#falco;

Maybe it was a temper tantrum, perhaps an argument or maybe even just cracking under the stress of the daily work cycle. Either way Falco was at Sargasso, a place he’d found the urge to visit more and more frequently as the weeks went by. There could have been something to that, but he didn’t know - the pheasant just wanted time to himself and life felt crowded and claustrophobic even when people were sparse. 

Well, enough meandering at the door. In Falco came looking exasperated as ever and striding into the bar for a seat near the counter like a bat out of hell. After which he smacks a bunch of credits on said counter, seemingly not caring to check if there was anyone even working the bar at that moment. 

Beat. 

His feathery fingers drum at the... whatever kind of material this is. He’s not good with telling what’s what when it comes to that, but either way it seems to be making a pretty distinct sound.