Routines are for things with circadian rhythms. Xas isn't any good at them. But having work to do means - well, mostly it means always having dirt under his fingernails and often on his face, but it also means fitting himself into other people's schedules and usually knowing what day of the week it is. Before long he does inadvertently fall into an irregular orbit. That's why the bartender here knows what he's drinking without being told and why there are two other people Xas knows by name and could go bother, if bothering Wolfgang were to get boring.

But that's not likely. Xas has a long attention span.

He heads back toward him with drink (tequila, neat, but not much of it) in hand, pausing once halfway there to tilt his head and frown when the music's skittering beat shifts into something even less rhythmic. "I don't understand this music," he tells Wolfgang in Arabic while he slips into the space beside him. His tone is more contemplative than complaining, though, and he immediately focuses, smiles, and switches back to English, so as not to deprive any eavesdroppers of this: "I've been ordered to find out if you're available."