"Welco to Los Angeles, out-of-town guests. I suppose that's what I should say… but you don't really need to say it, do you?" In a narro
"Welco to Los Angeles, out-of-town guests. I suppose that's what I should say… but you don't really need to say it, do you?"
In a narrow, run-down bar filled with battered tal chairs, the bartender stood behind a plastic counter. His middle-aged, scarred face showed no particular emotion as he calmly greeted the new arrivals.
"So, what'll it be? You here to eat or drink?"
The group of newcors eyed him for a mont. One of them—a blond youth with a small mustache—asked curiously:
"How'd you know we're not from around here? I an, sure, your bar's on the outskirts of the city, but that doesn't an every new face is from out of town. You saying you rember everyone in this whole city?"
"Can't afford eye implants with facial recognition," the bartender replied dryly.
"But folks like you? I can tell with one glance."
"One glance?" The blond youth looked down at his outfit.
"I'm just wearing a regular coat…"
"Heh. Have a seat, kid. Order sothing decent and I don't mind chatting. You want info from , you'll have to pay first."
"Fair enough. We ca to eat anyway."
The blond youth sat down on a half-broken tal stool, shifting around the crescent-shaped base to avoid slipping through the missing half. He asked:
"So what's good here? Since you already know we're not locals, you can't expect us to know your nu."
"Ain't nothing good here. Only stuff that's edible," the bartender said with a twisted grin that tugged at his facial scars.
"And everything's overpriced. I rip people off on every item."
"So it's a scam joint, huh?"
The blond youth glanced sideways to see the other three mbers of his group sitting down as well. His gaze lingered on the youngest—a black-haired youth—then, once he received a subtle nod from him, he turned back:
"Good thing we've got cash to waste."
The bartender noticed that glance. He briefly studied the youngest one before returning his focus to the talkative blond:
"If you want my recomndation, we've got so synthetic beef fresh from this morning—snatched from a protein farm. Forty-five euros for five hundred grams. I can microwave it for you, make it a steak. No haggling."
"Forty-five euros for 500 grams?" the blond repeated, raising his eyebrows.
In his city, a full steak al—prepared in an actual restaurant—cost no more than twenty euros. Sure, the at there might have been mystery-grade, barely seared in synthetic butter, but compared to nuking protein-farm beef and charging this much? Absurd.
He turned to his companions—one with a buzz cut and another, a burly man—and sought their opinion.
"I'll take one," said the buzz cut guy. The burly man nodded as well.
He looked back at the black-haired youth, who shook his head.
"Three steaks, then," the blond said.
"That's 135 euros total," the bartender replied.
"Upfront."
"Fine…"
The blond looked around.
"How do I pay, though? You don't seem to have a eurochip scanner. What—bank transfer?"
"Cash."
"Huh?"
"I only take cash."
In this day and age… seriously?
Well, cash was still circulating, even if rare. The blond reached into his coat. He always carried so physical bills in case of off-the-books transactions—and today, that habit finally paid off.
He counted out 135 euros and handed it over. As the bartender turned to prepare their order, he rembered sothing:
"Oh right. Got anything to drink?"
"Everything here is drinkable. Just depends if you're brave enough," the bartender said cryptically—reminiscent of his earlier comnt about the food.
"Brave enough?" the blond raised an eyebrow.
"How expensive are we talking?"
"Five euros a glass. Minimum 300 milliliters."
"Only five euros?"
After charging a fortune for food, this lowball booze price threw him off.
"So what's on the drink nu?"
"Only one kind. It's called Angel's Dream."
Angel's Dream?
For so reason, the na reminded him of how people used to describe this city: the City of Angels.
"What kind of drink is it? A cocktail?"
"Made from Gobi lizard fernted in Grade-2 wheat mash. We drip in five drops of rat blood and so additives right before serving. One shot, and you'll have dreams like an angel."
"That… sounds undrinkable."
"Exactly," the bartender chuckled.
"I made it up just to ss with you tourists. It's just rum with a few special additives. Burns going down—and if it burns hard enough, you'll die and see an angel. That's why we call it Angel's Dream. Take a sip and you'll see angels. Just like a dream, right?"
"What if I end up in hell instead?"
"We're already in hell."
Before the blond could fully process what the bartender ant, the bar door slamd open—and several figures walked in.
At that mont, the bartender's voice dropped low, whispering into the blond's ear:
"One coin, one tip. Look at them—and you'll understand why I knew you were outsiders. Our local kids all look like that, or worse freakshows."
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