A rat hole wedged between a laundromat and a parts shop for obsolete vehicles.
Elias pushed open the door. A smell of stale tobacco and flat beer welcomed him.
He'd swapped his captain's uniform for a faded grey sweatshirt and a cap pulled down to his eyebrows.
The bartender—a bald guy with tattoos—sized him up with a bored eye.
"Whiskey. The cheapest. Leave the bottle."
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Bad day?"
"Bad week. Month. Year. Existence, if we're splitting hairs."
The glass slid in front of him. Elias downed it in one go. The burn slid down his throat.
He poured himself a second.
"Brilliant, Elias. Truly brilliant. You deserve an award. The Darwin Trophy for Stupidity."
The stool next to him creaked. Someone sat down heavily beside him.
Elias didn't look up. "Occupied."
"Me too. Occupied methodically destroying my liver. We can destroy together. It's less pathetic with two."
Elias turned his head.
The man had a worn-out look, somewhere in his forties. Wrinkled suit, loosened tie, glassy eyes. The kind of guy who'd abandoned all pretense around 5 PM that day and just kept digging.
"Whiskey too?" asked Elias.
"Vodka. Faster. More efficient."
Elias raised his glass. "To efficiency."
The man raised his. "To oblivion."
They clinked glasses. The chime echoed like a tiny funeral bell.
The man rested his forehead on the zinc counter with an audible *clonk*.
"She left me," he groaned.
Elias raised an eyebrow, turning his head slightly. "Congratulations. Fewer schedule conflicts for watching TV."
The man lifted his head, eyes reddened. "No, you don't understand. She left me… for a woman."
Elias almost spat out his whiskey. "Seriously?"
"Deadly serious." The man poured himself another, missing the glass. Vodka spilled onto the counter. "Ten years of marriage. Ten. Years. And she runs off with Claudia, her office colleague. Claudia! The one who wore wool sweaters even in summer!"
"Wool sweaters are treacherous," Elias agreed gravely. "Sneaky."
"Exactly!" The man pointed an accusing finger at him. "You get it! She told me—listen to this—she told me Claudia 'really listens' to her. As if, what was I doing for ten years? Mime work?"
Elias nodded with compassion. "Women are complicated."
"Complicated?" The man let out a bitter laugh. "That's like saying the ocean is slightly wet."
"I've got an assistant," Elias blurted out. "She wants me to be responsible."
The man looked at him with horror. "Responsible?"
"I know. It's radical."
"What a harpy."
"The worst part is, she's right. About everything. All the time. It's unbearable."
The man filled both their glasses. His gestures were getting sloppy. "My wife was always right too. Look where it got us."
"Drinking in a bar that smells of expired disinfectant on a Tuesday night."
"Wednesday."
"Really?" Elias squinted at the wall clock. "Shit. I lost a day."
"Welcome to the club."
They drank in silence. Around them, the bar hummed with minuscule life. Muffled conversations. The clinking of glasses. A TV sputtering a football match no one was watching.
"You know what's funny?" the man continued, his words slurring. "I would have understood another man. Really. The ego takes a hit, but you get the logic. But a woman? It's like… it's like losing a game you didn't even know you were playing."
Elias snorted. "I let a guy with a hero complex take command of a suicide mission."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a coward. A coward who's also lazy. I let others die in my place so I can keep sleeping until noon."
The man looked at him. "That's… honest."
"It's pathetic."
"That too." The man drained his glass. "But at least you own it. Me, I spent ten years pretending to be a good husband. Result? She prefers Claudia and her wool sweaters."
Elias burst out laughing. A slightly hysterical laugh that made the bartender turn his head.
"We are magnificent failures," he declared, pouring himself another.
"The finest failures in the kingdom."
They clinked glasses again.
The glasses emptied. Were refilled. Emptied again. The bartender had left the bottles on the counter and wandered off, resigned.
"Y'know what's weird?" Elias stared at his glass. "Ducks."
"The… what?"
"Ducks." He made a vague gesture. "They float. Why don't they sink? Mystery."
The man nodded slowly. "That's… deep."
"No, the water's deep. They float."
"Ah. Yeah… My wife hated ducks."
"Claudia too?"
"Dunno. Never asked." The man seemed to think hard. "You think that's why? The ducks?"
"Probably. Ducks ruin everything."
"Fucking ducks."
They drank to the metaphorical death of ducks.
"I have a cat," the man announced suddenly.
"Congratulations."
"No, listen. I have a cat. His name is Mister Pickles."
Elias turned to him, squinting. "Mister Pickles."
"Yeah. My wife named him. Ironically. Because he hates pickles."
"All cats hate pickles."
"Exactly!" The man slammed his fist on the counter. Too hard. His glass fell. Shattered. "Shit."
"It's… it's a sign," Elias mumbled.
"Of what?"
"Dunno. But it's a sign." He raised his glass. "To Mister Pickles."
"To Mister Pickles!"
The bartender approached, picking up the broken glass with a sigh.
"Y'know what kills me?" Elias started again. "It's that… I *could*. I could fix everything."
"So why don't you?"
"'Cause after…" He stared into the bottom of his glass. "After, they'll expect me to do it again. And again. And I just wanna…"
"Sleep?"
"Yeah. Sleep."
The man placed a clumsy hand on his shoulder. "You're a good guy. An honest guy."
"I'm a piece of shit."
"We're all pieces of shit. But you're an honest piece of shit."
They fell silent.
"I miss her," the man murmured. "My wife. Even if she left with Claudia. Even if she broke me. I miss her."
Elias didn't know what to say. He raised his glass. The man did the same. They clinked, gently this time.
"Gotta go home," Elias mumbled, trying to stand up. The stool clung to his buttocks. He almost fell. "Shit. The furniture's attacking me."
"It's a conspiracy," the man confirmed. "Global. The furniture has it in for us."
Elias finally managed to get to his feet. The world tilted. He grabbed the counter.
"Good luck. With Claudia. And the sweaters."
"You too. With your…" The man furrowed his brow. "What was it again?"
"My imminent death."
"Ah. Yeah. Good luck with that."
Elias headed for the exit with all the dignity of a very drunk man trying to walk straight. He bounced off a table. Apologized to a chair. Nearly collided with a woman coming in.
"Sorry ma'am, I'm…"
He looked up.
Mara O'Connel stood before him. Impeccable uniform. Severe bun. A look that could kill.
"O'Connel," Elias squeaked. "What a… what a coincidence. I was just…"
"Drunk. You were drunk. In a dive bar. At four in the morning. While we leave for Greenridge in three hours."
"Technically, I'm not drunk. I'm… inebriated. With style."
Mara's gaze turned arctic.
Elias turned to his drinking buddy, seeking support. "Tell her! Tell her I'm…"
The man had already found another companion. A guy in work overalls. They were clinking glasses merrily, totally ignoring Elias.
"Traitor," Elias breathed. "Mister Pickles will piss on you."
Mara grabbed him by the collar.
"Wait, we can talk about this…"
Mara's fist crashed into his jaw.
The world exploded in white stars. Then into blackness.
The last thing he heard was the bartender's voice:
"That'll be twenty-three credits."
And his jaw hurt like hell.