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| - The Stagger Inn - Sivad - The Stagger Inn is a public house in the storied tradition of that sort of establishment, a dark, damp, smoky place, twelve feet below street level and accessible only by a stairway down from the sidewalk. The bar is a heavy wooden affair which runs in front of the back wall. There is one tap behind it, and from it comes the only beverage served, a strong, dark porter whose only other defining characteristic is that it is usually warm. A dinged, grimy chalkboard bears the daily special, which is coincidentally the only dish served: fish and chips. Four stools are lined up in front of the bar, and tables and chairs occupy most of the floor. A old holoviewer that makes everything look slightly out-of-focus has been set up on one corner of the bar. A dartboard and a battered billiards table complete the furnishings. The tall human figure is sitting at the bar. His leather jacket is on the stool next to him and a dark ale in front of him. He's given a wide berth by the few other people sitting around at this time. Ryan takes a sip from the ale, which leaves a creamy topping to his beard for a moment before it's wiped off. Entering the establishment from the outside, Surgei looks to be in a matter of disrepair. His dark hair frames his face in a dishevelled halo of sorts, and his eyes are bloodshot with some foreign substance. The sharp repungence of urine wafts from his attire, which is stained quite numerously. His face and neck are adorned with large, blotchy bruises. The Ungstiri carries himself carefully through the dip in the stairs, taking very little notice to the other patrons. As he draws upon the stool cast with Ryan's jacket, it poses some difficulty for Surgei. He faulters momentarilly, finally apting with little decisive ability to hand it back to its owner. In doing so, he takes a seat, his vessal collapsing into a fatigued heap. Jeff Ryan takes the jacket and places it on the stool on his left side instead. He glances back at the man and that smell hits his nose. It wrinkles. He doesn't say anything just taking another sip from his ale. Another creamy moustache, another wipe. Surgei does not place an order at this moment, his head in his arms to quell the ache. The redolence is indeed quite potent, especially to one so near as Ryan. As another groan escapes the bearded man's tiered lips, he rocks slightly on his elbows. He is in evident pain. Jeff Ryan glances at the barman, "Make it a double." He points to a bottle Surgei wouldn't notice head buried in his arms. "Stick it on my tab." Ares has many peculiar qualities for those that know him. And for those who don't, that voice is one of the first noticed. A voice like asphalt, synthesised gravel. It doesn't belong on a man, completely emotionless and cold. More in common with a centauran's synthesiser than a human. The agonising man tries his best to loft his gaze to the one with such an odd dialect. Surgei's eyes flicker in doing so, creating the illusion of two or three, hazy figures of an obscure Ryan. Gulping hard thrice, the Ungstiri drops his head back to the counter, delivering a muffled and forced 'Privet'. The barman casts a questioning glance at Ares who simply nods in reply. A glass is placed in front of Surgei and the whiskey pours into it. Ryan doesn't turn to Surgei, but says, "Drink it down. All of it. It'll help." And that's an order soldier. Surgei 's arm snakes out, fingers coiling about the glass. He strains to hold his head up - its just too damn heavy! Tossing it back as if wrestling with it, the 'hair of dog' slides down his gullet. It burns his chest, but it took his mind off the pain. "Spaciba," he says rougly, a forearm brought as an impromptu napkin, swiping the remnant liquid from his lips. Jeff Ryan gestures for the barman to pour another, "Just sip this one." He slips back into silence. The words sound like sweet ambrosia to the distraught Ungstiri. As the bartender slips it into his clammy grasp, those timid fingers bring glass lip to flesh lip, and he takes a short but helpful draught. "Vi help me?" he flounders. "Who roughed you up anyway?" asks the lunite with a nod for the man's question. Surgei stumbles a bit to put his thoughts in order, but they come forth in due time. "Hoopin' Geners," he says. "Nicked me good. Drugs." His tone his sombre, and the words a good many he wouldn't speak to his closest comrades. There's just something about this guy. "Ah, rough sivadian justice," chuckles the man. A strange sound. "I've been on the receiving end of that myself. Or so I'm told." He follows that with another swig of beer. Nodding amidst a small sip of the strong concoction, Surgei seems to be shaping up nicely. At least his head isn't bobbing around anymore. "Somebody cut my bail...No hoopin' idea who it waz. Zuppoz'd tah meet 'im later." Ares' brow furrows, "Friend with money perhaps?" Surgei nods half-heartedly. "Da. Had money, but friend? Nyet." "Which..." says the man... "leads to the question. Why is someone who is not your friend willing to cut you loose?" This talking parches his