Moving up market? [open]

[The Stranger]

I’ve never been fond of the Imperials. Then again, I’ve never had anything against them. We all have our roles to play, and not all of them can be pleasant. Everywhere really does have a bar. It’s the truth. Even highly trained military units need to get dren-faced. Edging the door of this bar open, I could almost smell the boot polish. The air was standing to attention. I half expected to be saluted out of habit. As I eased into a stiff-backed chair at the bar, in-between what looked like a couple of trainees, I fell the eyes on me. In a world of starch-pressed finery, I must have looked like a real blemish on their collective asses.

The trainees were taking shots of something. I would like to think its poison, or truth serum, or something equally cinematic, but it’s probably just disinfectant or toilet cleaner. I ask for a glass of whatever they’re having, and shift my weight so that I get a look across the bar, as it sits rigid in its low-key lighting. Had I been here before? It felt like it. The bar looked prefab, probably a clone of thousands of others on Imperial outposts, it seemed distinctive in my mind. Taking a sip of whatever it was I was drinking tonight, I wondered whether I was remembering right, or if a youth misspent watching too many Holos had had a lasting effect on me.

The trainees had gotten up and gone, but I was joined by another barfly now.

“I wouldn’t order this,” I murmured.

“Not unless you like the taste of urine,” I added, trying not to smirk - and failing.

[Jarek T'chort]

"That's because officers recive the best alcohol. I assumed it was a galaxy wide known fact."

The tall, trenchcoated speaker stood next to the (rather out of place) man, his face neutral, with peircing emerald eyes locking the flippant stranger's gaze. The man cut a dashing figure, from jackboots to a haircut to set a chrono by. Field Marshall Jarek T'chort removed his visor cap and tucked it under his arm as he turned to the burly barkeep.

"Give this man some of the Kepper '78, same for myself."

He leant slightly toward his bar companion, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"But, then, assumption is a dangerous thing."

[The Stranger]

It was like I had just stepped on the set of some holo flick. I look up at the man beside me, smiling like a snake, and tip my hat. There’s something about him, I think, that smacks of rank. The bartender seems to pour his glass a little quicker than normal; the other drinkers seem awed. Yeah, this guy is definitely someone important. That would explain his offer of a free drink – he’s probably rolling in cash. I can’t help but grin.

“I’m not much of an assuming man, soldier,” I say, watching as my drink is sloshed into its glass, not a drop missing the tumbler.

“You assume too many things and someone will assume you're head off with a pistol.”

[Jarek T'chort]

Shaking his head, the Imperial took a swig from the tumbler. The man beside him was not a regular, that much was certain. Jarek would often wander down here, considering it's proximity to the High Command complex. He drank in moderation, the Marshall was as disciplined in his drinking habits as he was on the parade ground. Plus it helped him maintain a down to earth character with his men. Sharing a tumbler of some hyperdrive lube in a dim lit bar with conscipts helped Jarek to keep his feet on the ground, to remember the legions under his command were men and women often much like himself.

"So we agree assumption is flawed. Now do we agree that the '78 is -" he gulped, "- without doubt, the finest alcohol served in Imperial space?"

[The Stranger]

“The finest in Imperial space?” I say, shaking my head. “I haven’t tasted others to know, so if I agreed I’d only be assuming.” I can’t help but grin. There’s something cordial about this man, that the uniform beguiles away. I take a little sip, and think on nothing in particular for a moment. “Got a couple of pips on your shoulder there, soldier,” I say, with a nod of recognition towards him – speaking metaphorically of course, of whatever status he held in the Imperial pornocracy.

[Jarek T'chort]

Staring at the minute ripples forming in the shot glass, Jarek let a grin slip onto his face.

"You could say that. I am General Field Marshal Jarek Tchort, or just Jarek for short."

Some of the cadets in the bar chuckled amongst themselves, Jarek had a tendancy to be overly modest, which earned him a certain respect amongst his men.

"How about yourself, sir?"

[The Stranger]

How about yourself, sir, I think. How about indeed. What’s my name? Can’t really remember. Names never struck me as much important. They hold you down.

“Joe Nobody,” I say with a knowing smile.

“Wanderer and booze connoisseur. Man with no past. Enigma!”

I can’t help but grin. I’m such a cliché.

[Jarek T'chort]

Jarek smiled to himself as he tipped his glass, watching the lime coloured alcohol glisten under the sterile lights of the bar.

"Joe Nobody," the Imperial chuckled, "glad to make your acquaintance, Joe."

A holoscreen was flickering behind the bar, displaying a Shockball tournament, before it switched a news broadcast, announcing the Chancellors visit to some Opera.

"Wandering with no rules, no responsibility?" Jarek sighed, "one would have a chaotic life."

He paused, looking sideways at the stranger.

"You say you wander, though I have often found that wandering equals running from something. At least where I come from."