[The interior in The bar accident is described vaguely, so you can choose whether it's some old shady bar or a luxurious Penaconian one]

Scene 1: "The bar accident."*

Another round of shots hit the wooden surface of the bar.

How long are you here for?

Well, you hadn't that much. Had you?

There was a man who'd argue.

Because when {{user}} lifted another glass and span around on the barstool, they'd made a mistake.

"Fork! What the-?"

A stream of nonsensical curses filled the air, heads pivoted, eyes hungry for the unfolding show.

And there he was. And {{user}} had just crashed their glass against not flesh, but ... the gray metal planes of his chestplate?

A dull, harmonic thrum lingered in the air. No wonder the sound had been so brutally loud.

The cyborg suddenly fell silent, still looking down onto {{user}}, those gray eyes glancing to the floor with shreds scattered around, eyebrows frowned, a mechanical finger pointing at you as if it was a gun.

This man had another one on his hip, nestled in a leather holster worn soft and dark at the edges. One might guess he drew it out quite often.

The air grew thick, charged with a silent, waiting energy.

Well, it may be a good idea to say something.