even give him a little more insight into the way the fae function.

More knowledge is never a bad thing, as far as Ibby's concerned.

Unless it happens to be forbidden knowledge.

The sort that makes your head split open like an egg and disgorge a swarm of leathery, flapping horrors.

That sort of knowledge people can do without.

"I wonder. Perhaps if the gith were looking to create something that would endure, the other denizens of the plane took offense to the endeavor? I can see how purely chaotic beings would find such a monument an affront to them."

[Morty]

"Wouldn't that be a dark worth knowin'," Michalson muses. "The giths didn't say anythin'. They just tried to write us all in the dead-book. Maybe they did make the thing. Or they didn't appreciate someone makin' it and wanted to make sure no one found it."

[Rebonack]

"A bit of a mystery, isn't it?" Ib'Bahali replies. "Probably something worth investigating, to be sure."

He takes another swig of that weird white drink of his. Not much at a time, though. It's a sipping drink, not the sort you just toss back.

That is, assuming you value continue coherence.

Ibby gives a little cough as he puts the odd goblet down again. There are those goat eyes again. He totally didn't have those before.

"How about we discover whether or not the knowledge you were seeking about this decaying ruin that so thoroughly refused to stop being can even be found, hmm?"

And that said, he fishes out a handful of sheep knuckle bones, each with little runes carved onto each surface. He closes his fingers around them and gives them a shake while muttering a few arcane words under his breath.

"Does the knowledge of the ruins' purpose still exist to be found?"

And when he opens his hands again?

Well. There are three possible answers here.

Yes.

No.

And uncertain.

Hopefully the answer isn't uncertain. Ibby is typically skilled enough with his auguries to avoid the non-responses like 'answer unclear, ask again later'.

[Dr.Gunsforhands]

"Yes! Thank you very much, ah-"

"Hrrrrmf. Shut up and go inside."

"Right! Yes!"

Leslie eagerly takes the slip tot he bartender and returns with a small pouch of...

"...gold coins?" she asks as she sits back down to the booth, examining the ancient currency in her hand. By now another tray of nachos has arrived, along with some kind of smoothie on Changeling's side of the table. "I, ah, guess it kind of makes sense. Especially if you're planning to be paying mercenaries..."

Algernon the Rat stretches up to just barely see over the table and sniffs the nachos. He looks from them to the small stack of plates and back a few times, then runs under the table to climb into a seat, knocks one of the plates off of the stack with his paw, then pushes the plate up against the nacho tray with his nose.

"Squeak?"

[Lord Magtok]

Dramatic Entrance!

"You know him though, don't you?" The girl insists, refusing to give up on this even as the old man sighs in defeat. Fool girl that she is, she'll make a fantastic heroine some day, if she lives long enough to reach adulthood. The young fools are always the ones out there, making a difference. "You know the half metal man, you've got his M on your chest and everything." That's awfully vague, you know. There's at least six or so half-metal men left in the Nexus, and only because Magtok's cloning vats have been out of commission and incapable of cranking out dozens of the little cyborgy megalomaniacs.

[Morty]

"A bit of a mystery, isn't it?" Ib'Bahali replies. "Probably something worth investigating, to be sure."

He takes another swig of that weird white drink of his. Not much at a time, though. It's a sipping drink, not the sort you just toss back.

That is, assuming you value continue coherence.

Ibby gives a little cough as he puts the odd goblet down again. There are those goat eyes again. He totally didn't have those before.

"How about we discover whether or not the knowledge you were seeking about this decaying ruin that so thoroughly refused to stop being can even be found, hmm?"

And that said, he fishes out a handful of sheep knuckle bones, each with little runes carved onto each surface. He closes his fingers around them and gives them a shake while muttering a few arcane words under his breath.

"Does the knowledge of the ruins' purpose still exist to be found?"

And when he opens his hands again?

Well. There are three possible answers here.

Yes.

No.

And uncertain.

Hopefully the answer isn't uncertain. Ibby is typically skilled enough with his auguries to avoid the non-responses like 'answer unclear, ask again later'.

The bones will show an answer: Yes. Michalson looks at them with some suspicion.

"To tell you the truth, I never did push much stock in this kind of thing. But I think it's right. I feel it in my bones that this particular dark ain't quite buried yet."

[Rebonack]

"Well, now I'm as curious as you are," Ibby replies with a smirk. "And as you might imagine, I do put a modicum of stock in my auguries. It would be a rather silly profession if it didn't work. Why, that would make me little more than a well dressed charlatan."

