Welcome to Bar Central
An angry looking old man of Sebiestor blood drunkenly props up the bar with his next glass of toxic spirits next to him, the deep yellowy-green liquid bubbling away like some kind of lab experiment. His night is not far from being over it seems. Head in his hands, subdued.
Two guards, decked out in black, strong build and mean looking stand rigid at the entrance, weapon systems at hand, ready for trouble. The race of the men is not clear to me. The gleam of the bright-white interior lighting reflects vividly off of their highly-polished black military issue boots. One could be fooled into thinking they are about to enter active service as opposed to guarding a space-station food hall by day and bar and dance hall by night.
The night is vibrant, a steady beat pumps into the air via the sound system and bodies move on the half-empty dance floor, the bright lights have now dimmed and beams of colour dart across the hall. Euphoria now replaces the downbeat existence for the many workers who are here this evening. Normal beings mingling with the god-like elite, the capsuleers.
In the far corner, away from the tangled bodies on the dance floor, a deal is struck between a shady looking narcotics dealer and an addicted crash user. Within seconds the dealer has left with his next pay packet and the junkie has his fix, soon to be wasted.
The music goes on and on, the beat quickening and the light show moving faster, the hall is filled with artificial smoke, reds and greys and blues making for a mesmerizing spectacle. The hall is now full to capacity and people wait outside for a pass, the guards are in for a busy evening, a drunken lout is removed amicably, the guard dusts himself down with his glove-clad hand, possibly pleased he didn't have to use any real force this time around.
Hired dancers move enthusiastically high above the floor, sending the masses below them into trance like states, the revellers are fuelled with energy that doesn't seem to have no end. Again, the beat quickens, arms point to the ceiling. A young looking man of the Gallente race is moving to the beat, in an absolute state of ecstasy, he is dressed in pink and has hair that defies gravity. Strange.
I finish my tour of the hall and wander down the corridors away from the hive of activity, the noise gently fading away behind me. I wonder to myself just who was watching me tonight as I watched all those others. That tough looking Brutor guy wandering around the hall like some kind of lost soul. I wonder.
MB.
Two guards, decked out in black, strong build and mean looking stand rigid at the entrance, weapon systems at hand, ready for trouble. The race of the men is not clear to me. The gleam of the bright-white interior lighting reflects vividly off of their highly-polished black military issue boots. One could be fooled into thinking they are about to enter active service as opposed to guarding a space-station food hall by day and bar and dance hall by night.
The night is vibrant, a steady beat pumps into the air via the sound system and bodies move on the half-empty dance floor, the bright lights have now dimmed and beams of colour dart across the hall. Euphoria now replaces the downbeat existence for the many workers who are here this evening. Normal beings mingling with the god-like elite, the capsuleers.
In the far corner, away from the tangled bodies on the dance floor, a deal is struck between a shady looking narcotics dealer and an addicted crash user. Within seconds the dealer has left with his next pay packet and the junkie has his fix, soon to be wasted.
The music goes on and on, the beat quickening and the light show moving faster, the hall is filled with artificial smoke, reds and greys and blues making for a mesmerizing spectacle. The hall is now full to capacity and people wait outside for a pass, the guards are in for a busy evening, a drunken lout is removed amicably, the guard dusts himself down with his glove-clad hand, possibly pleased he didn't have to use any real force this time around.
Hired dancers move enthusiastically high above the floor, sending the masses below them into trance like states, the revellers are fuelled with energy that doesn't seem to have no end. Again, the beat quickens, arms point to the ceiling. A young looking man of the Gallente race is moving to the beat, in an absolute state of ecstasy, he is dressed in pink and has hair that defies gravity. Strange.
I finish my tour of the hall and wander down the corridors away from the hive of activity, the noise gently fading away behind me. I wonder to myself just who was watching me tonight as I watched all those others. That tough looking Brutor guy wandering around the hall like some kind of lost soul. I wonder.
MB.
