WHO: Michael Elder, anyone else WHAT: A bite to eat, a drink. WHERE: The Liffey WHEN: Early evening WHY: He's tired of being stuck at home. RATING: TBD STATUS: Open
It had been a little more than a week since his arrival, and the days had flown by with surprising quickness and a fair amount of productivity. He'd finally gotten the crates out of his apartment--and seriously, should movers smell like sausage and beer at nine in the morning? He really didn't think so, but they'd been professional and helpful, so he figured what the hell.
He'd arranged and rearranged furniture until it suited him, stocked the kitchen, put all his books into order. Biking to the post office, he'd picked up a package that held photocopies of a text for translation, and when he'd gotten it home and at his desk, discovered, unsurprisingly, that it had been previously opened and examined. Furious hadn't been strong enough to describe what he'd felt--what if it had been an actual document instead of just photocopies? Things such as that had to be handled with care, not by ham-handed hairless apes who had no idea of their value, concerned only that he was plotting against them or harboring a fugitive. Granted, most really valuable things arrived by courier, but it was the principle of the thing.
He'd woken to the email from the SAR asshats about the arrest of a resident named Taryn Bacall. He wasn't surprised, and that in itself was deeply disturbing. Hello, welcome to a police state. Non-humans simply didn't have personal rights, and he'd be willing to bet that Taryn wasn't one hundred percent human.
Around noon a letter arrived from the library, telling him he'd been accepted as an employee--food and warmth and a roof over his head were assured now--and to report Monday for orientation and training. That was cheering; the job would be appreciated as much for contact with others as well as for a salary. Back home, he'd never lacked for companionship, whether it was family or friends, and he missed it.
So in honor of the new job, he decided to go out later, after he'd spent some time working on his document. The Liffey seemed a good choice--food as well as alcohol. He had a feeling there was a lot of alcohol consumed in Birch Creek.
At seven in the evening he walked in through the doors of the Liffey, checked his parka, tugged down his black sweater, and made his way to the bar. Sliding onto a bar stool, he let himself look around curiously while he waited for someone to take his order.