"This makes all the bullshit going on right now totally worth it," Grif sighed in quiet happiness after taking a long gulp from the battered glass mug.

"Glad it meets with your approval, captain," the barkeep standing opposite him replied in a cool voice.

Grif couldn't suppress the roll of his eyes. "That," he shot back, "is part of the bullshit. It's beyond me how Kimball could take a look at any us and decide that we are officer material."

The 'us' in this instance being himself, Simmons, Tucker, and Caboose. A standard week had passed since the small foursome had become officers in the battered New Republic Army. And while Tucker was going all-in training the soldiers they'd been given, Grif couldn't see how this could end any other way but failure.

One bright spot had emerged, however, when the Republic successfully retook a small backwater town near the underground base. Because while most of town was in ruin, the remaining population lived and worked in a still-functioning hydroponics factory, one of the few reliable sources of food in the entire area. And more importantly, there was a bar.

"How's the drink, sir?" Matthews continued to hover anxiously at Grif's elbow, his yellow accented helmet tucked under his arm. "I- Normally we don't tell officers about this place but I, we, thought you'd appreciate it. And, um, not tell Kimball," he concluded with a mumble.

"Yeah, explain that again," Grif demanded, turning to rest his armored elbow on the bar.

A look of anxiety flittered across Matthews face and he cast a helpless look at Bitters, who was busy with his own drink a few spots down at the bar. Clearly irritated at the interruption, the other man set his drink down with a sigh.

"We've been trading this town back and forth with the Federal Army for years," Bitters explained. "Because it has a hydroponics factory, both sides want it and try not to do too much damage to the town. The locals just go along with it all and sell and trade with whatever army is occupying them at the time. This bar," his hand swept out to encompass the crudely welded together shipping crates that made up the structure, "has survived all the armies moving in and out of here. Mostly because us grunts make sure the higher-ups don't know and can't commandeer the still or enlist the barkeep or his staff."

"We don't give a shit who wins this war," the barkeep interrupted. He looked from Bitters to Matthews and finally at Grif. "At this point, it really doesn't make a difference to us one way or another. This bar, though, is one of the few places besides the factory our people can be safe and it gives us a chance to do some trading to help make life worth living. We'll have a problem," he added in a harsh tone, "if anyone does something to jeopardise the current arrangement."

After staring back at the barkeep for several long moments, Grif shrugged and turned back to the bar and downed the last of his drink, setting the glass down once it was empty. "Sounds like you guys are the smartest people on the whole planet," he stated. "Far be it from me to tell you to do something different. I'm just an idiot in a tin can, after all. I don't know shit."

The barkeep studied him for several long moments. Finally, he grabbed Grif's glass and refilled it from the one of the metal tanks behind him. "On the house, captain," he said returning the glass. "Just so you know, we do an even trade here for drink or food." He gestured at a crude chalkboard hanging on the wall above the tanks. On it, the going rate for medicine, weapons, mechanical parts, and more were written in a clear hand. Grif scanned it, making a mental note of what was in demand and what he already knew he could get his hands on.

"Thanks for the tip," he replied after reading through the list. "I'll keep it in mind."

The door to the bar suddenly swung open and a small stream of people poured in. Their armor was much simpler than anything the Republic soldiers wore, not to mention generally made up of a hodgepodge of different styles and parts. The factory shift must have just changed.

Grif, wary of the (to him) unjustified hero worship he and the other simulation troopers had been greeted with, picked up his drink and helmet and nodded his thanks to the bartender before looking at Matthews and Bitters. "Matthews, we've barely known each other a week. This is the first good idea you've had. Maybe you're not such a suck-up after all." Then, he left the bar and made his way to towards the back of the room where he could find a dark corner to lurk in.

The barkeep watched him go, then glanced at the two soldiers that had brought the stranger to his establishment. "Interesting man," he murmured. "It would be better for you if no more command officers come waltzing in here. I doubt they'd all be so understanding." With that, he shifted further down the bar to start serving his new customers.

Bitters elbowed Matthews in the side. "I told you not to tell him about this place," he hissed, unable to keep from glancing over his shoulder towards where the orange soldier had disappeared.

"He's a hero. He said he wanted a drink," Matthews protested. He bit his lip, giving Bitters another helpless look. "I didn't think it would be bad. And it worked out okay!"

