[January 350th, GPY 3. Bronio, Ganymede.] 0842. UGT.]

[Merit: 6,214]

A few measly hours that quickly passed before his alarm went off and a catnap during the ride down to Bronio Hospital was all the sleep Randolph Orpheus managed to get before he again waddled through the front doors of the building, spilling loud gratuitous slurps of coffee across the otherwise peaceful waiting room.

With the obligatory nods and greetings to the seated patients and the companions, O attempted to counter his rising crankiness by wallowing in the pride of his successful, early morning operation on one of his most esteemed patients. An attempt that evolved into mental contest between that very pride and any minor inconvenience he'd come across between there and the med-tech's desk.

Fighting against the impulse to just continue on through the short corridor before him, past the double doors and through the short maze to his private office, O obligatorily leaned over the tech's counter, and even ducked his head beneath the glass to at first greet, and the silently study one of his assistants, aimlessly staring at the wall with nary an inclination as to the anyone's presence.

'Clink!'

As if a gun had gone off, the hulking med-tech clumsily fumbled in his seat and blinked whatever he was watching away at a criminally slow pace before he turned to face the can-sized vacuum-flask before him, and them up to O, staring impatiently. "I-" His deep brown skin glimmered with the onsets of sweat as his head shook madly in confusion. "You- you're early, Doctor."

"Yeah." O embraced his lips around the flasks wide mouth to spill grotesquely long and loud slurp throughout the waiting room before pausing a moment to hide his grimace from the bite of the heat and the other things before lowering the mug with a few subtle nods. "I have a feeling I'll have another operation soon." He chuckled, gesturing over his shoulder with a jerk on the chin. "Not to mention the ever-increasing queue. Euhaha."

A few slurps of coffee, nods of affirmation, awkward moments and mildly expectant gazes later, O threw out his chin towards the young technician. "So, Fred," he said in a flatly authoritative tone. "What were you watching?"

Fred's eyes immediately drooped in defeat before he reluctantly shared a campaign stream via a wave of the hand.

Seamlessly, the panel bloomed in scale until it covered the entirety of Orpheus' Field of view, coating his surroundings in a digital translucent film.

'Huh.'

O chuckled softly to himself again as he took a moment to study the metal-armed humanoid tracking across the surface, the concentric circles of turquoise and orange displayed proudly under the faint sun near the center of focus. "You just missed him, you know?" He chuckled again while dismissing the feed.

"Yeah." Fred became visibly relaxed as he let out an awed sigh. "Did he tell you, he offered me a job?"

"Indeed?" O curiously rose his brow while turning his head closer towards Fred, yet his words sounded more like an affirmation, than a question. "Well." He shrugged, pulling himself and his mug away from the desk. "You are your own person."

In truth, O knew he'd be internally toiled to see one of his finest med-techs leave him. However, Randolph Orpheus was just as aware as the next Galilean of the unwritten sin of persuading another against potential opportunities of personal growth.

"Indeed." Fred nodded slowly before moving his gaze from the feeds occupying his subjective vision, back to the doctor's eyes. "In all honesty, I have thought about taking his offer. But." He paused to lean a few centimeters closer towards the doctor. "As of now, it's just that- A thought."

***

[January 350th, GPY 3. Jude, Ganymede. 0903. UGT]

[Merit: 722]

Looking across the dancefloor on the spinward side of Clyde's as he settled behind the bar, Zoltan felt a weight of relief fall from his shoulders as he cheekily grinned at the chokingly thick crowd of Ganymedeans being surveyed by the few bouncers in the various corners. The mess of dancing, sloppily tipsy people were packed more densely than Zoltan had seen on any friday he'd tend in the place. Each sitting alcove, dance floor and section of wall sat stocked with regulars and newcomers alike, all dancing and moving and drinking and conversing with each other at an intensity that literally vibrated the walls.

While thanking the universe once again that he wasn't chosen for bouncing duties, Zoltan hurriedly muted the deafening noise around him. Reducing his subjective ambiance to the happenings around the bar and any reminders of the excuse for music baring throughout the place to a steady knocking of bass against his chest.

