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All around her is a cacophony. A dozen or so muted conversations mixed with the backdrop of bass heavy music fill the bar. Little tinks of glass contacting plastic and metal tables and booths join them. It’s all so alien to her. Yet so fascinating. So unlike the usual chorus of noise she used to hear, back in those old days. A million conversations, calls, and other voices; an entire planet and moon’s worth of data constantly being heard, constantly competing for her attention.
Here however it’s far less busy. To the patrons beside and near her it must seem like a bustling night of activity. So many people, so many little conversations, so much that a normal person would fail to fully pick it all apart. It would be deafening trying to piece together every single detail. But for one such as her; a siren fed an entire world’s content, it’s childishly easy.
She tilts her head a bit and lets her ear catch whatever stimuli come its way. A couple talks of happy times. Pair of friends share a hearty laugh. Two men are throwing darts with daggers and one is doing terribly. The speaker’s bass is off by a few decibels from what it should be. There’s so much more she could pick out but she chooses not to. That simple act itself brings a smile to her face. That she can choose to not continue. She can choose to do nothing at all. It’s a very small thing but to her it feels like so much.
A woman, the bartender to be exact, approaches her. Her painted face conveys kindness. Genuine kindness. Not the false sort he so often gave off. The women’s name is Moxxi. She’s forty six years old, has four children; two of them still in contact with her. She’s been officially married three times. She and her father for lack of better termsused to date. He was a terrible boyfriend. The girl has never met her and yet she knows an entire life time’s worth of info of this women.
“Hey sugar. What can I get you?” She asks her. Her voice is soft and welcoming. Much like her smile. The girl has never drank before. That man would never dare let her. She requests something simple, something tasty and sweet. Then changes her mind at the last second and asks for the most over the top thing Moxxi can provide. She wants to treat herself to something. It’s a weird feeling, having the right to choose. But it makes her feel giddy at the prospects.
“Whats your name hon?’ Moxxi asks. “Angel” The girl replies. “Cute name!” Moxxi replies as she fixes the concoction. Her words make the girl blush. No one’s ever complimented her name.
She’s finished and hands it off to her, then moves to attend to another customer. It’s a small martini glass. Impaled upon a small plastic umbrella are several fruit slices. Rimmed around its edge is a faint trail of sugar. The liquid itself is some odd swirling mix of purple and teals. The colors shift and turn into ever more hazy hues. It excites her.
She cups the glass and stares at it. She knows she can drink it. No one will stop her; some might even cheer her on. Yet she hesitates. There’s a block of sorts. A mental wall telling her to stop. She can imagine him scolding her. Yelling at her, raising his voice, anything to intimidate or guilt her.
“Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Do as I say.” He would always yell when she was young. Before the eriduim. Before everything.
Yet he’s not here. He’s gone now. He can’t tell her what to do. He can never hurt her anymore. She knows that yet it’s still so hard to grasp. The glass remains where it is and her eyes follow the wisping trails of color.
“OH FUCKING DAMNIT!” A voice calls out. She snaps from her stupor and looks in its place of origin. A man has spilled his drink. He curses some more. Other patrons swear as well. “Fucking damnit.” “Shit.” “Asshole!” A vulgar chorus enters her ears and she eats it up. It’s so odd to hear such words, that man never let such words be spoken in his presence. Called it verbal littering he did. She wants more of it with each word.
“Eat shit!” “Fuck you and your mother too.” “Bite my dick.” She titters. It’s all so amusing to her. She hunches her posture and eyes her sides as if trying to hide something. She smiles wide.
“Ass.” She whispers and immediately giggles. Her hand covers her mouth as if she just spoke the most profane thing in all of creation. She stifles another round of quiet laughter and whispers another word.
“Dick.” It feels liberating. Like a small weight removed with each word.
“Shit!” She says excitedly. She is smiling now. Her face beams with a greater joy than she has felt in years. The mental wall slowly begins to crumble.
“Fuck!” She stifles a louder laugh and stares down at her drink. Her reservations have ebbed yet still there is that nagging little mental tug that just keeps her from partaking the glass’ contents.
She musters her will and inhales.
“Cocksucker!!” She yells. No one so much as glances at her and with an open mouth grin, she feels all resistance fade and sips it. It tastes nice. Sweet at first with a faint bitter aftertaste. She can’t describe the flavors; it’s so alien to her. She takes in another. Then another. Then another.
It burns on the way down, not unpleasantly so. She feels warm and something akin to lightheadedness. Her body feels less stiff.
She downs the rest in a final sip and pants. The tune’s bass sounds louder for some reason. She can feel herself swaying to its hypnotic beat. She bounces on her stool to the beat and laughs. It’s like being a kid all over again.
“Another please!” She asks. Moxxi complies. She gulps it down. Everything begins to sway with her. She feels limp and knows what she wants to say most of all.
“MOTHERFUCKER!!!”
The whole bar looks at her.
***
The vault hunters march from the teleporter. Their bodies ache with fatigue from another mission accomplished. One heads to Marcus to trade loot, another to Zed for healing. The rest venture to Moxxi’s to make their own little celebration. As they near the entrance they notice something, or more accurately an absence of something.
There’s no one outside. Not a soul. The whole street is empty of even vagrants.
They walk closer and pick up on a louder than typical commotion originating from the bar. Even from here it looks to be packed. There’s a song being sung. They enter.
It’s utterly crowded inside; Moxxi is busy filling drink orders, her face excited. The tip jar is brimming with cash. Everyone’s attention is focused on a certain someone in the center of the bar. Sitting on the shoulders of a rather large and rather drunk patron. The vault hunters finally can tell what they’re saying. They’re chanting a name. Her name. A drunken revelry in honor of her. She brings a mug of frothy beer to her lips and pours it down, trails of booze falling past the sides of her mouth. She finishes it in one go and returns it, arousing a chorus of cheers from the bar.
It’s Angel. And for the first time ever she is happy.