Pontificating at the Periwinkle Paradise (Closed)

"OH, GAWD, I DON'T NEED T'KNOW THAT! DON'T SAY THAT T'ME EVER AGIN! GAAAAAAAAAAWD!"

The look on Kirok's face - the face of a warrior who had gutted countless enemies, had seen the end of worlds, who had run with Abattoir's crew and lived to tell about it - was one of sheer, unadulterated disgust.

"Jesus, Sil! I know we're friends, but don' TELL me things like dat!"

It had been a horrible thing to say to someone who considered her to be an inter-species relative, but Silel had literally no ability to censor herself. She stared quizzically at Kirok, then snorted and went back to her drinking.

"Gaaawd, you're such a pussy, Kirok," she piped, while wearing a tiny dress, too much glitz, and heels that rivaled those of her employees'. "Whatever, I'll talk to someone else about it. So what're you thinking for names?"

Her legs crossed at the knee, elbow braced upon the desktop; authors of detective novels would have wept at the lack of a cigarette between her lips.

Kirok, not being some weird human-lover, ignored Sil's legs. Too damned skinny. No scales. Urgh.

"Shit, I dunno," he said, reaching for the bottle. "Depends on dere personalities, right? I'm thinkin' a'callin' one Trouble an' th' other one... er... uh..."

Kirok looked at the bottle.

"Er...Tequila."

The giant krogan took a swig of the pale yellow liquid and swallowed. He blinked a few times, then made a face. He passed the bottle back to Silel, looking like the bottle had just told him it was attracted to his mom.

Silel stared at him, deadpan.

"Tequila? Seriously?"

Dead seriously.

"... why not Agave, or something? Tequila and Agave. Or Agave and Worm. Those are both re - you have no idea what I'm saying." A hand reached up to pinch at her brow. "Uhhh, okay, ummm... so... Tequila is made with Agave. It's a plant. And a lot of times in tequila bottles, you put a worm at the bottom - no no, stick with me - because it soaks up the liquor and, when you finish the bottle, you can eat it and get SUPER PISSED."

The tequila was accepted with a gracious return and a swig that would have made the eyes of any other human water.

Kirok's face screwed up in disgust.

"Yew eat th' worm? When it's dead? Dat's fucked up."

There was a pause.

"I mean, shit, if it can't survive a little alcohol, what's th' point o' eatin' it inna first place?"

Okay, maybe worm was a bad idea. However, with the amount of tequila Silel was putting back, naming the puppy "Shitstain McCumbersome" would have seemed like a fine choice.

"You're the worst, Dino," she said with a laugh. "Okay. And the worm drowns, you idiot. Of course it dies. Duh."

Like a priest presenting a sermon, the human continued, "Look. The worm is filled with alcohol. Think of it like a little sponge, right? And the alcohol is preserving it, so it isn't bad. So basically you're like, eating this sponge filled with booze, and then you get reaaaaaaally fucked and you have a great night. That's the point."

Okay, alcohol. Kirok was on steadier ground here.

"No, that's r'diculous. You don't want th' worm t'soak up the alcohol. That's... what, like, embalmin' fluid. Nah, you need a good, strong, radioactive swill, right? A good shot o' ryncol, make yer piss glow inna dark. You drop a worm inta that, that worm ain't gonna be preserved, s'gonna be annihilated. DAT'S a strong liquor, girl. Gotta set off a Geiger counter if y'want it t'do ennythin' t'ya. If yer krogan, ennyways. I guess bloated worms're good enough fer a human, though. Heh."

The krogan grinned happily. Ah, this was like old times.

Now Kirok was pushing it.

"What?" Silel snapped back. That old, familiar temper was flaring, but it was likely a nostalgic factor to the krogan. "You're - that's stupid. That's dumb. Why would you do that? You'll get cancer up the ass. A worm is way safer."

To be perfectly honest, it was true.

"God, you guys are idiots."

Said "idiots" were one of the things she missed most these days. It was good to get a little old-fashioned humor back, even though her subconscious was the only one recognizing it at present. There was pride at stake.

"Feh, cancer," Kirok chuffed, leaning back in the chair. "Ain't no thing. Cut out th' infected tissue, lie down fer a week're two, let the wound heal, an' come back right as rain. Our clan leader had cancer in one'a his hearts once. Doc cut it out, threw th' heart t'the varren pit, stapled 'im back t'gether and told him t'stop being such a little bitch. Healed up in a week're so, then kilt the doc fer fergettin' t'sterilize th' tools."

