The Bar

A dim neon sign flickers above a doorway tucked between a pawn shop and a run-down casino. Inside, the smell of whiskey and cheap cigars lingers heavy in the air. The counter is scarred oak, the stools mismatched, but the bottles behind the bar never run dry.

This is The Bar — where hustlers, hitmen, dealers, racers, and every other kind of Torn misfit come to drink, talk, and maybe strike a deal. No bosses, no cops, no questions. Just a place to unwind, swap stories, and see who stumbles in next.

The jukebox in the corner hums to life as the bartender wipes down a glass. A single rule hangs above the counter in faded paint:

“No bullets. No blades. Just booze.”

The rest? That’s up to whoever walks through the door.

The neon light caught my eye before I even noticed the door. Guess that’s how it goes when you’re new in this city, every shady glow feels like an invitation. I slip inside, casino jacket still smelling of cigarette smoke and spilled bourbon. Long day of dealing cards to people luckier than me. 

“Name’s… call me Kryll,”

I mumble to whoever cares enough to look.

“Been in Torn a few days. Thought I’d try my hand at hustling cards, maybe make a clean start.”

I chuckle, though it’s dry and cracked.

“Turns out clean starts are expensive. One bad bet turned to two, and now the house knows my name a little too well.”

I glance at the single rule above the bar, No bullets. No blades. Just booze. and exhale.

“Guess I’m just looking for a place to breathe, maybe pick up a tip or two on how to survive here without drowning in the debt.”

I nod toward the bartender.

“Whiskey. Cheapest you got. And maybe some advice for a guy who’s spent more chips than sense.”

I stand behind the counter, grey collared shirt buttoned up to the neck save for the top. A glass squeaks against the rag as I finish cleaning it, then I reach for the bottle and pour the cheapest whiskey I’ve got. Ice rocks clink as the amber settles, and I slide the glass down the counter toward Kryll.

“Evenin’, Kryll. First one’s on the house,” I say with a chuckle. “After that… much like your work, not much else is free around here.”

I gesture toward the busted jukebox in the corner, the neon light flickering off its cracked casing. “Even that damn thing’ll steal from you if you let it.”

I laugh a little louder this time, already reaching for the next glass, polishing it like I’ve done a thousand times before.

I pick up the glass and turn it slow in my hand, watching the amber catch the neon.

“First one’s on the house? Dangerous kindness in a city built on debts"

I say with a half-smile before taking a sip. The burn feels like home.

“Casino doesn’t give much for free either… just enough rope to hang yourself with.”

I glance at the jukebox, then back to the bartender.

“So what’s the play here? drink, listen, and pray nobody takes too much interest?”

I keep polishing the glass in my hands, a soft, knowing smirk tugging at my lips.
“I’ll call it an investment, then — a seed to make sure you come back and spend some coin. As for the play?” My eyes flick up. “That’s whatever you want it to be. You’re my customer, after all.”

The glass goes back on the shelf with a quiet clink as I straighten the cuffs of my shirt, keeping movements smooth and deliberate. I take the rag to the counter, wiping away faint rings left behind.
“Listening’s a fine skill in this city,” I add, voice even. “You never know what you might catch… and information can fetch a pretty large sum. Providing you stay outta the spotlight, no one will see ya — if that’s what you want, of course. Others charge for it.”

I finish the counter and set the rag aside, posture easy but ready, the kind of stillness that says I’m here to serve — if service is what’s needed.

My smirk sharpens, but my eyes stay tired.

“You’re saying ears pay better than cards?”

I tap the bar once, thinking.

“Maybe I’m in the wrong hustle. Cards keep taking... info sounds like it gives.”

I lean in just slightly.

“Where’s a guy like me start?”

I lean over the counter just slightly — we’re the only ones in the bar, after all.
“Honestly? You’re in the right place. There’s always plenty of talk around tables and machines; you just gotta get lucky… or rub elbows with the right crowd.” I tap my nose with a knowing gesture.
“Naturally, everything comes with a risk. Could land you in a hospital… or worse.”

My gaze flicks to the back wall, where a few framed photos hang crooked.
“Some folks think borrowing cash for a get-rich-quick scheme is clever… but if you break a Duke’s deal? Well, he’ll come knocking.”

I huff out a dry laugh.
“Borrowed cash for get-rich-quick schemes? Sounds like half my last year. Thought I was done dancing with devils but maybe Torn’s got bigger ones.”

I lean in, voice low.
“Seems you know more than just how to pour a drink. You point guys toward these Dukes… or warn ’em off?”

I shake my head slowly.
“The Duke’ll line you up with work, or lend you cash — but like any loan shark, he wants it back quick. Miss a payment and the next job isn’t for you… it’s for the bloke who comes to collect his dues.”

I pour myself a glass of water, drink it down, then polish the rim of the glass with the rag.
“My honest advice? Stick to your gig. Climb the ranks — you get perks, handouts, and, most important, experience. Better to take steady steps than fall off a cliff chasing one big score.”

After a pause that felt like hours had gone by...

