[attr="class","dibody2"]In a dog-eat-dog world, it pays to be at the top of the food chain. Or so it is said. But some individuals simply don't have the luxury of clawing their way up the social ladder -- perhaps they lack the finances to elevate their station; or they don't have the influence or the connections; maybe they're just lazy? Whatever the reason, Sonora proved itself greatly similar to Midgar in the sense that it held no tolerance or respect for people that lacked the benefit of privilege. Either you had it, or you were fucked.

Minus the indolence, Theodore was one such person. While he took some measure of pride in being sufficient enough to run his own business, this month had proven itself especially taxing to his state of mind. He had barely scraped up just enough gil to cover the rent on the garage that also moonlighted as his domicile, only to find out his utilities had bumped up, yet again. His landlord, the stingy piece of shit, saw it appropriate to bilk his tenants for every last coin they were worth, and it wasn't a problem exclusive to just Theodore. But without the appropriate means to challenge these unfair practices, he was faced with a Morton's fork: either suck it up and continue to be bled dry, or be forced to live on the streets again.

Theodore was no stranger to homelessness. Living in the slums of Midgar made sure of that. But it seemed like no matter what he did for himself, his attempts to work hard and improve his situation the honest way bore no tangible fruit. It was almost as if he were being pressured by some nebulous force to indulge in a life of crime, which merely aggravated his sour mood, yet having a sense of personal integrity wasn't helping Theodore pay the bills, either.

To make matters even worse, his phantom pains were flaring up far more aggressively than usual, another cruel irony to contend with as night fell over Sonora's dingy, salt-covered streets. Theodore winced silently as he shuffled his way across the sidewalk with listless steps, reminded of Don Corneo's sadistic goons and the gleeful laughter that followed their brutal amputation of his right arm, his punishment for refusing to meekly let them profiteer on his inherent mechanical genius. His lingering shame over this ordeal motivated Theodore to conceal the artificial construct that served as its replacement beneath a special leather glove for the evening, although its singular nature made him stand out even more, to his internal chagrin.

Better to be perceived as merely weird than a straight up freak of nature, he figured. As if he actually had a choice?

Wanting desperately to kill the voices that continued to haunt his waking thoughts, Theodore took a cursory glance at his immediate surroundings and caught wind of a structure which projected a kind of shifty aura. A single man stood guard outside the establishment, giving the despondent mechanic a clue as to what this place might be. He didn't usually visit bars, preferring to drink from the comfort and safety of his humble hole-in-the-wall, but the fridge had already run dry and grocery shopping was out of the question until he was able to land another set of commissions.

He took a minute to check his pockets, fishing out the wallet he had made for himself, and counted the gil that remained left over from paying his rent. This could probably buy him a couple of shots, maybe, assuming he could actually afford what this spot offered. Theodore took a chance and stepped closer, his sickly pale features now visible beneath the yellow lighting of a nearby street lamp, until the snaggle-toothed bouncer halted him in his tracks with a raised hand and a basic question.

Was he new here? "Yeah." Simple, and to the point. But it was the only answer Theodore had to offer without exacerbating his growing sense of awkwardness.

[attr="class","dibody2"]In the span of those same heart beats, Theodore's skipped thrice as many. The doorman glared at him with a sort of intensity he was used to seeing, but it still made the hairs on his neck crawl with anxiety. He swirled his tongue around behind closed lips, then expectorated a slimy, black wad of chew against the pavement. The dread of being suddenly knocked out cold made Theodore's muscles freeze.

As if his worst fears were playing out right before him, Theodore found himself on the receiving end of an interrogation. Causing trouble? Had someone recently terrorized Sonora? Theodore never kept up with current events; his own problems seemed to always push themselves at the top of his priority list. Sure, he had a tendency towards abrasiveness, but he never went out of his way to deliberately start problems. Not if he could help it.

"I—" The words refuse to articulate themselves; his throat clenched as if had been glued shut with resin epoxy. Damn it! Of all the times to suffer a panic attack! His primitive self feared being put on the spot, but his own body seemed to resist every effort to play it smoothly, ergo making him appear even more suspicious to the bouncer. Theodore prepared for the worst, gritting his teeth in advance—

...But nothing happened. Instead, the man turned to open the door, peered into the bar's dimly lit space, and called out for a person named 'Red', asking if the newcomer was 'him'. What? Theodore had no idea what was happening, but from what he could infer with what little he had knowledge of, he apparently looked like somebody that had, indeed, stirred the proverbial pot some time ago. If he had been in a different state of mind, Theodore might have felt inclined to roll his eyes at the guy for making such wild assumptions, but it seemed as if the current situation had other plans in mind for the self-learned machinist.

Theodore gulped. In the span of a couple seconds, a short woman in a pressed black suit stepped underneath the orange glow of a hanging light, her hair as colorful and fiery as the luminescence that poured down from said fixture. Equally as fast as she had arrived, the lady turned right back around and issued a statement of denial, evidently convinced that Theodore was not the person that this bulked-up gorilla presumed him to be.

