((open to anyone who was in Damage Control))

Mad Casey nervously tapped his fingers on the wooden table, looking around at all the galdori in the Paper Tiger. They did not acknowledge his existence; they stared past him as though he were an unsightly stain on a rug that they were determined to ignore out of politeness. He felt slightly insulted; to fit in better, they'd even dressed him up in some fine clothes and given him a haircut. His fingers brushed the back of his neck, where his ponytail had been only house before.

Glancing at the bar, he looked around for Professor Birch, the man who was working on the harmful spell. If that bastard succeeded, it could mean unending trouble for the resistance. His goal for the evening was to get him roaring drunk so that the others would have time to...he tried not to think about it, out of the irrational fear that gollies could read minds.

Fion was behind the counter. He studied her face, hoping she was up to the task of plying one of the smartest men in the city with stupefying drinks. He was certain she could handle it; she was, after all, one of their best information gatherers for a reason.

Fion had been quietly planning just how she was going to get Birch drunk for a few days. She'd sourced some aged whiskeys, something that had taken some refined argument and hiding of their previous stock. She'd also sorted their hardest liquor from the back room. Birch didn't have a particularly refined palette, convincing him to try what was available would hopefully not be too difficult. He preferred beef to venison, anyway, if she was being crude. Her shirt had one more button open than usual.

She placed a colourful drink down in front of Casey, it had a low alcohol content and would give him an excuse for sitting at the bar. She glanced around.

"He'll be here soon, I'm sure" she said quietly, before moving to the other end of the bar.

Professor Birch was not a tall man. Nor was he in the least bit imposing. In fact, he was hardly anything more than a hanger for clothes and a pair of spectacles. It was almost comical how much the man who was barely into his thirties resembled a scarecrow who had once seen better days. He looked tired, worn, and only slightly disillusioned. Always.

The galdor wore a simple but fashionably tailored gray overcoat that made him look even more gaunt than he already was. He did not take it off as he unassumingly entered the bar, but simply unbuttoned it to reveal an equally decent charcoal suit, starchy white shirt, and a glaringly bright green tie. He ran a hand through his short, graying brown hair and paused to push the spectacles back up the bridge of his nose before choosing an empty table close to the bar.

He tucked a leather satchel under his feet and settled into his chair, glancing about the room in hopes of catching some attention for service.

Fion caught sight of Birch immediately but didn't hurry over to his table. She walked at her normal pace, a subservient smile now fixed. She tugged her shirt down just slightly when she was certain no one was looking.

"Hello Sir." Fion said quietly, standing just one step closer than usual, chest at his eye level. "What can I get you to drink?"

She'd left one small, almost unnoticable pause after saying "you". She was hoping to make him uncomfortable, he always drank more when he was nervous. Hopefully he'd get a little flustered too and let her suggest his drinks.

Internally, the galdor felt a groan travel through his cluttered head. It was her. There were nights he didn't come to the bar on purpose, but today had been particularly exhausting. His eyes still hurt from staring at his own writing. He tried not to look as Fion approached, fumbling with the spectacles on his face instead until she was standing at the table. He folded his fingers together uncomfortably on the tabletop, finally glancing up at the human.

His eyes seemed to finally focus, just short of her face.

"Oh, I'm not sure. What's ... nice this evening?" He looked away across the room, towards the bar, as if willing drink names to come to his mind. Birch didn't smile. He was sweating. He might have lost some color in the course of his final three words.

Success.



Fion smiled genially taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly.

"We have some lovely absinthe, just arrived from Brunnhold." She said, keeping her voice just slightly husky and soft. "We also have some excellent aged whiskeys."

She leant forward a little.

"I recommend the absinthe." She said, looking very earnest.

Professor Birch turned back to Fion at the mention of Brunnhold. He managed a tired, half-hearted smile and some kind of raspy chuckle. Was that amusement? It was really impossible to tell. If the man had once had emotions, sleep deprivation and stress had long since shredded them to scraps and shadows of their former selves. He arched an untamed eyebrow at the human, slowly bringing his gaze upward to her face,

"You don't say ...?"

