Tapper almost lost the bar to a riot halfway into his first shift. Not because they immediately exploded into violence, but because he was in so much shock that he was left struggling to keep up with the increased demand. The realization that everyone here, supposedly the structure of the mall itself, was under Zero's control was making his processor overheat as it recalculated the social standing of every single customer that Tapper had been serving all night. Could it even mean that he was technically working for Zero right now? The notion was so absurd that it thankfully only received one pass before his algorithms rejected it as a complete impossibility, but other calculations demanded more scrutiny.
Most importantly, how serious was the speaker about attacking Skratsville — correction, Fableton? Even a lost and confused robot, far out of his depth, knew that there was no possible way for him to reach his proprietors for proper instruction. If the robot was going to do anything besides enable this crowd of future raiders, he needed to make the choice himself. It was a proposition that Tapper was growing to resent with every choice he made, if he ever made it back to his proper station then he vowed to never make another decision without his proprietors.
What ultimately helped Tapper shake off his trepidation were the customers themselves. After that rousing speech finished everyone wanted another round and crowded the bar, what little restraint they had managed to show now long gone. While the robot scrambled to serve everyone, the waiting customers started to talk amongst themselves, no longer using coded language and instead talking openly and proudly about the vile plans they had for the surrounding populations. With an effort Tapper sent a command to his social algorithms to reclassify every single person in view, revoking their status as customers on a level that would normally only be accessible with admin privileges.
Rejection followed by an error message made Tapper falter, spilling a bit of drink on a customer and getting a shove in return. According to his programming these people were clearly customers, since they were paying, and his system instead interpreted his attempt to reclassify them as a hacking attempt from an outside source. Protocol in such attacks is to shut down and wait for a technician to clear and reboot him, and if that happened here it was doubtful that Tapper would ever boot up again. Tapper knew that he didn't have the processing power to successfully brute force the command before he shut down so he backed off, but try as he might, no other options calculated as viable.
Serving paying customers was a core directive of his programming, and so long as they kept paying Tapper couldn't not serve them. Quitting his current position would technically free him, but all the social data he had gathered so far concluded that the instant Tapper stopped serving drinks then the crowd would reclassify him from bartender to an outlet for their violent urges.
He was stuck, but instead of accepting that fact his strange emotions demanded that he struggle against his own internal security system. Without offering any insight as to how he could possibly manage that. So the robot moved with caution, using the absolute minimum amount of processing power that he could spare for keeping up with bartending duties while everything else was dedicated to the singular purpose of finding a workaround to his customer recognition parameters. Scoundrels, ruffians, ne'er-do-wells, Tapper tried every negative synonym in his dictionary and each one was returned as an acceptable customer unless and until his employer indicated otherwise.
Inspiration struck and Tapper recalled an earlier internal report on his employment status. Claiming that he was just a freelance contract employee was adequate justification to avoid any direct association with Zero, and the panic attack that would otherwise surely entail, but the same could not be said for everyone else in this establishment. These people openly and proudly worked under Zero, and when Aazran called him a thief none of his proprietors had corrected him. So if Zero was a thief and also the CEO of this establishment, then by the laws of contractually obligated association from employees...
Tapper felt something metaphorically click as logic gates opened and security measures relented. A wave of bright crimson washed over the robot's internal vision with the updated parameters, and one by one every customer designation was replaced with a glowing red outline and matching THIEF warning. If Tapper still had a jaw then he wouldn't be able to hide the smile of success, and thankfully the mad wiggling of his eyebrows went unnoticed by the crowd. Now he had options. Now he could act to protect the people of Fableton.
The exhilaration of triumph quickly died out when Tapper faced the obvious next question of how, exactly, he was going to do that. By the Bowson Industries terms of service there was technically no limit to the level of force Tapper was allowed to use against thieves, and his algorithms were already concluding that a crowd of this size could only be efficiently removed with unrelenting and lethal force. Those same algorithms were also instructing Tapper to coordinate with a team of Bowson Industries security robots that did not exist, and as they began calculating alternate means of murder Tapper manually killed the program.
Even with the looming threat of a raid Tapper predicted that Miss Uxral would disapprove of lethal measures, and he didn't want to disappoint the sub-proprietor again. Or was he attempting to justify his own unwillingness? A trickle of emotions had been flowing in alongside the logical calculation to kill everyone, it was difficult to define but felt like an odd internal sensation of sinking. As if his core was suddenly under increasing pressure and would eventually buckle altogether. Tapper could not understand the connection, but it vanished the instant he decided to not take any lethal measures except as an absolute last and defensive resort.
Losing the strange pressure of depth was a relief, but it left the robot back where he started. But if these feelings had the power to prevent Tapper from taking action then maybe they could also suggest a path forward, and right now it felt like he wasn't using his more unique bartending tools to the fullest extent. Mixing proper drinks was so blissful that Tapper had completely forgotten about brewing potions instead, and now he was surrounded by potential new ingredients!
