"You're back." She eyes you warily.

"You're back." She eyes you warily.

"Are you still mad at me?"

"No." She exhales slowly through her nose. "But you're on thin ice, alright?"

"My time in Quisach's coming to an end."

"Safe travels." She doesn't look up from what she's doing.

Just one more customer she won't have to deal with again.

"Leaving again so soon?"

"Yep. Tied up all the loose ends. Neat little bow, very tidy."

"Glad to hear it."

She slides a small glass of pinkish liquid across the counter.

"On me. Salut, from Quisach."

You never did clear up if she was a spy or not. Is this wise?

"Salut, Lucia." (Drink.)

A taste so foul there's no way to distinguish any poison that may be in it.

A fitting farewell drink. Just hopefully not your final farewell.

"Safe travels."

Alternative wording

"Safe travels, Hershel."

Largely unpleasant, burns as it goes down. A fitting farewell drink.

Steeling you for whatever is about to come.

"Nah, it's all yours." (Don't drink.)

She shrugs, and downs it herself in a single shot.

So she wasn't trying to poison you.

"You're an odd person. Safe travels."

Alternative wording

"You're an odd person, Hershel. Safe travels."

"I did as much as I possibly could."

"Right. That's all we can ever do."

"Finished your business here?"

"My job is never done. That's my curse."

"Yeah, I know that feeling."

"Another thing about the old man over there..."

"Whatever you've got going on with him..." she holds up a hand, "is not my business."

"About that old man in the booth..."

She stays silent, waiting for you to kickstart the conversation.

"Did you catch his name?"

"Hasn't given one."

"You're asking a lot of questions about this man."

Too many questions.

"I'm suspicious of strange men who claim to be looking for me."

"Sure, but that's enough now." She huffs. "Either talk to him yourself, or drop it altogether."

She picks up a cloth and absentmindedly starts wiping the counter.

"He was asking about me. Seems only fair."

"You think I'm being paranoid?"

"That'd be one way of putting it." She picks up a cloth. "That's enough now. Either talk to him yourself, or drop it altogether."

With a huff, she starts absentmindedly wiping the counter.

She makes a show of clearing her throat before your next question.

Followed up by looking around you, as if something else caught her attention.

"Hasn't given one. Just like you."

A similarity she hasn't ignored.

"What's his poison?"

"Schnapps, so far." Her forehead creases.

"Has he cast his lewd eye upon thee?"

"I'm not sure he's casting it on you." She tries and fails to not make a face.

"What's he been up to over there?"

"Not much. Mostly drinking and fiddling with paper."

Bits of paper... like the one the little girl delivered you?

"Fiddling how?"

"Scribbling, folding it into shapes." She shrugs. "I dunno. Fiddling."

"What line of work are we allegedly both in?"

"Imports and exports."

The favourite euphemism of smugglers and bootleggers.

And operants.

"Do you think he seems kind of... off?"

She glances over at the man as he sits silently at his booth, transfixed by something in his hands.

"Perfectly polite. Keeps to himself. Hasn't caused any trouble, pays in cash."

Hiding in plain sight; the perfect patron.

"Bit of a lizard, I suspect."

"Did you hear what he was talking about with my associate?"

She shakes her head.

"Were they arguing? Chit-chatting? Flirting?"

"It looked like a business meeting. Quiet. Boring."

"Really? Not a peep? I don't believe you."

"That's your problem, not mine."

"Is it so easy? To just tune it all out?"

"Exceptionally."

"Enough about the mysterious old man." (Go back.)

"Fine by me." She nods.

"That old man who was sitting over there... when did he leave?"

Alternative wording

"The old man who asked after me... when did he leave?"

The bartender squints at the empty booth and gives a noncommittal shrug.

Not her business, not her problem.

He won't be back.

What was never there can never leave.

"I'm supposed to be meeting someone here -- guy about our age, oddly compelling headphones. Seen him?"

"You seem to meet a lot of strange men here."

"Jealous?"

She snorts.

"He's waiting in the lounge upstairs." She gestures to the staircase.

