Chapter Text
“Rec Station 97 is the schizophrenic stepchild of Mas Vegas, Club Neb, Uncle Bob’s Fantanimalland… Fun for the whole family, if your family has a high tolerance for chaos, a collective death wish, or runs a crime syndicate.”
-- “The Multiverse According to Me” by Lady Scooter Jean
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CYCLE 220 ANARCHERA
Recreation Station 97
Level 7 of the Veil of Tiers
The Brigadier’s Bier (Formally known as "The Sailor's Grave")
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Skip felt eyes on him. He hadn’t paid it any mind – he’d felt eyes ever since he'd escaped the House of Frangus. However, it was proving hard to differentiate the eyes on him, and the eyes on Norman. Unfortunately, this would've been an excellent time to know the difference.
“Is that Norm Takamori?”
(Shit. Shit!)
Congregated in a corner booth of the Brigadier’s Bier, there's a gang of Amercadians. They’re all dressed in navy whites, and their head honcho is staring straight at Skip. The guy had been staring for Void knows for how long, and Skip had noticed all too late.
Skip goes rigid, swivels like a wheel on an axle, fumbles trying to make his posture proper, manages to make his back pin straight, unnaturally so, coughs up some phlegm that was sitting in the back of his throat, and swallows it before speaking.
“My name is Norm Takamori.”
From what Skip could gather, this guy is or was a Brigadier.
"Hell yeah!"
(Does Norman know who this is?)
Gunnie leans in from the bar stool next to Skip, and whispers. "His name is Gust."
"Gust?"
"Yeah. Gust Weatherall."
"Gust... Weather-all."
"He's a big deal, pretty big deal..."
Gust hunkers on over, about as graceful as a mostly-armored soldier can, and puts out a gloved hand for the shaking.
(How does Gust know Norman? Act Natural.)
He shakes Gust's hand. "Big deal Gust Weatherall."
"Ooh, careful now." Gust laughs, and gives him a much too buddy-buddy pat on the back, leaving his hand on Skip's shoulder. "How the hell are you doing, Norm? It's been a while, huh."
Skip isn't making eye contact, because his eyes are on Gust's hand. He nods, as he slowly tries to scoot Gust's hand off.
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"I'm surprised to see you come by the Brigadier's Bier."
(Have I been here before?)
Nod.
"I still owe you that drink, huh?"
(Act Natural.)
"Okay."
SNAP-SNAP!
"Barkeep! We'll get two double-death commandos on the ready."
(Do I know him?)
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At Gust's request, the barkeep starts making two of the most interesting drink in the galaxy. Skip's too distracted to see the process.
Skip is trying his best, and truly his best, to gather any memory of the guy. Anything he can latch onto in about Gust, deep within Norman's mind, is vague. So, so very vague.
(Act casual.)
This guy is respected, well respected, he knows that much. Maybe he only thinks that because of what this guy is wearing? Well, what's going on right, what he knows from now, is that this guy is getting him a drink. And he's talking really, really friendly...
(Is this casual?)
It's possible that Norman could have had a very deeply intimate relationship with this man, and Skip just can't find the memory at the moment. All signs seem to point to former family member, or lover, even.
Skip goes in for a hug.
Gust doesn't return it. "Woah, what the hell, Norman. Easy pal, get a fella a drink first!"
(Is that not what you're doing? Literally right now?)
"Fill 'er up." Skip murmurs.
The barkeep comes back, with two double death commandos. She sets them on a bar counter. "You want another?"
He turns his head to look at her. "...okay."
"Fill her up?"
He nods. "Fill 'er up."
He sees the clear liquid lava being poured skillfully into a metal beer mug, about as big as his face. The barkeep must have done this a million times before, since she's practically doing this with her eyes closed. She adds poisonous tubbers, shoots down some menthol crystals. She sprinkles some kublicaine and with a plop, she drops two perfectly round scoops of vanilla ice cream into the mug. The cold scoops sizzle wildly, melting in record time. Skip's at a loss for words.
(What did I just agree to drink?)
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"DOUBLE DEATH COMMANDO: A specialty of Harry Palmer, Bartender-Owner of the SAILOR’S GRAVE, Recreation Station 97. The Double Death Commando consists of two scoops of vanilla ice cream, High Colonian Vodka... and a one-quarter dose of pharmaceutical Kublacaine. The explosive reaction of the Kublacaine neutralizes the deadly effects of the organic poisons. Must be imbibed within 30 ribecs."
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Stomp.
“Jesus, Takamori, are you going to drink both of these?”
Stomp.
Nod.
“Cheers?”
Stomp.
“...Cheers.”
Clink!
Stomp.
Thud.
“KALELALELALELALELA!!”
“What the hell, Jesus Christ! Takamori, you-”
STOMP.
“Hey! WEATHERALL!”
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Gust looks over at the person speaking. "Excuse me, but me and my ol' pal here were catching up. Who are-"
"Who's your friend?"
(Me?)
Skip looks up from his drink, barely processing anything. Every sensor was going off, all the effects of two extremely potent drinks hitting the brain and in tandem the slug. He felt like he bouncing up there, himself a ball, this body suddenly a pinball machine.
He sees a brute like woman looming over the both of them. She has short, curly brown hair, greying slightly at the roots. She’s wearing an aviator jacket not all that different from his, only black and with significantly more patches.
