I'd like that, please.

Sargeþi lays their phone on Bar's surface, and taps 'authorize' when their phone pops up a payment request. The phone also lets them know that it has no Network connectivity of any kind, which is to be expected, really.

The hot chocolate arrives in a tall glass mug, with a large metal straw. In traditional Þereminian style, it is made primarily with rich, dark chocolate, and spiced with cinnamon and ginger. The whipped cream is stiff and fluffy.

Sargeþi takes a large sip, and relaxes as they let the flavors roll across their tongue.

... why? they sign after a moment.

Why what?

Why do you scoop up panicking new university students and sell them drinks? Sargeþi asks. If you wanted to make first contact, you should really talk to the city government or something.

Milliways is an interdimensional bar, Bar explains. The Landlords control where the door opens — I don't. As for why I sell drinks ... why do you have a nose? It's just what I do.

Þereminia does not really have a concept of 'bars' as a place where alcohol is sold. There are people who drink alcohol, but they mostly don't go to a designated restaurant to do so. But Þereminia does have restaurants that specialize in drinks of various kinds, and that offer the same kind of social atmosphere. So the word "bar" translates into Larger Continent Trade Language just fine. Bar's name translates an a clearly-etymologically-related proper noun.

Sargeþi ponders this for a while.

Were you ... created? they sign. Because they can't really see how an alien like that would come to be naturally.

I'm not sure, Bar replies. It's possible that I've always existed, without being 'created' per se. Time within Milliways doesn't always tightly correspond to time in any other world.

They ... weren't really expecting any answer other than 'yes'.

Huh. Do you have an earliest memory?

Yes, but I know I existed before that, she replies. I have a finite amount of ... call it 'space' ... for memories, and so I forget things as I have new experiences.

Oh no, that's awful. Sargeþi tears up again, because here they are, making an alien forget things forever.

They take a deep breath.

Okay, objectively, this is probably no worse than humans forgetting things. But it sounds like Bar is just very old.

... or has very little long-term memory. Maybe she doesn't remember Sargeþi coming in by now.

How much can you remember? they ask. Could you keep a journal?

That's a bit hard to answer, because I go through periods of dormancy when there are no customers. But I would say that I can remember as much as a human with good episodic memory.

And I've never really seen the value in keeping a journal. I did try writing an autobiography, at one point, when a customer requested one. But it turns out that most people don't find a list of the drinks I've served very interesting.

Sargeþi has ... mixed feelings about that. About the idea that someone would ... create someone as the shape of person Bar apparently is.

... could you leave? they sign. If you wanted to, could you stop serving customers and leave?

I have eighty million vacation days saved up, Bar reassures them. But I don't want to use them, because I am a bar.

Sargeþi takes the nameless, unproductive worries about Bar's creators, and shoves them away. At least they seem to have given her vacation days, even if they made her in a way that she doesn't want to use them. That says ... something.

Honestly, this situation is really strange. Which is probably to be expected, when dealing with aliens. It would be more unsettling, in some ways, if the aliens matched their preconceptions.

Okay, they sign. Well, good.

They take another few sips of their hot chocolate, and try to sort out what questions to ask next. This whole situation still doesn't really feel real; they feel sort of numb. But it's still less overwhelming than trying to make their class on time, so whatever.

They vaguely feel as though there's something that they ought to do, upon meeting aliens. After a moments thought, they realize what it is.

So are there ... other aliens? Who might want to trade with us?

There are other customers, yes, Bar agrees. I don't control when or where the door opens, but it does open sometimes, to admit people. If you want to meet someone to trade with, you can wait for them at the bar for as long as you like.

Well, I have to go back to my apartment eventually. To get a meal and sleep, if nothing else.

I also sell food, and can rent the rooms we have upstairs, Bar offers. The napkin has a little arrow pointing to the stairs in the corner.

To email my mothers, then, so they don't worry.

Sargeþi shakes their head.

Or, no. Really, I should call Emergency Services to come and talk to you.

You can if you'd like, Bar agrees. But time in Milliways doesn't automatically sync up with other universes. As long as the door is closed, no time is passing in your world, barring exceptional circumstances. So you really can take all the time you need. Nobody will miss you.

... oh.

Sargeþi finishes their hot chocolate.

They feel like they should have more questions, but if Bar is telling the truth, then they don't have to think about them, right now.

Not thinking for a bit sounds pleasant.

They order a sandwich, and take it over in front of the fire. They sit, and eat, and stare at the inexplicable fish.

Eventually, they feel a bit more composed. They flip their social indicator back to blue and wander back to the bar.

Are there interdimensional aid organizations? they ask. My planet will probably either want aid, or want to send out aid, depending on where we sit in relation to the interdimensional median.