The last time Cass could remember being this nervous, she and Ashleigh were staring down a Legion hit squad – at least a dozen strong. In a way, though, this was worse. At least with the Legion, she knew where she stood; she knew how to deal with them. She was in her element: shoot, stab, punch… maybe throw in some purloined high-yield military-grade explosives for extra flavor. But this… she didn't have the slightest clue where to even start with this.
"Salad fork? Soup spoon… which do I…" She stared helplessly at the enormous spread laid out in front of her, at all the shiny silver utensils and the delicate china – three kinds of forks, three kinds of spoons, big plates, little plates, miniature saucers, tiny cups with even tinier handles, crystal decanters spaced out across the table like a field of sparkly landmines. "Where do- what- I…" She sighed and crumpled up the cloth napkin in her lap, dumping it on the empty plate in front of her. "Ah, fuck it. I'm not hungry, anyway."
She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up, flirting with the idea of just making a mad dash for the door, and disappearing forever amidst the bright lights and neon haze of the Strip. But she couldn't do that. This crazy bunch of dysfunctional misanthropes were her friends – her family – and she couldn't cut and run on them now – not even against odds like these.
Instead, she made her way over to the bar – her home away from home. She bellied up to the finely polished wood, almost as if drawing strength from the smell of wood varnish and liquor that rolled together under her nose. She eyed the bartender: aging, but dapper with his salt and pepper hair, impeccably groomed mustache and neatly pressed tuxedo. She wasn't even sure how people even managed to find those kinds of clothes, and in such good shape, but considering the miracles Veronica had worked with her dress (as awfully constricting as it was in all the wrong places,) she'd stopped being surprised by such things. "You, sir," she said, her hand halfway up to her forehead to tip a hat that wasn't there – she halted the gesture midstream, feeling awkward and suddenly even more out of place than she already did. "You, sir," she began again, "are going to be my savior this evenin'. Whiskey."
"Whiskey it is," he said, already reaching for a bottle and shotglass behind him. He poured smoothly, with the measured and even touch of someone who was an old hand at serving drinks, then nudged the shot over to her with a small smile.
"What is this? Do I look like some kind of sissy who can't hold her liquor?" She snorted, picked up the shotglass and knocked the booze back with practiced ease. She scoffed, flicked the glass back across the bar with a disdainful, two-fingered stroke and then flounced over to a nearby table. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. You usin' this? Didn't think so." She stole an empty wine goblet from right under another dinner guest's nose and came back with it, placing it proudly atop the counter. "That's better. Now fill 'er up."