Mano a Mano or Whatever

Posted on Fri Mar 31st, 2023 @ 1:05pm by Lieutenant Ravi Azad & Armin Lathrop

1,610 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: The Icarus Files
Location: Lounge

Armin didn't share the interests of the others on this ship. He didn't particulary care for the "to boldly go" stuff that all them uniformed folks went on about, but working on starships was surprisingly good business. He always had creative freedom to do what he wanted, and people had to eat, and that replicator garbage was only so good. There was something special about handmade food that machines couldn't replicate. As he finished cleaning the kitchen, he briefly stared at the majestic view out the window. "To boldly go" wasn't in his vocabulary, but he could still appreciate the view.

The ship’s lounge was usually a good place to meet people. Usually being the key word here. There didn’t seem to be anybody about at the moment, save for one man. Well, two: the man by the window and Ravi Azad, who had just walked in. “Oh, hello,” he said. “I am sorry, are you not open?”

The hiss of the doors drew Armin's attention from the window to a tall and lanky man looking around. This uniformed toolbag looked like he'd call "staring at himself in the mirror" a hobby, and probably one he did often. "Ah don't keep the kitchen open past 2100, so if ya came here fer food, yer outta luck. The bar's wide open fer business, though," he replied, his gruff voice a notable contrast to the visitor's delicate, pseudo-British accent.

“That works out nicely,” replied Ravi with a smile. “I was only hoping for a drink and to, uh… mingle,” he finished, gesturing to the room. “But there seems to be nobody here."

"Oh, they're here, ya just can't see them." The sarcasm was heavy in Armin's tone as he walked back to the bar. As one on the rounder side, his walk had a very slight waddle to it. "Let's see..." Armin turned back around to give the man a good looking over. "Ya look like a prosecco man, but Ah ain't got that boujee crap unpacked yet. If yer here to mingle then ah'll guess... a whiskey sour. Sumthin' to take yer time with."

Ravi grinned, taking a seat at the bar. “Either you are a mind reader or you probably should have been a psychiatrist,” he commented. “Whiskey sour sounds great.”

"Neither, jus' an attentive barkeep," Armin responded as he got to work making the drink. He grabbed bourbon and a simple syrup from a shelf half-stocked with a variety of bottles, and from below the counter he grabbed a lemon. "Though ah ought'a have a degree in psychology given how of'en people share their problems with me. Ya learn to read people and figure their needs." He poured the bourbon and syrup into a metal shaker before cutting the lemon and squeezing it. "Anyway, what's yer job on this metallic death box?"

Ravi grinned. "I am ship's counselor," he replied.

"Figures... course ah jus' explained a counselah's job to a counselah." Armin scooped some ice into the shaker before capping it to shake. He gave the now sealed metal cup an artistic flip before catching it and shaking it with both hands. "Yer too neat-lookin' to be one of the science people anyways." It was then that the lone person at the bar saw Armin's lips curl into a smile. To an untrained eye, it almost looked more like a grimace, but there was a crinkle on the edges of the man's eyes, combined with a joking glimmer in his eyes, that made the distinction. "So why the hell y'out here?"

“Adventure,” replied Ravi with a grin. “Why else? Oh, sure, there is the pesky business of orders, but who is counting?”

With the shaker now frigid in his hands, he briefly set it aside to fill a glass with ice before opening the shaker up. Using a strainer, he poured the drink into the glass until the ice began to float. Grabbing an orange from the same place he grabbed the lemon, he cut a very precise and delicate half-circle of the fruit. From a nearby container, he grabbed a cherry by stabbing it with a toothpick before carefully piercing both ends of the orange, the orange slice wrapping around the cherry like a warm blanket. He balanced the fruit garnish on top of the cup before passing it off to the counselor. "Ah'll take adventure as a valid 'nuff excuse. Ordahs can always be turned down."

“That is true,” agreed Ravi, lifting the drink with a practiced hand that held the garnish in place with one finger as he drank, allowing the liquid to flow over it. “Perfect,” he commented. “So what made you decide to become a bartender? Or cook. Both.”

