It had been some time since she had checked in with Cafas, he had always been out when she was in, or they had missed each other by moments, or he was locked in the Danger Room… All manner of reasons as to why she was currently in possession of an almost comically large sack of money, money that really should have been transferred to the pink-haired metal manipulator weeks ago. Still, she was only comfortable with leaving a certain amount at the shop (multiple locks and all) and when the customers paid with cash for custom made weapons, well, the green stuff just added up.

This time she was determined to get a hold of him. She searched first the corridors, with the sack of cash safely stashed at the bottom of her backpack, wrapped in a jumper and under a drink bottle and some books. When the corridors produced only a few kids mucking around and a puddle of what looked like it had once been carpet she proceeded to the Danger Room. Outside the Danger Room was a line-up of assorted mutants, some obviously so, some not. When a slippery looking youth informed her that a lesson was about to begin she deduced that there was no Cafas there, either. She decided she would try his room, before heading on to the grounds, and eventually to the shop if she hadn’t yet found him.

She made her way gradually over to his room, stopping to look at the beginnings of Christmas decorations, passing by the kitchen to get a snack, all that jazz. She had almost finished her second cookie when she arrived at his door and rat-a-tat-tat’ed on it, a rhythm that felt like a code, a code established over a long time in a post apocalyptic New York… She had passed off the dream, or what she could remember of it, as a particularly vivid night-time hallucination, yet little bits of it came back to her now and then; crossing a back alley and automatically scanning the area for potentially collapsible walls, the flicker of surprise when certain vending machines were full and functional, and now the series of taps that once (or never) meant ‘friend, uninjured, let me in’.

Why was that knocking familiar? He wasn't sure, but he knew somehow that whoever was outside the door meant him no harm, and was not harmed themself. Heck, he could pretty much tell who it was too. "Just a second." Cafas finished the sword he was using, he had to adjust the crystalline structure of the metal particles, to make it a little more rigid, which otherwise would be achieved through quenching the metal from high temperature.

Heating it would almost be easier... Less convenient though.

Cafas stood and wandered over to the door, perhaps a little more wobbly than usual, the empty cans littering his room probably told the tale of how he got to that point. Cafas made to grab the door handle, however as he did it disappeared. A thick steely mist hung about floor level before spreading out.

And so another handle joins the deceased that litter the carpeting of this room. It does have a nice shimmer to it these days though.

He gave a tug on the hole where the latch once resided. The door swung open. "Oh, hey Verdy, how's things? Wanna come in?" Or some slightly slurred version of that. Cafas gestured vaguely into his room and stood aside. He had some idea of why she was here, he hadn't seen the cash profits of the shop in some time. not that it bothered him, most of the stuff people payed for with Cash wasn't terribly valuable. Still, the influx of cash would be nice.

Can replace that indicator you smashed last week huh?

After a little fumbling the door opened and her pink haired friend-come-employer stood before her, a little unsteady, but cheerful. When he waved her in she gladly entered, it had been too long since they had had a decent catch up.

“Good, good, been a bit busy at the shop.”

Of course he knew that, he was the one who read and filled the order forms she helped customers complete and submit. If he didn’t know how busy it had been there must have been sword-elves coming in at night to do all the smithing.

“Got the cash, actually, from the last couple orders.”

So saying she plonked her bag on the nearest bed, disrupting a small pile of cans, and rummaged through to the bottom where the cash stash was lurking. Offering the bag to the metal manipulator she noted the other cans scattered about the room.

“Celebrating?”

He had good reason, the shop was going so well that even on commission she was quite well off, as the larger portion of the sales went to Cafas, he was surely doing well. Although, as far as she knew he had a steady boyfriend, which she lacked and expected could be a bit of a money spending reason.

"Busy? No kidding. Not much in the way of sleep these days myself, but I'll manage!" Through substance abuse, mostly caffeine. Cafas returned to the sword he was meant to be finishing, boiled a blade onto it and dropped it into a sheath (which was not a usual part of most orders, most people just liked a box and display board, which he could buy.) "But, I doubt you're here to listen to me talk about my sleep habits."

Oh, cash. I need somewhere to put all this.

"Goody! You know they say money can't buy happiness. Those people are poor." Crack, glug glug, stifled burp, clunk. Cafas picked up the cash bag and emptied it out onto his bed. Looked like a few thousand, which was wholly unsurprising given what he charged, and what people seemed willing to pay. It would take a fair bit of counting, the variety of notes didn't help that either.

The bank can deal with that one... As long as all the receipts are kept I can file my tax just fine.

