It was the middle of the morning; or rather, what someone had at some point arbetrarily decided was the morning. Amos had always thought it strange and illogical to cling on to such notions, what with every planet having a different rotational and orbital period. It was necessary, he supposed: without some sort of standardised time, you'd never know when tomorrow was; you'd never be able to grumble about having to be up for an early shift, either. But the idea that everyone let something so abstract govern the way they lived their lives.

Amos rebelled against that concept. It was just shy of 10:00, and he was already most of the way through his second beer.

There were no doubt a miriad of advantages to having the Rebel Cruiser Valiant coasting around the stars in amongst this rag-tag ensemble of freighters and transports where he found himself again. But right now, the only one that seemed of any importance was the availability of a steady source of decent alcohol.

He'd hoped to sit alone and have a drink in peace; unfortunately, the new barman - the old one had apparently been appropriated by Captain Tyree when he'd been reassigned - was a droid, with an overly peppy and eager personality program. Amos was actually surprised that none of the techs had yet managed to schedule the droid for "routine maintainance" to correct the problem, or at least install a comedic accent into its linguistical subroutines to make its constant thirst for conversation more tolerable. Maybe the reputation that Colonel Vorega had earned amongst the crew before she took command was enough to make them wary of potentially incurring her wrath.

Amos had been forced to resort to glaring at the droid intermittantly, in order to belay its attempts to wander over and strike up a conversation with the only other occupant in the room that wasn't engaged in one already. This time however, he made the mistake of allowing a little too much time to ellapse after draining the last of his ale, and the droid seized the opportunity to swoop in. "I couldn't help noticing that you have completed the process of consuming your last beverage. Could I perhaps provide you with another."

"Yeah," Amos grunted dismissively, a finger and thumb wiping away some stray moisture that had crept into his beard.

The droid watched his actions critically. "It would seem that your extraneous facial growth is complicating the drinking process. Would you like me to obtain something with which you can remove it, thus eliminating the inconvenience?"

Amos' eyes narrowed into a defensive scowl. "Suggest shaving off my beard again," he muttered, voice almost feral, "And I will rip off your arms, and beat you into spare parts with them. Understand?"

The droid recoiled in an approximation of surprise. "My appologies; I did not intend to cause offense. Is there a means through which I can make ammends for my error?"

A grunt escaped Amos' throat. "You can get me my beer," he responded, "And then leave me to drink it in peace."

Fortunately, the droid seemed to get the message, and ambled away stiffly, servos whirring as he moved. Amos sighed, and slumped a little on the bar stool, allowing his eyes to roam the room just in time to catch a glimpse of the doors opening.