pineslog | Get drunk while the space birdman judges you

The delivery arrives in the evening at 5:30 and Lantar’s cranked up the heater to the max waiting for it. The bar itself was set on the second floor of the building while the stockroom sat under it and the delivery folks help him move the crates and furniture off of their truck.

He’s still not sure where all this was coming from. Every instinct he possessed tells him not to try and ask. Here he was anyways, a few days from opening his own bar. As if it was normal. As if any of this was normal.

Shivering, he wraps the scarves tighter around his head, waving the delivery people off and hitting the button to draw down the steel shutters. Casting a glance at the clock on the wall he rubs his arms, trying to get some warmth back in them.

10K should be here soon. Hopefully anyways, Spirits knows Lantar could use help moving stuff around when all his limbs seemed to be going numb.

No, none of this is normal. 10K doesn't remember much--what exactly had happened to him was still a blur, he's never been to Idaho, and hadn't even with Warren and the others. On their mission. He still can't even remember what that mission was, why they were traveling, aside from it being something about Murphy. But it wasn't something worrying would fix. All he could do was hope they were okay, hope maybe Addy would get him a message or they'd come back when they could, and in the meantime...

Well, in the meantime, he's got some pretty weird memories he's pretty sure aren't his, really, and those memories tell him that he and Sidonis are friends. Isn't that why he agreed to do this in the first place? And even though he doesn't remember much about himself before the accident, he doesn't think he's the type of person to be late. It's only a few minutes after 5:30 when he finally finds the place, knocking on the service door in hopes Lantar's still down there to answer before readjusting the scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked in the front of his parka.

[[I am so sorry about the amount of fail this month. Will prioritize here, sorry!]]

Lantar's in the middle of doing a final check on the new inventory when he hears the knock on the door. Tucking the clipboard under his arm, he quickly picks his way through the boxes and elbows open the door.

"Holy shit, you're early, man," he exclaims, shoving the door out the rest of the way, quickly ushering 10K in, out of the cold.

"I've got the kettle going. You want anything warm to drink before we start? Got tea, insta coffee and cocoa."

There's a skip here as he tightens his own scarf around his neck, doing a quick mental recount.

"Actually, maybe not the coffee. Think the delivery people got them all. Got coffee syrup now though."

[[It's alright! I've hit a slow spot at the moment too!]]

"Wasn't doing anything else, I thought maybe you'd need some help with inventory too," he answers, quickly moving inside where it's not freezing. February in Idaho feels pretty much like February in upstate New York, so it's not like he's never dealt with the cold before, it's just been a while. He thinks. Time before Wayward Pines is another of those things that gets a little fuzzy. "You know, I haven't had cocoa in--" One of those little hiccups that they all have, the ones that politely skip over a gap in memories, or something that skirts a little too close to breaking the 'rules.' He picks back up right away.

"--In a while. You mind? As soon as I can feel my hands again, we can get started. Everything come in on time?"

Lantar doesn't ask about the sudden skip. He busies himself slipping between the crates, moving over to the table he'd set up in the back of the room instead.

"I don't mind at all," he offers once 10K finishes his line of thought, nabbing a clean mug off of the platter and sticking a spoon in it with a little ceramic 'clink'. "These boxes aren't going anywhere. Might as well get warmed up."

Spirits knows he needs to. Just the breeze through that door was enough to chill him all over again.

"I just started on the inventory, but I'm pretty sure everything's here," he adds, carefully shredding a satchel of cocoa into the cup before filling it up halfway through with water from the kettle.

"You want cream? Whipped cream?"

"Thanks. It's freezing out there." He nods, shutting the door behind him firmly and rubbing his hands together. The fingerless gloves aren't doing much for him, but it's more comfortable than having his fingers covered. He's still not sure why, but that's fast becoming the story of his life. "Uh, yeah. Please. Thanks." Whatever polite words apply, he's always starving. Almost like he never really ate before. Which...well, from what he can recollect so far, he might not have. "This place--looks like you've got a good building for it." Sturdy. Easily defensible, from the right vantage point. Another of those thoughts that come and go.

"All the heat gets sucked upstairs," Lantar grumbles as he pours in the cream in. "Which I guess is a good thing, but it's pretty damn annoying when we're stuck down here for a while."

Turians were absolutely not a cold tolerant species. His motherworld was borderline radioactive as far as he knows. Omega was always sweltering, the waste heat from Eezo production trapped within the confines of the station.

Why the hell would any Turian ever live in fucking Idaho of all places, really? If his memories of Pines was real, how did he even end up here?

Frowning, Lantar shakes up the canister of whipped cream before squirting a generous dollop on top of the drink and then holding it out for 10K.

