[ Joel doesn't come from the kind of place where free drinks get left untaken, and even though the android's a new type of strange he endures it for the sake of the swill he's offered. The first drink, straight whiskey, is too watered down to count as an actual spirit, and the second, tastes more like linctus than liquor but he throws them both back because beggars can't be choosers.
The android is too chipper for him and though Joel makes conversation lightly in the typical southern way when the questions game starts with a banger:
Tell me the story behind one of your scars
Joel levels the automaton with a look that could kill, and that look lasts an eternity between the two of them and whatever poor unfortunate soul happens to be at the bar alongside him. ]
Give me the fuckin' bottle.
b:
Don't waste your time askin' for anything complicated. Go behind the bar and do it yourself. Tom's got his hands full.
[ It's weird that the damn thing shares a name with his brother but it's something he stows away for later. Now with a bottle next to him and the drinks flowing, Joel despite taking the edge off still wears the same typical blanket of tension. He's got a book open in front of him, just scrap paper with notes, all cyphered for his use in a self-practiced shorthand. Trying to make sense of this place hasn't done him a damn bit of good but old habits die hard and not even the alcohol can quell the oncoming headache. ]
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The android is too chipper for him and though Joel makes conversation lightly in the typical southern way when the questions game starts with a banger:
Tell me the story behind one of your scars
Joel levels the automaton with a look that could kill, and that look lasts an eternity between the two of them and whatever poor unfortunate soul happens to be at the bar alongside him. ]
Give me the fuckin' bottle.
b:
[ It's weird that the damn thing shares a name with his brother but it's something he stows away for later. Now with a bottle next to him and the drinks flowing, Joel despite taking the edge off still wears the same typical blanket of tension. He's got a book open in front of him, just scrap paper with notes, all cyphered for his use in a self-practiced shorthand. Trying to make sense of this place hasn't done him a damn bit of good but old habits die hard and not even the alcohol can quell the oncoming headache. ]