A femmes low husky voice drifts through," I've got your usual delivery Sentinel. Where you want it?"
Whar appears is not the usual femme. It's coming out of Springers maw. Made apparent as she sets the crate on the nearest surface and gestures.
" Or are you plannin' another party soon?"
A double take, optics flitting over the Mean Green Arrogance Machine at the odd pitch of speech, watching her set the latest order down.
"You get a dud mod?" He asks, stepping up the the crate to lift the lid, and quite satisfied with the glimmering bottles winking back at him. Good, this apparent Primax Blade cocktail had been flying of the shelves at parties.
"I am, actually. Planning a sponsors night a few weeks ahead of the Iacon 5000"