milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"Mmf." Mal's ribs hurt. Clearly the Ng Ka Pe will help with this, if only for distraction purposes.

(He has enough self-preservation to have left his bullets at home even though he has his brushroll here, intent on doing some maintenance on the contents of the gunbelt on his hips.)

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Well Bumi was minding his own business, but then he happened to catch sight of an unfamiliar version of a only some-what familiar weapon, and well...curiosity killed the pygmy puma.

"Mind if I join you?" says the older gentleman of indeterminate ethnic origin.

"If'n you'd like, though I don't see why."

It's housework, and boozing. Neither of which are terribly entertaining with strangers.

Edited 2014-07-31 21:33 (UTC)

He pulls out the chair and flops down with an old man grunt.

"Well for one I don't know you and I can't help but be a friendly guy, and for another, we don't have those where I'm from." he gestures towards the gun.

"It's a sad 'verse, your where and when. C'mon then."

Mal holds out his pistol out, close enough for Bumi to scrutinize without being an invitation for him to take it.

"Your folk don't have firearms?"

Bumi chuckles as he leans over for a closer inspection of Mal's pistol.

"Not as such, no. Asking for firearms gets you something wholly different back home." His is a wry smile.

"You ever heard of Bending?"

"Yes. It's a thing folk do, with limbs and joints and muscles that they don't get shot in."

A beat, then, "Then there's the other kind with a capital B."

"Oh so you have heard of it then. The other kind, I mean. Though..."

He lifts up one arm to shoulder height and then allows his elbow to bend side to side.

"We've got that too."

A few yards away, an older red-haired woman is frowning down at her drink. "This isn't what I ordered."

At the same time, a harried-looking waitrat deposits a mug of not-remotely-alcoholic coffee in front of Mal and scurries off.

"Seriously? Do I need to complain to Ma now?"

Is the Bar tellin' me I drink too much again? Ugh. Wish Ma didn't work this damn bar now and then.

But when Mal overhears someone else having an order problem, he looks and confirms the switch. "I think you have mine, ma'am."

"Beg pardon? -- Oh." She holds out the glass of vaguely herb-smelling alcohol. "Is this yours?"

"For better or for worse, ma'am. Apologies."

Mal slides the coffee down to the woman, taking his drink back. "Bar don't usually mess up like that."

"Neither do the waitrats. I wonder what's up with that."

She doesn't sound terribly worried about it, though.

"I've seen you around here before, haven't I? But I don't think we've ever actually met."

"Mal Reynolds. Captain, general ruffian and suchlike. Yourself?"

She grins a little at general ruffian. "Cordelia Vorkosigan," she says, "retired old grandmother. Is that ship's captain, or military rank? Or both?"

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