Without hesitation, the burly man stepped aside and gave the newcomer permission to enter, to which Theodore obliged with a crunched brow and an irritated scowl, paying the hired guard no further attention. Fucking asshole.

The stench of tobacco and liquor suffocated the bar's interior. The air was humid. Tables and chairs were jammed together in uncomfortable arrangements, some of them occupied by what Theodore surmised were the establishment's frequent customers and regular patrons. Some were in the middle of an intense game of cards. A few of the women were currently invested into their present company, whispering sweet nothings to the men or enjoying the attention they received from some of the more desperate or lonely fellows. But as soon as Theodore took a step inside, most of them gave the stranger leery glares, as if to convey their displeasure at having their sacred space invaded by an outsider. Those who didn't mind simply returned to their business.

Only the woman in the black suit seemed to appear as a completely different entity, suspended from the rest of the world and completely absorbed into whatever she was doing from the comfort of her stool. She must have either run this place, or had enough of a presence here to warrant some kind of influence over the people. A gangster, perhaps?

Pretty cozy joint, I guess, imagined Theodore, briefly pursing his lips into a half-frown. He could not have been more sarcastic, even if he had physically tried. He was beginning to wonder if coming here had been a mistake, considering the bouncer's earlier 'welcome', but he wanted a drink. Anything to take his mind away from the horrible feelings and resurgent memories of a lonely past he so desperately wished to forget about. At least there was some space to sit. Everywhere else in here was crowded to hell and back.

Tuning his attentions to the sit-in bar, Theodore carefully paced his way across the hard wood floor and took a stool four spaces away from the lady in black, slipping over it and adjusting the back end of his shabby coat so that it hung freely behind him. Carefully, he studied the selection of liquors and spirits that stretched out from left to right, trying to decide on what to order before his face suddenly peered back at the man by way of a mirror, returning his reflection in such a way that made Theodore grimace even worse than he had before. You look like shit. It almost felt like a routine, to mentally belittle himself so harshly.

He needed something with kick. Something hard. Bars don't usually serve cocktails; those were often the creative children of night clubs and bachelor parties, two things Theodore pretty much avoided most of the time. But draft beer wasn't really all that, either.

Then, a menu catches his eye, and a choice highlights itself to him. That made this a hell of a lot easier. And the prices were well within range of what currently sat in his wallet. When the bartender finally turned his way, Theodore finally spoke up, hoping to whatever was out there that he was doing this properly, "Double scotch, tall and neat."

[attr="class","dibody2"]A highball glass full of scotch came sliding down the grimy counter top with a dull scrape, landing directly in front of Theodore as he was in the process of quietly thumbing the inside of his wallet for loose change. The service was prompt, to say the least. That in itself was worth tipping. Might even toss the barkeep some extra gil, seeing as he wasn't the type to pry into other people's business, apparently.

In no time at all, Theodore lifted the reservoir to his mouth and leaned it back to take a heavy swig, allowing his throat to loosen up just enough to permit a second one to pass. He had every intention of getting shit-faced tonight -- rather, he wanted to drown out the laughing faces of Don Corneo's goon platoon, who taunted and jeered at Theodore from the dark recesses of his past, haunting him worse than any specter or wraith could ever hope to accomplish with one so surly and cold as him.

"You look nervous." Instantly, the mechanic's lips puckered into an even deeper frown. Yeah, what of it? Theodore imagined himself saying, yet refused to verbally humor the one who had interrupted his concentration: the black suit with ochre hair. "Did the bouncer scare you? Or was it me?" First it was the landlord, then these stupid memories, followed by Piano Teeth out front, and now her? It would seem that his bullshit magnet was cranked up to eleven tonight. "I hope braving this place was worth whatever you’re trying to escape..." Apparently, coming here wasn't enough.

"Pfffh." Theodore merely chuffed, taking another sizable drink from his cup, already having emptied the contents by halfway. He could start to feel the scotch working its liquid magic, esophagus burning with the familiar sting he enjoyed so thoroughly, his pallid features just barely beginning to form the slightest tinge of rosy pink.

The truth was, neither of them were remotely scary; not by themselves, at least -- it was what they were implying that made his skin crawl with dread. There were many times that Theodore was the victim of circumstance, especially since he had this unwanted talent for being in the wrong places at the wrong times, and that meaty-armed douche had the stones to ask if he had been causing problems around Sonora. Granted, the lady who looked all business hadn't exacerbated the issue, but he hated being called out for no reason all the same.

Speaking of being called out... "Maybe I can show you around? You’ll be more impressed with this place, if you were intimate with it." You can't be serious right now, Theodore complained internally, relying on sheer willpower alone to prevent himself from crushing his drink inside the metallic grip of his prosthetic arm, the leather of its protective sleeve gently tightening around the glass's surface as soon as the sultry woman's hand touched his back.