I let out a long breath and nod, rolling the empty glass between my palms.
“Guess I needed to hear that. Been chasing quick wins since the day I set foot here.”
I slide the glass back across the counter.

“Maybe it’s time to learn the game instead of trying to beat it overnight, hey... I never caught your name"

I smile a little warmer, “There’s an old saying: Rome wasn’t built in a day… but some of it was. Take your steps, don’t rush.”

I take the glass and begin to clean it meticulously, cloth moving in practiced circles. “These parts, I go by Shadow… or Solair.” I finish the glass and adjust my cuffs once more. “If you’re hunting for tips, track down George. Old-timer’s been around forever — knows more than most care to admit. Doesn’t hand out work, but sometimes knowing where to look is worth more than the work itself.”

[OOC/Game Tip:] Duke does hand out missions — they earn you mission credits that can be spent on some solid gear. He’ll also offer loans, but miss a payment and debt collectors will come knocking. George, on the other hand, is more like Torn’s encyclopedia — he won’t send you on jobs, but he’s full of info and guidance.

the bar door opens and a young blonde women comes into the bar as the door closes behind her she walks over to the bar and takes a seat

hello, I would like a Tom Collins if those are available.

Gameplayer75 enters the bar.

Gameplayer75 sees that the bar looks cheap. No class, no dignity. But it is news to him. He finds a stool to sit on and takes his pack of cigarrettes out of his pocket. He sees the cigars lined but just to make sure...

Gameplayer75 asked, "Is smoking allowed in here? I'll have Top Shelf or Swill if you have some."

I turn to the young woman with a polite nod. “Welcome to The Bar, miss. A Tom Collins? Absolutely — I’ll have that right up.”

As I reach for the gin and lemon, I glance at the second guest. “Smoking’s fine, so long as you’re not fogging out the whole place. Ventilation’s solid enough here.” I chuckle softly, finishing the pour.

With a smooth motion, I slide the Tom Collins down the counter toward the lady, then set out a dual ashtray — crafted for both cigarettes and cigars — in front of the gentleman. “There you go. Hope you both enjoy your stay.” I straighten my cuffs with a small, practiced smile before returning to polish the next glass.

Gameplayer75 accepts the ashtray and begins to light one stick to smoke it. The smell of cigarrette leaves a familiar sensation from its smell. A brand that smells like menthol.

"Excuse me boss, do you perhaps some Top Shelf in your stock? I'll have whatever Top Shelf you have. I can take a Swill if you can't but don't make it have worse quality than a swill," asked Gameplayer75 while he smokes the cigarrette. He seems to be eyeing the alcohol placed on top of the shelves.

I nod, grabbing a stool to reach the very top shelf. My hand closes around a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label — the good stuff. With care, I take out a chilled glass, pour a measured amount, then return the bottle to its rightful place.

Sliding the glass across, I straighten my cuffs again with a practiced tug. “There you go, mate. With a chilled glass, it goes down even smoother.”

As if on cue, the old jukebox in the corner sputters to life, its speakers crackling before launching into The Offspring’s “When You’re in Prison.” The cheery harmony clashes with the smoky air of the bar, earning a soft laugh from me. “Damn thing’s got a wicked sense of humor.”

Thank you, how long has this bar been here if you don't mind my curiosity? I like to explore the city and different venues but never noticed this place before *she take the tom Collins and takes a sip, waving my hand to redirect the smoke before jumping slightly at the jukebox randomly starting startling her a bit*

Wood walks down the street, on one of his periodic sabbaticals from the Tavern and faction responsibilities. He'd already grabbed some food at a new restaurant down the block. Wasn't bad, wasn't good. Would probably disappear in 6 months or be bought out by someone else. That's how businesses worked around here.

He paused when he came to The Bar, pausing to look at the exterior, before shrugging. No harm in eying up the competition he thought as he stepped into the bar. He walked up to the bar, pulled out a small roll of bills, and set a few 20's on the bar.

"I'll take a Moscow Mule. If you can't do that... an Old Fashioned will be fine." He said, grabbing a seat at the bar. He saw a few other customers already, but he decided to let them come to him if they were feeling talkative.

*Sabrina eas drinking her Tom Collins as she heard the door open again and watched the man come up to the bar and just gave a simple nod hello before taking another sip of her drink*

I turn to the young woman first, meeting her curious glance with a small smile.
“This bar’s been here longer than most care to look, miss. Some folks walk by a hundred times before the neon finally calls to them. Maybe you were just ready tonight.” I chuckle softly, giving the counter a quick polish. When the jukebox sputters to life with another Offspring tune, I nod toward it reassuringly. “Happens to everyone—the thing’s got a mind of its own.”

The door opens again, and another man steps in. He lays a few twenties neatly on the bar before taking a seat. I nod, noting the gesture. “Moscow Mule, sure thing.” A chilled copper mug is filled with ginger beer, lime, and vodka, stirred clean and smooth before I slide it toward him.

“Honest cash for an honest drink,” I say with a quick grin, tucking the bills toward the register. Adjusting my cuffs, I lean back behind the counter, watching how each new guest shapes the room. “Hope it hits just right after the city’s grind.”