As if an AI took control of his body, Zoltan kicked open the trapdoor beneath his feet and lowered himself a few rungs down the ladders before beginning to methodically restocking the bar with bottles, freshly sanitized glassware, muddlers, jiggers and strainers, rags and the other necessities he'd need for his surely lengthy shift. After checking, double checking and rechecking his inventory, Zoltan climbed up from the trapdoor storage and stomped the seals shut before turning to see his first customer sitting idly by the bar.

Without a word, Zoltan faced about to pull a glass from the rack and stepped forth to pour out a pint of lager to the brim and slide the glass over to his oldest friend.

Still staring off into empty space, Tobias carefully plucked his drink from the bar and raised the rim to his lips to take a few light sips that echoed loudly within Zoltan's nearly muted ambience. After sipping down over half the glass, his perpetually lazy; yet curiously wide eyes slowly turned towards Zoltan, beaming with both excitement and digital light. Following his motions, a card-sized digital panel slid across the bar before halting before Zoltan and scaling up in size to the dimensions of an average monitor.

"Did you see his last duel?" Tobias asked, his voice rattling with obvious excitement as he set down his glass. "The knight's spear was a fucking torpedo! Went right through em!" He cackled before Zoltan could even answer. "And look where he is now!" He maddeningly cackled again while throwing his hands at the augmented screen shared between them.

"Yeah." Zoltan nodded with apparently mild interest before tilting his subjective panel forward off the bar for a better view as he tended other customers. While there was still a lot Zoltan still didn't know about the Europan, he was certain that Jordan was a particularly headstrong individual; witnessing him train day after day for weeks on end had proven as much, a certainty that yielded his current lack of surprise or enthusiasm. As Zoltan continued to watch Jordan wander around the plains of Ganymede in search of his target however, he undoubtedly felt a sense of awe in regards to the young E-Ranker, and his ambitions. Chances of winning aside, Jordan was attempting something that few Galilean's; if any, have ever sought to accomplish: Slaying a Saturnian Knight, a member of the finest military operating under the Sun's light; and a high ranking one at that.

The tenacity displayed by Jordan should've been rewarded in itself; in Zoltan's opinion, giving him certainty that in the moment of Jordan's victory, he'll find himself rewarded with more than just merit for his endeavors.

With those thoughts floating in his mind, Zoltan waved his hand towards the digital screen and watched the main screens above the dancefloors; surrounding the bar in each cardinal direction, splayed the soft-blue light of Ganymede's surface throughout the establishment. As a single entity, the patrons inside turned to the nearest screen to quickly survey the change in atmosphere before; in most cases, returning to their business.

Feeling the small fires of pride welling up in his belly, Zoltan turned away from the screens to address the queue of patrons lined up before him.

After mixing and sliding cocktails, mixed drinks and pints to their respective drinkers and refilling Tobias' glass, Zoltan attentively turned towards the screen across the dancefloor to check on Jordan's progress. Through the gap in the sea of heads, Zoltan saw a large stage, centered by a few oddly dressed earthlings dancing in tune with the music in the middle of some terrestrial plains.

Internally grimacing, Zoltan peered around for the tender or high-paying patron responsible for the change, and let out another grimace after failing to find someone potentially responsible. After replacing the ancient concert with Jordan's campaign once again, Zoltan occupied his dry time by people watching, while Tobias slowly finished off each of his drinks with large, sporadic gulps.

A few minutes managed to pass before another customer came waddling up to Zoltan. Them being a regular, Zoltan methodically threw a few ice cubes into a glass before filling it half-full with their finest house whiskey. All the while looking back at the outdated concert once again flashing on-screen. After nodding away the regular, Zoltan hurriedly changed the feed back to the campaign, spurring a silent duel between the two masters of the screen.

***

[January 350th, GPY 3. Portunia, Ganymede. 0917. UGT.]