"What, I'm not allowed to meet a friend for drinks?"

"Just saying, you're awfully popular." She raises an eyebrow.

Alternative wording

"You said you didn't have any friends." She snorts. "But, sure, fine."

"Sure, he beat you here by about fifteen minutes."

"What was your impression of him?"

"Polite enough." She shrugs. "Had that sort of Developed World look, you know. Good teeth."

That shrug was a little stiff. He's her type.

"Where is he?"

"I don't think we've met."

Alternative wording

"I don't think we've done introductions yet."

"No, I don't think we have. I'm Lucia." She gives you an even look.

"Hershel. I used to be a regular."

"What brings you back?"

Not 'why'd you leave', blessedly. She knows her audience.

"Atoning for my past mistakes."

"First round's on the house, then. What'll you have?"

You see the glint of a silver medallion around her neck as she moves to give you a view of the selection behind the bar.

"Why?" (Squint.)

"You can pay if you want," she says, with a shrug.

She spritzes an astringent cleaning fluid on the counter and buffs it to a dull shine.

"I'll have one of your foul local schnapps."

She reaches for a half-full bottle of pink-tinged liqueur. In due course, a small, trumpet-shaped glass appears before you.

"Cheers."

The glass makes a little 'thunk' as it hits the bar. You down it in one go -- as is tradition.

Notes of industrial turpentine and sour pear.

"I saw you were talking to your friend." She nods in the direction of the man in the corner booth.

"He's not my friend."

"Alright. Acquaintance, then." She shrugs. "He said he was expecting you, so."

"What's he been doing here? Aside from skulking, lurking, looming."

"Mostly drinking and fiddling."

He can't have just been waiting for you.

"Until the other guy showed up. Then he was huddling and talking."

"What'd the guy look like?"

"Youngish. Glasses, receding hairline. Communist." She catches your eye, shrugs. "It's the posture. Dead giveaway."

Your double. PSEUDOPOD.

So the old fiend wasn't bluffing.

The old fiend didn't deign to mention that.

"Sitting and drinking, mostly. Reading or fiddling with paper. A few days ago, he met a guy here -- they spent a few hours talking."

"That's it? Just drinking, reading, talking, and fiddling?"

"Has he spoken to anyone else?"

"Yeah, one other guy. A few days ago -- they spent a few hours talking."

"Professional associate. Not friend."

"Ah, right, well, he said he was expecting you, so..." She shrugs.

Did he, now?

"Do you know him?"

"No. He's been drinking here for the last week or so. Said he was expecting you?"

Length of time he's been waiting for you to walk through the door: unknown.

"Why do you assume we're friends? I might have just been asking him for a light, nothing more."

"He had said he was expecting you."

Your defensiveness makes her cagey. Try to cool it.

"So. Here to meet your friend?"

No one said anything about a 'friend'.

A word that in context almost certainly means its opposite.

"Hold on, where is this 'friend'?"

"Over there."

She gestures towards an older man in a booth. His back is to you.

Not friend.

"I've never seen that man before in my life."

"Strange. He said he was expecting someone like you."

Probably just a dirty old man, enlisting the bartender in his pick-up scheme.

"Is he the one paying for this?" (Hold up your drink.)

"No. That's a display of Quisach generosity," she intones, stone-faced.

Offended that you'd mistake her for someone's wing-woman.

"He said you were in the same line of work." She shrugs.

Would that line of work happen to be 'fake sock importer'?

IDENTITY: Unknown. INTENT: Unknown. AFFILIATION: Unknown. THREAT LEVEL: Unknown.

(Whisper) "Is he looking at me right now?"

"Mmm..." She tilts the angle of her neck, glancing aside. "No."

Cool it. Just drink your drink, observe him from a distance.

You're lined up to get zeroed out. Best get out of here fast.

"Must be a mix-up. I don't know him."

"Not my business either way."

The gäng doesn't tolerate that. Tell the Elder-Creep to get lost.

"Not my type."

"Someone like me?"

"Tall, dirty blonde hair. Lonely-looking -- no offense. He said you were in the same line of work."