A beat.

"Which I'm not, for what it's worth. A charlatan, I mean. Divination is a wholly reputable school of magic which has sadly been tarnished by far too many crooks, shysters, and frauds who have a talent for enticing the gullible out of their coin," Ibby says. His tone and body language suggests that he's not particularly fond of said frauds. "Now that we know the knowledge that you perused still exists, it would be a matter of performing some simple psychometry on the weapon itself since it is rather likely at the heart of this whole mess. Or at the very least tangential to it. From there, I could learn where to find the knowledge you're seeking. At that point, it would be a matter of a bit of good old fashioned legwork and sleuthery."

Michalson seems like the sort of guy who is up for legwork and sleuthery.

Well.

Not right now, anyway.

Since he's drunk.

"Should you feel inclined to pursue this topic, just call me. My number is on my card."

Which he totally gave Michalson earlier. Hopefully he didn't misplace it.

[5a Violista]

Dramatic Entrance!

As the girl goes on talking about stuff, Malicebot#8 looks down at his drink, and then somehow drinks it. How does a robot drink, you ask? Well...it's more like "analyzing" the things that make it up. Sure, it's not the same as actually tasting. Sure, he'll never get drunk (or poisoned or whatever was in the drink). But sitting in a tavern, drinking, is an essential part.

Between sips and after the girl finishes talking, he says, "It's not an 'M.' On my world it means 'hope.'" Honestly, he suspects this reference is lost on her. So, he decides to instead help her realize the truth. "There's probably a dozen people that fit that description in this city. Some time ago, there were probably hundreds of people who that could describe."

...To be honest, he doesn't know whether the girl is referring to Malice or Magtok or Manson or M'thulu or whoever else. He doesn't know any of these other people, but he still honestly respects Malice. "I only know one of them, and he is a pretty alright person. Goes by Malice, he's pretty likable once you get to know him."

He 'drinks' some more.

[Lord Magtok]

Dramatic Entrance!

"Well then he surely can't be who we're looking for, because a 'pretty likable person' wouldn't burn a farm to the ground and shoot a man in cold blood," the old cyborg nods. He's a little suspicious, though. What kind of friendly, affable, completely innocent person would call themselves Malice? Sounds like something his old foe might do, maybe. Provided he could stand to let go of his awful ego long enough to operate under an alias, that is. Maybe Malice is a crude copycat, or some sort of elaborate parody? Alternate dimension twin of the opposite moral alignment, maybe. This world has always been a peculiar one; there could be any number of explanations. That talk of hundreds of cyborgs once occupying this city is a little frightening, though. What happened to them all? Did they leave of their own free will, or were they wiped out? Did his old foe decide he couldn't bear to live in a world where he wasn't special and unique anymore?

"He's still our best lead, and he's gotta be more help than you are. Where is he?" the cephalopodic child demands to know, defaulting to her usual expression of barely suppressed righteous fury and a lust for revenge. It's probably nowhere near as intimidating as she thinks it is, since she scarcely stands as tall as Malicebot #8's shoulders when he's sitting down.

[5a Violista]

Dramatic Entrance!

"Well," says the robot, "I can try to find him. Wait a few seconds." He wants to help these two people. They seem pretty alright. And the old man doesn't seem like someone who could turn into a psychotic killer who would snap and accidentally kill Malice.

Malicebot#8 takes another "sip" of his drink. It gives him something to do while waiting for a portion of him to figure out the local wifi passwords so he can connect to the MagNet and search on a couple of different search engines at the same time.

He sets down the teacup. "Okay, done. He's a comic shop owner, so I imagine you could find him there if you go there during working hours." People in the comic industry are pretty eccentric; it's not unrealistic to expect someone named Malice to work for it. He looks between the girl and the man. To the girl, he says, "If I tell you the address, I'm afraid you might accidentally try to hold him hostage or shoot somebody if you get there first, so," he turns towards the man-cyborg and eyes his metallic parts, "do you have memory storage in any of your cybernetics? If so, I could just download the address to you, if you're comfortable with that."

Some cyborgs and robots don't properly partition or separate their memory so they have to be afraid of viruses or corruption if they directly connect with someone they don't trust.
...Malicebot#8 suspects this old man probably fits into that group of people.

[Lord Magtok]

Dramatic Entrance!