[Merit: 1,173,943]

In one of many suburbs scattered around the city of Portunia, a particular buzz could be heard emanating from a squat building of stone and wood that stood proudly in stark contrast to the abstract homes surrounding it; a buzz of periodic screams and cheers, never before heard from outside the confines of the establishment by the regularly passing folk.

If one were to venture inside Nagata's Shrine, they'd find that the root cause of such noise was from a relatively large, digital bucket that swung and swooped in the air to the people congregated around the gambling machines, bar and tables, eagerly tipping its mouth in their direction. With each passing, those closest to the bucket would call out one of two words before gesturing towards the bucket in one form or another, and either idly continuing on with their business, or basking in the ensuing cacophony as the others watch their points fall.

Though most never looked directly, the attention of virtually everyone inside was focused on a spectacled individual seated at the bar, near the end, where the 'U' shape of the counter met the wall. His concentration was apparently fixated on the synthetic grains of the bar before him, his slender, peach-cream fingers rhythmically tapping at the sweating glass of amber liquid held gently in their embrace, sounding out distinctly metallic clinks throughout the bar and subtly refracting the scattered overhead light with their movements.

Releasing his grip from the glass, he ran his hand through his somewhat long blonde hair, partially ruining his otherwise stylish comb over before tapping at the bar for a refill, causing a majority of the bar's tenants to turn their heads towards his glimmering hands, poking out from a white, long sleeve, button up shirt that was covered in a black vest and matched with black slacks and dress boots.

"Jeez." Sam shook his massive head as he trotted over with a bottle in hand. "They're like hawks." He chuckled, eyeing the man across from him while filling the glass halfway.

"It's annoying." Arthur wistfully sighed while side eying those around him. "This is exactly why I never told anyone my last name."

"Maybe." Fred countered in an objective tone as he simultaneously shrugged, set the bottle behind the bar and slid Arthur his drink. "Just maybe, they're worried about how you feel about them placing bets on your dear brother. Or." He chuckled loudly through a devious grin. "Maybe they're anticipating another loss on your end."

"Hmpf." Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes as he pulled his drink to his lips to intake a moderate sip. "Honestly." He sighed, setting the glass down. "I never understood why anyone cares."

"Everyone's fascinated with the twenty Founders of Gale." Sam stated as if it were obvious. "Or, at least one of them. Less than a quarter of them have kids. Only a few, in most cases. But." He chuckled to himself and seemed to duck his head as he studied Arthur closer. "How many does Villan Astros have, exactly?"

"Forty-five." Arthur said matter-of-factly from behind his glass.

"Exactly." Sam retorted in an equally blunt tone. "Half that is a rarity."

In lieu of the fruitless blabbering that was all but guaranteed to ensue if their current course of dialogue were to continue, Arthur ignored Fred and instead turned away from the bar to beckon the vibrantly obtrusive bucket floating above the center of the place. Without delay, it dipped in the air before drifting off in Arthur's direction, pulling with it the attention of every set of eye scanners found within the bar.

As it settled before him, Arthur focused on the billboard-like surface positioned in place above the bucket to study Jordan and Field Marshal Quinn Law's likenesses portrayed on each side.

"Jordan Astros!" Arthur shouted. "I wager, one-million points!"

Sam immediately recoiled with the words; along with everyone else, and swatted the bucked aside. "Woah, Arthur! Are you sure? I mean." He shook his head before letting out a nervous, despairing chuckle. "You lost half-a-mil last time. Lose again, you get demoted."

"I'm well aware of that." Arthur snorted from behind his glass before finishing off his drink and returning his attention to the small screen augmented onto the bar.

Arthur knew his brother better than anyone here, moreso even than his friend. He knew that Jordan was angry; frustrated, but level headed enough as to not let that drive him too far over the edge. Instead, that energy synergized with the results of his diligent training, shown through the fluidity and efficiency of his first engagement just minutes ago. More so, Arthur knew that more than anything else, how much Jordan wanted to win. And the tenacity he could display when fighting for what he wanted.

"I have faith in the Knight Slayer," Arthur said, eyeing Sam from under his brow.