"Just don't do anything like this again." Bitters sighed. Matthews looked like a sad puppy and so god damned young. He'd completely bought the propaganda about the Reds and Blues, that they were big damn heros. And as much as he wanted to be mad at them for riding in under such false pretenses, Captain Grif, at least, had made it clear he thought their lauded status was bullshit.

Waving down the a server and sliding a small packet of antibiotics across the bar, Bitters passed one of the two beers he got in return to Matthews. As they drank, Bitters turned his thoughts to the puzzle that was Dexter Grif. The captain he'd been assigned to was lazy, overweight, and wholly uninterested in the struggle the New Republic was engaged in. And yet, Bitters had seen him heft around cargo crates and boxes of supplies that normally would have taken several soldiers to move. There were also occasional passing comments and a knowing flicker in Grif's rarely seen eyes that hinted at a far more intelligent mind than the man presented to the world.

And however overblown the Reds and Blues reputations may be, it was undeniable that they had survived some serious shit. Grif himself had several visible scars once he removed his helmet, including one that ripped straight from his right temple down and across his face to the left side of his jaw. It was hard to believe he'd survived whatever injury that had come from. No, there more to Dexter Grif than met the eye. Who knew what he was actually capable of?

The back of the bar, Grif discovered, was mostly a few rickety bar high tables and a long line of booths along the far wall, the last of which was mostly in shadow. Unhooking battle rifle from the magnetic latch on his back, Grif rested the trusty weapon against the wall and slid across the metal bench. Once he could lean against the seat back, he let out a relieved sigh and closed his eyes.

The factory workers were a noisy bunch but were so far confining themselves to the space around the bar. The door kept swinging, though, as more and more people poured in and Grif knew it wouldn't be long before it was standing room only. He hoped it took a while. He needed time to think.

The table suddenly rattled and shook under his arms and Grif's eyes shot open. A tall blond man was scowling on him with bloodshot eyes as his hands rested on the gray, unpainted helmet he'd slammed down on the table.

"This is my spot," the man insisted.

Grif stared up (and up, Jesus the man was tall) at the intruder. He could smell the alcohol on his breath, the way it's stench had permeated his armor. Grif had learned to recognize a drunk at an early age and this guy looked (and smelled) like he'd been hitting the bottle for a while.

"No reason why we can't share," Grif suggested, carefully keeping his voice level. "I'm not here to chat. Just to drink." He waited, watching to see which was the drunk would react. He hoped it wasn't with violence. Grif had a feeling fighting would get him permanently banned from what seemed to be the only functioning bar on Chorus.

The drunk shifted uncomfortably under Grif's wary gaze, uncertain what to do. Then Grif's eyes shifted slightly and he nodded his head towards the bar. "Looks like you've got drinks on the way," he noted. "Why don't you go ahead and sit down?"

The drunk turned and, seeing the armored server walking towards them with a tray of drinks, reluctantly slid into the opposite seat. His shoulders hunched and he fiddled with his helmet, finally leaving it alone once the server arrived.

"Making friends, Nick?" the server asked as they slid the drinks onto the table.

Nick shook his head. "Just drinking." He paused to glare at Grif. "He was already here."

"Didn't know this seat was taken," Grif responded with a small shrug. He dug into one of his armor's storage compartments and produced a small field medkit, which he held out to the server. "Can I put a down payment on a bar tab?" he asked hopefully.

"With that? You bet," the server replied. Taking the kit, the bland gray helmet gave him a brief nod. "Just let me know when you need a refill."

Once the two men were alone again, Grif studied the blond man with hidden interest. Nick, assuming he'd heard the name right, was already halfway through one of the beers, gripping the handle of the glass with a tight grip as he clutched at the back of his neck with his other hand. The position tickled at the back of Grif's mind. His posture about it reminded him of … something. It definitely wasn't a casual position - his hand was too low on his neck to be comfortable and there was no movement, nothing to suggest he was rubbing tired muscles.

Grif took a swallow of his own drink and let his gaze wander, sweeping over the still-growing crowd. He could barely make out Bitters and Matthews still standing at the bar.

"That's my seat."

Blinking in surprise, Grif looked back at Nick.