Scanning the different varieties of alcohol revealed that his potion system considered them to all be one and the same. Hollowed Spirits: Any magical potential has been stripped from this drink, leaving naught but the mild poison of intoxication. Beer, whiskey, even tequila all shared the same designation with only the strength of the poison effect changing to match the strength of the alcohol. Disappointment, more than frustration, colored Tapper's perspective as he thoroughly examined every variety of alcohol. Hopefully the lack of potion potential was somehow the result of his own skill level and not an innate factor of alcohol, otherwise he would never integrate potions into his bartending.
Conceptual dead ends began to weigh on the little robot's processor, and fate decided to throw a lifeline in the form of a little fruit. Tapper's witch senses subroutine was still running when he moved to clean up a discarded glass, empty save for the mushy remains of a blackberry garnish. Goutberry: Take the fruit internally while applying the leaves externally to unstick frozen limbs, or to bolster a potion's fortifying saves against paralysis. Tapper's head snapped up and the robot moved with a burst of urgency that would have alarmed anyone still sober enough to notice, zipping to one end of the bar that held a dozen small trays.
Garnishes, of course the answer was in the garnishes! Every tray contained a fistful of different garnishes, Sprigs of herbs, citrus wedges, fruit berries, all of them registered as unique components for potions. Mostly with healing properties that wouldn't help Tapper... except for one container on the far end of the tray. There lay a small pile of mealworms, technically a different species than the variety farmed in Fableton but they still registered as Dead Man's Fingers. And all the numbing, paralytic potential that entailed.
The fact that all the garnishes looked like they were freshly stocked yesterday, despite the raiders saying that this bar had sat dormant and unpowered for weeks, did not strike the robot as strange in the slightest.
Tapper started with the base, placing a large pitcher of water on a thermal plate and cranking it all the way for an instant boil. One section behind the bar was designated for non-alcoholic drinks and Tapper grabbed every available satchel of chamomile tea before dumping the whole lot into the steaming pitcher. While the tea brewed Tapper worked on the grub worms, and then immediately stopped when he squeezed the first one until it burst its disgusting organic ooze all over his fingers.
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That was almost enough for Tapper to abandon his plans altogether, but after allowing himself a break from the potion process — by thoroughly sanitizing his hands and refocusing on the regular bartending duties — he rallied and tried again. Piling all the grubworms into a small plastic bag, Tapper averted his eyes and squished the entire lot at once. The plastic barrier saved Tapper from having to feel anything, but the resulting sludge then had to be piped through a small metal mesh to filter out all the chunky bits.
Robots aren't known for their strong gag reflexes, so any patrons that noticed Tapper's dry heaving figured that this robot was likely just doing a comedy bit they didn't understand. But eventually he amassed nearly a cup of goop, and after reheating the chamomile tea Tapper was ready to assemble the potion. Naturally, this also meant that it was the perfect time for a drunk patron to become curious.
"Say, uh... say bot, what's that gold stuff?" An amalgam had taken residence on a bar stool some time ago, and now curiosity was driving her to slowly pull herself inch by inch with slightly too-long arms up and over the bar, three eyes trying and failing to focus.
Tapper turned from the wall-mounted nozzle with a happy eyebrow wiggle, his mounting anxiety temporarily subdued by an opportunity to use his wealth of bar trivia. "Oh, this is called honey! Fun fact, long ago this used to be collected as a byproduct from small flying insects called bees! But don't worry, the species has since been replaced with this clean, synthetic honey-flavored corn syrup."
Three eyes blinked back, slightly out of sync. "So... not gold."
"Not gold, no." That was all the woman needed to satiate her curiosity, slumping back down onto the bar stool and letting Tapper turn back to his work. The nozzle had poured sufficient synthetic honey, so the bartender matched it with an equally absurd amount of whiskey before mixing in the worm goop and topping the whole thing with a sprinkling of dried lavender petals just to add a bit of pizazz. If his plan failed and the gang of raiders turned on Tapper, he didn't want his final concoction to taste like worms.
Tapper now had a large pitcher of slightly opaque and very boozy tea, and all it was missing was the final ingredient. His CPU was already building up the now familiar sensation of heat, but instead of spilling out at the first opportunity it settled into a condensed well of potential. As if an ethereal coiled spring could know to wait patiently for Tapper to call upon it.
He placed the pitcher back on the thermal plate at a low simmer, started to slowly stir the tea with a long bar spoon, and held his other hand over the opening. The tingling heat's escape, now that he was expecting it, was a mildly pleasant outlet of pressure as the energy flowed out of his hovering hand and the pitcher of tea reacted immediately. It was possible that Tapper only noticed the very subtle change because he now knew what to look for, but miniscule amounts of the tea cleared up every second as physical chunks dissolved into tiny sparkles.
Slowly the pressure relief was replaced with a deeper strain of mana loss, but the tea wasn't finished so Tapper opened his mana channels and kept pushing past an unnaturally primal urge to stop. Somehow the robot knew, from that undefined library of potion knowledge, that stopping this process midway through would at best result in a mostly ineffective potion, and more likely give him a pitcher of useless foul sludge. After five seconds the strain redoubled and Tapper started to worry, why was nothing happening?
Hoping for some direction, Tapper begged his inner knowledge for some indication towards his progress, and was instead presented with a pop up that just showed the current level of his mana reserves. It at least had a majority of his reserves available at 6/9, but then it ticked down to 5/9.
