The problem, he thought, was that he just wasn't threatening enough.

Smith was dressed in a pre-war business suit. A very striking and clean suit, one that did entreat himself to most city dwellers in Megaton and Rivet City, but unfortunately didn't impress raiders at all. A sad thing, especially for a mercenary. Fear was its own currency in the Wasteland. One he lacked.

He pulled out an apple from his jacket and paused for a moment. He really did need to get that terrifying look down. Although looking scary in the middle of the afternoon was almost impossible.

Still, if there was one thing the Wanderer had taught him, it was to leave a lasting impression. And what better way than to wear a suit?

He liked the suit anyway. Although finding time to wash and dry it was more than a little inconvenience. As was keeping it from being torn.

But it had pockets. That alone made it more practical than any combat armor he'd ever seen.

It did make this job harder, however. If he was the Wanderer, decked out in full power armor, plasma rifle in hand, and a seven foot tall super mutant and rabid dog at his side, convincing the raiders to stop gambling in the bar would be easy. But he did not have any of those things.

So he had to get creative.

That was his specialty. It had to be. He couldn't fight head on, not the way the Brotherhood or 101 did. It made his skin crawl when the bullets passed him and made it hard to shoot straight. He was a one-shot kind of guy. Which, hopefully, lent a hand to killing raiders.

Smith polished the apple with his sleeve. He took a bite slowly from the apple and looked at it in the light. It didn't look that appetizing anymore. Especially with the black spots. And the smell.

He surveyed the town, deciding to ignore the offending apple for as long as possible. He hadn't been here in a long time, but it seemed to be the same as always. It was dry, but the whole area was dry. It was a nuclear wasteland. But it was the little things that stuck out in his mind. He could see a few children jumping from the sheet metal roofs. He could hear Nova arguing with Jericho, loudly proclaiming that he did not belong here and had to leave. And most of all, he could smell it. The sweat, the blood, the brahmin pies. It was mixing and fermenting, creating a distinct smell Smith had never quite forgotten.

And he saw the raiders.

Not actually see them, of course. They wouldn't lurk outside and be subject to a mob of settlers. They were inside, where any such mob would hesitate before attacking. But he could see the people's unsettled eyes, their slow walking and hesitant moves. There were raiders here, no doubt. Unless Smith was scarier than he previously thought.

Raiders. Back in the old days, they lived up to their name. Pillaging, killing, causing hell. Not so much now. Not with the Alliance, the combined force of the Brotherhood, Regulators, and Rivet security on their tails. And sure as hell not with 101 always lurking around these parts, itching to blow one of their heads off in his typical fashion. Nowadays they were usually kids who couldn't join the Brotherhood because they couldn't handle the power armor training.

Oh yes, the Brotherhood. Even though this chapter had started out as a small dispatch, they were the largest military force around now. Recruiting actively. Growing constantly. Killing periodically. An organization to be reckoned with.

Smith hated the Brotherhood. Not because of doctrine or private feuds but because of their sheer size. Massive and clunky, just like their armor. They were usually stuck with the big problems, like the super mutants and the occasional Enclave squad. They had little leeway in choosing their work. They were reaching the point where they were essentially an army. And an army needs structure. Structure that hadn't quite set in yet. That made them the equivalent of an overgrown child not used to its new-found strength. Smith had dealt with the bureaucracy before and hated it. Too damn slow for it to be effective. He preferred mercenaries. At least they were straightforward. Cash up front and the job's done.

Besides, the last thing he wanted was to be part of the same organization as the Wanderer. It brought up too many unfair comparisons. Especially considering the difference in skill.

He sucked with rifles. He sucked a lot. He couldn't line up the cross-hairs and keep his arm steady. Pistols, oddly enough, weren't a problem. It was only rifles. And the big guns, of course. Though that was more of a matter of preference. He didn't need to overcompensate. Not that he could say the same for the Brotherhood of Steel.

The Brotherhood couldn't or wouldn't deal with these raiders anyway. They weren't hurting anyone, just gambling, cursing, and just generally setting people on edge. They were not even Raiders anymore. Just a children's gang, playing rather than doing.

But Smith was going to take care of the job anyway. He was paid to, and that was his code. Payment was binding.

At least, it was for him. Otherwise, he might lose his sanity and kill someone.

