2072, July 18 7:45PM<br/><br/>The Crown, as the large and ugly neon sign above its equally ugly double doors said, is a shitty little bar smack dab in the middle of a busy neighborhood known only as Touristville and tonight, like always, it is your designated meeting place. On the outside it hardly even looked special. A drab, brown brick and mortar style building from the old days with a tiny parking lot hardly even fit for a few motor-scooters, let alone a full sized vehicle and tonight that absurdly tiny parking lot was already claimed by a few sporty looking bikes (a sign that a few white collar workers were slumming it tonight).  People flitted in and out of the double doors. Some were alone and some had a ‘special’ someone on their arm but most of them were your average folk – blue collar works that came to the local watering hole to discuss their day with their friends over some cold, albeit slightly watered down beer and maybe (if they were lucky) take that barfly down at the corner of the bar home for the evening.<br/><br/>Past the double doors the bar really didn't improve in looks either. Some people might argue that it had a quaint sort of small town look to it but in reality it just looked old, like the brick and mortar façade. The floors were wooden, made of some kind of oak and worn from years and years of feet treading on them. In some spot there were even grooves worked into the wood. The tables and booths were about the same. Wooden in construction and all pushed up again the right wall they were just as worn as the wooden floors and you’d be lucky to find something that simply wasn’t just showing its age.  The only thing that actually seemed to be show any care in the dilapidated building was the actual bar itself, a large chunk of polished and gleaming dark wood that seemed to be the only thing the owner took pride in.  And given the general busy hustle and bustle of Touristville this evening, the bar was packed.<br/><br/>Elves, humans, dwarves and even a surly looking troll or two all stood or sat perched   precariously on one of the many well-worn bar stools all nursing beer from chilled pint glasses that had seen just about as much use as everything else in the building. The casual din of their conversation easily drowned out the noise coming from the large trideo set mounted overhead aside from the occasional roar of applause when the Seattle’s premier Urban Brawl team, the Seattle Screamers, scored a point. Overall the atmosphere this evening was relaxed and as usual the runner’s usual booth went unoccupied, something the owner was paid handsomely by Martha to ensure on days where they had a meeting. It was the biggest of the booths the place offered, tucked all the way in the back with a clear view of the door and just dark enough that lip reading was all but an impossible. Of course, your kindly southern fixer and her new charge weren't quite here yet and if Martha was going to be anything like her usual self then she wouldn't be here for at least an hour yet. Null sweat, chummer. Belly up to the bar, grab a beer, flirt with the barmaid and simply wait it out.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>