At Texas Nuts the lighting is dim, the furniture padded and the staff as outwardly welcoming as undertakers. The booze is cheap, as is the food: counterfeit Texan cuisine, to anyone acquainted with the real stuff, but good enough to take the edge off the northern chill. Music plays, just loudly enough to keep conversations private. An enormous, vicious-looking troll bouncer keeps watch from a corner, arms folded.
The patrons are a motley crew, a mixed bag of meta-types, heavy on chrome and weighty jackets. They gather in small groups in the alcoves that stud the walls, though a few drink alone at the central bar. At one such alcove, providing a good view of the front and back entrances, sit two people. One is an older human, slightly short and paunchy. His hair and beard are gray, flecked with white, and lines of care are graven deeply into his face. Even in his jeans and armoured jacket, he may as well be wearing a sign that says "ex-Star". This has to be Ross.
