[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/znGuxJk.jpg[/img] [h2]Ray's Bar, The Hub. 'Little Citadel'[/h2][/center] [hr] Situated a mere half mile away from the Vitae's Hangar, Ray's Bar resided in what was known as the Hangar District, the part of the Hub located the closest to the Vitae's Hangar. It was no surprise then, that many of the businesses in this area catered to those involved with engineering and piloting, with a tech-and-aviation themed aesthetic painted over many of its businesses, with a largely Armani feel to it. This techy aesthetic, alongside a predominately Armani air and engineering corps, with a some small bits of old-asian aesthetic thrown in, led many, with little surprise, to call the Hangar District "Little Citadel", similar to Chinatowns and ethnic neighborhoods of generations past. Little Citadel jumped from high tech and trendy to industrial and gritty with reckless abandon, each of its hotspots unique, yet trendy in its own little way. Unlike other districts in the Hub, Little Citadel focused primarily on night-life, and hosted a wide variety of bars and clubs, and less on 'daytime' cafes and venues. Unlike many of the other locations in Little Citadel, Ray's Bar was rather industrial, and often reminded its patrons of the inside of an old Armani-Trader/Hubship. The Bar's Owner, Ray Zachs, a former Armani freelancer, gone legit, gone military, gone rogue again, and gone pardoned-back-into-the-fold, was something of a hero to the Armani on board the ship. With a crazy, illustrious, adventurous, and long lived career like that, and then to top if all off earning a spot on the Vitae for his extensive knowledge regarding trade and ship design, Ray Zachs was the closest thing the Armani had to a living legend. This should come as no surprise, as the bar itself was designed specifically to be reminiscent of bars inside Armani-Hubships. It's Plas-Titanium panel walls were browned with artificial rust and adorned with purely aesthetic old-style air vents and gaudy neon lights, and it was populated by a mix of traditional synth-wood chairs and tables and jukeboxes alongside high-tech game tables and holodecks. The bar itself rested against a wall, with a artificially rusted sign plainly stating 'First Aid & Alcohol', harking back to the old Armani traditions of freelancers and rogues. [hr] "To the Grave Robbers and the Barracudas!" Barked a somewhat slurred, but confident and exuberant cry from a stocky man, standing with one foot on the bar to prop himself up, glass, frost covered mug filled with amber liquid thrust high into the air- Sara's crew chief of all people. The cry was immediately followed with a cacophonous roar of agreement and approval by the rest of the patrons in the bar, almost entirely Vitae pilots and flight crew. Fistfulls of beer bottles and mugs were raised high into the air, and the clinking of glasses could be heard as people toasted and consumed their drinks. In the center of it all, given the 'choicest' table, aka, the largest table, in the center of the room, were the pilots of the 5th and 7th Squadrons, who had fought and survived the first battle with Devastators in a decade. The bar was filled with people and loud music. Men and women in pilots jumpsuits, jackets, engineering coveralls and engine grease alike yelled and drank to loud rock music. Games of poker were played at some of the tables, while the holodecks had various games going on. In the corner a couple or two ignored the universe and got lost in each other's embrace. Ray Zachs manned the bar that night. From him, the booze flowed steadily, and all pilots that had flown drank free that night. A savant at his job, Ray Zachs managed, alongside a small army of volunteer bar-backs to service an entire bar full of patrons, and only a single fight broke out that night over service. Clearing her own throat, Sara also stood up and made her presence known, a surprising feat granted her rather short standing height. "To Adams, that shitty sonofabitch owed me a drink tonight, and he stood me up!" she bellowed over the din of hard rock music. "Adams!" the crowd echoed in response, accented by whoops and more clinking of glass. "And Simms! With an ass fine enough to make another woman stop and stare!" Sara continued, her eyes wavering, but voice strong, her face scrunching to force the tears away. They'd all experienced loss before, it was only natural in their line of work. But something about Simms' loss, and Adams too, struck a chord with Sara. Their losses felt different somehow- maybe it was because they were fighting an enemy that wasn't human, or because they didn't have time to retrieve the bodies for a proper send off- instead leaving their corpses in Devastator infested space. "Simms!" the crowd responded. More glasses clinked. At this point, Setter took over, to announce the losses for his own squadron. While frowned upon by military higher ups for what appeared to be insensitive ridicule for the recently deceased, this method of grieving was an unofficial tradition of Armani origins and found widespread popularity amongst most human fighter squadrons, as a way of mourning the dead. Often times, people were afraid of seeming overly sentimental, and it did no favor to the already tense mood to put a damper on it. Thus the tradition was made so, and more sentimental remembrances would be set up at a later time. More glasses clinked. Sara repeated what everyone else did, lifting her bottle into the air with a raucous cry before bringing the bottle to her lips and taking a deep swig. Whether or not it was just her who was shaken by the battle, she wouldn't know tonight. Tonight was a night to focus on the living. More glasses clinked. Tonight was a night to focus on forgetting. [hr] "Ya done with that glass, lass?" came the low, steady voice of Ray Zachs, stirring Sara from her reverie. With a startled splutter, Sara shook herself awake, finding herself back at Ray's. The bar as it was now was a far cry from a few nights ago. The crowd of drinkers and revelers had disappeared, and was replaced by a small, slow spattering of crewmen and civilians- the 'daytime' hours of the bar didn't do much to bring people in. Gone were the rowdy dart throwers and pool sharks and gamblers, and in there place quiet individuals, not unlike herself, nursing drinks in their own little corner. The hard rock and roll was replaced by slower paced jazz and blues, and the stuffy air of dozens of people stuffed together was replaced by a sense of clarity. Sara herself found herself sat at a small table near the wall, her unfocused eyes staring at a little section of the bar's wall. Underneath the little bit of wall Sara stared at, a stool stood against the wall with an upturned glass, sealed beer bottle and a digital candle. The light of the candle illuminated four small, 5x7 inch portraits, their frames containing the faces of Adams and Simms, as well as the pilots from Setter's squadron. Occasionally a passing patron would pause, kiss their fingers and press it against a portrait or the bottle, before continuing on with their business. At the moment, the memorial seemed tiny, minuscule in comparison to the rest of the bar, though Sara wondered how long it would be until the memorial started growing, or if even she herself would end up as little more than a 5 by 7 picture on a wall. "Lass." Ray repeated again. "Shit, sorry." Sara apologized, as she handed Ray her empty mug, and credit chit. Ray took the glass, but waved the chit away. "This one's on me lass." He said gruffly as he began to walk off. He paused and turned back, his dark eyes glinting somberly under the shade of his unruly dark hair. "Remembering the dead is important lass, but so is remembering the living." he said as before he walked off, mug in hand. Sara sighed to herself, as much as she didn't want it to be so, Ray was right. The fighting had hit her hard, maybe harder than others, yet around her she was the only pilot sitting at the bar. Wiping at the half-dried stains on her cheek with a rough hand, and awkwardly dabbing at the small puddle of salt water at the edge of the table with a napkin, Sara closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath and collected herself. Slowly bringing her eyes open, she slowly stood and walked over to the small memorial. She pressed her index and middle finger to her lips and gently placed her fingertips on the bottle. She held herself there for a moment before reluctantly bringing her arm down and slowly, but determinedly proceeded to exit the bar. Behind her, a few glasses clinked as the door slid shut.