Morgan presses his lips into a fine line as he watches Sirpa and Teresa interact with the man. He couldn't speak, seemed to give up on even trying to communicate non-verbally at that; just drowned himself whatever he was drinking. Interesting. And a tough case. At least his other companions seemed to be in good spirits; they could handle a few minutes without him watching. He walks away from the group and heads over to the bar.

He raises a robotic hand to call over a bartender. "Gimme two shots of whatever's the best 'ere."

"For me and a," he lets the last syllable hang, heavy with uncertainty, "a new friend."

Well, friend was a strong word, but it sounded better than saying 'stranger who's mind palace we got pulled into'.

Morgan watches the peculiar interaction unfold. Nothing they were saying made a lick 'o' sense, just nonsense confidently repeated after another statement of... nonsense! He raises an eyebrow at the scene, takes a minute or two to even try to understand what the hell the bartender said to him earlier, and presses his lips into a hard line.

"Right, I," he clears his throat, "I'll go check that third drawer."

He wasn't planning on deciphering whatever code they were speaking in to get a few shots. He scans the venue, specifically whatever was to the left of him, looks over the bar counter to see whatever array of drinks and cabinets were behind the bartender, and squints his eyes. Check the hinges, check the hinges--what the hell did that even mean? He looks over just about every drawer he can find nearby at the bar. Was it supposed to hold some kind of key or secret way out? Was it just a drink as his previous talk with the barkeep implied?

"Whatever I find in this drawer, am I just 'posed to pour the damn thing myself? And pardon my language, I'm..." he pauses for a moment, trying to hide his frustration behind a clean set of words. "I'm new here, y'see. I ain't all that familiar with how this place 'o' yours is ran exactly."

An epiphany crosses his mind, though likely irrelevant to the bartender. The mute man's catharsis--he's only person unable to speak. Seemed more sensible from his gestures, compared to the odd jargon the people spoke. Of what importance this had, though, was lost on Morgan's mind. Perhaps the man's catharsis had to do with isolation? Abandonment? Some kind of messed up representation of his 'subconscious' or whatever the hell his old psychology friend called it?

Morgan flicks his gaze back to the bartender, brows furrowed. Did these people look like anyone specific? Important?

"Now that ain't..." Morgan stumbles into silence as he pieces together the bits of information he has. None of this made any goddamn sense. The words, the people, what they said. None of it made a lick of sense. "Right, I, uh. Pardon my lack of cash, but it seems I can't afford of your drinks. 'Scuse me."

He removes himself from the bar, metal hands wiping dust from his pants. He adjusts his collar, blinks a bit. His catharsis wasn't anything like this, so why in the world was this stranger's catharsis so disjointed?

He makes his way back to Sirpa and the man. They're still in the same place, that's good. Morgan pulls out a chair and sits near them.

"Other one left?" He scans the club for Teresa before realizing he never learned anyone's name. Whenever she rendezvoused back to this table, he'd ask. He extends a hand to both Sirpa and the man. "Pardon my untimely introduction, I'm Morgan."

Whether his hand is shaken or not, he continues. He addresses the man next. "This 'cartharsis' of yours, it's a mess. All gibberish, and you're the only guy that doesn't talk. Ain't trying to interrogate you or nothin', just makin' conversation."

"Wanted to buy you two a drink, but," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "ain't nobody 'ere makes sense. Somethin' about cats in trees and car warranties, couldn't make squat out of it."

He could use another drink with all this chaos going around, but he'd rather abstain from 'Premium Shoelace Extract'. Whatever that is.

"Right, that's a mighty fine name you got." He shakes Sirpa's hand firmly, though seemingly unaware of how his hand actually felt against hers. "Still, 'suppose it's the thought that counts."

He still remembers the first time he drank; worst feeling in the world, and he was only 18 or so. Rest of his drunken comrades forgot he probably shouldn't have been drinking... didn't stop them from ordering a shot of whiskey or two for him, though. Tasted like crap, but it's still his favorite drink. Morgan finds himself lost in his thoughts, only to snap back as the man grabs his arm.

"Woah, hey, hey, hey! What the hell d'ya think you're doin'?!" He's half ready to shoot from his seat and punch the man, but he stays still as he realizes what the man is trying to get across.

He can speak.

But no one can hear it?

"What in the goddamn..." He forces his hand back, idly cracking his fingers. He mutters with some annoyance. "So you can speak. Got it."

Teresa pulls up, and he greets her with a forced smile and waves a metal hand. "Well, I just found out our friend 'ere can speak after all. Just can't hear 'im."

Morgan nods. "Oh, you don't wanna know the half of it. Look at the words, listen to the people; ain't none of it makes a lick 'o' sense. Names of the drinks they got? Imported Genuine Tuesdays, Draft Envelope, and whatever the hell else. Could probably find a bottle on the shelf named Rusty Cat Liquor."

Piecing two halves of this together: nothing except the man seemed real or sensible. He can speak, but can't. The club venue is never-ending. The people in the club could speak, but nothing they said made sense. Even names of drinks were scattered as if some kind of sub-conscious stream of info.

Morgan figured he'd just wait for Sirpa to get a response before properly introducing himself to Teresa. Seemed like the right thing to do anyhow. The situation clearly wasn't his area of expertise.