“I am… Norman Takamori.” Skip spits out, slurring slightly and unable to keep his head completley upright.
She sets her empty glass onto the counter next to the other three.
“Nice to meet you, Norm.” She smiles, putting her hand out. “Can I call you Norm?”
Skip tries to shake her hand too, but it falls to his side on the way over.
She laughs, shoving her hand back in her pocket. “I came over to ask-”
“Do we know you?” Gust interrupts. The barkeeper sweeps them from the table.
She turns to Gust. “I’m sure you do.” she remarks, venom and disdain baked into her words. “Now, Norman, do you feel comfortable around this man?”
Gust turns, making eye contact with Skip. “Who’s this Nixer?” he whispers. “She’s spouting a big ole heap o’ nothing.”
She catches his words. “I was just wondering what a Weatherall was doing, fraternizing like this. Don’t you have better things to do?” She snickers, cracking her knuckles. “But what do I know? I’m just a Nixer who’s dumber than a Dromo Rustler, right?”
Gust looks at her, and then back at Skip. “Well, uh. It seems about time I get going. Listen, Takamori, you.. You take it easy.”
From their psycadrone, Riva catches a surface thought from Gust.
(“It’s wearing off.”)
Gust gets up to leave, dusting himself off. “We’ll see you down the old dusty.” He grunts, before walking away.
As soon as he's a banlon away, she takes his seat. "I'll bet he didn't want any of this heat. Now, what business do you have with the Weatheralls?"
Skip is grateful that before he can answer, Gunnie interferes.
"My, my friend is out of it, at the moment. Do you mind if I pull him aside, away from the conversation for a martron?"
She smiles. "Yeah, I don't mind. But I'd love if y'all could tell me what that Weatherall was talking to him about."
"I'm not sure that, I'm not sure we can..." Gunnie sighs. "Sure. Just, one moment."
As soon as the group is out of earshot, Riva relays what they heard.
"Something's wearing off. On Norman."
Sidney is the first to react. "What?"
"That Gust fellow." They explain. "He didn't think Norman was slugged, he thought something was wearing off on him.
"Skip, do you have access to Norman's memories right now?" Margaret asks.
Skip rubs his head. "Eh, kind of? Not at the moment..."
"I could maybe push deeper into the Captain's thoughts, and get his memories?" Riva offers.
"He's gonna be pissed if he knows what we're doing." Barry says. "So just be prepared for that."
"That is true, he would be mad at us..."
"But if something is wearing off, and he's in danger in some sort of way, it might be worth knowing..." Sidney adds.
"That lady at the bar." Margaret sneaks a glance at her. "She was asking about Gust Weatherall, right?"
"She was, yes." Gunnie chimes. "I think she, I think she hated Gust."
"Well..." Margaret starts. "If it seems like she knows something, it might be worth asking her about Gust Weatherall."
"That could work." Sidney agrees.
Riva nods. "We'll only pry once we know we absolutely have to."
Barry looks at Skip, worried about the state he's in. "You up for that, Skip?"
Skip shrugs. "Not sure."
"That's fine, I can do it." Margaret stands up, and puts on her best business face. "I'll go talk to her. Be right back."
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"BANLON: 1) An elastic or expandable unit of space. 2) A subjective measure of space, always longer than 'right over here,' never as long as 'way over yonder,' and just wide enough for an average humanoid to rest on it comfortably."
"NIXER: Slang for any member of the Acadian Non-Brigade, the term based on the Non-Brigade’s rejection of their Amercadian brethren and usually meant as an insult when uttered by a member of the Amercadian Space Brigade."
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Margaret approaches her.
"Hi, My name is Margaret. Margaret Encino." She says, as she puts out her hand. She gets a firm handshake, one where the other person puts both hands over yours. "You are...?"
"Bru. Call me Bru." She smiles.
"Bru! So nice to meet you. Is that short for anything?"
"Yeah, it is. Aren't y'all putty mongers?"
"...No, we aren't. Bru, we-"
"You in the UF4?"
"No, not yet. We were looking into joining, but we haven't gotten around to it. Listen-"
"Hey," Bru starts looking around. "Where's that Norman fellow, and who do you work for, then?"
"Bru, I came over here with my crew's pilot to talk to you about Gust Weatherall."
"Right. That's his name? Gust?"
"Yes. We were wondering if you had any more information about him."
"Well, I don't know much about him..."
"Really? It seemed like you were immediately suspicious of him, and we have reason to believe that he is up to something."
"Yeah. I was just thinking, why is a Weatherall talking to an ex-brigadier? And then I saw the two getting drinks, and it just felt wrong. I don't trust Weatheralls."
"Still, you don't know who this guy is?"
"Well, I'm not familiar with Gust, but I am familiar with the Weatheralls, and the Amercadian Space Brigade."
"That's too bad..." Margaret leans in, lowering her voice. "Tell me, does Bru happen to be short for Brucilla?"
Brucilla does the same, squinting at her. "That depends. Does your captain happen to be brain slugged?"
"Touché. Look, Bru, we have to get going to the Obfusion Arms soon. Now, I think it's fair that we turn a blind eye if you do the same, however... I, we, would still love to get in contact with you. Just incase we ever need more info on the Brigade, or someone to put a good word in on our application to UF4."
"What's in it for me?"
"If we call for a favor, we'll owe you one." Margaret pulls something out of her pocket, then presents it to Brucilla. "Here's my card."