Exigency: The Old Guard

Pounding background music or no, Wilhelm's words land on the drunken Leaguers like a procession of thrown bricks.

The Mercenaries exchange glances and leave. There's no sneering, no bravado, no posturing or back-talk. The knife-fighter doesn't draw her knives and her two friends don't boast about her prowess. The trio simply slinks off, heads bowed.

The youngest one is crying a little. The biggest one is shaking.

The Arbiter gives Wilhelm a nod. The bartender serves the requested drinks, and she breathes a huge sigh of relief while doing so.

Before everyone else completely relaxes after having avoided what would certainly have been a bloody exchange, Pudge sidles up next to the Arbiter. "So, Arbiter, you got a name?" Pudge smiles. "The orange is a great accent color on that armor, by the way. Looks badass, but, also, y'know, a little happy."[/b]

OOC: Pudge is definitely flirting. Even he's not sure if he's just trying to get information or if he's into the soldier. He's pretty sure he'd be happy with an outcome in either of those arenas.

The Arbiter blinks. Her hair is cut short and there's a slight glassiness to one of her eyes, hinting at an optical implant. "All Arbiters of the veteran rank share these colours. It is the heraldry of the High Council proper." A pause, and she smiles slightly. "And it's Lyra."

Customers have started to refill the dance floor. The bartender gives a one-armed shrug and uses the other to pour a drink. "Nah, manager's been the same for years now," she tells Serana. "The Mercs don't own him, but he's pretty happy about them busting in and throwing the dealers out on their ass. He doesn't have to pay protection to bastards in the basement any more: Leaguers don't want his money, they just want his building."

Darghibous determines that there's an access hatch behind the bartender: there's a small loader drone sat idle next to it, presumably on standby in case any of the drinks dispensers need refilled. On some planets they'd find it baffling that the bar itself isn't completely automated.

The damaged elevator is also an option, assuming that anyone could climb the rickety service ladder down without drawing too much attention to themselves.

There's a thin older woman near a table, drinking and smoking, and while nothing about her business-casual appearance screams "High Council liaison" the fact that she keeps muttering to herself about "goddamned robe-wearing assholes" in a Lodori accent is a bit of a hint.

I was going to roll but I think considering Darghibous' skillset, and the fact that the loud background music should invoke Single-Minded, I'll just say it's a given that he notices these basic things.

Lyra clears her throat. "My employers are attending a meeting here. But I shouldn't elaborate any more than that." She's actually blushing very slightly. "Sorry."

With practised ease Pudge assesses the variety of technology at his disposal. There's a till behind the bar, a security console in the far corner (with a bouncer stood beside it, naturally) and he also notes that a drunken Mercenary has left his PDA unattended while he goes to the toilet. Or possibly the back alley, the Merc isn't really thinking straight.

As for basement access, at first nothing else presents itself... but during a lull in the music Pudge hears part of the floor clunk and rattle when customers walk over it. There must be another hatchway underneath the panelling at the centre of the dance floor.

The woman turns round haughtily, then looks Darghibous up and down and slowly breaks into a smile. "I very much doubt it. I'm attempting to drink that Ascorvien piss they try and pass off as liquor. Why don't you have a seat?"

She leans in too. "They don't get much more civilised than me, sweetheart. I'm in the administration for a Lord Councillor."

That's quite a boast. There are only about a hundred Lord Councillors at any one time: it's the second highest rank in the echelons of the High Council, compared to a hundred thousand Senior Councillors and untold millions of, well, vanilla High Councillors.

"Entertainment? Valon is a rotten planet, even before the beacon went bust. Round here we have to make our own entertainment. You'd be welcome to visit my quarters at the embassy some time." She touches a button on her wrist, beaming her social media card to Darghibous's communicator. "Any time. The rest of the night is mine."

According to her card, she's Timea Bechard, Executive Administrator for Lord Councillor Graves-Burton. Darghibous has heard of Graves-Burton before, although not in any great detail. But he's certainly not a Councillor local to Valon.

"That's against policy. I'm sorry." Lyra coughs. "You can send me yours, maybe I'll get in touch. Besides, I'm sure you could look me up."