He took a small bite from the apple and threw it over the wall. It had lost its taste a while ago. More than 200 years ago, in fact. Why he bothered picking it up in the mall was a mystery.

He entered the bar. Moriarty's, though Moriarty had long since passed. The radio played in the background, tuned to the only radio station anyone played anymore, GNR. Three Dog was finishing his usual rant and began playing more music. He had heard this track so many times, he knew it by heart. He considered smashing the radio but decided not to. Best not to irritate his employers.

Gob gave him a quick look and nodded, pointing his thumb at the table in the corner. He was one of his employers. A ghoul, and one with considerable influence now in the town. While not nearly as powerful as Colin Moriarty was in his heyday, he still was one of the main players in Megaton. If he wanted to, he could easily throw the entire town into chaos. But Gob was not Moriarty. Anything he did was for the good of the town, including this.

Smith walked over. Three raiders surrounded a table, cards in hand, caps in a small pile in the middle. They smelled strongly of alcohol and cigarette and dung and piss and God knows what else. He could hear them swearing, feel them glaring at each other, and even see them spit out their words.

He smiled. They were playing poker.

They noticed him quickly enough. With the typical gifted grace characteristic of Raiders, one of them said, "The heck you looking at, punk?"

Punk. Heck. They really were sanitized now. Couldn't even curse properly. A disservice to their own kind.

Smith cowered a little bit, gave them something to savor. It would be best to keep them happy as long as possible. "Nothing, sir, nothing at all. Just noticing your game and all and thought I might to join."

The one on the far left snorted. "You know how to play poker?"

"Well, no sir, but I'd sure like to try. I got caps and everything. 500, right here." He pulled out a handful of caps from his jacket, letting a few slip through his fingers.

They shared a look. 500 was more than most of them saw in their lifetime, and certainly more than they were gambling with at the moment.

"Join us, kid. I'll teach you all about poker," one said, yellow teeth flashing in a way he probably thought was appealing but instead made him look like a molerat shot up with Jet. He had an eye patch on his right eye, which was rare enough in the wastelands. Most with an injury like that wandered about and then got shot.

Smith took it in stride and pretended to feel reassured by the expression, though in truth he very much wanted to blow his brains out. He pulled a chair out and sat down. The Raiders looked at him with all the poise of starving wolves. They clearly thought they had wandered into a goldmine. He smiled gratefully at them. An honest smile. He was looking forward to this job.

They dealt out cards and explained the hands, or at least tried to. It was a pretty shoddy and bare bones explanation. It barely even skimmed the surface of the game.

He wondered briefly if it was on purpose. They were raiders. He wouldn't put it past them. Then again, they were raiders. They didn't have enough brain cells to cheat that way. Most likely they only had a rudimentary grasp on the game in the first place.

Not that he cared. He already knew how to play.

He followed their lead with the bets, not paying attention to their size. Instead, he took a look at his cards. Two jacks and three cards, offsuit. He took out the three cards.

He looked at them. The one on the left tried to hide his excitement. Probably thought he could get a flush or a straight. On the other hand, the one on the right had a pained look but quickly covered it up with a lopsided grin. A bluff, and a terrible one at that.

It was the middle one that worried him. He couldn't read his eyes. The eye patch distracted him. Damn eye patches. They always seemed to get in his way.

But none of those things should have concerned him. He stopped looking at their expressions. Instead, he decided to concentrate on their weaponry. Each of them had a hunting rifle strapped on their backs. Practical, but it restricted how fast they could draw their weapons.

That was good. He needed that edge. After all, Smith was good but not that good. Not like 101. He could've killed the whole lot of them even if they had their weapons out and loaded. No, he needed those extra seconds desperately.

He checked his new cards. Surprisingly, he had three kings now. Add that to his jacks, and he had a full house.

He sighed. If only he was playing a real game.

He folded. A pain to do so, but one that would pay off. He could always take the caps later.

"Read 'em and weep boys. Flush," Mr. Molerat said. The others groaned, as did Smith. Read 'em and weep? A blatant cliche. It took all of his willpower not to shoot him then and there. Alas, it was much too soon. He was still waiting for the signal.

Oh, the things he did for his job.

The next hand he had absolute trash, but he played it anyway. He knew he would lose this hand. That was fine. Any caps lost would soon be recovered.

