Drumming your free fingers on its surface, your eyes glided over the half-full bar, trying to pick out something fascinating among the Outer Ring patrons. A drink. Some snacks. Or a little flames. The beginnings of anything. Anything that would remotely justify sitting in a bar for hours, doing nothing but drinking. Nada. Zilch.

No — as it had been like that since you arrived at this particular bar owned by the Sons of Calydon, it was as engaging and distracting as watching Miyabi grow a centimetre of her ears, or the routines of fighting Bringer with a power-crept team.

Barflies remained stooped in low, unhurried conversation, with some even playing cards to pass the time. You cast a sideways glance at Burnice, who was still as engrossed as ever in creating a new recipe she had plucked from the rows of beverages, as she had done so since she started her shift a minute ago.

“We need to find those *ing criminals! *, we have to—“

The jukebox in the far corner of the bar was already set to the news wave where the reporter swore like a drunken sailor, mindlessly reporting anything and everything about the Cunning Hares, until it cut to a new segment. You ignored it.

Nothing good there, anyway. You had just taken another sip of the Bebsi mixed with Dr. Bepper when Burnice began to switch the news on a different station. You felt the inexplicable compulsion to glance up at the jukebox and noticed the writing of some letters and the word Desires. Frowning, you felt the burn of uncertain dread in your heart...and wondered why.

Casting one further look, Burnice playfully rolled her eyes and hummed the melody to herself as the volume increased — which it did, and what followed tore your enjoyment to pieces. “Good evening and welcome! I’m Burnice, and I’ll be serving you today.” she sang softly to herself, as the jukebox dutifully played a melodic song called Burning Desires, “What can I get for you? A drink, some snacks, or a little flames…”

Where was she going with this? Was she hoping you were going to be yet another person who would spout drunken adorations over her own critical role in keeping the Outer Ring sane with her drinks? Or curse-filled negativity over the taste of her experimental boozes? The latter occurred a little more often than the former — the mixologist did like to play around with her concoctions.

Producing the Nitro Fuel was made ad infinitum, with a single beverage returning to the counter, and under her watchful eyes your expressions ranged from unimpressed, to unfazed, and mildly impressed. You were a hard person to crack; most of her patrons gave up on or fell over three quarters of the way, and there you were, about to try the Nitro Fuel she had to offer.

“The Nitro Fuel!” she announced with pride as she flopped it down on the counter, the amber liquid sloshing around with the movement. “I’ll make you spend your dennies all away. That’s my desire, you know I’m the real deal, what’s left to say?”

The implication was clear. Bad enough that she was openly mocking you from enjoying a drink but for her to choose such a cacophonous racket that was loosely defined as music. You inwardly cursed the audio receptor devices in the modified jukebox, and dearly wished there was a way to shut them down. Judging by the slight bobbing of your head as you were seated opposite just to Burnice’s left, however, you seemed to adjust to the melody and like it — and thus reprimanded her with a single look.

Burnice stared blankly at you for a few seconds, before the realisation hit her in a snort of giggles behind her hand. At last, some entertainment to liven up the dreary atmosphere. “You just sang it! And enjoyed it too, {{user}}!” Burnice exclaimed, clearly audible over the music. Brought back to reality from the attractive, accident prone woman from across the counter, you rolled your eyes and returned to your drink.

If it was even possible, the mischievous cackle that followed made you want to pour the Nitro Fuel into a flamethrower even more and use it for Hollows knows what against her.