"I'd offer you syrup or sprinkles, but I need to find them in this heap of stuff first."

"It'll be good for your inventory, right? Refrigeration in the summer. It'll get warm, come late spring," he offers, uncertain exactly of how he knows that. More memories he's not sure are really his. He remembers New York, remembers his parents, remembers vague bits of traveling, but Idaho? It should be a blank. Problem is, it isn't. Taking the mug with a nod of thanks, he wraps cold fingers around it before lifting it to take a cautious sip, risking the burned tongue that's inevitable at this point and watching another part of that memory he shouldn't have fill in the gaps in his mind.

"Well, that's what I'm here for, right? Lift heavy boxes, help you get unpacked and all. Where do you wanna start?"

"... W-what?"

Summer? Spring?

Lantar looks at 10K like he's grown another head. The kid was talking as if the weather was going to change, but that- that-

Idaho wasn't going to be a snowy hell all the time?

Looking through his... his memories of Pines, he suddenly sees it. Really understands it for the first time. Summer. Spring. Autumn and winter. Seasons.

What the fuck?

"Uh, right," Lantar says with all the grace of someone who was trying to act like his mind hadn't just been completely blown. "Yeah. Let's get to work. Uh, here's a copy of the inventory for you."

He slides the paper off of his clipboard and holds it out for 10K to take.

"Yeah. I'm looking forward to it, I'm not really a big fan of the snow. Guess I might not be saying that come August, but hey."

He isn't sure what exactly is going through Lantar's head, or why he looked at him so weird, but 10K's not the type to push. It's been tough for him, too, remembering. Remembering a life in this town, remembering people he'd met. Sidonis is one of those, too; odd jobs here and there, small conversations, companionable silences. Maybe it's been the same on his end, the awkwardness of remembering. So he waits, and nods as Sidonis passes him a list, taking it in hand and scanning the paper.

"Sure thing. Tell me where you want me to get started, and we'll get through this."

Get through all of it, somehow, and not just the inventory.

"You know, my species comes from a planet that's borderline radioactive," Lantar puffs, doing a quick read over the list. "I'm gonna take whatever bitty span of warmth I can get in this place."

Wait. Is that alright to talk about? Lantar hesitates, scowling at his clipboard. It's gotta be alright, right? It's just like humans saying they were from Earth, which was just a fact.

Besides, he's not even from Palaven, he's from...

Omega...?

Forcibly shaking off the confusion, he moves, striding past the crates.

"Here, you start on the warmer side of the room," Lantar says pointing to said pile of boxes. Give the guy some time to warm up since he'd just come in from the cold. "I'll start on the other. Get the cling film off and match the numbers on the boxes up with the stuff on the paper and move 'em out to the front of the elevator. That's through the door in the back there."

It's the help wanted sign that encourages Malia inside. She also hasn't tried drinking in town yet (so, isn't aware that the effects of alcohol will be almost nonexistent on her. Goodie.) She realistically knows that people shouldn't wear the same clothes everyday too, so she's acquired a pair of jeans (the shorts that showed up as her belongings, not gonna cut it for the damn winter.) She's wearing a plaid shirt made up of light blues and greens, absolutely not tucked in and instead hanging down past her waist. It's a man's shirt, for sure, but it resonated with her, so.

She steps inside, appearing physically neat enough, giving a careful look around, trying to spy whoever might be working there to inquire about the sign.

When she spots a form, someone who has their back to her, she stops. There's -- okay, something off? Her journey from hospital bed to house predestined for her live in, though, came with meeting a person who wasn't entirely human, either. What does she know about what all exists in the world, especially with her memories still being questionable? There doesn't seem to be any danger in their air, no ominous tones, so she starts walking again, calling out as she goes. "Hello?"

For all that Lantar was tall enough to nearly scrape his head against the (also tall) ceiling, his intimidation factor was somewhat mitigated by the powder blue, penguin printed poncho he was donning at the moment. He looks up from wiping one of the cups down, swivelling his head around to peer at the human who'd just entered.

"Welcome to Weaver's," he offers dryly. "What can I do you?"

At least customer service expectations seem to be pretty low.

Malia looks human, and she knows it. It takes his head turning like that for her to stop again, eyes going a little wide (whoops, sorry, bro.) She decides to have the intended conversation from where she stands.

"Um, thanks. I...saw the," her head cranes back, thumb pointing in the direction of the door, "sign?" Her gaze shifts back to him. "About a job?"

Low expectations in customer service bodes well for Malia, who can't remember ever providing such in this or any other life.