He didn't pay attention to the rest of the hand. He didn't actually plan on winning after all. It wouldn't keep them happy.

Instead, he made small talk. " Why are y'all here anyways?" said Smith. It killed him to use such a terrible accent, but it did make it him seem like an idiot. That was a good thing. No one cares if an idiot is listening.

The one in the middle, Molerat, grinned. "We're going to attack the Citadel. Burn the whole place down and bring those bastards down a notch, you know?" He started picking his teeth with his nails. He really was a dirty little roach, but Smith decided to add idiotic to that title. Not many fools dream of attacking a fortress with only two other men.

"The hell you saying? Thought we were gonna keep that a secret," another said. Smith didn't bother giving him a name. Dead fit him well enough. He was just following the idiot and had no ambition of his own. A shame. Although this particular ambition was guaranteed to kill them.

"Ah, don't worry. He won't say nothing. Besides, those bleeders aren't gonna stand a chance. We'll kill them. And then we gonna own the whole Wasteland."

Smith very much doubted that. These idiots had about as much of a chance taking down the Citadel as a bloatfly did a deathclaw.

He did best to adopt a surprised expression, one full of wonder. He did a mediocre job of it, although considering their attempts at geniality, it was more than enough. "You really gonna do that?"

"Yep. Right after we kill all the residents here," said Molerat. He clearly was proud of himself and his plan.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Gob drawing his skinless thumb across his throat.

Showtime.

"I must say," Smith said, shedding the airs he had used before, "you three are officially the biggest idiots I've ever met. Killing you will be a great justice to the world."

Molerat frowned. "Killing us?"

Bang-bang! Bang-bang! Bang! In about five seconds all but one of the raiders were slumped in their chairs, blood pooling below them.

Molerat was still alive, however. The shot buried itself in his cheekbone but not deep enough to kill him. He tried to pull out his rifle, but Smith drew his knife from his jacket quickly and threw it, stopping him before he had a chance.

Smith admired his handiwork. He was getting pretty good with his .32. Although, he thought, glancing at the bodies, he missed the eye on the last one with his knife. He overshot it by about two inches and lodged it in his scalp.

He poked him a few times with his pistol. No, he was dead. If a bit smelly. He took a sniff. More urine.

Smith relaxed in his chair. At least it was over now, he thought. Then he winced. He had most certainly just jinxed himself.

Then the door swung open, slamming against the wall with a heavy crack, as a tall black man in a duster ran in. "I heard gunshots. What happened?" He saw the dead bodies and Smith sitting in a chair next to them and immediately put two and two together. "What did you just do? What the hell did he do?" he said.

"Calm down, Harden," Gob said in a gruff and raspy tone. Being a ghoul, that was the only tone he could speak in.

"Calm down? He just shot and killed three men in the middle of town. You do not tell me to calm down." His voice was steadily raising in dynamic, the tension rising with it. "I am not going to calm down!"

"They were going to attack the Citadel," Smith said.

"Three raiders? That is the worst excuse I've ever heard. You can't tell me you thought they were-"

"They were also going to attack Megaton," Gob said, trying to be helpful. Even after all these years, he still wasn't used to confronting the sheriff.

"Then for God's sake, tell me, not this trigger-happy idiot. I could've talked to them, arrested them if I had to," Harden said, screaming at the ghoul. "Not murder them!"

"That's how your father died, didn't he? Talking, not acting," Smith said.

Harden turned to him. His voice drew quiet; his body became still. "What did you say?"

Smith didn't respond.

Harden walked towards him. "What did you say?" he said, eyes narrowing, hand resting on his pistol. Smith resisted the urge to flinch. That wouldn't help him at all.

"Look, I was just taking care of business, 'kay, Harden? Now if you excuse me," he said, starting to stand up. He certainly didn't want to get in a fight now. Not with one of his pistols unloaded. Better to leave, before things got nasty.

Harden shoved him back into his chair. "Sit down and listen. You do not leave when I am talking to you without my permission. You do not shoot your damn peashooter without my permission. And you do not, under any circumstances, insult my father in my town!"

The two stared at each other, neither speaking.

Gob tensed up. The last thing he wanted was to clean up another dead body.

Then they started laughing. Smith stood and slapped his back. "That was some good acting, Sheriff. You actually had me going there for a second."