"Tall, dirty blonde hair. An old regular. He said you were in the same line of work."

"Tall, dirty blonde hair. Just got into the city. He said you were in the same line of work."

"I don't have any friends here."

"What about him over there?"

Just drink.

The sensation is that of someone scouring your tongue with a wad of steel wool.

"A coffee, if you've got any."

"Sure." She turns toward a large coffee urn. A small cup of black liquid appears before you.

Drink the coffee.

The percolator has kept it warm, but not hot.

Somewhat bland. Not recently brewed. Overall: serviceable.

Contemplate the coffee.

As you watch, a faint rainbow sheen gathers in the tiny bubbles at the rim of the cup.

Soap scum caked into the corners of the pot.

Tempo used to swill the coffee around his mouth, then spit it back with a muttered 'mierda de cerdo'.

On second thought, better not.

With a sly finger, you push the cup away from you slightly, hoping the barwoman doesn't notice.

"Just a glass of water."

"Water it is." She pours you a glass from the sink.

Take a gulp.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

"I'm good, thanks."

"Alright, then."

She doesn't give it a second thought.

"Something massive is going on, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

"Oh? Don't let yourself get too carried away if nothing turns up."

Dust gathers on the polished surfaces around her.

Her demeanour softens ever so slightly.

"What'll you have? It's on the house."

"I'm here for a job."

"I know how that is."

"Nothing. Just passing through."

She gives you an appraising look.

"Hershel. Just got into town."

"What brings you to Quisach?"

Mercifully not insisting on your name. She knows her audience.

"Good to meet you."

"Does it get much busier than this in here?"

"This is about it, but it's mostly just me in here doing all the work." She exhales. "Takes it out of me."

Impatient customers stand at the bar, sol in hand. Behind them, sticky tables go uncleaned for up to an hour.

"That's a lot for one woman to do."

"Yeah. We have a couple of kids who come in and clear tables, sometimes I let them serve. But they're unreliable."

She's too proud to ask for help, but she'd gladly take it.

Could be a quick way to make a bit of money.

"Sounds like you could do with a hand."

"It was earlier but most of the night's over now. I'm starting to clear down -- by myself, again." She wipes her brow.

Tipsy stragglers stand impatiently at the bar, sol in hand. Behind them, nearly every table has a sticky residue, uncleaned for up to an hour.

"Let me get a drink."

"Late start, or an early one?" she says, mildly.

Alternative wording

"Hair of the dog?"

Alternative wording

"Hair of the dog? Or..." she squints. "You can't actually like the coffee here."

"A schnapps."

"Your money, your liver."

"You need money for that."

"A beer, thanks."

"Sure."

"Coffee, please."

"I do, if you've got money."

"Just water."

"Suit yourself." She slides a clear glass over to you.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

"Actually, nothing for me."

"The burden of choice was too much, huh?"

"You have choices."

"One drink, please."

Alternative wording

"I'll have another drink."

"A guy ever come in here with a Kohilan accent? Glasses, brown jacket..."

"Another one of your friends?"

Alternative wording

"So, one friend, then?"

IF NOT FRIEND, AT LEAST COMRADE.

"Mhm." (Lie.)

"He was here a few days ago. Seems to have come in to have a chat with your man over in the corner booth."

So the old man wasn't bluffing.

The old fiend didn't deign to mention that.

"The one you've 'never seen before'."

Ant parade on your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You may be in the presence of the person who zeroed out PSEUDOPOD.

"Do you know what they talked about?"

She shakes her head.

Not her place to eavesdrop.

"My colleague has gone catatonic -- I'm trying to find out what happened to him."

"That's all I know, sorry." She shakes her head. "Hope he recovers."

An old hand at hearing other people's problems, and displaying just enough sympathy to make them feel listened to.

"Did he drink anything? The younger man."

"No." She nods to the man in the corner. "He ordered a round for the table, but your friend didn't touch it."

She gestures towards an older man in a booth. His back is to you.

"Just a colleague."

"He's a fellow sock importer who's gone rogue."