The galdor leaned back as the human leaned towards him, studying her expression, "Whisky sounds excellent. I appreciate your suggestion." His tone of voice was a strange mixture of disgust and impishness, held together loosely with nervous discomfort.

He wasn't even hiding that he was staring at her breasts anymore. That was workable.



Fion nodded, hair spilling over her shoulders with a minute flick of her shoulder.

"Excellent choice, Sir." Ass.

It could have been worse, absinthe was good for a knockout but whiskey had a high alcohol content as well. She'd just give him slightly more than a standard shot and hide it by serving it on the rocks. She walked back to the bar with no more wiggle than usual. She wanted him off balance, disgust was a good enough approximation, not entirely suspicious. She'd caught a mild flirtation in his words that was gratifying. She could use all she could get.

She returned with his drink quickly.

"Here you go, Sir." She said, placing the drink on the table. "Is there anything else I can do for you, might I take your coat?"

She was hoping she'd get a moment to check his pockets.

Birch had forgotten the specific reason why he avoided drinking here certain nights. The damn waitress always thought he was being flirtatious. There was definitely a line between looking and inviting. Apparently, the lesser races did not always understand this delicate differential. Not that it mattered.

The movement of the human's hair and the way she walked off to fetch is drink made the galdor scowl.


He watched his drink arrive with well-practiced disinterest, already anticipating a comfortable state of drunkenness to send himself home with. The professor seemed to consider carefully her offer to take his coat, and looked at her as if he was calculating her character by appearances alone.

"I suppose, but I'll tell you now there's no spare change in my pockets for a supplement to your tip this evening." He grumbled, glancing longingly at his drink before standing and shrugging the gray overcoat off of his narrow shoulders. As he stood, the satchel under his table slumped over and into the aisle between them, but the galdor did not seem to notice.

Removing the coat only made him look smaller, scrawnier, and perhaps even more vulnerable than his disheveled expression already did. He held it out to the human as if he was holding a dirty, wet rag, waiting for her to take it from him while he glanced at her shoulders.

"Thank you." His words took effort; the short amount of time it took to remove his overcoat were a few moments he could have spent drinking.

Fion snagged her foot around the satchel and tugged it under the table while his back was turned.

"Oh Sir, I wouldn't dream of such a thing. Your spare change is safe with me." She said it with a smile on her lips and a placating edge to her voice.

She'd have been insulted were it not for the fact that he was dipping his quill in the downtown ink once a week. Clearly there was something he trusted non-galdori with.



Fion took the coat from his scrawny fingers, thinking that if he were a human and less of a prick she might encourage him to eat better. Alas, he was neither. He wouldn't have taken her advice eitherway. She reminded herself forcefully that he was a dog torturer. She didn't trust people that were cruel to animals.

"You are most welcome Sir." Fion said, ducking her head in a slight bow. The coat room was just inside the door to the Paper Tiger. She'd have less than a minute to search his pockets and hang the coat before coming out again.

She entered the room and quickly slipped her hands into the outside and inside pockets, trying to look for paper without disturbing the contents otherwise.

((lol. Fion, ilu. ))

The galdor did not watch Fion leave after she took his coat, but sat down and immediately, if not gratefully, turned to his drink.

Professor Birch had a rather shocking collection of lint in his pockets, as if he had never bothered to have the overcoat cleaned the entirety of its ownership. The outside pockets were empty, but the inside breast pocket contained a small, leather-bound notebook. It was full of names and dates. Female names and an impressively chronological collection of dates.

Whatever important documents the scrawny man had on his person, he obviously kept in his bag.

By the time Fion emerged from the closet, he was ready for his second drink. Apparently, he had downed the first one in a single gulp. He was huddled over his empty glass, fingers re-arranging the ice cubes idly, face in his other hand with his elbow on the tabletop.

(( ))



"Phwoar!" Fion said quietly. "You stallion of accountancy, you."

