Invitation to Wing
You head back to the bar and pick your way through the head-banging crowd to reach the counter, slipping into a gap you find there. “Beer!” you call, when the four-eyed barman - who you vaguely recognise but can’t put a name to - looks up. As you wait for your drink, you cast furtive glances left and right, noting two grumpy looking individuals. One of them, with a messy black beard, greasy hair and an eye patch, is staring into his near empty glass, grumbling something about nuclear weapons and talking animals. The other, a less foul-smelling, well-groomed guy, is repeatedly closing his hand around an imaginary glass and pretending to lift it to his mouth. After a minute of this you see him reach out to take hold of a real glass, closing his fist too tightly around it so it shatters and spills its contents all over an already sticky counter. “Balls!” the clean-shaven man shouts, slamming his fist down and crushing an imprint into the counter-top. “Stupid bloody hyper-power!” Looking away quickly you are surprised to come face to face with someone you DO recognise – a guy about your age wearing a black mask, a leather jacket, and a shirt with a big ‘Z’ on it. Unfortunately, it doesn't stand for 'Zrag'.
“Alright mate!” he gushes, extending his hand. You take it in awe and shake it, amazed to be standing face to face with one of your heros. “I’m Zenith!” he says, as if you need to be told. “I know,” you reply. “You're great!” “That's as may be, but I still need a wingman from time to time, and it just so happens I need your help right now.” “Me?” “Sure, you look half-normal, compared to the rest of the freaks here. And you’re almost good-looking – but not as much as me, which is important. There’s this chick I’m tryna score but she’s stuck to her buddy like a lesbian band-aid and I can’t seem to separate them. I need someone to go in with me and distract one while I get the other! You down with that? Yeah? Groovy, let’s go!” Before you can object, Zenith has grabbed you by the arm and pulled you away from the bar, out onto the dance-floor. He shoulders his way through the crowd to get to the far side, where a couple of tables and stools are positioned in booth-like alcoves. “That’s them!” he says, pointing to one, where two young ladies sit closely together, one with dark, cropped hair in a tight-fitting dress, the other altogether more feral looking with wild, flowing locks and a dress that seems to be made of animal hide.
You notice the first girl has a gun on her chair, while the warrior woman has a huge sword propped against the wall behind her. “Which one are you after?” you ask Zenith, a question that is met with a casual shrug of the shoulders “I don’t mind!” Zenith replies. “I’d do ‘em both! You pick!”
Decide to chat up the girl with the gun, or...
Plump for the busty warrior woman instead?