Instinctively, Theodore rolled his shoulder forward with a sharp jerk. "Don't fucking touch me." The words leave his mouth quietly, yet smoldering with an unmistakably hateful intensity. To reiterate his demands, the engineer glared viciously at the seductress as if though he were ready to shoot burning lasers from his pupils. No matter how innocuous or sweet she tried to make herself come off like, he wasn't interested in what she had to offer. If she knew better, he wouldn't have to repeat himself.

Either way, the mechanic simply returned back to his drink with single-minded intent, as if nothing else in the world existed. The noise from the old television monitor seemed to be the only kind of sound that kept Theodore from going completely stir crazy, but he had partially expected something to keep him distracted from all the people that were trying to bother him tonight.

[attr="class","dibody2"]Everyone stops cold in their tracks to investigate what had just happened, yet Theodore doesn't give the sudden disruption any kind of notice whatsoever. He could feel the judgement being poured over him like hot tar, each pair of eyes from all the bar's resident patrons burning figurative holes into the back of his leather coat. The shapely woman issues a gritty insult before taking her leave, but Theodore doesn't care. He's been called much, much worse. Even the bartender seemed bemused by the newcomer's incredibly harsh response to an offer so utterly innocuous, but it gives him reason to be concerned for any future mix-ups.

To be entirely fair in this situation, no one should take it so personal: Theodore held a special kind of loathing for the carnal pleasures. Even the mere thought of indulging in appetites of the flesh made him want to vomit in revulsion. Was he religious? Far from it. Did something awful happen to him as a child? Heavens, no. He was a man who simply hated the idea of bedding anyone, man or woman, or however somebody chose to identify themselves these days. But previous encounters with similar courtesans in the Midgar slums taught Theodore that working ladies (or men, at times) had a real tough time understanding when people said 'no' to them; so long as they applied enough pressure, they'd eventually crack and relent.

Theodore was not one of those people. And he made sure everyone knew it. 'Don't show interest in me, because I'm not interested in you.' He was certainly carrying himself as one might in a place such as this. Perhaps a little too well.

But the tavern regulars soon returned to their leisurely games and chats, figuring it was more appropriate to let the surly mechanic struggle with his own inner demons alone, as he himself would have done if Theodore was in their shoes. Live and let live. It was better this way, for all parties involved.

Still, Theodore couldn't shake the feeling that he was being set up here. Being compared to some random criminal, especially one with an apparently high profile, didn't help make the bad-tempered engineer's drink taste any better. If he weren't contending with nasty memories of Don Corneo's minions right now, sure, he might have found a sliver of humor to the situation -- instead, the bouncer and his suit-wearing feminine counterpart, who sat merely stools away from Theodore, had put him in the spotlight for reasons beyond his own awareness. It was a tune he was all too familiar with, and one he detested hearing.

Let this be a lesson to you, runt. The words echo in the back of Theodore's mind with a taunting affect, just as he remembered to keep his right hand from crushing the glass inside of it. They called him 'Rat-face', for obvious reasons. That son of a bitch was the one who took a blade to his arm and claimed it like some kind of sick trophy.

He slugs back the remainder of his drink at the thought, snorting quietly through flared nostrils. What's on the tube tonight? From above his cheeks, now rosy from the scotch, Theodore cast a sharp blue glare at the flickering images on the old monitor, tempted to roll his eyes at the mediocre signal the old box was receiving. He could fix that. Easily. Doubtful if anyone would let him, though, after that little spat earlier.

Mmh. Sonora Night Live was on the air. Not the best comedy sketch show, but it was comparably more entertaining than being pestered by two-bit floozies looking for an easy sucker to swindle. He affixed his gaze to the screen and prepared to allow the broadcast to work its technological magic on his brain -- but that meant having to consciously tune out the presence of the orange-haired lady sitting over there, as well.

Goddammit.

Upset by all of the obstacles being thrown his way, yet unwilling to let it show on his face beyond anything more than his trademark scowl, Theodore shoved the bar stool backwards with a dense scrape, lifted himself up onto his feet, then paced over to the woman in the suit with his empty glass in tow. He takes a seat directly adjacent to her right side, so that he wouldn't have to look at her while he drowned himself in booze and bawdy humor. Pieces of circuitry for a phone system were set neatly in front of the woman alongside a glass of honey bourbon with ice, the former being more interesting than the latter, but only in a mild sense.

That's not him. He's fine. Her ambiguous words from earlier mock Theodore subconsciously, just like Rat-face's. His lips frown even harder, threatening to leave visible creases against his pallid, angular features. Just who the hell was this other guy?

"You owe me an explanation," said Theodore to the suit, considerably less harsh than before, yet straight to the point all the same. His attention never leaves the television. It wasn't so much of a demand as it was a matter of fact. And it wasn't just idle chitchat, either. He deserved to know why that asshole bouncer thought he was causing trouble around Sonora, at the very least.

If not, then Theodore would just pay his tab and leave, all while hoping that his supposed doppelgänger came back to burn the place down.