maskormenacelogs | It's a Terminator reference, see

WHO: Jacob and the Major
WHERE: 'Tech Boire' nightclub, De Chima
WHEN: Backdated to just after the Major got her arm replaced
WHAT: Jacob takes the Major out to celebrate having two arms again, and to get to know her outside of kicking criminals in the head
WARNINGS:Should be none?

Even by De Chima's standards, this is a loudy, flashy, expensive, tech-y place. Neon lights pulse across the floor and the ceilings, and glowing paint writhes in the blacklights that strobe across the dance floor. The glass surface of the bar flickers with data and interactive touch points for those who want to browse while the drink. Plasma balls crackle with contained energy atop posts along the upper-level railings and staircases. 'Tech Boire,' as the name implies, is a place for technology and for drinking. Which are two things Jacob knows Motoko has an affinity for.

He meets her at the entrance, wearing a smile, dark slacks, and a deep red shirt that's tight across his arms and chest. "Hey," he says when he sees her. "Don't know if you've been here before, but if you haven't, I think you're gonna like it. Let's go- first round of drinks is on me."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Motoko is wearing her usual casual attire: tight black jeans and a leather jacket over her low-cut leotard. She gets plenty of odd looks out of the streets, but in a club, especially one as cyberpunk-influences as this one? She'll probably fit in like a glove. And Jacob certainly fills out his shirt well.

"Most of the clubs I frequent are a bit seedier and in Maurtia Falls," she says with a slight grin. "I used to go to places like this back home with friends, whenever I had some free time." Which, granted, wasn't very often. There's a reason few people know much about the Major outside of her work. "I'll take you up on that offer."

Jacob jerks his head toward the bar and doesn't say anything further as he leads the way to the counter, pushing past staggering drinkers and whirling dancers. The deeper they get into the club, the more the pounding beat of the music makes conversation impossible. But the bar is located in a well-designed audio bubble of reflective and absorbent materials: an eye in the hurricane of sound, a place where people can actually hear themselves think and talk to each other.

He orders himself a whiskey, then turns to Motoko. "What'll it be?"

She follows along, taking in the sights of the club. The music, the lights, the dancers... it's all rather gaudy, and she's glad that there's at least one pocket of relative quiet when they reach the bar.

She runs a finger across the surface of the bar, glancing through the digitized menu. There are the usual staples, but also some named drinks that go along with the club's theme. "Jacob, you can't come to a place like this and just get a whiskey. I'll try a... Brainsparker, whatever that is." Might as well live a little on Jacob's dime.

He hoists his plain whiskey to her in a defiant toast. "Watch me. Place like this, getting something ordinary is a way to stand out."

After placing her order, it takes a while for the bartender- who is wearing a shiny reflective visor for no apparent reason but to fit the club's theme- to mix together a good half-dozen ingredients before he puts Motoko's 'Brainsparker' in front of her. The drink glows a flourescent grey and sparkles from deep within. Wisps of vapour rise from the foam at the top. Jacob looks at it like he's going to shoot it if it makes a move.

"Good luck," he says, and drinks his whiskey.

She might have bitten off more than she can chew, or drink in this case. The drink does look questionable at best, like the type of thing you'd use to clean rust off of a car's hubcaps rather than drink. The alcohol, of course, won't have a strong effect on her, and it'd be easy enough to just turn off her taste receptors. But that seems like cheating.

She removes her jacket and places it in the empty seat next to her, as if she's preparing for a herculean task. She gingerly takes the bubbling liquid, and downs it in a single gulp. The flavor is... strong, to say the least.

"Is that the best they've got?" she says outwardly, while inwardly wondering if her military-grade stomach lining will be sufficient.

Watching Motoko prepare to meet her fate, Jacob affects a solemn air and watches intently, as though this might be the last time he ever sees her alive. But then she knocks it back in one go.

"Check out the Major!" Jacob cheers, and lifts his glass again, this time in an earnest salute. "Kicking ass in the field and at the bar. How was it?"

"Unless you have steel plate for your stomach lining, I don't recommend it," she replies with a slight grin. "But I imagine it would be good for getting someone very, very drunk if they don't."

She leans back in her seat, content with victory. "I'd buy you one, but I'm not sure I want to have to drag you home."

Jacob scoffs, as though the very idea of him being incapacitated by a drink is unthinkable.

"Don't worry about it, Motoko," he says, a rare instance of busting out her first name to mark this unwinding occasion. "It takes a lot to bring me down. Back in the Marines, I was always the last one standing when me and the squad went out during shore leave."

Benefits of a biotic metabolism, excellent physical health, and sheer stubbornness.

It's a Terminator reference, see

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