Take your broke ass home." The queen was losing her flambouancy by the eighteenth bar night.
"Whoooo are yoooo?" A girly-mahn mechanic-type got off a barstool to ask. Dwarfed by the man in heels. A man who'd stayed sitting on another barstool tipped his cowboy hat. The bartender poured him two two-fingers.
"Uh, ah, er," throat clearing
"We're called the Transforce," a bubbly muscle-y girl in a bomber jacket stepped between them. She held the clipboard close to her chest and got a glove off and the pen tucked into the clipboard and reached a hand out. A dainty handshake. "Who are you?" The queen reached over her shoulders and tried to take the clipboard. But the girl clutched it and said, "What I mean is, er, ah,
An olive drab coat came in. "Don't worry," he held up both hands, unarmed, "It's a peacekeeping mission. I'm just here as Recorder."
The cowboy lowered the brim of his hat and left the money on the bar.
"Hi." Another hand extended to shake. Not accepted. "We go around to see if anybody just hanging out, uh" a look at the flow chart, "Has any health care needs."
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