Kirok got a faraway look in his eyes.

"Man, them was th' days."

After a brief remembrance of his days on Tuchunka, Kirok snapped out of it and smiled at Sil.

"Ennyways, whatever ya'll drink is fine with me. I ain't gonna force no Ryncol down yer throat - provided you don't make me drink none of that... that... terquila, or whatever it is. Tastes like gun cleaner. Yerk. Bleh. Course, y'might b'able t'cook with it... Like a... sherry, maybe..."

"Yeah, I've sure been forcing it down your throat alright, Kirok."

She grinned. The krogan had been taking swigs freelance since she'd opened the bottle - if he hated it so much, it'd make little sense for him to continue trying it.

The familiar company was relaxing, moreso than the alcohol. Up until Kirok's (and Whitefang's) arrival, she hadn't realized how strained she'd felt; being able to just talk to someone, without the pressures of a romantic or business relationship, was incredibly therapeutic to her.

"Tequila's not much for cookin'. It's an alcohol you mix," she explained. "You usually want to pair it with something citric... I'm not sure what a good comparison would be for krogan. Like, a sour but sweet fruit, I guess. Anyways."

She tossed the bottle back again, then offered it to Kirok without asking.

"How long are you here?"

Kirok looked at the bottle like it was a death-hornet, and gingerly took a swig to be polite.

Nope. Still tasted like shit. Repeated tastes had not improved.

Passing it back with a grimace of distaste, the krogan exhaled.

"Eh, d'pends on when my group finds a new... uh, prospectin' claim, right? Could go enny time. Paperwork round here's edgy - y'never know when a claim's gonna be filed or when a scanner's gonna find some hoard of platinum or the reg of some crashed ship. Could be tomorrow, could be a coupla months. Aw, don't look at me like that, Sil. It ain't like I'm gonna be gone ferever. Hell, I came back from Palaven when th' Reapers were fuckin' it up th' ass. I'll definitely be around fer a while longer, yeh?"

"Yeah, yeah."

The days where weekend hangouts were regular were gone, she supposed. Life changed, and they were all getting older - well, she and Cal, at least. Kirok had a bit of a different biological situation in that regard.

"Well, you got our contact information if you need, and - hey, weren't you going to bounce for me?" she squinted at him. "A krogan at the door would be a big help."

Kirok's eyes squinted right back.

"D'pends. I'm gettin' paid, right?"

Somewhere in the main room, Whitefang had bounded on stage and was being cooed over by half-naked asari.

Whitefang was the belle of the ball. Saffyree, Diamond, and a turian by the name of "Sweet Dove" were all paying her attention, bending over in ways that made credit chits fly onto the stage of their own accord. Silel made a mental note to make "varren night" a regular special, although hopefully without the implications many Omegans would assign to it.

Back to the subject at hand. She leaned back in her chair, surveying Kirok, then nodded. "When I came back here a few years ago, you gave me a job. I had nothin'. You'll be paid, and you'll be paid well."

Paid well. That was all relative, of course - and Kirok was working a job right now that conceivably would net him more in a single night than he'd earn during a month here. But it'd be good for his cover. No need to try and argue Sil down, either; that'd make her suspicious.

Still, Sil was being awfully kind. He'd have to find a way to make it up to her. Steer some more business this way. By force, if necessary.

"Awright, sounds good. When'd'ya want me t'start? I've been itchin' fer a decent brawl fer a few weeks now. Ennybody you want thrown out?"

Hmmm. Now that was a good question.

Silel chewed at her bottom lip thoughtfully; after a few (fake) moments' thought, she beamed and pushed herself to her feet. "Yeah, actually," she said. "Let's see how rusty you are."

It was a joke - she knew Kirok would be more than adequate for the job. Still, she had to keep him on his scaley toes. One of the slumbering puppies was swept into her arms, while the other two remained in Kirok's grasp; the last, still awake and squirming, was held by the scruff by Short Order. With the band together, Silel trotted out to the door leading into the club and pointed to a dark corner.

"See those shady lookin' motherfuckers with the bitch-guns?"

She looked to Kirok.

"Sic 'em."

Laughing like a freight train, Kirok slammed his fists together and stomped into the main room, red thoughts of violence on his mind.

"HEY, YOU GUYS."

"What the hell do you want, freakshow?"

"Lady sez you gotta go. You gonna gonna make trouble 'bout it?"

"What if we do, fuckface? What then?"

"I was hopin' you'd say dat."