( As far as Wrench is concerned, the bottle of bourbon is heretofore untampered-with, which makes the liquid inside a far cry better than anything their robotic bartender is slinging. It's not the risk of the machine substituting salt for sugar or topping an old fashioned with pickle juice rather than bitters that has him wary; Wrench is concerned with something far more insidious. By now it's a well-established fact that the bill for all this will come due sooner or later, but that doesn't mean the hefty price tag is the worst of it.
There's nothing saying the drinks are safe, and he'd rather not risk finding himself roofied in this strange place.
He glances at the woman's commandeered scrap and can't help the smirk that forms over his own lips. It doesn't bloom completely, but rather drags his mouth into an even thinner line. Wrench twists his own napkin to face more toward himself and pens a large, upside-down L — the hangman's post. He twists the page back toward the woman and gives another tap at the row of dashes along the bottom.
no subject
There's nothing saying the drinks are safe, and he'd rather not risk finding himself roofied in this strange place.
He glances at the woman's commandeered scrap and can't help the smirk that forms over his own lips. It doesn't bloom completely, but rather drags his mouth into an even thinner line. Wrench twists his own napkin to face more toward himself and pens a large, upside-down L — the hangman's post. He twists the page back toward the woman and gives another tap at the row of dashes along the bottom.
Try again. )
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