Cohost writing prompt: Mech Pilot whose lance clearly doesn't belong at this bar
"Oh, wow," Mark says, smoking in the service corridor out the back of the bar, right under the No Naked Flames sign. "I didn't know you were closing, Hettie. You're gonna hate tonight's crowd."
"I hate every night's crowd," Hettie says, hand on the back door. "I don't hear scromiting. Can't be a hen party or students." And it's not Ladies' Night, because the owner agreed she didn't have to work Ladies' Night after the time a drunk customer at the end of the evening tried to pick her up and wouldn't stop crying after Hettie snapped that she doesn't shit where she eats.
Transit Nine-Fourteen is not a large enough station to suffer half its lesbians being mad at your bar because of what That One Bitch said to their endlessly circulated ex. Truthfully, it's not a large enough station to try being The Station's Only Cocktail Bar, but so long as the owner is losing money by actually paying Hettie's wages, that's not Hettie's lookout.
"Nah," Mark says. "Mech pilots."
"I do hate those," Hettie agrees, and goes in and gets into uniform before clocking in and strolling out behind the counter.
"Evening," she says to Jabry, who's busy with a shaker. "I hear we've got some mechies in. Any trouble?"
"Good as gold," Jabry says. "Have fun degreasing the booth after they leave, hon, but they've been almost weirdly quiet."
Hettie turns to scan the booths, neck prickling wildly, to find that one of the mech pilots — dark-skinned, chrome eyepatch, officer's bars — has silently appeared, lounging on the opposite side of the counter, right by Hettie. She twitches an eyebrow, and looks like she's about to say something.
"Sure," Hettie says. "Let me get that for you," and fixes her a gimlet. "Anything else?"
"I like that bow tie on you," the pilot says, grinning.
"Fuck off," Hettie says.
"Don't be like that, Heatsink."
"All the way off."
"Are you like this to everyone? Must be hell on your tips."
"You can fuck off, too," Hettie tells Jabry, who's conspicuously hanging around in earshot, and the pilot laughs under her breath and sips her drink.
"Oh, yeah, that's good," she says. "The way you can turn your hand to things is just — you're wasted on this joint, you know?"
"If this is a one last job pitch," Hettie says, "you already tried that on Paris Nouveau, remember? And I did the one last job, Bisk. You pulled me back in. Done."
"I am never going to be done with a fucking genius who can unironically rock a bow tie," Bisk says. "Let me tell you what the job is, Heatsink—"
"Oh hell no," Hettie says.
"Old times' sake."
"Hell no."
"You can keep the bow tie on when you top me," Bisk says, stirring her drink with a finger before theatrically licking it clean.
"Why are you like this," Hettie whines, massaging her temples.