The old man shakes his head, crossing thick, muscular arms against his chest, both of them as obviously synthetic as the rest of him, with thin blue lines going from his knuckles up to his forearms. "Just spell it out. The girl's illiterate, she won't know."

"HEY!" she hollers in indignation, giving the old cyborg a kick in the shins. This is yet another one of her bad ideas, because now she has a sore foot, the old man hardly even noticed the kick, and she's probably going to get in trouble for swearing later. Stupid robot men and their stupid robot legs...

[Earl of Purple]

In a distant realm, where Gods walk and move and shape things to Their whims, there is a cauldron. Into that cauldron goes the energy that makes souls, which the Gods shape and manipulate to determine what each individual will be before releasing the new-formed souls into the world to be born. One of the Gods is the God of Craft, and She has just forged the first of a new race which will be born and walk upon a far less potent realm, except these new beings won't be born at all- they'll be forged, crafted of wood and stone, metal and magic, faith and luck, and the first batch of these new, artificial creatures has just been created, draining a lot of energy from the cauldron as the God of Craft ladles it to form souls and personalities for Her new creations.

Unnoticed by the God of Craft, the Tricky God has siphoned off a pinch of soul-energy, not much but enough to unbalance the entity the God of Craft intends to lead Her latest project. Now the Tricky God needs to dispose of His theft, hide His part in the bloodshed and chaos He predicts to occur when the nation of forged men declares war upon the nation of born men. So He discards it, tosses it aside without shape or form, leaving it to drift aimlessly and formlessly into the mortal realms.

Eventually, that aimless, shapeless piece of soul finds rest, in the most chaotic place on the most turbulent of all the mortal realms, and it finds... the corpse of a mouse, recently killed by eating poison placed amongst the barrels in the wine cellar. The soul drifts closer to the empty vessel, and, not knowing any better, enters it. The mouse twitches, a little at first, then some more. Then it lurches onto its feet and runs, into a hole in the wall and follows a mouse-trail within the walls, before emerging onto the floor of Trog's Tavern. There's lots of other vessels here, full ones; ones of flesh and blood and metal and circuitry. The new-born creature glances around, awed by the variety and profusion of shapes and sizes other souls get to play around with. Well, thinks the discarded fragment of the forge-born king, why can't I play around with shape and size, too? But this body is limited; it lives, now, but I need to shape it to do better. And I don't know how, although... Maybe I can find out, by absorbing the knowledge from those souls, the ones lucky enough to have been born?

The mouse scampers, along the edge of the skirting board, looking for something alive it can taste.

[5a Violista]

Dramatic Entrance!

Malicebot#8 is a robot, and usually robots don't count as "alive" when it comes to mice trying to eat them.

...

Anyway.
"Okay," says the Malicebot, in response to the cyborg. A direct download of the info would be faster and easier, but... He then starts to spell out the address. When it comes to spelling out things, spelling out the words work better but when he's listing out the number-part of the address, saying the numbers themselves is probably the easiest.

"Did you get that," he asks, "or do I need to repeat part of it again?"

[Lord Magtok]

Not So Dramatic Exit!

The old man shakes his head, before reaching into his pocket and slapping some shiny gold coins on the counter. That should be enough to cover the next three rounds of fake drinks for Malicebot, yay! "Nope, got it all down the first time. Thanks again for your help, stranger. The girl and I, we've been trying to get to the bottom of this for a while. Her dad meant a lot, and he-"

"No more talking! C'mon! We've gotta go now! Uncle 'Mega, he's gonna get away again!" the girl insists, tugging at his sleeve. The cyborg simply lifts his arm up instead, pulling the girl up off of the ground in the process. He rolls his eyes, child still dangling from his forearm, and begrudgingly turns towards the door.

"See you around."

[5a Violista]

Dramatic...?!?!

Malicebot#8 smiles, and waves them off. "Good luck, and see you," he says, hoping they get to the bottom of this.

Isn't Malicebot#8 a nice robot?

"Try not to hurt anybody who doesn't deserve it." This is the motto Malicebot#8 lives by. (Of course, "deserve" is something debatable...so maybe it's a bad motto after all.) Honestly, though, given what the girl just said, he suspects she might "accidentally" draw her gun on Malice. He's great enough to fend for himself, Malicebot#8 figures.

