Fire

Setting at the edge of the seedy bar, I was handed a glass of something or other readily, making me stare at the bartender in hatred, knowing he'd played a joke on me. 

"Robots don't drink, I get it, yeesh!" he hissed at me, sliding the glass down the table to another shady-looking man. 

Piping up, my partnered agent lifted his properly elegant, riveted-shut finger to the man, with "Our designations are by model, Sir, everyone knows that. I'm a Cerin, she's a Sascha."

"What do you want, already?" he returned the comment with a snide glare, "I don't got time for this."

Lord, his grammar was atrocious; almost as much as Cerin's pronunciation of my name. "Sir," I rolled my eyes, switching the voice box inside of my head to a softer, seductive tone, "Comply with us or we will have to use our licence to kill."