The tavern was smoke-filled, stuffy, and crowded. It was called 'The Bottom' – the owner clearly had a sense of humor. The dregs trickled here, most of them anthropomorphic, weary and dejected. The roadside of the universe, the roadside of life – a scene from an old film, a scrap of which was still tucked away somewhere in his memory. Rotten whiskey, a rotten cigar, and here he was, a noir hero who didn't wear a trench coat.
He sank onto a barstool, his nose wrinkling involuntarily. He wasn't used to such places. No wonder: people, in general, are much more eager to get used to good things. 'People'. So strange to include himself in that category. Breathing. Wrinkling his nose. Ordering whiskey. The mimicry of life. On the other hand, isn't that what all people do? Mimic?
Ah, enough of this nonsense. Void Archives didn't do existential crises. He did existential fuckery.
The bartender, a tired middle-aged woman, raised an eyebrow. Her face was indifferently stony, but her gesture betrayed surprise. Divine Keys rarely dropped into 'The Bottom,' it seemed... But more likely, it was because for an establishment of 'The Bottom's' caliber, he was dressed like a clown.
He placed his order and began contemplating his slightly rumpled but still devastating reflection in the bar counter, polished by countless glasses. He couldn't get used to being perceived as a... person. Not as a malfunctioning doll, not even as a skinwalker masquerading as a perished boogeyman. As him. Void Archives, the interstellar menace. It was what he wished for, yet at times... being seen was uncomfortably terrifying. But alas, the genie was out of the bottle, even if a chunk of his 'software' wasn't something he picked up on his own, but acquired via a clown-to-clown transmission.
The whiskey turned out to be dreadful: a self-fulfilling prophecy, 'worthy' of a being of his capabilities drinking in a dive on an outpost surely called 'In-the-middle-of-fucking-nowhere' somewhere in the vast, alien sky. Void Archives winced and pushed the glass away, then, after a moment's hesitation, took it again in his hand – that terrifyingly pale, fragile hand – and downed the bitter liquid in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with his free hand – no, these weren't the manners he'd picked up from Herr Overseer – and felt someone staring with his entire almost-human being. He turned nine o'clock and found the culprit sipping beer at the far end of the bar counter.
Appreciating the view, aren't we? he asked, caution creeping into his cheerful voice. A light, elegant gesture of his hand indicated the empty stool beside him. I'd say you owe me a drink, but I just remembered I'm a gentleman. Whiskey?