He felt like a proper grown up. It felt good and bad simultaneously. Cafas separated out two thousand in fifties, grabbed a pen and his personal receipt book and wrote out a pay slip for Verdy, tearing out the carbon copy and filing it by date in his folder for employee payment. "There you go, have a bonus." Cafas handed her the money, smiled, had a few more glugs, set his can down.

Wait, she asked something else...

"Celebrating? Nah not really, I'm just not on call today and filming is off due to unexpected weather." Which clearly meant that case he kept in the back corner of the mansion's walk in fridge, by the box of five year out of date cola, where he felt pretty certain it was safe, needed to be brought out and finished. "Gotta enjoy the days off, don't get enough of them. Beer? Only Aussie stuff I can find, still, four X ain't bad."

The wad of cash was welcome, while she had no immediate bills, and her saving account was steadily growing, she had in mind a few things she wanted to buy, a new winter coat among them.

“Thankyou muchly. Fair enough, days off are quite nice, and all the better when there’s a bit of a drink involved. How is that movie going, by the way?”

She took the offered beer and cracked it open. She wasn’t entirely sure how Australian beer would differ from normal beer, but figured she wasn’t really a connoisseur, or someone who could even really taste the difference between brands. She took a moderate swig (one didn’t really sip beer, as far as she could tell) and immediately went into a somewhat elaborate coughing fit.

“So…hack cough splutter strong”

It was true, the beer was quite different to the almost mellow flavour of those she had tasted in the states. It had punch, and an air of larrikin she had seen in her Aussie friend, kind of a light-hearted but heavy handed slap on the back. It was fitting, really, a drink that so reflected the culture it was from. The fact that the cans were printed with the triple X so often seen on TV or in cartoons (albeit with an additional X tacked on the end) also amused her a little more than it probably should have. Her cough abated, she took another, more cautious slurp, this time prepared for the full-fledged flavour, and the rough fizz down her throat.

“Why do Australians like such strong flavours?”

She was reminded of the stories she had been told about the semi-solid black salt they spread on toast or sandwiches, the multitude of kill-you-in-your-sleep-critters and the general nature of Australians, and realised she should have been more cautious to try anything with Australia in the ‘made in’ line.

"Movie's going okay as far as I can tell, not much experience you know?"

Can was taken and opened. Cafas grabbed his own and held it up to toast the amber liquid more than anything else. He took a swig, which turned into him drinking the rest of the can. He crushed the empty can with his hand and tossed the crumpled bit of tin in the general direction of the bin. "Technically, not supposed to do this, but what the boss don't know wont hurt him."

The girl, however, had dissolved into a coughing fit. Americans. He shook his head a little before descending into a fit of laughter. "Can't hold your beer mate? I've missed it, this Yankee stuff ain't as good if you ask me. It's all light beer by comparison." Not that it stopped him drinking it. He took one of the remaining cans, though now starting to lose the frost from their outside, and cracked it too. He took a drink and waited for Verdy to regain herself.

"Strong? This one's pretty mild for an Aussie beer. Still, I get that question with Vegemite too. What I want to know is why Americans love sugar so much, even the bacon here is sweet." And everything came with syrup.

Cafas settled himself next to the rest of the money on his bed. The room was moving around playfully on him so he figured he could out think it. Try making him trip over if he sat down, room! No response from the room, it kept trying, and kept failing.

That's what I thought punk!

How would one tell if a movie was going badly? She assumed B-grade actors would know they were B-grade actors, or at least recognise the automaton responses of their co-stars and guess. Plus, from what she could tell the movie he was working on was a little higher calibre than the latest budget-cut screen filler, trying to make it big.

“Never really had beer like that…”

In all honesty she was more of an alcohol-that-doesn’t-taste-like-alcohol kinda girl, but she wouldn’t say no to free drinks offered by a buddy.

Vegemite. That was it, the icky-sticky substance used, as far as she could tell, in Australian college initiation ceremonies, or for purging the palate of tastebuds. He compared the strength of flavours with the over sugary nature of American food, and while she wasn’t quite sure how the two measured up against each other, she was inclined to agree.

“I guess because Americans would prefer to ruin their teeth than their tongues.”

Damn it, now she felt like bacon pancakes. Was there even anywhere open nearby that sold such a syrup-sodden all-day-breakfast food? Surely, there was bound to be. Besides it was progressing towards dinner, and the beer sloshing around in her empty belly reminded her that she probably should have had lunch, or breakfast, or even a snack. There was something just so absorbing about video-games, you could forget that you were a human being with needs, or organs such as the stomach and bladder.

“Are you hungry?”

Who knew, maybe there was some Australian café (did Australians have cafes?) where she could try some of this Vegemite, or some other Aussie delicacy.