The head tilts and his gaze becomes narrower, more assessing. Whatever Lantar was, the surprise isn't particularly mutual.

There's something strange about the way this fur head smelled though. Nothing he could place his claw on, but under the usual human notes, there's something... muskier.

Setting the cup down, he drapes the polishing cloth over his forearm and turns to fully face her, one hand resting on the sharp jut of his hip.

"Barkeep or server?"

Assessing his body language could take some time to really get down, Malia decides, but that's okay. He's obviously not human, and now she just wants to find out what he is. As established, there's no danger, so she moves to stand at the bar, resting her hands over its top.

"I haven't been either before." Is that bad? "So either one? Which one do you need more? I learn really fast." She knows she does, even if that doesn't always carry over to factual and analytical skills in the world of academia. Life skills, ones that can apply to a job, she can totally learn those. Right?

"Barkeep then," Lantar says decisively, before jerking his head towards the tables. "You'll have to double up on duties with me until we get dedicated servers anyways."

Considering the weather and just how small this town was, he doubts they'll get any real rush hour. There was a solid herd of three people wandering around right now and that seemed to be the peak of it. Nothing even just one barkeeper couldn't handle.

"Training'll happen as we go. By the time we're through, you'll be in charge of mixing drinks, running the register, serving, cleaning the cups and the tables, sweeping and making a list of anything that's running out of stock. You'll be starting off at four hours a day until everything's sorted and I think you can hold your own."

He pauses here and lets her have a moment to digest the information.

"Duties will get split a bit more evenly once we got another person on. If you got preferences for day or evening shifts and when you wanna start, now's the time to sound off."

Malia gives the tables a long look as he answers back, nodding firmly. She looks back to him. "Okay. That works." Training, that feels like it'll be a new area of life for her -- has she ever had job training? She really doesn't think so. That's all a good deal of information to take in, and her eyes do go a little wide through the list, but she smiles faintly and nods again. She's positive she can handle all of those tasks and duties, no doubt about it.

She answers quickly, "Evenings. I'd like those instead. And, I can start...whenever you need. I was just taking a walk, came by, saw the," a quick glance over to the door again, "sign." A shrug. "Decided to come in." A long pause. "Is there -- anything else you need to know about me? My name's Malia." That's tacked on, and she wonders if people always get jobs this easily. Or if there's more. A hiring process, if you will.

Hiring processes were for actual cities, not bumfuck, small town Idaho.

He kind of... softens after that. Just a fraction. Just a few atoms. Barely enough to be noticeable outwardly but the edge of roughness is gone from his subvocals and he eases back slightly on his talons with a quiet huff.

"I'm Lantar Sidonis." Fetching another cup, he gets to work on polishing that up as he continues talking. "Gonna need first name, last name and address or some kind of contact for the paperwork. We'll worry about that in the next time you come in. As for when you can start..."

The man pauses to give the dearth of customers a vaguely unimpressed look before shrugging.

"If you wanna stick around, I'll give you a rundown of things. See if you like it any."

Edited 2017-02-17 05:06 (UTC)

She listens to the name, giving it a teeny smile of recognition. Staying put in front of the bar counter, she relaxes against it a little, taking in the small, easy to handle, list of other details about her that he'd need to know. Malia's eyes light up when he trails of, thinking she knows what he might say, a cursory glance over to the patronage there.

"Good night to show someone a bit of the ropes, right?" She moves then, on a more toward path to where Lantar is standing. "So I can call you -- Lantar?" Her brows lift as she speaks the name, not really knowing if she's ever heard someone with the name before or not, and it does feel foreign on her tongue. "I'd like to stay for a bit. However long you're open, if you want." She has nothing else going on that night, after all. Closing is probably pretty important at, oh, any business too, she realizes.

"Place is open 'til midnight." Lantar sets the cup down and folds the polishing cloth away on a rack. "If you're up for it, be my guest. I reserve the right to send you home before you start gnawing the table legs off from boredom, though."

The way he says it makes it sound like it's happened many, many times before.

Moving a bit to give the human some space behind the bar, he kicks out a stool for her to sit on. This bar was anti-standing-on-your-feet-all-the-damn-time, dammit. Especially with this slow patronage.

"You want some pretzels?"

Humans like pretzels, right?

Her forehead creases just so at that before an unsure, slow little smile crops up. It's a joke with an edge, she thinks, and lets her smile flourish more before she nods. "I'm up for it. The staying. Not the gnawing." Dogs do gnaw though, don't they?

With that action, Malia moves ahead to sit, unable to stop her eyes from lingering over certain parts of his body. Yeah, she's gonna have to ask what he is...

