“Oh wait, you know what?” the aug you just met--who introduced himself as John--says after a moment’s pause, “I know he said ‘meet me at The Den’ all imposing-like, but there’s actually a bar with the same name a little way’s walk from here. It might be worth checking out.”
You turn to the other two standing next to where you sit. The big man Chad shrugs and the robot Faris seems to nod.
[say “Hey, works for me.”]
As you stand up to leave, the aug leans over the bar, “When that guy said to put the drinks on his tab, he meant all of them,” he says gesturing at his small line of shot glasses down the bar. One of the bar tender’s arms makes a thumbs-up gesture.
You push out of the low door and into the bustling street. Despite it being pretty late in this moon’s “night” the streets were rather packed with all walks of low-income life, the few vehicles were having difficulty parting the sea of deadbeats, thugs, homeless, and hookers. A few in a group of old-timey greasers were even sitting on the hood of one, which the driver looked not too pleased about.
To the left it looked like a fight was about to break out between two of the smaller gangs as an ever-growing group of loud angry men formed in the middle of the street. No weapons were drawn yet, but a few punches were being thrown.
“Y’know what,” John said, “Let’s go back around this way instead.
He takes a right from the bar and starts pushing his way through the crowd. Not many seemed to care. You had no trouble getting by in your huge suit, and Chad and Faris followed you close behind. At one point, John slips a couple wadded up bills into the skirt of one of the hookers and smacks her ass. She turns around all bubbly at first, but the sees him and slaps him across the soft side of his face. “Dirty chromer,” she mutters under her breath. You aren’t sure if he heard.
John continues to lead you down the roads, a right here, a left there. You notice as you go that the streets have common old earth names, Park Way, Jones Avenue, 3rd street, 4th street. It doesn’t quite follow the old system and many of the streets are out of order, but you figure it’s some kind of sad nostalgia for before the companies.
At this point you have entered a much quieter part of the city. There are still a fair number of people walking about their business, but there’s less of the hustle. No fights, no street women. Mostly those returning to their sad homes, and those that don’t even have that.
“Whelp, here we are,” John says. Across the street from you is a two-story brick building. More fans of the old days, you figure. There’s a large neon sign reading “THE DEN” where the bottom half of the N is burnt out, and an arrow pointing to an unmarked red door. John shrugs, walks up, and opens the door.
You are immediately assaulted by the dull thrum of heavy dance music and the smell of unwashed bodies and beer. Taking up the majority of the club is a large dance floor filled up with people moving in sync. The DJ to the right is surrounded by huge floor to ceiling speakers and almost seems to be in his own world. On the left, behind them is a well-lit bar area run by a hastily upgraded version of the bartending robot from the other place. Its numerous arms darting back and forth keeping up with all of the orders at once. In the very back of the club there’s three large men in all black standing in front of a large steel sectional door.
Two more of the men dressed in black step out from the shadows near the entrance to stop you.
You raise a hand, but before you can begin to speak John puts the back of his hand lightly on your chest. “Hang on,” he says.
John turns to face one of the bouncers, “Bob! Hey man! It’s great to run into you again, it’s been too long.”
The bouncer looks confused for a second before his face lights up, “John!” he shouts excitedly “Oh buddy, welcome back.”
John vigorously shakes Bob’s hand. Then taps the other bouncer’s knuckles with his own. “How’re the wife and kids, Bob?” he actually seems genuinely interested.
“Oh, you know Jen, always this or that. Zoe is off doing her parties, drugs, and friends. Who am I to stop her really? Little Bobby Jr. is growing up to be quite the little rascal as well, that’s for sure. You want the usual, John?”
“You know me,” John smirks. Bob waves to the bar robot, you aren’t quite sure, but you think one of the arms makes the “OK” sign.
“Hey, another thing,” John turns back to Bob.
“We were given an offer at a job, y’see, and were told to meet back up at ‘The Den’ if we wanted it. Would you happen to know the place?”
“Ah,” Bob says, “You want The Den. Yeah, sure. Just go back there by that bigass door and tell Bill that I sent you. He’ll get you going in the right direction.”
“Thanks, man,” John says, extending his hand again.
“Anytime, buddy,” Bob says, taking his hand into an embrace.
You start to head around the back of the dance floor to the large sectional door. On the way past the bar, John grabs his oddly-colored drink and takes a sip. You walk up to one of the three guys who are now all eyeing you, “Bill?” John says, one nods, “Bob sent us, we’re looking for The Den.”
The same guard nods again, then turns around and pushes a button and the door slides up and your crew steps inside.
The Den is very different from The Den, it looks almost like an office. Rhythmically flickering, long fluorescent lights every few feet on the ceiling light up a long hall that splits into a t-section a little ways down. The walls are an drab green color that does not compliment the off-white tile underfoot. To your right, a bored-looking, older woman with horned rim glasses sits behind a large wooden desk.
She grunts, “It’s Jan now! I know why you’re here, Durston told me he was expecting you. Go down the hall, take a left, if’s the third door on your right. Don’t use the bathrooms.”
“Thanks, Jan,” John waves. You nod your thanks. Chad looks confused “What’s wrong with the bathrooms?”
Jan looks up over her glasses, shakes her head, and looks back down to her book. Chad still looks like he has unanswered questions, but doesn’t ask.
You walk down the hall, take the left, and count doors. One is labeled “Conference A”, the second “Supply” and the third “Conference 3″ You open conference 3 and are greeted by a deep, but not very wide room. It is mostly dominated by a large faux-wooden table surrounded by about a dozen mismatching office chairs.
Durston is sat in a chair on the left, and he turns to face you. “Ah, glad you finally made it. Now about that job.”
theartofmadeline
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