"Have ya seen the crap replicators come up with??" As he spoke, Armin got to work making a drink for himself, a classic mojito. He'd be damned if he let a man drink alone. "It's ah disgrace to the culinary arts! Ah've been tryin'a convince Starfleet to go back to good ol' fashion cookin' for years now. As fer bartendin', a man needs his hobbies to keep 'emself sane out here."

“Fair enough,” laughed Ravi. “I prefer real food as often as I can get it. The replicators are a means to en end, but there’s something missing. My mother always used to say it was love.”

Love. Now the man was getting all sappy. "It lacks proper flavor, that's what's missin'," Armin grunted. He prepped his glass with some mint leaves. "Engineers spend all their time figurin' out how to get all the nutrients someone needs into the fake, and they forget that we still gotta eat the damn thing. Nobody gonna eat it if it tastes bad. An' what happens if the ship loses power? Can't use a replicator if yah got no power. It's a problem that easily coulda been avoided, in mah books."

“Yes, but then you have the issue of where to store all that food,” put in Ravi. “If the choice is between ration bars or the replicator, I’ll take the replicator.”

The clink of ice cubes as Armin poured the drink into his glass filled the silence between them. "Ah guess we jus' gotta agree to disagree, bud. Ah've argued with many uniformed types about it." Giving his own glass a little swirl, he took a drink and let it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it with a sigh. "Ahh, that's the stuff. So what captures yer free time, 'side from drinkin'?"

“I play the cello,” replied Ravi. “And sports. Football- both types- tennis and rugby. Of course, I’m willing to try just about anything.”

"Mm, ah did tennis when ah was younger," Armin said with a nod. 'Younger' happened to be over thirty years ago for him, though. The cello part surprised him a little, entirely because he pegged this counselor as a trumpet person. "Been awhile, 'course. What type'uh music ya play?"

“Just about anything, really,” answered Ravi. “Traditional cello repertoire, obviously. Bach Cello suites, Vivaldi sonatas, that sort of thing. But I also enjoy fiddle style and jazz and blues and even pop styles.”

And there it was again, the hobby matching the face. The man looked like he would run those orchestra performance holodeck programs just to practice. Armin took a slow sip of his drink, letting the tang of the alcohol and the fizzy of the soda water dance on his tongue for a moment before letting it slide fown his throat. "Well, if ah evah need musical entertainment in here, ah know who to ask for."

“I’ll have to see about finding a pianist at the very least,” replied Ravi with a grin. “I’m sure there’s at least one on this ship. You don’t happen to play, do you?"

"Nah, but ah can play the shakers." To emphasize his point, Armin capped the shaker he used for the man's drink and gave it a little shake to let the ice clatter against themselves and the edge of the metal glass.

Ravi grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever need auxiliary percussion,” he replied. “Which comes up far more often than one would expect.”

"S'what she said." Armin dealt with many a rowdy customer over the years and found it was easier to speak their "language" than to fight it. Of course, that meant that some of the phrases became habitual.

Ravi blinked, brow furrowed, going back over what he’d just said that made the bartender’s joke make sense. “Ah,” he said with a grin as he finally came to the right answer. “Comes up. Good one. The obscure ones are always the best.”

A snort came from Armin's nose when he realized that the man didn't pick up on the actual joke. Yeah, "comes up" was a classic dick joke, but the attempt to equate percussion with sex was far more humorous to him, and he could get some mileage out of that. "Ya seem casual 'nuff. Call me Armin." Due to his accent, his name came out more like "Ah-men."

Ravi’s accent meant that the name would come out the same anyway. “Good to meet you Armin,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Ravi.”

Giving a slight nod of approval, the barkeep met the counselor's dainty hand with his own and gave it a firm shake. "Good man." The contrast between them wasn't lost on Armin, but he saw many a time where two contrasting personalities became great friends. Perhaps this would develop into one of those friendships.

 

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