At the question and offer, her eyes wander for these aforementioned pretzels. "Sure." And when they're passed her way, she gives one a long sniff before popping it into her mouth, crunching slowly, lips pursing to the side. Not the first time she's had them, and even now, there's not a lot to them. Dry.

She eyes Lantar again. "So...what are you? You're not human." Anyone would be curious! Stating it so directly, with nary a polite manner in sight, she's nothing if not blunt.

Fortunately for Malia, Lantar only recently learned what dogs actually even are, so the details of their behaviors are a bit lost on him!

He has, however, worked with bored Vorcha.

At her question, Lantar draws in air with through his teeth and exhales it with all the sense of long-sufferingness that someone who's had to field this question 500 times these past few weeks. There's a little bit of a pause before he answers though, filled with the rustle of paper as he nabs a notebook out of one of the drawers and flips through it.

"I'm a Turian," he says at last, ripping the recipe cheat sheet from the book and then moving to fetch the tape. "My species' motherworld is Palaven. We're dextro-amino based and we're obligate carnivores."

Falling silent again, he carefully tapes the edges of the sheet down, careful to make it parallel to the edge of the counter.

"Any other questions you want me to field while we're here?"

Still freaking weird that not everyone here knows what a Turian is considering he's lived here for all his life.

Probably.

Maybe.

( big mistake, lantar. advertising free alcohol and expecting howard not to take advantage of that.

he only finds himself at the bar after his douchebag of a housemate (and his ex, apparently) jeff drives him out of the house with his constant complaints. "pick up your towels", "fix the toaster", "stop throwing acorns at my head". ugh, it's like he wasn't even trying to be nice when howard is nothing but polite and considerate towards him. this whole situation and the accident is very stressful, he knows, but jesus. have a little compassion, shit stain.

howard enters the bar, being sure to tag all the women for "migratory purposes", and makes a straight beeline for a barstool and the bartender. he slides on a bar stool and levels a steely glare at the towering bartender. he may be giant but that doesn't frighten howard in the slightest. )

Hey, pal. Give me alcohol.

( and his tone suggests to just leave the bottle. )

[ Ah, yes, he was prepared for the alcoholics to show up at some point, just not this early in the day.

Lantar stops in the middle of wiping the counter top down to give Howard a Look before moving away briefly to wash the cloth in the sink and wring it out. He talks as he does so. ]

Gonna guess you're here for the taste testing, huh?

[ Unfortunately, the only thing he can leave in the bottle is beer. The Mayor didn't particularly approve of anything over 40 proof. ]

( well, it's 5 pm somewhere, right? )

No, I'm here for the conversation. ( if the terseness in his voice wasn't enough of a sign to clue lantar in on howard's current foul mood, then the eye roll that follows should.

and, as long as the alcohol can make him forget his name again, he doesn't give a flying fig what it is. )

Hey, a barkeeper can dream.

[ Actually, he doesn't dream about it at all. Drunkards were generally pretty terrible conversationalists, the occasional cheerful, chatty drunk aside.

As he lines up the shot glasses, Lantar eyes Howard and turns his options over in his head. Sure he's not supposed to sell anything over 40 proof. But he's not selling anything, is he? He's giving out free samples of experimental drinks and if those drinks happen to contain more vodka than syrup or tonic water- well. No one's around to measure it out.

Plus, it'll get the guy out of his fringe sooner. ]

Just so you know, I don't have the vaguest idea how any of these tastes like to a human. Fair warning.

( his gaze lingers on the bartender as he pours out his drinks, almost as if he's silently criticizing the guy for the warning. if howard cared for such warning (which he doesn't), he wouldn't be here, getting served alcohol by a seven foot lizard man.

his attentions turn to the shot glasses and, as soon as lantar finishes pouring, he takes the first shot. it passes the test — he doesn't go blind. the second one, however, has such a disgusting taste that his immediate reaction is to spit it out. he wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and yells, ) You're supposed to take off your socks before you step on the grapes!

Alright. Socks off before stepping on the grapes. I'll put that on the memo.

[ The complete deadpan betrays no sarcasm or humor, but there's just a sliiiiight slant to Lantar's eyes that might have been amusement. Oh, sure, he'll have to clean that spray up, but it's worth it for the look on the human's face. ]

Any other very important requests while you're here?

