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This wasn't Rob's usual bar, The c**k and Bull; this was just the first one he'd come across that didn't smell. It was near the Museum, so it drew an entirely different crowd than his "local" in the Arts District did: museum workers and visitors, tourists, clean-cut office folks. Rob knew he stood out with his dreadlocks and leather jacket, but he didn't care. He needed a drink.

He was on his fifth whiskey when a fellow who looked like one of the employees at the Museum sat near him at the bar. Rob barely paid attention otherwise; he wasn't sure if the guy would ignore him or what. In a way, either would be good: on the one hand, he wanted to be left alone, but on the other, he wanted to talk about the incident at the Farnsworth Building. He still had a lot of processing to do, and sometimes talking about s**t made processing easier.

So when the guy spoke to him and introduced himself in a friendly manner, Rob knew which it wsa going to be. "P- Rob," he responded to John with a small but friendly smile of his own. He'd very nearly slipped and given his powered-up name! Sitting up straighter, he held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, John. You work around here?" he asked.

"An archivist? That sounds very cool," Rob nodded. Finishing the glass of whiskey he'd been nursing, he signalled the bartender for another. It was pretty evident that he was already feeling the booze. "Me, I'm a musician. I play guitar and sing in a punk band, Torgo. Which is right now mostly just me, so we don't play out much. I also play bass and drums and pennywhistle and a lot of things that ain't punk at all." He snorted a soft laugh.

He got his drink and a look from the bartender. "Don't worry, mate, I don't drive," he advised them, then settled in to nurse his fresh glass. "And I'm not going to do anything vulgar on yer floor -- I'm better than that." Laughing, he looked at John. "Some days if you don't laugh you'll cry, yeah? Like today. This is one of those some days."

"As it happens," Rob grinned and reached into his backpack, "I have a few CDs on me." He pulled one out and handed it to John. "Here you go, I hope you like it. I wrote all the songs, except the English tradie ones, and played all the instruments. It's punk, but with folk and Celtic roots -- I call it Pict-punk."

He listened as John described his job in a nutshell, nodding with interest. "That's pretty cool that you can do that. I'll have to bring some of my antique stuff round for you to assess. I have some hand-me-down woodwinds from my mum's dad, and a vintage John Lennon acoustic guitar that I don't know how old it is." Hearing John vouch for him, Rob smiled beatifically at the bartender and finished his drink. "Another, please," he requested as sweetly as he could.

When John asked what was wrong, though, Rob's smile went wry. "You heard about what happened at the Farnsworth Building today? Well, I was there…" He picked up his fresh drink and sipped deeply. He didn't want to say in what capacity he was there, but he had to talk about it, get some of it out of his system before heading home.

Rob took another deep drink of his whiskey and paused before replying. "Yeah, there's some really weird s**t in this city, and I think all of it was at the Farnsworth. Monsters of all types, people in weird uniforms doing things to regular folks -- sometimes killing them -- and other people in funny outfits fighting the uniform people…" He trailed off, figuring that was vague enough without giving away that he was one of the people in funny outfits and he knew far too much of what had gone on.

"It's a right disaster area. Not only was the Farnsworth damaged, but the plaza, the buildings around it are damaged, traffic is still a nightmare… I can't imagine what this is going to cost to put right." That was one thing he rarely thought about, collateral damage. Not that he ever got in fights or battles that majestic to cause property damage, but there was always the possibility of the other guy doing that.

Taking another drink, he changed the subject. "Anyway, I hope you like my music. I have a lot of fun making it," he smiled wanly at John. "I'm sure some songs are gonna come out of this whole mess today."

"Thanks, John, I appreciate that," Rob nodded, finishing up his drink. He ordered one more and slumped against the top of the bar. He was clearly becoming quite intoxicated. "Right, y'know, we try to do our best to protect people from getting drained of their life force, right, or losing their lives to these arseholes, an' they don't bleve you." He was rambling now, not caring whether or not John understood what he was talking about. "An' we- they tried their best, like, an' still people died. It's a bloody shame."

He sat up as the bartender brought him his drink and shook his head at the drunken dreadlocked Englishman. "Look, I'm good for it, don't get your knickers in a twist, mate," he snarled at the bartender. "Givin' me a look like I'm some kind of lowlife or sommat…. Where was I? Oh yeah. I better shut my cakehole," his voice lowered to a near-whisper, "or I'm liable to say s**t…"

Rob looked at John with bleary eyes, deeply inebriated but reassessing his new acquaintance. "Yer right, you know. I gotta stop beating myself up for s**t I had no control over. Can't save them all," and he gave John a very intense look, "but I can try. And so can you."

He accepted the business card, only briefly looking at it before stuffing it in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. "Thanks, John. I think you've helped more than you know." Fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, he pulled out a random amount of bills and tossed them on the bar. "There, that should appease Mr Stick Up His Arse Bartender," he said, breaking into a snickering, giggling cackle that only really drunk people can make.

"I gotta go," he cackled, patting John on the shoulder as he dismounted the barstool, steadying himself like someone who had done this a lot. "Thanks for listenin' to me go on, John. I hope to meet you on the field of battle someday." Tossing the man a salute, he walked out of the bar more steadily than anyone who was as drunk as he was had any right to, still cackling.