Sunday December 21, 2098

McFadden's Bar and Grill
2437 Smith St.
83(W), Scraper 17, Chicago

…With the whoop-de-doo and hickory dock
And don’t forget to hang up your sock
‘Cause just exactly at 12 o’clock
He’ll be coming down the chimney down…

If there is one thing that a time traveler from the turn of the Century would recognize, it would be the holidays. The Halls get decked with boughs of holly, or at least an artificial facsimile thereof, people put on a happier veneer of kindness, and someone puts on the same music that has played every holiday season since before digital media existed.

It's mid-day in McFadden's, and the bartender on duty is prepping before the crowds show up for the afternoon sporting events, or for Sunday dinners. Televisions above the bar and spaced out throughout the restaurant chatter to themselves beneath the sound of the holiday soundtrack, showing sports highlights, entertainment news, and some actual fact. The screen nearest the bartender is tuned to a "real" station, and turned up just loud enough that it can be heard.

"... and it is obvious by now that they just don't care about UN economic sanctions. NEMA has been increasingly adamant that military action needs to be taken, and of course the Security Council won't condone that."

"Well this is what you get when the party in power is in power: 'we do what we think we should do, and damn all those who don't support us'. Cooperation is just means that everyone needs to agree to do what we want..."

With a grunt the bartender turns away from his station and moves down the bar to set out a sectioned container holding wedges of lemon, lime and orange next to a row of glasses.

A box clunks down on the bar, revealing the grimacing face of Triss Daniels behind it. "Here's this week's, Joe," she grunts, pulling off her cap and shaking out her hair. "Now get me a beer. It's lunch time."

"Sure thing, Triss. You done for the day, or do you have more deliveries to make this afternoon?"

Joe stows the box under the bar for now and pulls the girl a beer.

"I've been kinda interested in that augment-football league. "Juicer-ball" they're calling it on ESPN for now. Those guys look like they could seriously rip someone's head off."

The sport in question isn't too far off from football, but much faster paced and with rules modified to match. The "Juicers" are a new play on an old method of augmentation: steroids. The entire league is on brand-new performance enhancers pumped into their bodies through a harness they wear twenty-four hours. Apparently they sleep very little, and eat about forty thousand calories a day.

Obviously the UN has been crapping itself. The idea that any of the men (so far just men, imagine what a woman would look like on those drugs!) on those 'roids will live longer than five years is laughable. In fact the first public face of the "Achilles Project" that invented the drugs died of a massive coronary three years ago. Supposedly the new drugs are safer...

The doors open as Wolfgang Mustang Hawkeye Cold, IV (please, call me Wolf) walks in, clearly tired. "Pour me a cold one, Joe. I stayed up till five this morning doing an interview for Coast to Coast and I think if I hear another theory on chemtrails I'm gonna choke someone." He takes off his jacket (revealing a button-up, short-sleeve shirt emblazoned with kanji) hangs it up and sits at the bar. He looks over at the woman and says to Joe, "Her drinks on me."

Triss combs her fingers through her hair, then pulls it back into the ponytail. She leaves the cap off as she takes her first chug of beer. "Still got afternoon deliveries, of course. They don't pay me enough to get afternoons off." She sighs, cradling the beer. "Not sure what to make of those Juicers. Kinda reminds me a little of the gladiator stuff back in Rome." She makes a face. "Pretty ugly, too. I thought guys went into sports for the girls and money; these guys don't really get either."

As Wolf comes in, she sighs and rolls her eyes at Joe (the new guys always hit on her. Something about being a delivery girl.) She turns to him with a glare. "I can pay for my own, thanks."

"Right. Sorry." He turns to Joe. "Chivalry is dead, isn't it? Can't buy a woman a drink, can't win anything with actual skill," he points at the Juicers, "Of course, maybe it was just supposed to be for the Medieval era. How's the missus?"

"Still busting my balls about those new Lexus skycars. I mean it's not like we'll use it more than a dozen times a year, and I'm not made of money."

Joe puts the glasses on the bar and continues rinsing pint glasses while the TV chatters and the music plays.

"Right, well, it gets you to the next stoplight much faster than the other skycars," Wolfgang says with a smile. He turns to the female. "I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Wolfgang. And any interpretations of flirting are completely misinformed."

"Triss," Triss replies tersely. She takes another drink. "Hey Joe, the chef in? I think I might actually eat something for lunch today."

"We got the auto-chef. Bill doesn't start for a while yet, he has the dinner shift."

Joe moves down the bar to serve another customer a drink, then comes back.

"You want me to key something in for you, or wait?"

"Triss. Very short, very sharp. Me, I'm elaborate, got two other names. Three first names. Sometimes when I'm bored in my apartment, I take off my pants and call myself 'Tychonious, God of Parties, Lord of Mars'. Weird, I know, but that's the creative process. Gotta boyfriend? I ask out of curiosity. I myself have been seeing a girl. Well, I see a lot of girls. In public, that is. On the street. Lots of good looking girls on the streets. I digress. I am dating someone. You?"

Joe the bartender sets a glass of water on the bar by Triss.

Triss shakes her head at Joe, then drains her beer. She shoves her cap on, pulling the ponytail through the slot in the back, then rolls her eyes over towards Wolf. "You're kind of a douchebag, aren't you?"

Joe snorts and walks away.

The sound of a small riot erupts out of the kitchen, followed by disquieting silence.

About a minute later, Bill walks out of the kitchen, his white chef's coat and hat clashing horribly with his shades.

"Sorry about that, that piece of drek auto-chef was burning the wings again, and I had to flatline it before it could do any more damage."

Bill turns to Joe.

"What up, Choomba?"