He stepped out onto the street at ground level. A warm breeze rustled his neck-length hair as it made its way down the busy street. He turned into the wind and headed up the street.
Most people wouldn't have noticed the plain, steel door. Xavier did though. He spent enough time in that dank little bar. He reached for the handle and pulled the door towards himself. The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol filled his nostrils as the scents rushed past him to the fresh outdoor air. He stepped inside.
His eyes adjusted to the dark room in front of him. A modest sized establishment, though it reeked with smoke and drink. The dim lights hardly illuminated the bar at the far end, or any of the tables at the sides. In the middle sat a pool table, hardly touched by the occupants of the bar, too drunk or depressed to play. This is where he belonged. He walked across the room to the bar, glancing at familiar faces as he passed by, no one spoke much in here. The old music rang from an ancient sound system on the left wall, it's tune suitable to the bleak atmosphere of the bar. The stool sighed as he sat on it, a sign of the weight he had begun to put on since after the war. It's amazing what depression and alcohol can do to a fine tuned soldier. Jim the bar keep walked over to him.
"Back again Xavier?"
"Just get me my drink Jim. I'm not in the mood"
"Are you ever"
Jim attended to other costumers as he readied my drink. Scotch on the rocks, my only peace in a world that was torn apart.
"Damned colonists. . ."
The drink was down his throat the instant it reached his hands. He really had let himself go from the well-mannered young grunt he had been. Back when he wouldn't think of touching a drink, back when war had meaning, ideals. Back when his wife was alive.
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