Kin and Tonic

By C.M. Rich (Magnetman)

     Every city has one. A place like this, I mean. A little "undiscovered" nook that only you and your buddies know about, and maybe few other people do. Or, maybe in this case, it had more to do with the fact that this wasn't an ordinary bar. Not by a long shot.

     It's kinda hard to describe the atmosphere of the place. It's sort of a "free fire zone", I guess. There's people in this little hole that only yesterday were tryin' to kill me and the rest of my pals, and to be honest, I was tryin' to pay back the favor. Yet, here, and only here, they might be my Wednesday night poker pal.

     Anywhere else you'd call it crazy. But that was the nature of Hardy's Bar. It was the go to place for the heroes and villains of Megalopolis alike. A place to unwind and drink some decent booze without paying much mind to little things like attempted murder.

     I'm sittin' at my usual place at the bar- the second-to-last seat at the very back. The one with the best view, in my opinion, of the TV, which was always playing some sports game I really didn't give a crap about. It was just something to stare at while I zoned out, lost in thought and swimmin' in alcohol.

     I've been sittin' here for about fifteen minutes now and Hardy has yet to ask the only question I want to have asked of me. Hell, it's a busy night, so I'll forgive the big bastard. He and I are a lot alike. We both have a knack for picking some good drinks, but more importantly, we're pretty similar in terms of roles on our teams. Well, former team, in my case.

     I guess Hardman fills the "enforcer" role within the Mechanical Maniacs- the team across town and friendly rivals to my old crew, the Sinister Six. See, he's a pretty big hombre. Alright, he's a REALLY big hombre. Last I heard he was about four tons of titanium fitted into about a ten foot tall frame. Yeah, that's a big man. A bit too big, apparently.

     When you're that big, there are limits to where you can go and what you can do. His mere footsteps pretty much warrant a pothole crew to be on constant alert. Doors had better be cathedral-sized if he's t' visit your place of business, unless you care to explain the occurrence of a big ass robot crashin' into your establishment. Then again, in this city, that's a bit easier to do than most others.

     And that's just getting around. Fightin' is a whole different story. That's where we're alike. Basically, when we're called to action, at least a building is going down. The other Mechs and my old S6 co-workers had a bit more control over their powers than I do. In my defense, I can't do much else but throw bombs and brawl with the best of 'em. Hardy's the same- just about everything he does in a fight decreases property values for months on end. The city offices just love us.

     So, usually, if you see either of us in a fight, you know it's pretty damn serious. Luckily, there's a ton of Robot Master teams these days, which, of course, leaves the more.specialized guys like me and Hardy with a bit more free time than most. Hardy spends his runnin' this bar. I spend my time holding down a certain stool in said bar so that it doesn't float away. And no.that ain't a Gravityman joke.

     "Whaddya have?"

     Ah, finally. The walkin' battleship finds the time to ask my favorite question.

     "Same as always."

     My voice was pretty dry and a lot quieter than I expected it to be. Hardy takes notice with a smirk.

     "Tough day at th' office?"

     "Nah.Just another day.", I utter. To be honest, I'm kinda itchin' to suck down that first glass of Scotch. I'll talk more with him later.

     He seems to be on the same page and doesn't ask any more questions. He just gets my drink with no extra bullshit. That's my kinda bartender- the no BS type. Some barkeeps'll yak your friggin' ear off before you can get drunk, which is my only goal when I'm at a bar.

     I'm not much of a people person. This place is packed, as it usually is, but I make an exception for this place. Plus, at least I get to enjoy the view of that loser Torchman literally cryin' in his beer every so often. Besides, Erik didn't seem to like my drinkin' at all, especially "back at the ranch", so even when I was part of the team, I spent way more time here than I did at "home". Don't even get him started on my smoking, either.

     Oh, I imagine I'm a pretty pathetic sight myself, too. You're not going to see much of the spirit you'd find in some new Robot Master's eyes. Half the time I can't even figure out how I first got on the team, even though it's no more, so I guess it ain't a real big question any more. The other half is spent asking "where am I waking up now?". I'm not much of a fan of either question, but I'll prefer the latter, since the answer always becomes clear after a while. Still haven't found much of an answer for the first one.

     God damn. There I go again. Ramblin'. I really do need this drink. I tend to get all introspective when I'm not all liquored up. Truth is, I'm a hell of a lot smarter than I let people think I am. I think Hardy's the same way. I think we both hide our intelligence to avoid gettin' hassled more than we have to. The stupid people tend to get asked fewer questions, so I'll go with the perception of me bein' a bit of a "mad bomber".

     Hardy's back with my fix now. My old standby, the Rusty Nail. I ain't much of a beer drinker. Matter of fact, I hate beer. If you're drinkin' to get drunk, do it the right way with the right tools. I'll be polishin' off at least ten of these in an hour. As a robot, it's gonna take a lot to float my artificial organs. It must be an impressive sight. I always get Super Chaos to "ooo" and "ahh" with my little talent.

     "Order's up...", Hardy says, sliding the glass to my waitin' hand slowly, which he then pulls away quickly. "Providin' things don't get rowdy like th' other night, "

(Note: This second part of Chapter one was written by none other than Hardman, in his now-famous first person view. Full explaination will follow Chapter 1)

     Ah, Bombman. What do you say about a guy who's got almost nothing at all to his name? Well, he's got his reputation, which isn't exactly stellar, but aside from that... If he wasn't always ready with his tab, there'd be some days I never let him into the place, really.