Harden said, "Been working on that all day. I finally settled on the angry, tightwad sheriff act."

Smith looked confused. "All day? What do you mean, all day? I just got here a few hours ago." And he had done such a nice job of sneaking around town, avoiding him.

"Couple kids playing saw you approaching. Besides, I could tell you were coming. I saw them pass around the collection to pay you." Harden took great care of his Megaton, which included spying on the settlers there.

Smith sighed. "I thought I could get in here without you noticing."

Harden grinned. "I'm the sheriff. Not one of those half-asleep security officers at Rivet City."

"That's a bit mean. Some of them are completely asleep."

Gob relaxed and went back to polishing his counter. Their little jokes always set him on edge. Nova was better at detecting these jokes, but she was busy taking care of a dispute outside.

They were talking and laughing like the old days as if things had never changed. Time passed quickly as they mentioned friends they hadn't seen in years.

"It's good to see you, Harden. You even have a full beard," Smith said, setting up for yet another joke.

He took the bait. Harden stroked it a few times with a hint of pride. It had taken a few months, but he finally got in the right shape with a nice healthy shine.

"You know what it reminds me of?" said Smith. His mouth twitched, trying not to laugh before the punchline.

"What?"

"It reminds me of Star Paladin Cross's hair."

They laughed riotously. Her ridiculous flat top was the butt of their private jokes. Harden had met her as a kid when she traveled with 101. Smith, on the other hand, had met her a little later. Both had a hard time taking her seriously. It was a terrible haircut for a man and an even worse one for a woman.

"He's looking for you, by the way," Harden said, still laughing from the joke, rubbing his eyes as they watered.

"Who's looking for me?" Smith said, also laughing from the remnants of the joke.

"You know. 101."

He stopped laughing. "What?"

Harden chuckled. The only sure fire way to shut Smith up was to mention the Lone Wanderer. "He's looking for you. He's got a favor to ask."

"A favor," he repeated. "What kind of favor?"

"Oh," Harden said, "the usual."

Smith studied the sheriff closely. He wasn't meeting his eyes, which meant that it was something he knew Smith wouldn't like. His body was shaking a bit, and he was trying very hard not to laugh. Which only meant...

"It's the Brotherhood, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"He's going to kill me if I don't do it."

"Uh huh."

"He's in town too, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Damn it." Smith stood up and ran to the door. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

Harden shrugged. "Hey, that's just how it is." He put his hand on his shoulder, just like he did when they were young. "Come on, what's the hurry? Don't you wanna catch up or something? You won't believe how big Lukey's growing. Almost walked right out of town the other day!"

"I'm sorry but I gotta go," Harden said, pushing the door, "before-"

"Hey, JJ."

"-he gets here."

Standing in the doorway was a women decked out in power armor. The lines in her face made her out to be almost 50, though her eyes spoke of more youthful ages. She held the typical Brotherhood laser rifle in her hands, Smith noting the odd modifications made to it. It appeared to have a bit more kick than the typical one. It took someone with a steady aim to use it.

Which excluded Smith. How he wished he could use rifles.

"Were you actually attempting to run away from us?" she said. Her mouth was set in a straight line. Her eyes, on the other hand, suggested she was about to break down laughing. The idea of him escaping was apparently amusing to her.

Smith felt insulted. He wasn't that bad. Well, compared to a normal person at least. Not the Wanderer, of course. Perfect Mr. 101 made everyone seem like a child.

"Lyons." Smith looked her over a few times and cocked his head. "Dear God, you're old."

That wiped the half-smile off her face. With more than a hint of irritation in her voice, Sarah said, "You've certainly gotten taller. Ruder too. I have half a mind to shoot you right now."

Smith grinned. "You wouldn't shoot me. You love me."

She raised her rifle. "Are you sure about that?"

The grin didn't diminish, although he did take a step back. "Where's 101?"

Lyons said, "Taking the back entrance. He thought you'd be smarter than use the front entrance. Clearly he was wrong." The grin stopped.

"It was closer," he said, defending himself. "And I could have made it, if you weren't in my way." The Brotherhood certainly has a way of doing that. A pattern. A motif, actually, considering all the time it's happened to me. Damn paladins.

