[PS] Bar/Theatre/Arcade

[Orion]

Molecules materialised, recomposing from the amazing technology that the telepod possessed. In a few moments Koola was complete again, his eyes refocusing from blurred vision. Rubbing his bony scalp, he stepped off, lest he be telefragged by another creature warping through.

The changeling prince came to an information sign, showing a colour coded map with a legend describing each area in detail. There was a dojo... nah, he wasn't in the mood to fight just yet. Beyond that was a museum... again, a history lesson would only serve to bore him. He wasn't sleepy, so that ruled out the living quarters. That left one option.

Plodding down the staircase, Koola was hit by a wave of foul, nose burning odours. Several smokers in the vicinity let their nicotine based stench waft around as carelessly as those spilling their drinks did. Obnoxious hooting and discussion filled his ears, spanning from who was going to dominate Dante's Abyss to how much cash it would take to get the cute waitress to remove her top. Koola snorted in contempt. This place had the same atmosphere as a generic Saiyan bar.

Sucking in his last untainted breath, he descended into the bar, deciding that he would not breathe while inside. His race was just so composed that breathing was merely a luxury, not a need. Spotting a seat at the bar that seemed furtherest away from the mindless banter and cigarette smoke, he made his way there hastily and sat down.

"What can I get you?" the moustached bartender asked as the changeling made himself comfortable.

Koola cocked an eyebrow. "I don't drink."

"Really? Well that's a first," he said as he stroked his handle bars. "Is there anything I can get you?"

He pondered for a moment. "Milk. A nice cold glass of milk."

"Now there's a warrior's drink."

Koola eyed the human next to him where the comment had originated. A long purple robe covered his body, concealing whatever frame the old man had. He gently pulled his long white beard off the bar and let it dangle into his lap. Holding an empty glass with translucent milk running down the inside, he looked at the changeling.

"Do I know you?" the prince inquired nonchalantly.

"No, but you didn't order a drink. That makes you different. Different than all the others here."

"Yes I did. I ordered milk."

"I meant alcohol," Grandpa Gohan said in an annoyed tone. "Everyone else here is chugging down the booze, while you opt for milk. Why?"

The bartender firmly placed Koola's glass of milk on the table and slid it over to him. Without a word, the Icer took it and sipped from it. "Because that stuff reminds me of Saiyans. And I refuse to drop to their level. I don't want to act like them." There was a moment's pause before the Icer spoke again. "Why are you interested, anyway?"

The elderly man shrugged. "Just making conversation, I suppose. You're probably the only sober one here." Gramps stroked his beared before continuing. "So if alcohol reminds you of the Saiyans, why did you walk into a bar?"

Koola finished drinking his milk and slammed the glass on the bar. "What's with the inquisition, old man?"

Gohan's eyes widened slightly. The changeling unintentionally just hit one of the seasoned fighter's buttons.

"Old man?"