"That's my seat," the man repeated. "Don't take it again," he warned. For a moment, a dark warning flashed in his blue eyes.

The little voice that lived in the back of Grif's head took notice and screamed: Get out, he's dangerous. Curiosity won out, however, and besides, the voice wasn't always right. "I won't," he promised, not moving. "This been your spot long?"

Nick frowned at him. His eyes darted away, up, to the side, then down to his helmet (he could see a reflection of the room in the visor) and back to Grif. "Since the- the war," he stuttered before taking a hasty gulp from his glass.

Something new was in his eyes now. Grif could see that the hand Nick held at the back of his neck had tightened and the tall, lanky man was suddenly curling in on himself. He'd been a soldier, Grif realized. And he'd been through something bad. The flicker of curiosity in him roared into a full-on fire.

"Long enough for a decent claim," Grif finally replied, deliberately side-stepping the mention of the Great War. "I'll stay out of your seat in the future."

At Grif's words, Nick's posture loosened slightly and some of the tension in his face relaxed. Returning to his drink, he downed it in a few gulps, then set the glass down and moved on to the next.

The two men sat in silence the rest of the night. Grif had wanted time to think through everything and as curious as he was about his unexpected drinking companion, a simple Chorus factory worker (even a former soldier) wasn't as big a priority as working through the crash, the attack by the Federation soldiers, or being enlisted by the New Republic Army.

As he drank, Grif turned to his thoughts recent events, trying to decide if his current path was one he wanted to stay on. For the first time in a really fucking long time, he actually had a choice. The factory workers filling up the bar were proof enough that if he didn't want to fight, he could actually chose not to fight. Nick had clearly made the same choice.

But-

If he left, it would be up to Simmons, Caboose, and Tucker to find and save the others. Felix seemed decent enough and Kimball was willing to lend a hand but he didn't really know them. Simmons and the Blues were the only ones he could rely on. When push came to shove, could he really leave Sarge, Donut, and Washington to be rescued by strangers? And what about Carolina and Church? There were still missing.

…

Fuck, he was going to stay wasn't he?

He was going to stick with the New Republic. He was going to fight. He was going to stay a captain and have the lives of stupidly young and naive kids like Matthews in his hands.

Well, that was terrifying.

Groaning softly into his drink, Grif gulped down the final dregs. Glancing up, he eyed Nick, as he'd been doing off and on all night. The blond man was still clutching protectively at his neck but wouldn't be able to manage it much longer if he kept drinking at his current rate.

Well, if they stayed near the town for a while, maybe he'd have time to work out the puzzle sitting across from him. Normally he'd run from personal drama but hey - this wasn't a Blue Team problem. This wasn't Freelancer bullshit. This was just a sad and broken soldier. Who knows, perhaps with enough time, Grif could even figure out a way to help the guy before he drank himself to death.

Matthews suddenly pushed his way through the crowd, making his way over to the table. "Sir, we should probably head back," he suggested. He barely glanced at the man sitting across from Grif.

"Right." Pushing himself out of the booth, Grif slung his battle rifle back onto this back and nodded to Nick. "See you around, man." With that, Grif began to elbow his way towards the exit, Matthews at his heels.

Unnoticed by the men, Grif's reluctant drinking companion turned in his seat, peering around the side of the booth with a puzzled look on his face. He'd been on Chorus long enough to be familiar with the different armor types in use. And what that soldier had been wearing was very distinct. No one on Chorus used Freelancer standard issue armor.

Shaken, the man once known as Agent North Dakota turned back around and picked up his drink, his hand reaching up once more to cup protectively around the neural interface in the back of his neck. And he drank, trying to dull the pain that still echoed in his mind, to heal the gaping wound left behind when Theta had been ripped screaming away from him.

Almost involuntarily, though, North found himself picturing the the man who'd taken his seat, the seat that let him watch the room and hide the implant in his neck. He hadn't even caught his name. But- perhaps he'd come around again. It hadn't been bad, drinking with him. He hadn't talked, hadn't poked and prodded at him, tried to make friends or recruit him for one of the warring factions tearing Chorus apart.

It wouldn't be bad, North finally decided through the haze of alcohol filling his mind, if he saw that soldier again. He could at least get his name next time.