Chapter Text
It only takes him about fifteen minutes to confirm that yep, Rob and Gordon abandoned him at one of the most expensive dives in New Alexandria. Truth be told, he was kind of expecting it; he had a feeling they only brought him along so he could smoothtalk their way into a joint clearly out of all three of their pay grades. And they closed their tabs, which was his main concern. The way Club Errera charges for drinks, he’d be living off Ramen for a month if he had to pay for all of their drinks.
The Jägerbombs were a mistake, he admits.
But it’s some combination of bitterness at being left behind and a stubborn refusal to let the night end that keeps him sitting at the bar. He’s really not in the mood to join the many-hued masses mobbing the dance floor, and not about to order another drink either. So instead he just sits there, flicking his lighter on and off (he quit smoking a few months ago, but keeps the lighter around because it gives his hands something to do), watching the multicolored reflections on its polished metal surface.
And then out of nowhere a hand comes into his vision and snatches the lighter. “Stop that, will you?” demands a female voice. “Jesus, you’re making me nervous and I was sitting halfway across the bar.”
He swivels around to face her. She’s tall, with vivid red hair and eyes a green-gold so bright he’s sure they’re not natural. “Is this how you hit on all the guys?” he says.
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m not hitting on you, just trying to keep you from burning the place down,” she says. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by a lot of flammable liquid.”
It’s a stupid concern, but one more reasonable to voice than “you playing with your lighter keeps annoying me.” “S’pose so,” he says. “Especially after they cut everything here with jet fuel.” That earns him a dirty look from the nearest bartender. Right, no tip for you. “Can I have my lighter back?”
Holding the lighter up, she purses her lips speculatively. “Promise not to blow us all up?”
He gives her his best winning smile, holds out his hand. “Promise.”
Smirking a little, she presses it back into his hand and he promptly returns it back to his pocket. “I’m Amanda,” she says.
The turquoise number she’s got on is low-cut and tight-fitting, with legs a mile long underneath it. “Nice to meet you, Amanda,” he says. “I’m Anthony.”
“You here all by your lonesome, Anthony?”
“Well, I came here with a couple of buddies, but they seem to have left me to fend for myself.” He shrugs and grins, not interested in making it look like he’s bothered.
“Oh.” Amanda’s eyes flick over the empty counter in front of him. “You drinking anything?”
“Ahh…” He leans towards her a little. “Don’t tell anyone here, but I kind of can’t afford most of the alcohol here.” Well, technically he can, but at this point he’s not so desperate to get drunk that he’s willing to shell out twenty credits for a beer.
Amanda smirks at him, slides onto a barstool and gets the nearest bartender’s attention. “Two bombshells, please.” As the bartender moves off to make the drinks, she turns to Anthony and says, “You know, usually it’s the guys trying to buy me drinks.”
“I believe it.”
“I don’t let them.”
“I believe that too.”
The bartender returns with their shots; the second they both have their drinks, Anthony knows it’s a competition. He tosses his back without hesitation (for all his comments about jet fuel, the alcohol here tastes almost as expensive as it costs) and sees that Amanda’s downed hers like a champ as well. She's got a tattoo on her shoulder, a stylized eagle with outspread wings.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Ex-military?”
She shoots him a look. “Special Ops, and I’m still active.”
“No shit! What’re you doing here?” A tiny voice of panic says she’s looking for him, but that’s ridiculous, no one’s sending out Special Ops for one AWOL grunt.
“My dad’s setting up a project headquarters south of here, I’m going to go help him with it,” she says. For the first time she’s lost a little of her bravado. “What about you?”
He makes a noncommittal gesture, shrugs. “Just kind of kicking around, I suppose.”
“What, no distinguished service for you?”
“I tried the military. It didn’t stick.”
“Huh.” Amanda taps her fingernails on the bar, eyes him speculatively. “Maybe you should try out this project instead. You might like it better.”
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t tell me you started talking to me just because you’re recruiting.”
Laughing, she shakes her head. “Hardly that,” she says. “But all the same, if you’re interested –” She looks him straight in the eyes, all seriousness. “We could use some people with military background.”
“Huh.” Honestly, he could care less about this project at the moment. “You got a number I can reach you at? You know, in case I decide I want to join.”
She smiles wryly, knowing exactly what number he’s after. “Project Freelancer, look us up,” she says. “We’re taking applicants soon.”
“Really? You know, I’m taking applicants too,” he says, and emboldened by liquor, reaches out his leg to slide his ankle across hers.
Amanda stands in one deliberate movement. “I’ve got to get going,” she says. “Nice to meet you, Anthony.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at her, only a little regret in his smile. “You too.”
“Remember, Project Freelancer,” she says, and walks away. Soon she’s disappeared among the crowd and lights, leaving him with nothing but a flush on his cheeks and a dim sense of disappointment.
And a name. Project Freelancer.
Well, he is an opportunist if nothing else.