He walked in the rain down a dark street that had no street lamps. Drops pinged off his body in the moonlight. He scanned the area before turning down an empty alleyway. Past a dumpster, his feet thumping over the pavement, he saw a neon light which had gone out long ago, above a short set of stairs leading below the street level. The sign said Bailey’s. He walked down the steps and through the door.
He entered a dingy pub, bare bulbs casting shadows over haggard faces. A few leaning tables with wobbly chairs stood around on the floor and a long dirty bar sat against the far wall. Everyone looked up at the newcomer, eyes narrowing. The pool game in the corner stopped abruptly. He simply ignored the accusing eyes and took a seat at the bar.
“Just what the hell do ya think yer doin’ here, rust-bucket?” One man called from across the bar.
It wasn’t surprising. He’d expected it, really, if not something worse. You couldn’t go into an illegal bar these days and not expect some insults. Not if you’re a robot.