He was so lost in thought that Tapper accidentally bumped into the humanoid in front of him when the group stopped short, earning an elbow to the chest and a threatening growl from the unnamed goat-like hybrid man. Without giving things a chance to escalate the human leader grabbed Tapper and pulled him forward with one hand, throwing the other arm to sweep across the entirety of a wide room. It was decently large at nearly half the size of the warehouse, but the lack of handmade stalls and seating gave the impression of more usable space.
A large pile of tables and chairs haphazardly stacked at one end gave an idea for the room's intended use, but instead roughly a dozen humanoids stood in a ring in the cleared middle of the room. They were all cheering on two men inside the ring as they engaged in bare-knuckle boxing, and the juxtaposition of joy and violence confused Tapper more regarding the nature of this social group.
The entire collection of sapients were just as consistently inconsistent. Everyone wore a uniform of a random leather jacket adorned with metal spikes, and beneath the jackets were a mix of random casual clothing in surprisingly colorful condition. No two people wore the same thing, but all the clothes looked almost pristine compared to the homemade stitchings seen in Fableton. And the people themselves were equally varied, all manner of humanoids were present except for a notable lack of any numen.
"And here we are!" The human leader pulled the robot's attention away from the fighting men as he led the group toward the wall on their left. Just like in the hallway stores lined the walls, but everything here was related to food — some of the open locations included Tony Tito's Pizzeria, 5 McKings, Ayn's Self-Serve, and Rick's Cafe Casablanca.
This last place is where the group stopped, different from the others in that its entryway was darkened and it still contained all its seating within a border of dark red velvet stanchions. Two tall palm trees bordered the entrance and threw a stark contrast to the elegant furniture, which the human ignored as he led Tapper to a counter that ran the length of the shop's shallow recess. Again, he swept out a hand and said, "Well go on, get back there and get me a drink!"
They ushered Tapper behind the counter and most of the group claimed barstools all down its length, not saying anything yet but looking at the robot as if they expected something specific to happen. On his side there wasn't much to look at for context, everything in the narrow space was just flat panels except for a 'GIN JOINT' sign hanging directly above several gleaming Universal Access Ports. They weren't hidden, which was strange, but at least it should give him some direction so with a mental shrug Tapper plugged himself in.
The first and immediate response turned on all the lights in the cordoned area, setting off oohs and ahhs from the crows as wall panels began to shift and slide over each other. Meanwhile Tapper was busy interfacing with the shop's computer, which didn't need any magical prompting to accept him as an authorized user. Specifically, it referred to him as Employee #314, and when Tapper accepted the prompt to clock in the system brought a lengthy data stream of inventory statistics.
There were so many drinks and mixers here! Tapper turned to stare in awe as countless bottles slid midway out of the walls, turning the bare panels into racks upon racks of wines of wines, whiskeys, and every sort of alcohol known to Bowson Industries. And even some drinks that were complete unknowns to his internal catalog, like something called tequila. Tapper was quite excited to find out what drinks tequila could make.
He was excited to try everything! This was a bar, a real bar for the first time in Tapper's memory, and it filled a void in his directive programming that the robot had not truly noticed before. This was where he was meant to be, the sense of belonging strong enough to bump returning to his proprietors down a notch on Tapper's priority list. Just for a minute. Just to serve these customers and get it out of his system.
Hours later, and Tapper's new station had grown in both size and energy. At first the men and women only asked for beer without regard to brand or flavor profile, and when it became apparent that none of them were aware of the other choices Tapper started nudging the customers towards more exotic concoctions. Drink prediction algorithms, long since bent and twisted out of shape to help the robot communicate with sapients regarding everything except drinking, relaxed like an overworked muscle as they got to work on their intended function. People started to blur slightly as unnecessary differences faded into the background and Tapper fell into a calm trance of routine. A martini shaken here, a Manhattan stirred there, and everything felt just right.
Still, the unknown drinks called out to Tapper. Robots of his model could be upgraded with exquisite taste receptors for blind testing and other such party tricks, but Tapper was unfortunately only a base model. The programming to interpret flavors still existed, so he shunted copies of the program to his other sensor suites to see how they could interpret the data. Surprisingly his olfactory sensors had the greatest compatibility, and although he was loath to smell the crowd of rowdy customers, Tapper felt compelled to learn more about the mysterious tequila.
He cranked the sensitivity up to maximum, and breathed.
The small fan that fed air into his head unit for cooling spun up with enough force to be audible over the din of the crowd, but his olfactory sensors started to filter the tequila's scents out from the chaff of human funk. Slowly, a rudimentary flavor profile formed of floral and earthy tones.
It was beautiful, and Tapper couldn't help but wonder why tequila didn't exist within the Bowson Industries catalog, but that encouraged him to correct the oversight. Practicing with various mixers in between customers, Tapper eventually found that balancing the tequila with both orange liqueur and lime juice was a good start, but he didn't get the notification for discovering the new drink until another customer tried theirs alongside a salt candy. The salt was the missing ingredient to bring the drink together, and everything clicked.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
[New discovery found: Margarita! +1 XP]
Suddenly all the customers were clamoring to pay for a glass of the new drink. That was, surprisingly, the other big relief to this setup. Tapper had listened to Miss Uxral's command to not charge customers in Fableton, but despite their uncouth presence these customers actually paid for their drinks without complaint.
