(Untitled)

[rogue_wraith]

Wedge storms into the bar, in full 'angry-general' mode.

He's just found out who Hallis Saper is, and what she has to do with this asine mission NRI has him doing.

This is a pilot in a serious need of a drink. Luckily, he's managed to come here instead of his quarters on board the Allegiance. There's better booze here, for one. There's also

Comments

[not_one_drop]

There's a vampire at the bar, watching him and grinning.

And there is tequila slid in his direction.

"You look like you need this."

[rogue_wraith]

Wedge picks up the shot glass and eyes the contents warily. One does not survive his galaxy long without becoming highly suspicious of drinks from total strangers.
"This being?" He asks, deeply suspicious.

[not_one_drop]

"Tequila. Don't ask me what that is, I don't know. But it's good."

A proffered, slightly scarred hand. "Mal."

[rogue_wraith]

The shotglass gets set back on the Bar. Doesn't recognize the name, the look, or the smell of it - means he isn't drinking it.
"Antillies." He does shake the offered hand, however. Then he taps the bartop.
"Pint of Whyren's here?"

[not_one_drop]

"Antillies? Odd name." But Mal isn't complaining.

She raises an eyebrow, then cheerfully knocks back the tequila. "So, what's happened? You look like a guy in serious need of a drink."

[rogue_wraith]

"It's my name, and it's classified." Wedge replies shortly. He's not being rude... okay, he's being rude. But he's Correllian - that's default when they're pissed off. The pint appears on the bar, and Wedge begins making short work of it. Hurrah for alcohol tolerance built up by drinking engine-brewed rotgut on backwater moon bases.

[not_one_drop]

"Aww. Keep in mind, I highly doubt I'm from your world."

She observes the drinking, and turns to Bar. "I'll have what he's having."

[rogue_wraith]

"Classified is classified." Wedge explains somewhat circularly. Even if she isnt' from his world, she could mention something he said to someone who shouldn't hear it, and guess who would be on the mat? Certainly not her.

[not_one_drop]

"Meh."

The Whyrens appears, and she squints at it thoughtfully, taking a sip.

"...wow."

[rogue_wraith]

"Best alcohol in the 'verse." Wedge announces, slowing down on his intake a bit. If the aim is to get roaring drunk, he might as well enjoy the ride.

[not_one_drop]

"You aren't kidding."

She eyes it some more, then cheerfully tosses it back. She might want to slow down as well - having slightly less body mass then the average skelaton makes it easy to get drunk. Fast.

So, it's with regret that she puts the glass down. "What d'you do, in your world?"

[rogue_wraith]

"I fly." He offers shortly. "X-wings, mostly." No, he isn't going to explain how interplanetary flight works. Either you know it or you don't, in his book. Knowing it is, of course, a whole lot better.

[not_one_drop]

"...Uh-huh."

And then, "Oh! Like that oreo-guy, what's his face. Wes."

[rogue_wraith]

One eyebrow begins the arduous treck towards Wedge's hairline.

"Oreo-guy?"

Oh, he just has to hear this.

[not_one_drop]

"Yeah, he wanders around putting oreos on people's heads. Strange man. Likes chocolate milkshakes. You know him?"

[rogue_wraith]

"He's one of mine." He's been owning up to being Wes' CO for years, so he's immune to the embarassment by now.