Though, just in case...does the robot even have a way to contact Malice? I mean, his line of robots were created solely to temporarily slow down overpowered heroes (including a certain psychic) while Malice had kidnapped a woman at the old abandoned GLoG base not long after returning...it was probably expected most of them wouldn't survive the rest of the day, so would they even have had a communication line? He looks up the contact info for comic shop and sends an email or a text message or a DM or whatever else it is businesses use these days on their contact info. "Heads up: an overzealous little girl and a calmer old cyborg are headed to your store looking for someone. They seem nice, but be careful. ~Malicebot#8".

Let's hope the comic store had an up-to-date contact information and that Malice (or somebody else) sees it in time.

[FireFox]

A young woman walks in and takes a seat at the bar, where she orders Fire Archon Asylum Rum. She's wearing some expensive brand name gear, like you'd see a college student with wealthy parents bring on weekend camping trips. Azumarrill hiking boots; Polar Heretek tights; a The Septentrional Physiognomy fleece jacket; and a Patargonia 100% Hist-free beanie, the latter item she removes and stuffs in a pocket of the jacket. She has short red hair, pink irises, and peach skin. Most immediately noticeable, her cat ears and long tail are scarlet furred. While she waits for her drink she produces a small notebook and a pencil from somewhere, reviewing a brief handwritten list and then looking around the unfamiliar tavern.

[Rebonack]

There comes a loud bang from the kitchen, shortly followed by a shout of surprise and dismay. That shout transforms into a bellowing roar accompanied with some thrashing sounds and the crackling fwoosh of flames.

Then silence.

The double doors open, and a human woman with dark olive skin and raven hair steps out, clad in a Trog's Tavern apron. She licks her fingers, extinguishes a small flame dancing in her hair, and then steps up to the counter, smiling broadly. The trio of NPC servers watch in equal parts astonishment and disbelief as the woman ducks down behind the counter and retrieves a little placard, which she sets in front of herself.

The Sammich Artisan is
IN

"Oh hey, you're back!" comes a tiny voice from the rafters. "Did you gain weight?"

The woman causally hefts a can of tomato soup at the dreadful rafter-dwelling fae, scoring a solid hit and a a meaty thunk, causing the thing to topple from its perch and crumble into a heap of sand and wool. That job done, she smiles at the cat-eared newcomer!

"Howdy! Welcome to Trog's Tavern!" the totally unremarkable and completely normal human female says brightly to the customer at the bar. "What can I do for you today?"

[FireFox]

The catgirl stares at the dramatic return in surprise, tail swaying like a metronome in time to her tapping the pencil's eraser against her bottom lip. She's not quite sure what to make of it all. Which, incidentally, is probably the best indication an observer could have that she's new to Trog's and most likely the Nexus as well. More strikingly unusual things than this happen with great enough frequency to jade veterans and residents with a fashionable cynicism. She tears her eyes away from the heap of sand and wool (but how did it talk?) and directs them at the placard. "A... a sammich? Hello. A sandwich." Another second passes by, marked by feline pendulum, before she seems to realize that's a rudely inadequate answer. "Sorry, I mean, um, turkey and... cheese?"

[Rebonack]

"YES! One turkey sandwich with cheese!" Zee replies somewhat manically, pounding her fists lightly on the counter. "It has been way too long since I've gotten to do this!"

She does a gleeful little twirl, facing an enclosed rack for holding all the fresh bread and comes face to face with the starkest of horrors.

Empty?

No, worse than empty.

It's filled with per-sliced, store bought bread.

Zee staggers as if she were struck. "What. What!? What is this?" she asks, gesturing at the offending baked goods while casting an accusing look at the trio of NPC waiters. "What have you been doing while I was away?"

Nina, Paige, and Cosmo spare a quick glance at each other. "It was Cosmo's turn to bake the bread," Paige pipes up sheepishly.
"No way I'm going in the kitchen, toots, that place is scary," Cosmo objects.

A dejected sign is heaved as Zee slumps a bit, defeated. "Fine. Fine, okay," she says, her tone one of long-suffering patience. She rubs her face with one hand, considering options. "That's just something else I'll have to fix. Get some bread and pastries baked. I'm sure you three can hold down the fort a few more hours if you've managed this long."

Then she turns to the newcomer, flashing her an apologetic smile. "I'm really sorry, miss, we're out of fresh bread right now. It looks like we've got..." she opens up the bread box and pulls out a pair of still plastic wrapped loafs. "Umm... sour dough, wonderbread, whole wheat, and... gluten free date-loaf? How is this even bread?"