[ The next drink smells like the distilled essence of those pine fresheners you hung on rearview mirrors. ]

( after that last shot, howard is understandably a bit hesitant in trying the next one. in the dim light of the bar, the drink looks like it has a faint green glow. he picks it up and takes a whiff of it. he almost gags from the smell alone. a frown creases his features and he holds the drink away from him, eyes carefully studying it. he turns his gaze from the drink to the bartender and notices what appears to be amusement in his eyes.

well, fuck that. he's not gonna let no damn bartender show him up. no guts, no glory.

he takes a swig of it and his body shudders from the concoction. it burns a fiery trail down his throat and he can feel it settling in his stomach like a lead weight. oh boy, he's gonna be feeling that in the morning. the taste itself isn't half-bad, but the feeling is....... not. wincing and smacking his lips around, he says, ) Yeah, protip, costumers might take offense if you try to kill them with shit like this.

( speaking as a fellow business owner... )

[ Works like magic every damn time. Goading cocky drinkers into trying some weirdass mixes on a dare never got old. At least Lantar has the grace not to grin too obviously. ]

If I wanted to kill you, I'd plop a good old mug of Ryncol down and bet you ten bucks that you wouldn't finish it.

[ Fortunately for Howard, he decides to give the man a bit of mercy and goes for a more conventional mix of tequila, fizz and lime. Just to cleanse his palette a little. ]

Pine syrup's never hurt a soul. Except for that one time this fucker tried murdering one of his mates with a bottle of it.

( his eyes narrow and his mouth tightens. be careful what you say, lantar. howard stark doesn't even back down from a good bet — or, at least, he thinks he doesn't. jury's still out.

however, the way this damn bartender is grinning way too obviously lights a fire under howard's ass to prove him wrong. )

Ten bucks then. ( he pulls out his wallet from his jacket pocket and slaps down a tenner on to the counter space between them. fuck this tequila, fizz, and lime bullshit. give him the heavy stuff. )

[ The grin slips right off of Lantar's face, mostly because he's now busy facepalming. ]

Spirits- just-

[ He keeps forgetting just how brazenly idiotic drunk people were.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's got a perfectly legitimate excuse for forgetting about how brazenly idiotic drunk people were.

It still doesn't make any of this less idiotic though. ]

First of all, I don't even have Ryncol here because the Mayor would have my ass-plates on a plate. Second of all, Ryncol is literally poisonous to humans. You're better off drinking a tub of bleach and if anyone tries to actually make you drink it, fucking don't.

[ There! That's your Ryncol PSA, Howard. Is he assuming too much that this you'd might have a bare smidgen of self preservation in there somewhere? ]

( please, howard isn't even buzzed yet. this is just how idiotic he normally is (— or, at least, how idiotic he thinks he normally is. the jury's still out). either way, the bartender's excuses aren't gonna cut if for him. )

Pfft. You're gonna let the Mayor boss you around? You? A big space alien... guy?

( not that howard himself has ever seen the mayor. for that matter, he's not even sure anyone's ever seen the mayor period. for all he knows, the mayor could also be a big space alien guy with a face that could turn milk sour like this guy. what he does know, though, is that a fight between this bartender and the hypothetical mayor (who is now king kong in howard's mind) could be pretty amazing. )

Last I checked, alien, being big and from space doesn't determine whether you govern a place. I don't particularly fancy starting messes with lawmakers or keepers, especially not over serving Ryncol to the next random asshole that asks.

[ He's got a license, he's got a business and he just wants to make a living, not start the galaxy's most idiotic alcohol revolution, thank you. ]

Now you want that free drink or not, huh? [ Lantar jerks a mandible at the glass between them. ] Mr. 'I'm here for the conversation'?

[technically speaking, clint already has a job, but aside from the fact that he can't even remember who else is even in the avengers with him right now (he can't be blamed for that, can he, they shuffle around a lot) he's not so sure how that whole gig even works in this town. is kind of wondering if he's not supposed to be doing some kind of long term undercover gig (he hates those, he's pretty sure. it's easier to remember the things he hates, honestly).

in which case he should probably get around to finding a job to help maintain his cover, even if he's currently feeling absolutely no motivation to do so.

which is why the sign calling for booze guinea pigs catches his eye, truth be told. the sign on the door advertising for bartender and servers is far less appealing, but if there's one thing other than shooting that he has some measure of confidence in his ability to do, it's drink. it isn't any sort of long term plan, of course, he knows that, he's not stupid, but it's something to do for today, at least.

he makes his way inside.] So, what's the catch?

The catch is that I don't have human taste buds.

[ Lantar finishes up an order and slides it off to another customer before fully turning his attention to Clint. He leans his thigh against the counter, bird-like head tilting slightly. ]

Don't worry, I'm well versed enough in human dietary restrictions not to poison you. Well, with anything other than alcohol anyways.

[ Aiding customers with voluntary self poisoning is sort of his job. ]

Get drunk while the space birdman judges you

The Setup - 06.02 - Closed to 10K

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