     I usually found Bombman too serious to hang out with on a regular basis. He's always such a downer, depressed and in a bad state of mind, which is weird coming from a guy who's primary function is to remove obstacles through the use of high explosives. And pretty much everything he doesn't like is something he calls an obstacle. This is a point, at least within these walls, where he and I clash.

     I like my Bar. It's probably my one and only love in life, really. Sure, there's other things I care about, like my team, my employees, and my minimal amounts of money and disproportionate amounts of booze, but my Bar has been something in my life even before I became the multi-ton walking tank, so I get pretty defensive about things like the place getting trashed.

     I know Bomb knew what I was talking about. I held a stern gaze on him as he glared at me, his hand still half-reaching for the drink closed up in my larger hand. He tried to stare me down for a second before giving up.

     "Yeah, no problems," he mutters.

     "No fights?" I ask in the metal-on-metal slab voice I've got.

     "None," he says.

     "No crazy-face shoutin' at thespians?"

     "I'm not gonna do nothin', Hard, and you know it." he grumbles.

     I give him a critical eye for a moment and set the drink down, sliding it back to him. He drains it in a flash, but I'd come prepared, and poured him another. I watch him repeat this little ritual a few times before settling down on my elbows, getting down to his level.

     "So what WAS all that about?" I ask him.

     Bomb set his empty glass down on the bar and let out a sigh. "I take offense to the perversion of fine pieces of art, okay?"

     I laugh. "I don' think Gilbert an' Sullivan classify as fine art, man."

     "A robot master version of Pirates of Penzance?" Bomb hisses at me under his breath. "Come on, even YOU have to have some kind of soul! How could they do that?"

     "Depends," I shrug, "how could you start whippin' around explosives in MY bar?"

     Bombman slammed back another drink. "Look, I lost my temper, okay? For that, I apologize."

     "Happens an awful lot, there, Bomb," I tell him. He just nods numbly. "That 'fly-offa-th'-handle' attitude is why yer kept in reserve most of the time, y'know?"

     "Like the fact my only weapon being massively destructive doesn't have anything to do with it," he tells me glumly.

     "Hey, yer a damn good brawler, when it comes right down to it. Gag can attest ta that much anyway," I tell him with a grin. The closest thing I have to a son is currently in the back of the house, holding an icepack over his head with duct tape while he cooks the minimal variety of foods I serve in the bar.

     "Yeah..." Bomb said, staring into space. "Sorry about that."

     "S'what the lil idiot gets fer tryin' ta be a hero," I shrug.

     Another voice at the other end of the bar calls my name, and I excuse myself from the conversation after supplying Bomb with another drink. There, waiting for me at the end of the bar, is my one and only human employee, Cassandra. Why she still works here, I'll never know, especially after that fiasco a few months back with Juno trying to get his revenge on the Maniacs. She was kidnapped and made the biological component of a monstrosity called Siegema'am, which Juno had built almost exclusively to destroy me. What can I say? I'm popular.

     Cassandra leans over the bar to get closer to me, so I crouch down low to listen. "I need to get going," she says, "I have a date later tonight, and I have to get ready."

     I give her a look. By human standards, Cassandra is a hot little number. Granted, she still bears the scars from the Siegema'am incident, but that doesn't diminish her appeal, apparently. What surprised me was that she might have actually accepted the invitation to a date. "Get outta here," I laugh, "who with?"

     "Not telling you," she smirks, "see you tomorrow." and she melts back into the crowd. Cassandra knows I'd be hard-pressed to run the place without her, so it isn't like I'll fire her or anything. Ah, well, I have customers to attend to. The bottle is still in my hand when I get back to Bomb.

     "I need a vacation," I joke as I settle back down, pouring Bomb another drink.

    He just sits there, staring at his glass.

     I'm staring into my glass for a few seconds, waitin' for Hardy to leave me be for a few moments. He's burning holes into the top of my head, waiting for an explanation of my current state.

     "City Garage was out robbin' an armory or some crap about a month ago.", I began, bringing my cigarette to my mouth for another drag in between a few words. "I'm gettin' ready to go when Erik puts his hand to my face and says 'maybe you should sit this one out. We don't need to be on the Army's bad side even more than we already are, man'."

     Hardy shoots me a skewed, skeptical look. "Well.He's gotta point there, Bomb."

     "Yeah.That's just it.That's just it. I actually agree with him. I mean, hell.Last week, I blew up a senior home by mistake when I'm tryin' to hit this ass clown here.", I claim as I point my thumb towards Bitman, who sat three stools away from me.

     "That's pretty rough.I think ya got a bit ova problem.", Hardy rationalizes as he slowly pulls his bottle of Scotch away from my view. Not the first time someone's called me an alcoholic. Wouldn't be the last, and it wouldn't be the only time I had to agree.

     "It ain't the booze," I shoot back, however, "I can't take the easy way out an' blame my problems on some cheap liquid all the time."

     "Hey.", Hardy complains, obviously taking offense to the word "cheap" in regards to his wares.

     "Sorry," I offer. "Guess I'm still a bit beside myself these days. See that was our last mission before the big hooplah with Red and the others a few weeks ago. I'm doin' freelance work now that the Six are disbanded, but.Still, its tough ta' find work.

     "Ah.I'm just.tired, is all.Jus' a little tired."

     Last thing I remember is pouring the remainder of that last Rusty Nail down my gullet and resting my head against the bar to give my eyes a bit of a break. I didn't even realize just how tired I was, I suppose.