gunsforhire | Log: apartment hunting success

Entry tags:

Log: apartment hunting success

Who: Sigma, Texas, and Church
What: grabbing drinks after a day of apartment hunting
Where: the Eagle and Asp
When: Monday night (22 June)
Warnings: alcohol, possibly language

Sigma underestimated how exhausting apartment shopping could be. He and Texas hve filled out an application for a small apartment that's almost halfway along the shuttle line between campus and home. One bedroom, one bathroom, and reasonably-well furnished, with a decent location? It's better than he expected to find. He's triumphant but exhausted.

Still, when his sister invites him out for a drink afterward, he's eager to go. It's been fun, spending time with her by himself. He sees no reason to end the day out before he has to.

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"He sticks around me too long to take it be taking personally." Yet, he never hits on her. She's not sure what his deal is.

"At least you're good at the job you do?" he says, finishing his drink. "Both the serving and dealing with people ignoring you?"

"You got your rowdy customers, you got your drunkards, those you learn to handle. Then you got the mercs. I dunno how long you've been around them, but you tend to learn how to keep your head on. Or down. Sometimes down is better."

The look under his helmet would be pointed if Sigma could see it. Learn when to duck; it's important.

But he beams with a little pride. "I am good at my job, though. How are you handling the drink? Fill'er up? How about you, Tin Soldier, or are you ignoring me now? Still working on that name."

"Yeah, you better keep working on it." Tin Soldier? Really? "And I'm fine. He's the one you need to worry about keeping filled up."

She's sipping at this drink. If she's getting him home safely after this she wants to make sure she's still in her right mind.

Sigma is learning when to duck, actually. It comes of training with mercenaries.

"'s good," he says. "A little sweet, though? I liked the vodka cranberry better. Do you have anything else with that kind of sour kick?"

He's feeling relaxed but not quite lightheaded. While he doesn't want to overdo it, one more drink should be good, right?"

"Come on, you know you love me." Enough to not kick his ass! Yet.

"Sour, huh? Lessie...simple and sour means we take some gin," like so, "and lemon juice, a liiittle sugar, and some fizz to kick it up." Quick and easy, just the way he likes them. Um, to make them. The drinks. "Badda bing badda bang, gin fizz. Lemon-y and bubbly."

She rolls her eyes at that. Love him like hell she does.

"And a glass of water for him," she says and has another drink. "Last thing you want to do is encourage a hangover."

The banter makes him grin into his drink. This one has a good sour kick to it, just what he asked for. He would rather not have a hangover, though, he'll defer to Texas on how to stay hydrated.

"Whatever the lady prefers," he says with an exaggerated bow. "Your wish is my command!" No but really water is good, and he'll slide over a bowl of pretzel bits to boot. "Food's also good to help prevent the hangovers, dude. We'll see if you're a lightweight or if you'll be drinking the Black Parade here under the table."

"Black Parade?" She snorts at that. Not only is the nickname stupid, but Sigma drinking her under the table? Never going to happen. "You're making me sound like a plague cloud coming into town."

Sigma sets aside his gin fizz and drinks his water as instructed. The pretzel bits sounds really good too, actually.

He doubts he'll be drinking his sister under the table. Even if alcohol tolerance is genetic, he might not have the same genes, and he certainly doesn't have her experience. "Wouldn't I know by now if I were a lightweight?" he asks.

"I dunno, Texas. It depends who asks."

"...Guess it kinda depends what scale you use to measure lightweightedness on." That's a good question, actually. "Okay, so like, life advice from Church: don't go trying to drink any mercs under the table. I'm pretty sure they're all some weird genetically enhanced freaks who are designed to have the alcohol tolerance of people five times their size."

He won't make any comments on Tex being a plague cloud because he would really like it if all of his blood stayed on the inside of his body if that's okay. But he's thinking it. Thinking it really hard.

She nods her approval at Sigma. Good, he's taking advantage of the water and snacks. That'll help keep this from going downhill quickly. She'd like to avoid him having to rush to the bathroom and her hovering to make sure he doesn't die.

"It takes a while for the alcohol to really hit your system, kid. Give it a bit, you've been downing those pretty fast. You're lucky I didn't try to make you take shots all night."

"Fair enough," he tells Church. "That must make Maine insanely good at downing drinks, then." That would be an interesting sight.

"Hey, I thought you didn't want me throwing up tonight," he says to his sister. "I'm just trying to help with that." He's good at taking orders when he knows they're good for him.

"Hey, so long as tabs get paid, everyone can drink however much they want. Life tip number two from your good pal Church: tip your bartenders." He'd flash a ballsy smile at Tex if it wasn't, y'know, for helmet, but he looks at her anyway. No negative tips. You cannot negative tip.

"Tips are earned," she says with a smirk. Up until she gets that check to write the tip on, he better be working.

"So get to sucking up if you want to see money. And I don't want you throwing up, that's why you have water in front of you. Take it slow, no one's timing you."

"As you wish, Black Parade." Yeah. Yeah, that one might be sticking. No, you do not get a say in it. Hey, he'll even mix her up another without her asking. You're welcome.

"She'll get used to her nickname. Names are boring sometimes anyway, and all these mercs have their codenames anyway. What's one more? You got a name, kid, or is it just gonna be kid all night? Spoilers: you might just stay kid for a while."

"Sigma," he says. "And mercenaries sure do have a lot of names, though clearly not all of them stick."

His face scrunches. "Sigma. Huh." Shrug. "No stranger than being called names from Earth states. Sigma's the one that looks like a weird E, right?"

"Soldier is my nickname," she says with a roll of her eyes. "So stick with that, bluetender, if you want to get any kind of tip after this."

Really, what was so hard about calling her by her actual name?

She's giving out nicknames of her own now. Chuckling, Sigma finishes off the pretzel bites.

"Yeah, the giant E. The summation sign in mathematics," he says. "That's me."

Because nicknames, deal with it. "So if she's the asskicker, does that make you a math wizard? Dude, I can measure out fractions for drinks but I don't know shit about math. Cheers to that."

"I'm surprised you can even do that. I thought you just poured and hoped what came out wasn't total shit." Did he actually do any real mixing? She might have to pay attention next time he makes a drink for her, so he doesn't try to skimp her on the alcohol.

"More chemistry than math," he admits, "but I took three semesters of calculus for my degree."

And he's still the top of his class, in defiance of all that math.

"The brains and the brawn. I like that. And you," with a point to Tex, "need to ease up on the sass, 'cuz I wouldn't still have a job if I couldn't measure out my shots. Hell, I don't even need a jigger if I need to go fast." It's all in the counting. "I know what I'm doing. We all got our skillsets. Mine seems to be in going, like, a quarter of the way to coyote ugly up in this bitch." Because if anyone starts dancing on the bars he's out. He's just out.

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