"No, you wouldn't have. He would have found you eventually," Harden said. No one escaped from the Wanderer. He had a way of finding you invariably. His perception was second to none. All things Smith knew.

Smith glared at him. Harden raised his hands in deference to the paladin there. He was merely stating the truth, Smith admitted, though he didn't like it.

"You haven't even heard about the job yet," she said.

Smith sighed. "Fine, tell me about it."

"Well, we want you to-"

"Not interested."

Lyons shook her head. "Do you have no respect for the Brotherhood at all? I would have thought, you of all people-"

"Don't go there." Smith crossed his arms, placing each hand on a pistol on each side. It was a warning, but one he knew he couldn't back up. One of the pistols wasn't loaded, and Lyons already had her rifle out and at the ready. It was also a terrible way to draw a pistol, but it was a bluff, and a desperate one at that.

Still, it gave Lyons hesitation, and the two were left at an impasse, neither daring to move. Smith would not work for the Brotherhood, and Lyons would not leave without him. Neither wavered.

Smith suddenly shivered Gob and Lyons looked at him with concern, but Harden knew that twitch. Jay had a supernatural sense when it came to detecting him.

Is there no mercy in the world? he thought.

"I think you should reconsider," a new voice said, approaching from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"The Lone Wanderer." Smith said the word with neither the praise of a Wastelander nor the hatred of a slaver. It was without inflection or pretense.

He didn't turn. He remained staring at Lyons.

"Look at me."

Smith ignored the command. "I'm busy."

"Look at me, JJ."

Against his will, Smith turned around. All the indoctrinating and conditioning from the past was biting him back now.

"You will listen to us."

The man standing there was tall, though Smith had seen taller. It didn't matter. His presence filled the room, his eyes pierced all emotion and inhibition and forced upon fear and respect. He was a legend.

Similar to Lyons, he was dressed in power armor, though his was more bulky and powerful looking. The most visible difference, however, laid in its color. While Lyons had the typical gray armor of the Brotherhood, his was white. Shining, clean white.

Smith knew the story of how he acquired it. He also knew the Brotherhood did not like that at all, as it involved their ex-brethren, the Outcasts. But the Wanderer did what the Wanderer wanted. And God save the soul who dared get in his way.

He held no weapons in his hands. Instead, a plasma rifle was strapped on his back while a plasma pistol hung in its holster on his side. He also most likely had a gatling laser hidden on his person, not that Smith knew how it fit.

Smith didn't bother considering whether he could draw faster than he could. He had enough to experience to tell him no. He lost in every straight fight he had ever gotten into with him.

Against his better judgement, he finally said, "Yes sir." His head dipped slightly, subconsciously recognizing his own weakness compared to him.

The Wanderer nodded. "Good." He lifted his hand and let it fall by his side. "He'll listen now."

Lyons relaxed her hold on the rifle and continued. "We want you to lead a small dispatch south."

"An expedition?"

"Of sorts." Lyons studied him carefully, observing any changes. He was still and expressionless. It was a change that only occurred when the Wanderer was nearby, she remembered. Even as a boy, he hadn't dared insult the Wanderer to his face. "We've heard reports of some advanced technology in that area. Very advanced."

Smith shrugged dismissively. "You've gone south before. Didn't a squad just head to Maryland last year?"

She was surprised that he knew that, though in retrospect, she shouldn't have been. He was older, and after all these years, he had learned something. "Yes, but we're talking farther south. Much farther, actually. Florida."

Smith stiffened. "Florida? You want me to lead a squad to Florida?" Florida. What kind of idiocy was this?

The Wanderer took over. "Yes."

"And why the hell would I want to do that?" Smith shook his head. "No one's been there in ages. Our maps aren't even accurate there anymore." The Great War had devastated the area badly, causing all natural and man-made landmarks to completely disappear.

"Which is why we want you there." Lyons said this with confidence, although inside she had her doubts about the mercenary. Although the Wanderer privately praised him, she had yet to see him in action. As a boy, he never indicated any special ability as a fighter or a scout, the two things most needed in this mission. Still, she trusted 101. She had for a long time. "You have your expertise."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really. What?"

Lyons thought rapidly. "Well, of course you are the best-uh- you have your- uh- I mean, you have that- um-uh-" she said, flustered. She looked at 101. Help me, she mouthed.