throat, so he quells it with a long draught of that dark ale. Surgei and Ares are sitting at the bar. Ares with a half-finished glass of ale in his hand. The other man with a whiskey, nearly double. And Ares' drinking partner is looking a little worse for wear, beaten and bruised and little out of it. Surgei is indeed in a slightly run-down shape, his hair reaching starwards at the crown and his beard a scratchy mess. "I do not know thiz. A favor, mayhap," he reasons, the dark bushes adorning his eyebrows waggling with his words. At this moment, the Ungstiri takes the last sip of his whisky, sustaining the burning sensation for a prolonged period before it finally subsides. The squeaky door swings open, letting in a draft of unadultered light and morning air that makes some of the, shall we say, resident patrons recoil with the cultivated groans of experienced hangover experts. Then a huge figure blocks out light and air alike, and a moment later, the door has swung shut again. It leaves behind Denson, who immediately makes for the bar. Jeff Ryan glances up as Denson enters the bar. He glances towards a small empty table in the corner. He mutters to Surgei, "I have some business to take care of." He stands up and heads towards the table. Jeff Ryan glances up as Denson enters the bar. He glances towards a small empty table in the corner. He mutters to Surgei, "I have some business to take care of." He stands up and heads towards the table. As Jeff Ryan vacates the table, Surgei's eyes scan about to look for the man's affiliate. "Ain't nobody I'd mezz vith," he notes, his eyes mirroring Ryan's movements to the behemothian man. Denson doesn't follow his path through, stopping as Jeff gets up. Instead he wordlessly arranges to end up at the same table as the other man, casting his coat over the backrest of a chair before he sits. Ryan places his own jacket on an empty chair next to him and places his pint on the table. He glances around at the Inn, "I like this place. Not as rough and tumble as the Crash and Burn, not as classy as the Black and White." Surgei watches the entailing moments between the two figures, his half-dazed mind wondering what in the hell is going on. The prior pain emerges again, as if two thumbs were pressing out his eyes. Painful, to be blunt. Haha - blunt. "'Not as classy' being an understatement, I reckon." Denson nods at Jeff, keeping his glasses on despite the smoke and gloom that dominate the Inn. He gets out a PDA, taps it once. As the LED screen gleams to life, he hands it over, upside-down so that Jeff can get a good look. "This is what the market has to offer. I reckon it might not meet all your expectations, but it should meet your needs for a while." Ryan glances at the PDA with a frown and back to Denson, "Only a small part of the order." He points at the line marking out the 'ECM/ECCM suite'. "How much is that setting us back?" The acquaintances' words compile into one indiscernable mess within Surgei's mind, jumbled and uncomprehensible in his state. Grumbling something ubout Genejobbers again, he settles against the bar in hopes of attaining a fraction of rest. Denson withdraws the pad, then crosses his arms across his massive chest. "There is only so much you can take out of the market in a week without drawing attention to the fact that there's a buyer out there. I reckon I don't need to draw you a picture what happens to the prices then. As to the special items you tacked onto that first list: psi stuff is heavily regulated, or the telepath unions would be all over the Merchants' Guild. And about that other thing for your ship... there's no way to get at Nall miltech these days, as, I reckon, you well know." "That was a wish item," chuckles Ryan. "I knew when I asked you it'd be hard to come by." He nods at the rest of the list, probably already aware of Denson's reasoning, "Good job. How are we organising delivery?" Surgei cannot decipher the words of the affiliates as sub-conciousness creeps into his mind. Drifting to sleep slowly in the centre of a bar may not be the brightest of things, especially with strangers abound. "I have a couple of contacts standing by. Neutral freighters, as agreed. They'll ship the crates to your boys within a minute of the word 'go'." The big man leans back, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Which leaves reimbursement, I reckon." "I'll take care of that," says Ares. "Usual denominations?" "Two hundred grand in usual denominations," Denson nods. "Fair enough," nods Ares, pausing only for a sip of his ale. The top of which has now formed a thin skin which breaks as it's raised to Jeff's lips. "Let me know when other parts of the order are ready. You have the go order as soon as you receive payment. I expect within the next twelve hours. Good enough?" Encouraged to do so by the keep, Surgei is roused from his slumber and sent to depart. His headache resumes its rhythmic tirade, and his amble is somewhat clumsy as the Ungstiri passes out the doorway. The bearded man gives a meek wave to the newly met Ryan, and then he's gone.
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