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Entry tags:
[twitter prompt] shindrift - alcohol
“Y’know, I used to be a bartender, way back when.”
Shin gives Drifter a long stare. They’re sitting in some shitty frozen part of Mars at base camp. Shin’s at one end of a rickety table, a soup bowl in front of him, its contents gone all cold and congealed in the weather. Each spoonful had needed a shot of Solar energy to go down proper, but even then Shin’s appetite has been minimal at best.
“You’re lying,” he says, dunking his spoon into the lumpy mass; Drifter’s recipe, of course. Shin doesn’t want to ask what went in it, and judging by the assault of conflicting textures, he doesn’t have much faith in Drifter’s bartending skills.
“Hand to my heart, I was. Owned the bar, in fact.”
“Did it get shut down?”
“Nah, quit the business. Went on to bigger things. You know how it is,” Drifter says, choosing to ignore Shin’s dry tone. He leans forward from across the table, his own bowl cleaned out. “How ‘bout I show you?”
Shin looks down at his soup. There’s definitely the taste of iron in it, and it takes no guesses to know where that comes from on Mars. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“C’mon, Shin,” Drifter says, leering. “I’ll make you somethin’ you’ll like.”
Before Shin can say no again, Drifter transmats a bottle in his hand. Shin briefly reads gin on the label before the bottle goes spinning in the air, arcing over their heads. He opens his mouth to scoff, but Drifter catches the bottle with a flourish, the cap rolling across his knuckles as he waves the opened end under Shin’s nose.
Shin catches a strong herbal whiff, the underlying bitterness of pine making him lean away. It’s gin, alright. He sighs.
“If you’re planning on making a Last Word, I ain’t having it.” The joke gets pretty old after a few decades. Real old. “Don’t even like gin.”
“No?” The bottle disappears, replaced by another more rounded decanter filled with light golden liquid. That too gets presented in front of Shin after a showy flip or two. “Whiskey?”
By now Drifter has scooted closer to Shin, an elbow resting over the table. His eyes are fixed on him, as if trying to discern Shin’s reaction. The scrutiny is a little suspicious, but the corner of Shin’s mouth twitches up anyway. Drink preferences are the least of his well-kept secrets, and lately he’s been weak to the thrill of a kind of intimacy he shouldn’t have.
“I’ll have it neat then.”
Drifter puts the whiskey away.
It takes a few more moments, a couple more bottle tosses, some ice shot off the ground, and a few more sarcastic exchanges before a drink finally gets pressed into Shin’s hand.
Shin lifts it, the salted rim crystalizing further in the cold. Something else besides salt speckles the glass, but that’s no surprise considering Drifter’s collection of dubious ingredients. When he licks the edge, there’s a sharp coldness that has nothing to to with the ice on Mars.
Drifter watches him expectantly. His slight smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there’s something in his gaze that is guarded.
Shin has watched Drifter’s every move, making the cocktail. He puts the glass to his lips. If it’s poisoned then he rightly deserves it. He takes a sip, letting the flavor rest in his mouth.
Shin has never liked the herbal bitterness of gin, so Drifter chooses the woodiness of a dark bourbon, mixed with a multitude of other things for a sweeter layer. Muddled mint, oak scents, some kind of syrup Shin can’t name. The salt rim is cold, cold, cold —
He swallows, and then it tastes like empty night skies, lonely and isolated.
It’s tailor made for his tongue. The next swallow is even easier to get down. The liquid rolls smooth in his mouth, Void-spiked, Stasis distilled — smokey Darkness to counteract the strange ice.
There’s no warmth in the liquid, not a hint of Solar spark, but strong alcohol always burns going down anyway.
It’s good. Best drink Shin’s ever had. It must’ve shown on his face — Drifter leans back with a smirk, the guarded look in his eyes replaced by wryness, like he’s just figured something out.
“Well,” Shin says, quietly into the drink, “You got me.”
Shin gives Drifter a long stare. They’re sitting in some shitty frozen part of Mars at base camp. Shin’s at one end of a rickety table, a soup bowl in front of him, its contents gone all cold and congealed in the weather. Each spoonful had needed a shot of Solar energy to go down proper, but even then Shin’s appetite has been minimal at best.
“You’re lying,” he says, dunking his spoon into the lumpy mass; Drifter’s recipe, of course. Shin doesn’t want to ask what went in it, and judging by the assault of conflicting textures, he doesn’t have much faith in Drifter’s bartending skills.
“Hand to my heart, I was. Owned the bar, in fact.”
“Did it get shut down?”
“Nah, quit the business. Went on to bigger things. You know how it is,” Drifter says, choosing to ignore Shin’s dry tone. He leans forward from across the table, his own bowl cleaned out. “How ‘bout I show you?”
Shin looks down at his soup. There’s definitely the taste of iron in it, and it takes no guesses to know where that comes from on Mars. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“C’mon, Shin,” Drifter says, leering. “I’ll make you somethin’ you’ll like.”
Before Shin can say no again, Drifter transmats a bottle in his hand. Shin briefly reads gin on the label before the bottle goes spinning in the air, arcing over their heads. He opens his mouth to scoff, but Drifter catches the bottle with a flourish, the cap rolling across his knuckles as he waves the opened end under Shin’s nose.
Shin catches a strong herbal whiff, the underlying bitterness of pine making him lean away. It’s gin, alright. He sighs.
“If you’re planning on making a Last Word, I ain’t having it.” The joke gets pretty old after a few decades. Real old. “Don’t even like gin.”
“No?” The bottle disappears, replaced by another more rounded decanter filled with light golden liquid. That too gets presented in front of Shin after a showy flip or two. “Whiskey?”
By now Drifter has scooted closer to Shin, an elbow resting over the table. His eyes are fixed on him, as if trying to discern Shin’s reaction. The scrutiny is a little suspicious, but the corner of Shin’s mouth twitches up anyway. Drink preferences are the least of his well-kept secrets, and lately he’s been weak to the thrill of a kind of intimacy he shouldn’t have.
“I’ll have it neat then.”
Drifter puts the whiskey away.
It takes a few more moments, a couple more bottle tosses, some ice shot off the ground, and a few more sarcastic exchanges before a drink finally gets pressed into Shin’s hand.
Shin lifts it, the salted rim crystalizing further in the cold. Something else besides salt speckles the glass, but that’s no surprise considering Drifter’s collection of dubious ingredients. When he licks the edge, there’s a sharp coldness that has nothing to to with the ice on Mars.
Drifter watches him expectantly. His slight smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there’s something in his gaze that is guarded.
Shin has watched Drifter’s every move, making the cocktail. He puts the glass to his lips. If it’s poisoned then he rightly deserves it. He takes a sip, letting the flavor rest in his mouth.
Shin has never liked the herbal bitterness of gin, so Drifter chooses the woodiness of a dark bourbon, mixed with a multitude of other things for a sweeter layer. Muddled mint, oak scents, some kind of syrup Shin can’t name. The salt rim is cold, cold, cold —
He swallows, and then it tastes like empty night skies, lonely and isolated.
It’s tailor made for his tongue. The next swallow is even easier to get down. The liquid rolls smooth in his mouth, Void-spiked, Stasis distilled — smokey Darkness to counteract the strange ice.
There’s no warmth in the liquid, not a hint of Solar spark, but strong alcohol always burns going down anyway.
It’s good. Best drink Shin’s ever had. It must’ve shown on his face — Drifter leans back with a smirk, the guarded look in his eyes replaced by wryness, like he’s just figured something out.
“Well,” Shin says, quietly into the drink, “You got me.”