Milk Punch

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Disaster averted, Lark looks away from the man, pressing a few buttons on the cash register - nothing that does anything, of course, they just like the beeps it makes. Their gaze turns steely at his comment, still focused on the cash register. They bite their tongue lightly, glancing at Dapple’s thumbs-up and wondering how sincerely they’re supposed to take the gesture.

The time traveler supposes that this is Dapple’s life, and they don’t get to decide how she lives it. Still, they can’t help feeling a little defensive of their boss. Insult them all you want; Dapple didn’t do anything to anyone. That they know of, anyways.

“Do I look equipped to handle a gun, sir?” They ask, a skeptical eyebrow raised. They thought it was pretty obvious that they were a teenager, and their estimation of him dips a little lower at the implication that a teenager would be more responsible with a firearm than himself. Perhaps they should take it, just to put it in a box somewhere to be forgotten about.

Still, they point to the name tag and accompanying pronoun pin on their apron; Lark, they/them. Miss them with that miss talk. “You haven’t said what kinda shake you want, yet.”

They still aren’t entirely sure that they know how to make everything on the menu; they’re likely to make more of a mess than a meal, despite how often those things seem to overlap here. Some Future Lark could probably handle it, but do they really want to spend more time with this guy?