In fact, the human that stationed Tapper here told him to change the pricing units on the menus that appeared underneath the glass countertop, which the robot was able to access through the Universal Port. Tapper was relieved that he didn't have to learn a new currency — several customers kept offering to pay with "Nefts" — but unfortunately neither CyraCoin or the superior BowTees were payment options. The only currency Tapper recognized were the baseline Credited Work Hours, and when he made the switch the customers nodded along to paying in credits.
Tapper was shocked to find that the conversion rate left most of the drinks as now costing a measly 0.09 credits or even less, and at those prices he almost would've preferred they just take the drinks for free like in Fableton. A proper Bowson bar would never charge so little, especially for the quality of drinks and mixers that Tapper now had access to! Still, with an endless stream of customers and only one robot to serve them, such high-level concerns fell away as the purview of whoever owned this establishment. The only thing Tapper had to do was fulfill his purpose, and nothing else, and it was blissful.
By now the bar had graduated into the hub for a full-blown party as word spread and further amenities were discovered. On one end of the storefront a kiosk sat, nestled between two small neon pillars and topped with a glass dome, which started to play jazz music after some customers started fiddling with the controls. They complained about the music not "going hard enough," yet shortly after the velvet stanchions were all knocked over to make room for erratic and spasmatic dancing.
A submenu offered clothing and other themed novelty items for sale, mostly wide-brimmed fedoras and t-shirts with slogans, and as the party grew more lively several intoxicated patrons started buying clothes to push on each other. Even Tapper wasn't spared from the jubilation, one customer insisting that the robot wear a brimless fez hat and at-shirt that said, "Round up the usual suspects at Rick's" in flowing font. Tapper didn't understand why wearing that was worth a round of cheers, but any good bartender knows how to foster a positive energy.
The good bartender was contemplating when he should start cutting off some of the more enthusiastic drinkers when a lone figure climbed on top of the furniture pile and started waving his arms. Such unsociable displays were often the prelude to a bar brawl and Tapper was ready to step out and pacify the man, but the inebriated crowd actually fell mostly silent as the apparent authority figure started talking. There was still a line of customers stretching all the way round the counter to occupy his attention, but Tapper was operating with enough efficiency by now that he could afford splitting off a little processing power and focus on isolating the one voice.
The speaker was a baseline human with a similar aesthetic of spiky metal plates, but instead of a leather jacket this man wore a sort of metal exoskeleton. Dozens of thin metal rods ran along his arms and legs, with thicker portions covering his joints where the rods joined, and everything branched from a chest plate aglow with diodes and displays too small for Tapper to read. Aside from the chest plate and thick metal boots, the strange outfit didn't offer much proper coverage and didn't have any visible function beyond adding awkward bulk. The haphazard stack underneath the speaker creaked and leaned as he shifted, threatening to buckle but standing firm, even as the man's gesticulations grew more and more animated.
"Hey hey hey, everyone. Oi, I said listen up!" The pile came dangerously close to tipping over when the man yelled, but his legs moved to compensate the shifting platform with a grace and stability at complete odds with the slight slurring of his speech. He didn't even seem to notice his own feat of dexterity as the man continued, "I know there have been some worries about moving our little operation here." A smattering of murmured agreements from the crowd. "Some even doubted we'd be tough enough to survive down here at all, Orlan."
Jeering sounds joined the background noise, focused on one area of the crowd as one particular member of the audience received a jostling from their surrounding mates. But the recipient laughed, raising one hand with one finger into the air as she responded, "Up yours too, Rat!"
The man on top of the mountain threw back his head in a full-bellied laugh, and when other voices started to join in Tapper made sure that this speech was saving to his archived memory. This Rat, whoever he was, really knew how to work a crowd and his tactics deserved studying in the future.
Rat threw up his hands to cut the laughter short and continued, "Alright alright, leave Orlan alone. I don't blame him for worrying! Moving here was some scary shit, and if we all didn't pull our weight we all could've died! But this?"
He spread his arms to indicate everything in sight, ramping up the energy. "This mall, and everything it's given us? This is PROOF that we're on the right track!"
Someone in the crowd whooped, another whistled. "We earned this food, better than the slop they fed us back home! We earned these artifacts, and all the power they give!" He flexed and the metal framework seemed to swell for a brief second, eliciting more cheers. "We've worked hard all our damn lives and got shit for it, but now the Hand has paid us what we are owed!" There was now a constant underlay of cheering voices, even as he continued.
"And now the mall has given us an endless bar, no more having to save half our paycheck for a decent drink! Who can possibly still question the boss' vision now?"
Some of the voices in the crowd started to chant, but they were too scattered and dissonant to understand. "If you still have doubts after everything the boss has done for you, then you can get the hell out now because we aren't stopping. Everyone that shit on us is going to get what's coming! We're going to be the baddest bastards on the Tar and make everyone our bitches!"
A customer jostled Tapper, complaining that the robot had frozen mid-pour and his drink was now overflowing. Tapper quickly cleaned up the mess and handed off the drink, but his processor was reeling. When did this speech turn so aggressive? And the speaker was still going, yelling and arms waving with clenched fists, his energy swelling and the crowd growing rowdier to match.
"So drink up! This is your reward for sticking with the boss! Tomorrow we start with Belvidere, and after we make them pay for kicking us out, we can take whatever we want!"
The crowd roared in excitement tinged with anger. "Tarhounds, mercs, and those freeloaders at Skratsville will all have to pay tribute to US!"
The crowd roared again, louder.
"And once we take out Fairbanks, no one will ever question us as rulers! And who's the king??"
"ZERO! ZERO! ZERO!"
Oh. Oh no.