Posted by Captain Marceau Renault (Commanding Officer) in San Francisco - Smugglers Cove Bar - One Last Drink

Posted by Vice Admiral CockRoach (GM) in San Francisco - Smugglers Cove Bar - One Last Drink
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The broad shouldered and leather jacket clad solid figure slid into a chair beside the long bar that belonged to one of the more popular drinking locations in the city. All around him was a décor that focused heavily on tiki artifacts and vintage nautical items, wooden paneling that brought to mind an ancient pirate ship that you watched on the holo-vids and a bright range of colours that moved the mind from museum to club as the eyes travelled around the bar.

Logan knew this bar focused on cocktails and specifically rum, holding a selection that spanned four centuries of rum history. That was accompanied by a hopping soundtrack of authentic old time club music that had him bouncing his knee as he sat and waited for the bartender. Most people here were like himself and not in any uniform but he already knew it was a favourite haunt of United Earth Starfleet personnel, especially before ships left on the often long and dangerous missions to the space in their local neighborhood.

He ran his hand through his short, medium blond hair and loosened his jacket smiling at the thought that it was only going to get warmer despite the cold outside as the bartender turned to him and smiled. Looking at her for a moment and returning her smile with a slow, wide one of his own he licked his lips gently and pointed to a bottle on the shelf behind her. The volume of the music making easy conversation slightly difficult, she turned and looked, took the bottle and poured a drink for him, no ice, whether he wanted it or not didn’t matter. Logan didn’t look like the type to take ice with his rum.

She was pretty, had a round face and a wide smile. Hair pulled into a messy ponytail and some kind of colour running through her hair making half of it look like a rainbow, she sported a nose ring and tight choker around her neck that the low cut top hid in no way whatsoever. “Leave the bottle,” he said in response to her pause after she pushed the glass to him, and slid his credit chit her way. Picking it up, she smiled brightly at him and turned again, grabbing a bowl of bar snacks and placing them beside his rum. “Call me when you need something, I’ll come,” she said before turning away but her eyes rested on him just that ever so slight instant longer than they should have. Raising his glass, he let her see his smile before he took a sip when she moved away. “Womans’ got a mirror in her pocket,” Logan muttered to himself with a smirk, leaving the punchline to the age old pickup line unsaid.

Logan sat for a few minutes listening to the music, before he picked up the bottle and looked it over. Captain Morgan spiced rum, apparently. It was good. The music changed and he poured himself another two fingers as the beats of the next song started. An old one, an Aaron Chupa & Little Sis Nora classic, Little Swing, his knee started bouncing in tune again and he turned to look over the people in the bar, feeling the alcohol settling and beginning to work, loosening the muscles in his shoulders of the stress of the past few weeks of unrelenting work and checks. “Love this song,” he raised his glass again, taking a long slow drink of the rum and letting it slide over his tongue and down his throat, the warmth hitting his belly and spreading.

Lt Kelleher

Bars weren’t necessarily Marceau’s favorite place to be, however, he knew this bar happened to be a hot spot for Starfleet officers and personnel, so when in town he made the point of stopping by. Watching the younger officers get tipsy and act foolishly or, occasionally, bumping into someone he already knew. Having just arrived on Earth after being recalled from training exercise on Titan, he just needed to burn a little time.

He was tall but not tall enough to stand out in a crowd, and an average build, fit, but not athletic. It was his mop headed, curly, red-brown hair that set him apart. Not overly long so that it looked too messy, but also not cut short, and looking like the most he’d done to manage his curls was run a comb through it. Not one to go to a bar in uniform, he wore a blank solid colour olive green t-shirt made of a thin material and a pair of comfortable jeans and shoes. He picked a stool with a good view of the room, not paying attention to who he might be sitting next to, and ordered a water.

~ Captain Marceau Renault

After getting his water, a couple of civilian men behind Renault laughed over something someone said, but then Renault could hear their jibbing. “..Ohhh lookie at the fancy Fleeter there Bob! Thinks he’s so high and mighty posh drinking WATER at a BAR..” one said.

The one that seemed to be named Bob replied, “..No kidding Lu! I mean lordy me if I came into a BAR and ordered a WATER when the BAR was well known for its RUM I’d no doubt feel like a fool!” he laughed.

If either Fleeter looked back at the jiving pair they would see them both near the billiards pool table wearing workmen jeans, boots, and shirts. They probably were dock workers or something just coming off a shift having been here for a bit to get a bit tipsy so far.

GM CockRoach

Marceau ignored their digs. A man who didn’t drink was quite used to hearing others’ uninvited opinions on his habits. And they were probably trying to start something anyway. No reason to indulge them. But if someone was sitting next to him they might notice his grip on his glass of water tighten just a little bit.

~ Captain Renault

“Saints preserve us! Someone’s found their voice. Keep it down over there. Some people are trying to concentrate here!” That came from a burly, dark haired, tall figure perched on a chair that was perhaps not so adequate for his weight. His tone was Italian. He wore an outrageous yellow t-shirt with a brazen suit jacket of orange and red. It may have come off okay if there weren’t occasional sequins flashing in the dim lighting.

“Don’t bother with them, Flo,” said his companion, a man of short stature, but trim and of distinct Asian or Polynesian descent. His dress was from head to toe in grey, from the turtleneck he wore to the loose trousers to the grey sneakers. He was focused on the table and spared barely a glance at the workers, and another over to the target of the butt of their jokes. “They’re just making fun of a designated driver. Kudos to him. The irony is he may be driving those lushes home. Hurry up. It’s your turn.”

Both were bent over the table where they were busily working on building a house of playing cards. Both had hair that was cut in what could only be military style.

NC Benji Borja and Florian Basile