She didn't bother to take the book but she did memorise a few names in case she needed them later. With any luck they'd be amenable to helping her out if she had something useful to offer.



Fion didn't bother to ask, she just poured another generous whiskey and placed it in front of him. The satchel was still out of sight and under the table. He'd need to be blotto to forget to look for it again.

"Would you like me to take your finished glass, Sir?" Fion asked politely, wondering if she should slip him some krogans while she was at it.

She didn't want to push it, asking him if he wanted to switch drinks. Hopefully he'd get to the point of her just giving him refills from the bottle.

Casey eyed the progress Fion was making with a wry grin. He did like her; she knew how to get a body drunk. But of course, as an eager new recruit, he hadn't dreamed of touching his drink. Duty called.

Slipping out of his booth quietly, he made a business of counting out payment and a tip. He arranged the coins in a manner that would be significant to Fion but meaningless to anyone else; the scattered tallies read "half a house", meaning that she had to give them at least that much time to finish the job.

He turned on his way out the door and gave her a wink across the bar. It would come across to most as flirtatious, but his expression was deadly serious as he pushed open the tavern door and scurried out into the night.

The scrawny man looked up from the ice in his empty drink to smile coldly at the second, eyes lingering on Fion's hand as she set it down in front of him. The laboring masses always had interesting hands, he thought to himself.


Birch looked up slowly from her hand and arched a bushy eyebrow, "Sure. You can take it if it'll keep you busy." He smirked. Being of small stature and unhealthy weight may have already been working in the human's favor, for by the galdor's expression, it certainly did not take much to get him drunk.

He reached for his second glass and squinted down into it, "You know, you might as well bring me the bottle." Birch grunted, amused at his own plans of personal obliteration for the evening, pushing down thoughts of research with a long drought of his whiskey, "It'll save you the trouble and me the extra tip money."

Fion did not wink back but she did shoot him a wry grin. She took a glance at the change and decided that half a house was achievable.



Fion kept her smile as charming as possible.

"How considerate Sir, I shall bring you the bottle immediately." It was going to cost him a little more than her weekly salary to pay for it all but that was his business.

She placed the bottle down in front of him with nary a clatter. She was just going to need to keep her eye on him and he was going to do the rest.

"Please enjoy your whiskey, Sir." She said warmly, imagining herself kicking him in the head.

In her mind his head was able to conduct itself independent of his neck.

The galdor returned a placating, fake smile as she brought him the bottle. He had placed a concord on the table in anticipation.

"For your time well-spent, and most likely my trouble." He said coldly, unabashedly eying her before pouring himself his third glass. Birch returned the bottle to the tabletop and leaned back in his chair, removing his spectacles and setting them next to his glass. The scrawny man reached up and rubbed his eyes with both his bony hands, sighing heavily. It was a wonder he had finished any of his work on time if this is how he chose to spend his spare moments. Somehow he had managed to maintain his intelligent spark, despite his best efforts to snuff it out through alcohol and otherwise slightly reckless behavior.

It was a cruel irony, but one he did not recognize for himself.

It wouldn't take too many more to sprawl him on the table, at the rate he was going.

Fion leant over to take the concord, making sure not to grab at it or make any other sudden movements.

"Thank you." She said, watching him down his drink with practiced disinterest.

He was onto three drinks, being a thin and not overly tall man he was beginning to show it. She was sure if she waited until he hit five, she might be able to push him into trying some more things. Maybe he wouldn't need any convincing at all. Part of her was hoping he'd just drink himself under the table and then she'd be able to palm his briefcase until next time and send him off to get some loving. Not that he deserved it.

The unlikely professor took his time with his third drink, nursing it slowly instead of inhaling the fiery liquid like he had his previous two drinks. He stared into his empty glass for quite sometime before sloppily pouring himself a forth, spilling a bit on the table, his bony hands losing their academic steadiness as his trio of drinks coursed through his system.

He scowled at his forth glass as if it was a sudden object of his wrath; as if it took effort to continue drinking; as if the whiskey had finally turned foul to his tastes.