Smith's eyes flickered towards 101. "You put her up to this, didn't you?"

The Wanderer didn't answer, but Smith didn't need one. "It's because of those rumors. The disappearances. You think it's her."

"Yeah."

"You don't think I can take it? You don't think I'm strong enough to kill her?" His nails dug into his own palms, drawing blood. "I can. And I will, if I have to. Just don't make me do this. Don't make me leave."

"No." The Wanderer walked over to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. He took a long sip from it and closed his eyes. "You're plenty strong. I just don't want you to have to watch."

"I'm staying away from that area. I have for a long time."

"That may be, but you'd still watch. You'd still relive it. Everyday. Even in your dreams." He took another sip. "You need to leave."

Smith tried to speak but then closed his eyes. He let his mind roam for a moment. Then Smith went to the bodies and pulled out his knife. "Fine." He spoke to Lyons now. "I'll go."

Lyons felt relief spread through her body. The squad needed someone with expertise, what with all the rookies on the team. Even if she didn't know what that expertise actually entailed. "We'll leave in the morning to meet up with your new brothers and sisters."

Smith didn't reply. Instead he grabbed a drink at the bar. He didn't want to be sober when he fell asleep. Or when he woke up. Or ever.

Harden joined him. It was going to be a long night, and they had a lot to talk about before he left.

The Wanderer shared a look with Lyons and tilted his head to indicate they should leave. They exited, the Wanderer turning over his glass as he left.

Harden stared at the door for a moment while Smith merely stared at his drink. Neither spoke for a while.

"Damn," Harden said. He was thinking about all the tension in the exchange between Smith and the Wanderer. "That was-"

"Intense?" Smith said, a note of bitterness in his voice. Harden hadn't spoke much during the conversation. He hadn't helped him once. Of course, not many people interrupt the Wanderer. But he was a friend. And he had just stood there, doing nothing.

"Yeah." He leaned back in stool, smiling. "Yeah, it was intense. You two have some serious issues."

Smith snorted. "Tell me about it." He took a long sip and turned his glass over, the lingering amber drops falling onto the floor.

The blood-stained caps laid there on the table, already forgotten in the short time they had been earned. They would remain forgotten until a child picked them up the next day for a game of jackstones.

The bodies remained slumped, their faces still not believing the idiot who approached had in fact killed all of them so easily. Their blood was already drying, their presence already irrelevant to the grand scheme of things. They had served their part and then they had departed.

Gob continued polishing the counter, letting the music flow over them. He was happy, though you couldn't tell it by reading his face. Nothing was broken, and the mercenary had forgotten to ask for his payment. A fairly good day.

And then the music ended. Three Dog came in. It was yet another segment on the Adventures of the Lone Wanderer. A rerun, as always.

Smith ordered another drink. Then another. Then another. He drank them all and continued ordering. He was still too sober for his liking.

"So." Harden watched Smith drink glass after glass. His immunity to alcohol still persisted after all these years. Where he put it was a mystery. "You're still a mercenary after all these years."

"Yeah."

"You really should settle down, you know. Me and Maggie, we have it pretty nicely here. You could stay with us if you want. Lukey should meet his godfather." His arm raised up, pointing at him. "You could be happy. Meet a girl. Start a family. Megaton could be your home."

"Nice try." Smith asked for some scotch this time. "But you know I don't do home."

More drinking. Harden shook his head as he watched him wash down the alcohol.

"Are you still having nightmares?" Harden asked after a few shots himself, his voice only slightly slurred. He knew better than to try and drink as much as Smith. His last attempt ended with him halfway down the toilet in the morning.

Smith downed another shot from one of his unused glasses. "If you're trying to cheer me up, that was an awful way of doing it," he said. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, not caring that he was ruining his clean suit. "A godawful way."

Harden chuckled but then grew more serious. "Are you?"

"This is the Wasteland." Smith turned each of the glasses over. "Everyone has nightmares."

That wasn't an answer to his question, though it might as well have been. Harden looked at his friend with concern but finally gave up. He would answer in his own time.

"Then here's to the Wasteland," Harden said, raising his glass with a rueful smirk.

Smith raised his bottle as well and met his eyes. "To the Wasteland."

They drank in silence, the only noise being the tinkling of the glasses as they hit the counter.

More amber drops fell. And it was night.