Happy Hour
Tell the bartender what your most heroic moment was and drink at half price!
Maybe it's not everyday people try to save a whole world, but Tifa still thinks most people have had their shining moments. Taking her place behind the bar, she ties an apron around her waist.
"Does anybody need a drink?"
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There's some... heaviness evident in his step, but he sits lightly enough at the bar, lacing his fingers together despite the armor on one hand.
"And if one has no heroic moment, I suppose he... drinks at full price?"
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There's no fine print about the heroism of the moment living up to certain standards.
"But don't look so solemn, Vincent." She finally smiles. "The bartender knows you, and you have nothing to worry about."
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It's so nice to have someone who understands his jokes, such as they are.
"That... ought to qualify, especially if one's being... a little subjective."
He's slain monsters without wasting a single bullet. Faced deadly foes, done absolutely unimaginable things, had absolutely unimaginable things done to him. And how little those things matter, in the long run.
"Perhaps it would be more heroic if I could get the front door open for us." That's... his way of admitting it still refuses to budge. "I keep trying. One might think me an optimist."
They can't have that.
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"It qualifies. I thought you were very heroic behind the bar."
It was one of her favorite shifts ever, and she remembers walking him through each of the specials -- he was a quick learner -- and the way his claw kept tinktinking against the glasses was like their own little soundtrack as they worked.
"Aren't you, though? The fact that we keep trying means we haven't given up in despair."
And no matter how low she sometimes feels about having been here for so long without another visit home, she'll never just give up in despair.
"What'll you have?"
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And Mia certainly has a heroic moment or three.
"I'm usually not the one to brag; that's my husband's job," she says. "And I don't know how many would consider what I've done heroic, but it was essential. My home was a city called Vane, which used to fly because of the magic contained in it. When the Grindery, a moving monstrosity of a castle, came to lay waste to the land, I evacuated Vane and used its magic to stop the Grindery in its tracks. Had I not done that, it might have continued its path of destruction."
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"I don't know about your husband, but it sounds to me like you've been enough of a hero for the both of you."
Her expression melts into a grin. "I've never heard of a flying city before. What can I get for you? At half price, of course."
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"My husband loves to brag, but to be fair, he does have a lot to brag about. He's intelligent, handsome, surprisingly compassionate, and has turned all of that into a successful potions shop and a good political career."
Pardon Mia's somewhat daydreamy look. She's been married four years and still have a face like a lovesick schoolgirl.
"I'd like a dark chocolate and peanut butter milkshake. And a grog loaf sandwich. The waitrats know how I like it."
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And she has a weakness for people being happily in love.
"A potions shop," she repeats, picking up on that almost instantly. "The kind that heal you?"
It doesn't surprise her to think of someone running a successful shop full of potions. She knows she's probably bought enough potions in her time to buy Costa del Sol vacations for everybody who used to live in Midgar.
"Hold that thought," she adds, almost apologetically, and quickly peeks into the kitchen to ask the waitrats for the grog loaf sandwich. "It sounds like you two are very happy together."
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First things, though, because he's never claimed to have changed his ways even after he regained his heart. With a great flourish of trailing lace sleeves, the peacock blue of his suit glimmering in the bar's low light, he takes a seat.
"And pray tell, how is the single most delightful bartender at the end of the universe?" There's a definite hint of mischief in his green eyes.
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"Howl!" she says with a bright smile. "It's been years since I've seen you! Or Sophie or Calcifer. How in the universe are you?"
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She looks well.
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"Married four years, expecting a baby, and couldn't be happier," she tells him. "So absolutely splendid on my end as well."
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Huh. Tough call.
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"Pick a moment. Any moment."
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"It might be a tie."
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"Well, tell me both and you can drink half off during my next shift, too. How about that?"
The great thing about being the bartender is that you set the happy hour rules, and she sees no reason not to improvise.
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She's a slow reader.
"Why is it happy?"
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But then she looks from the girl to the board and back, and a slow smile spreads across her face. "Happy hour? Well, on my planet it's called that because people are happy to get discounted drinks and get even happier while they drink them. Most people say the sailors in the old Costa del Sol navy started it."
And it doesn't surprise her at all.
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She goes over in her head the deeds she's performed so far, most of which lack what she considers that suitably heroic feel to them. In the end she proclaims, "I, Sativa of Arroyo, slew the Rat God in his lair beneath Trapper Town."
It wasn't really a god, but it sounds a lot better than saying she ran into an overgrown mutated rodent in a mining tunnel and stabbed it a whole bunch until it keeled over before it could maul her to death.
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"A Rat God?"
It... sounds disgusting, actually. There's no other way for a Rat God to sound, she thinks. But she's fought some disgusting things herself, and Sativa of Arroyo -- wherever that happens to be -- certainly has her respect for it.
"What would you like to drink then? Half price."
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