Let me answer your question with another question: booze. Okay, not a question, but I still want a drink!

You work hard and, therefore, you must also play hard. That's simple physics, is what it is. Equal and opposite reaction and all that. Or at least that's what you always say to excuse drunken benders and bad (but usually fun) decisions made under the influence of ****. So far it's seemed a valid excuse, but, really, what would you know? You're usually drunk when you say it.

On that note, making a few bad, but fun decisions seems like a good way to spend your pay so you decide to drop by one of your favored drinking establishments on the Junk Moon, a little place called the Scrapyard. Not a very original or creative name, some would say, but the drinks were cheap and strong and, despite the name and the fact that the building itself was crafted from salvaged pieces of scrapped ship's hulls, it was the bar with the lowest chance of one getting tetanus from a rusted piece of metal jutting out from the structure. It was also one of the few that you could still count yourself welcome at so, in this case, beggars couldn't be choosers.

You make your way to the bar and enter through the door that had once been the emergency escape hatch to a small freighter ship. The place is dimly lit and perhaps more rusted than you remembered as you can see that the walls have rusty, corroded holes in some places and haphazard patches in others. At least they bothered to patch the holes. You remember drinking in some places that were little more than literal holes in the round so a few patched holes here and there could be forgiven.

Some of the bar patrons at tables nearest to the door stop chatting with one another or silently sipping drinks to look your way for a brief moment. You don't really pay them much mind as you head for the bar and they return the favor, turning back to whatever took up their attention before you entered. You make it to the long bar of chrome and metal that had once been parts of many ships before being remade to support drinks and drunks alike.

The bartender, a burly, bearded man who goes by Mac and looks human enough save for the slightest maroon tinge to his skin and a distinct lack of ears, looks up at you as you approach and gives you a neutral sort of nod.

"Halloway. What'll ya have?", he asks you in the Universal Standard Tongue most speak when among varied species.