"Uuuuuggggghhhhh....." Sinclaire struggled down the creaky metal steps, holding a very heavy case of random bottled drinks. The case rested against his chest, smashing against the side of his face, as his hands began to cramp from the weight. He huffed, kicking open the door, and stumbling into the dying speakeasy that was in the basement of a well-known food bank. The speakeasy, a concrete room with only a long bar, stools, and low hanging glass lights, occupied about four people at this time. Most were sitting at the bar, with a drink in hand, and a depressing expression on their face. Sinclair hurried to the bar and dropped the case on top, hearing the bottles rattle inside. "Umm...you Carson?" Sinclaire grabbed the delivery order from his vest pocket as a bartender walked over to him. "Are you?" The bartender, an older man with blonde hair and highly pointed ears nodded. He looked over the case with his blue eyes, running a finger along the the plastic casing. "Yeah, you're...juice...is here," Sinclaire said. "Just sign on this line. Here's a pen." After handing the bartender the pen to sign the delivery order, Sinclaire sat himself on one of the open stools. He sighed tiredly, slouching in his seat, regretting accepting this new delivery job. He thought it only had him run around the lower east end of Haven City and maybe cut into the west end. But, he had no idea he would be riding along in his little moped throughout the struggling side of the city. "Can I get something to drink? Anything with caffeine," Sinclaire ordered. "Make it quick." The bartender nodded and went to make Sinclaire his drink. Sinclaire let out another sigh, his fingers drumming along the counter, as a few more urban elves poured into the speakeasy. It was about "siesta" time, where everyone takes a two hour break from any time of work for lunch, hang out with friends, or nap until it was time to go back to work.