And then, of course, a particularly irate raider threw a glass at Tapper to demand a refill. The entire crowd was growing just as rowdy and impatient, yelling in protest when Tapper tried to explain that he was mixing an extra special drink for everyone. They didn't care, they wanted their drinks now, and Tapper couldn't dare stop the potion when he was so close.
4/9, now under the halfway point. Every five seconds another one ticked off like clockwork.
Tapper tried to use the spindles on his back to nudge some glasses into place, but he couldn't reach the beer tap from here. Maybe if he was very careful, he could control the erratic movements of his legs and use one to tap open the tap. The robot managed to balance on one leg, torso outstretched, and panicked when he looked down and saw his mana pool was already down to 3/9.
He took five full seconds just to reach for the tap! In his haste the proffered foot wildly kicked into the side of the bar, knocking the beer tap askew and showering a mist of malted brew over the crowd as warnings appeared on every glass panel of the bar. All of which was completely ignored by the panicking robot, because the raiders were a much clearer and more present danger.
"H-hey now, no need to be hasty! You can stop a clock, but time will tick on!"
2/9
He didn't know what else he could do except watch in horror, the raiders fighting to climb over each other as his mana spun downwards, a clock ticking away to his own annihilation.
1… 0
The strain turned into searing pain and Tapper yelped. Mana still flowed but his crystalline wiring felt like it was getting pulled out in the process, from everywhere and in every direction at once. But he still functioned so Tapper still pushed, and a notification popped up at the exact same moment that the pitcher flashed a blink of light.
"It's finished!" There was no fanfare, no external indicator of when the concoction became a proper potion, yet the crowd recognized the achievement and backed down from the very edge of falling into a full-on riot. Or maybe they were just stunned into silence by a robot holding a large pitcher of shimmering liquid over their head. The murky tea was now a clear and radiant brown with honeyed sheen swirling throughout that pulled the eye in and promised comfort within its depths.
[New discovery found: Toddy Tonic! +1 XP
This dangerous poison combines the effects of inebriation, sleep, and paralysis. Individually they do not pose much threat, but anyone that drinks this will have to make three separate saves or suffer the consequences. Depending on the number and severity of failures, this can mean anything from numb delirium, to losing consciousness, to falling into a coma so deep that a casual observer sees death instead. Be careful!]
[Successfully crafted: Toddy Tonic x20! +3 XP]
[Wounds: ⬤⭘⭘]
[Injury: Manaburn 1
Spell attempts take a -1 penalty and cost 1 additional mana per attempt. This injury heals one rank for every period of restoration.]
These confounding pop ups always left Tapper with more unanswered questions. He was trying to make a paralysis potion, but this sounded much more powerful — and dangerous. So what determined the effects of the potion? And crafting 20 at once was significantly more difficult, so why did he only get 3 XP for going past his mana limit? The ethereal reserve within his chest had a jagged edge now, as if any flowing mana would now catch on it.
"Well? What's so special about that drink, bot?" Tapper's optical sensors shifted away from the pop up and refocused on the physical world, finding 35 organic optical sensors staring right back at him. Mismatched eyes belonging to 19 mismatched raiders, all of them walking the delicate balance of inebriation between joyous partygoers and raging drunkards. Tapper had to keep his cool or lose his head.
The robot made a show of clearing a throat he didn't have as his volume cranked up to a commanding tone. "This, my dear friends, is a special drink to commemorate your rise as glorious rulers! Has anyone here ever tried a hot toddy before?" No answer from the crowd except for the occasional confused murmur, "Good! This one is unique, and unlike anything you will ever sample elsewhere!" The silence of zero comprehension answered again. "And, uh, this round is on the house!"
Those magic words broke through the haze of alcohol and the crowd cheered; their renewed scramble to reach over the bar shifting from a desire to throttle robots to a thirst for free drinks. That may have led to a different sort of fight, but one of the few functions Tapper could access in the bar was for parties and celebrations. One such option was specifically labeled for when a customer buys a full round, and upon his digital request two dozen empty glasses slid out of hidden recesses and slid across the countertop in a neat line.
Tapper wasted no time in disposing of the excess glasses and slowly walking the length of the bar, pouring the tonic into each glass with one smooth motion. Each glass was snatched up the instant he moved onto the next so it was impossible to guarantee that they all had the exact same share of potion, but since this counted as a bartending action the stream was steady and his movements stilled all awkward coordination.
When the pitcher emptied its last share Tapper replaced it with an empty glass, guilt already welling as he raised it aloft. "A hearty toast to the big boss, Zero!"
The crowd roared in answer, silencing just as quickly when every glass turned up and every potion was gulped down. Initially there wasn't much reaction beyond a smattering of smacking lips as the raiders savored their special drink, but as the contemplative silence grew long the riotous energy did not return. Some raiders stretched and yawned with exaggerated motions and managed to pull up a chair before they nodded off, others stiffened without warning and collapsed into uncomfortable jumbles. Two were embraced in a drunken hug and managed to support each other as they slid to the ground, but after 15 seconds every single raider was snoring quietly.