Tick.
"Woah, brah didja see the match last night?! That haymaker in the twelfth was off the HOOK, man!"
Tick.
"Maazz, zhat was a joke rezzzt, Khan tobzzly had that shbzzt zzbzag, the judges stolzz bzz."
Tick.
"Zzz, Brzz, ya gzzbz zzbzt thbz bzz z gooz zbzt bzztgh."
.. Tick.
The man at the bar let the sudden activity at the bar from these hulked up clubbers fade into the background; that slow, treacle-like activity of the meatheads and 'dancers' enjoying the latest bland mix of 80s pop and modern DJ skills blaring through the speakers in this room. To him, there was nothing worth listening to, no-one worth approaching, nobody to talk to. Why did he even come to this godforsaken place? One glance at his hand told him that. To forget. He had to forget, and this drink would do it. This next drink would finally free him of the burden. He wouldn't have to care about the events of Orivall any more, the memories would stop picking at his conscious, the ghosts that haunt his dreams would finally die for good. Drink Number three hundred and eighty six would do the job. He had to believe.
"It's my lucky number, after all", the man at the bar muttered, before chugging Drink Number three hundred and eighty six.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Failure. Just like the other five empty glasses surrounding him, gently rattling to the hum drum of the club. Just like the other three hundred plus drinks he's tried to turn into a memory-erasing weapon these past months. Just like the Orivall mission he was a part of, back when there was still hope. Staring at the chalk-green bartop, he stared through and saw the past once more. The man at the bar was there at the climax, and he would never un-see those events; the final fall of the old regime of Admins he cherished so dearly. One by one, the leader of the new regime walked down that ramp and casually ended the lives of his bosses. His former bosses. His former buddies. His former confidantes. He can still hear the clunk. After Largenton made his 'glorious' sacrifice to pull the killswitch and save the remaining men and women, the survivors scattered. The news? Bought out and turned into mindless pro-dictatorship garbage. The leader did not even care to chase those that fled, or send in his dogs to hunt. No, he had won the war of Orivall, and it gave him even more pleasure to know those that failed to stop his rise would suffer under his rule. The man at the bar fled furthest, to the backwaters of the States. He just wanted to forget.
"Bartender. Another double."
The bartender walked over, and in a casual Southern droll, replied, "Are you sure? It won't help you."
Looking up and away from the bartop, the man at the bar glared his reply back - who WAS this joke to tell him differently?
"Sir, I do believe I ordered a double of your foulest whiskey, not a double of your sanctimonious preaching."
"Hmph, your loss. Seven Fifty."
The exchange was made, the drink was dumped in front of the man at the bar. Drink Number three hundred and eighty seven. The drink that would succeed. The drink that will purge the memories aside. He knew it. Muttering to himself, the man talked to the drink. "It's up to you, Three-Eight-Seven. You're my lucky number after all." But before the man could finish the drink, a shadowy figure floated down next to him, the shining grin highlighting an otherwise darkened and mask-obscured face.
"Funny, I always thought your lucky number was seven, after your seven-second beatdown on Fly back in Parr."
Pausing at that moment, the man at the bar let the drink down gently back on the table. He didn't need to see this. Leaving the drink to his own devices, the man turned to this hooded figure, and let his rage sweep through.
"You. You have five seconds to run before I make sure that grin is the last thing you see before you d-" The man growled, before suddenly stopping as the hooded figure took off his mask. That grin remained, however it now framed a much different person, clean-shaven and confident.
"Miss me?" Bunni grinned even louder at the man at the bar, hoping for some love from the man at the bar, a fellow soldier at the war of Orivall.
He got a punch to the face instead.
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