Setting the half-empty glass on the table next to the bottle, the galdor groaned tiredly and leaned back in his chair. His eyes had grown watery and an obvious redness was beginning to spread across his cheeks, starting at his narrow, curved nose.

He reached over reluctantly and finished his forth drink, slamming the glass hard onto the tabletop. Birch mumbled incoherently. He might have been asking for Fion again, but it was definitely hard to tell.

Fion watched Birch from the corner of her eye with burgeoning interest. The man really could not hold his liquor. She'd seen men drink twice that much back in the Stacks before they started to show it. Admittedly they'd all been chronic alcoholics but life was hard and you took all the wins you could get.

She was by Birch's side quickly, hoping to encourage him to imbibe something else.

"Yes Sir? Would you like to try another spirit now? Perhaps a wine?" She said keeping from sounding too eager and instead going for just north of disinterested.

The galdor looked up and grinned, eyes revealing he was not quite as drunk as his face seemed to imply. Birch was well on his way toward stupor, but apparently he'd reached a comfortable plateau for the moment. He nodded his head in the direction of his whiskey bottle, gaze steadily on Fion's face, "I don't want your clocking wine. I've paid enough for my drink that I should have someone to share it with."

He sneered, kicking out a chair gruffly, scrawny frame requiring obvious effort to make a significant impact on the wooden object, "Drink on the job, do you?"

"You're all the same drunk, aren't you?" Fion thought to herself, not willing to give voice to it.

"Not usually Sir, unless we're running a tasting." Fion sat down because doing otherwise would probably just make him angry... Angrier.

She didn't have a glass on her, she was going to have to stand up to get one.

"Perhaps I can make an exception this time." She said, looking around for nearby pots that she'd be able to throw the liquor into. It was going to be such a waste but she needed to be sober for later.

Birch narrowed his eyes at Fion, as if trying to see through her. He shrugged, filling his empty glass and sliding it in her direction, keeping his bony hands on the bottle. The galdor apparently expected her to use his glass.

"I don't usually come here when you're working. Maybe I'll like you better after you have a few drinks, eh?"

He grinned.

Well. If he wanted to play that game.



Normally he liked her a lot better after he'd had a few drinks but whatever. She had a good tolerance, so long as she put even two shots away and he matched her, that would be enough to take him down hopefully.

She picked up his glass and took a generous sip, wondering why he'd filled the glass. If he kept going she was going to need him to put some more money down. That whiskey was expensive. She slid the glass back towards him.

"Maybe you will, we'll see." She said smoothly.

The unlikely professor didn't drink right away; he just watched Fion with that same grin plastered over his already ruddy, gaunt face. It might have been a dirty look, but there was too much disgust in his bleary eyes. He hissed through his teeth and topped off her glass, squinting at her without his glasses,

"Pshaw. You lesserrraces are all the same." His speech was a little slurred and his tone was turning angry, "Always too busy thinking'bout what you can get outta the next situation to bother'n'enjoy what you've been given." Birch fumbled in his pockets with his white-knuckled hands and laid a handful of coins on the table. It was entirely too much, but the galdor didn't look like he cared. It was apparently all loose change to him.

"One day," He took a long swig directly from the bottle, only to sputter and grunt afterwards, struggling to set the bottle back down while wiping his face with the back of his hand, "One day, the lot'o'you'll be reminded who's in charge."

He slid the full glass back in Fion's direction, sloppy grin turning wicked, "Us. Not you."

Fion's jaw hardened and her lips pursed together. She kept her cheeks relaxed but her eyes were now spitting poison.



"I'm sure we will." Fion replied, inwardly disgusted that he was desecrating the bottle with his lips. She didn't take the coins just yet.



Fion pretended to take another slip, just letting the alcohol touch her lips and slide back again.

"I hadn't noticed." Fion said quietly, not yet dangerously.

She hoped he lost things he cared for when his office burned to the ground. She didn't want to know what had happened to him to make him so twisted. Fion was glad she wasn't the tumble that was going to have to deal with him later.