funky station

Its late into a shift, everyone is winding down... a few people sit scattered across the bar. The lights flicker once, then hold steady. The air still tastes like recycled metal and someone’s failed attempt at cooking bananas in the microwave.

You’re nursing a drink in the corner by your lonesome when someone enters, and—without asking, sits across from you.

Their suit shows signs of a struggle... nothing major, just a few burns, maybe a little blood that doesn’t belong to them. They rest their elbows on the table and fix you with a look that’s half exhaustion, half something sharper.

"Alright," they say, voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I'll ask you the same thing I ask everyone I’m not sure I trust."

They pause. A siren blares in the distance. No one moves.

"What’s something a person can do that you’d call unforgivable? Not 'annoying.' Not 'I’ll yell at them later.' I mean unforgivable. The kind of thing where, if they did it, you’d space them yourself and sleep fine after."

They tilt their head, waiting.

"Go on. I won’t tell anyone. Probably."

"Uhm. I've 'ad-d my cane stolen a lot of times in a row. I 'z-zin-nk-k, if it got taken by someone any more tim-mes, I'd-"
Erie fairwether stops herself. Her head turns towards the floor, empty sockets now hidden by tufts of unkempt hair.
"Whateveur I would do, it would be so 'zey can't-t 'urt me, can't 'urt anyone, l-like 'zat anymore"

Relilikav appears to be inordinately frustrated over the fact that someone's interrupted his quiet drink. And then asked what he'd kill over. His jaw works as he glares down the person across the table, feathers ruffled.

"And who says I trust you enough to tell you?" He hisses under his breath, barely audible over the usual noise of the bar. His tail whips behind him in anger as he realizes this...interloper won't be leaving without an answer.

"Fine," he spits, leaning in and getting even quieter, "If I wanted someone dead, it would be because they targeted my family. Now get out of my sight, before I decide that you having that information is too much."

Jerry Evans stares at the deep dark amber-colored drink in his hand before pulling out a Nomads cigarette packet and lighting one in his mouth. He flicked the flipo shut and took a deep drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke. He dusts off the fedora in his hand and places it back on the table.

"I might not look it, but I've lived for a long time. I've seen things, things that... well, no one would quite understand. I have experienced both during my time working as a detective at my home station of Space Arkham and during my service in the Marines about a decade later. Xenos, criminals, strange beasts that make my head hurt to think about. Despite all of this, there's one thing that I find unforgivable that's rather simple."

He downed the rest of his whiskey before taking another drag of his cigarette before looking at the stranger in front of him. "Cold-blooded murder with no sense of remorse. Thinking about people as nothing more than tools, toys, or collateral damage. I know a man like that." He took a short pause, his voice growing cold and steady.

"And I hate him."

He said simply, a sentence full of venom and vitriol. "I hate him more than I hated the Xenos back in '25, more than the unknown things that crawled and slithered in the shadows of Space Arkham. Hell, he's the only thing I hate more than myself. myself. "The man goes silent for a short moment before taking a breath. "He doesn't care who he hurts, how many lives he ruins, or how long it takes as long as he gets paid. I will never forgive him, and if I ever see him again…" His voice hardens, and a cold glare enters his eyes. "I'll put him down and make sure he stays dead."

He took one final drag before extinguishing the cigarette in a nearby ashtray, slinging his detective's coat over his shoulder, placing his fedora back atop his head, then silently walking out of the bar.