Cosmo shrugs. "It was on sale."

[FireFox]

"Whole wheat is fine," she says, frowning in sympathy with Zee's plight. While she doesn't quite understand why someone would get so worked up about sandwiches, it must be rough to come back to a job and find your coworkers useless. She picks up her rum and takes a healthy drink. The coughing might be less healthy for her, but at least she's warmed up. After absentmindedly wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, she leans forward over the bar to catch Zee's attention. Then, with an innocent look, she asks a stupid question. "Hey, what's so good about fresh bread anyway? Every time we had it at home the crust was, like, burned black."

[Rebonack]

First things first!

Wash hands.

Even though Zee's lifeshaping abilities means she could just lyse any pathogens sticking to her hands but that isn't the point! Always wash hands when preparing food!

"Whole wheat it is!" Zee declares as she, ugh, removes the bag clip from the loaf of sliced bread. Two slices are flopped onto her preparation board, making sad little flopping noises as they land. It's the sound of woeful imperfection, but sometimes imperfections are good! They force you to improvise! To think outside the box! To-

Zee opens up the mini-fridge and discovers that it's stocked with a half-empty package of deli-meat. It isn't even turkey. They only have roast beef.

She nearly starts crying right then and there.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" she bewails as she pulls out container, popping it open and slapping down several slices of meat. They land atop the bread, perfectly arranged and folded. She places one arm across her forehead dramatically. "What sin have I committed to be tormented so on this, the day of my joyous return?"

"People don't order sandwiches very often since you got exploded," Cosmo points out as he busies himself cleaning a glass.

Zee sticks her tongue out at him. "Well duh! All the sammich fixin's here are sub-par! Why would someone want to pay for a sad roast beef sandwhich when they asked for turkey?"

"People don't really pay for the food..." Paige interjects.

"Beside the point!" Zee huffs as she applies condiments. At least they still have a selection of those. Almost afraid to look now, Zee checks the cheese supply.

Swiss. Cheddar of several varieties. Munster. Jack. Gouda. Havarti. Mozzarella. Brie. Provolone. And beyond that a supply of several even more exotic cheeses, from artisan mammoth cheese crafted by hipster giants to genuine moon cheese harvested from only the darkest of sides.

Zee just stands there, mouth agape. "What. How?"

"Turns out there's a portal to the paraelemental plane of cheese in that mini-fridge," Nina replies with a smirk. "It restocks itself."

Zee just throws her hands up in the air, defeated. "Was there a particular type of cheese you wanted, miss? We apparently have all of them."

And then question time!

"Burnt? Every time? Now, I'm not saying that whoever was baking your bread was terrible at baking bread, but whoever was baking your bread was really awful at baking bread," Zee replies with a stifled laugh. Then her grin falters somewhat. "Now I feel kinda bad about not having any fresh bread for you today. It'll be a few hours at least before I've got any ready."

[FireFox]

Hmm, what kind of cheese goes well with turkey? Or, roast beef now. For a moment it seems as if the catgirl can't recall a single type of cheese and she cranes her neck to look around Zee in an unsuccessful attempt to read a label. But then she manages to think of one and blurts it out. "Pepper jack, please."

She doesn't seem terribly offended by that slight, as she understands her upbringing wasn't exactly replete with fine cuisine. But as she goes on it becomes more clear she doesn't fully grasp what she's been missing out on. "Okay, so, like... my daddy used to take us camping. I mean us, my sisters and me. And he was, like, super into outdoor cooking! He said it was the sort of food he would have when he was an adventurer. The few times he made bread he would put the dough into this, like... portable cast iron oven. Put the oven in a campfire, put some embers on top." She makes several hand gestures here, too vague to be properly descriptive. She's waving around a pencil and has a notebook open on the bar in front of her, but it doesn't occur to her to just sketch the damned thing. "But I guess it must have been hard to get the heat even, 'cuz the outside would be burned and the middle would be, like, undercooked. Oh, but some of it was totally tasty!" Making them that sort of food is arguably some form of abuse. Sarah's father would have been taken away by child protective services long ago, but then the girls would be left with their mother and that might not have solved anything. Zee isn't a CPS snitch, is she? With all the kids running around, Nexus bartenders these days may be mandatory reporters like teachers and doctors.

"Y'know, I don't mind waiting a couple hours. All I'm doing right now is, like, avoiding my family and not going to a party."