Title: Under the Table
Prompt 24: This is so Wrong
Characters: Alpha Team
Seagreen swam in the lime light, warm and tingling from the neck down as vodka shots were passed around for a ninth time, in just as many minutes. Fumbling hands sloshed the drinks from side to side, passed out among friends which were growing more like family. Lips were numbed, puffing out cheeks with a bubble of air, before it and a hiccup jarred the explosive expert's body. Silence surrounded the bar table. One of those obscure hole in the wall type places that no one ever expected to find a unit of men working in a field that didn't exist; drinking themselves into a pit. Walker was still coherent, gobbling down each round like they were made of candy, wincing after every gulp. Airhart, occasionally smacking at some insect only he could see. They weren't here for fun. They were here because they needed to drink themselves into a hole, and be unable to climb out of it. Finn's nose wrinkled as he plucked up the next mandatory shot, screwing up his eyes at it to take in the challenge before missing half his mouth, and groaning at the burn as the rest washed down his throat.
Thirty-five dead men. That's how many it took to get Finn Macauley to drink himself willingly under a table. Truth be told, he was sickened with himself. This was so wrong. The fog of the bar, and the mind numbing vodka had pushed him over the edge of his grief, and into a tidal pool of emotion concerning the most dedicated Captain that the B.S.A.A. had ever known. While Rose read bad homage poetry to the air over the lost, their steadfast Captain swallowed the next round, doing a small circle with his forefinger to indicate another round to the barkeeper. The other arm, occupied by holding upright the A.T.L. of their team, who was all but unconscious, and with the same hand, feeding him each shot forcibly to keep up with the rest of the team.
Thirty-five dead men across six squads. Alpha, Beta, Delta, Echo, Omega, and Sigma. Out of fifty-two men shipped out to deal with the fortress from Hell thanks to Neo-Umbrella, only seventeen made it out. Was able to finish the mission, but a mere seventeen made it out. Eight from Alpha Team and the rest scattered across the other squads that the legendary Captain Christopher Redfield managed to give orders to make it to Alpha's position so they could carry out the mission that should have claimed all of their lives. By some miracle from the heavens, the mission succeeded, but the cost was far too high. "Another round." The barkeep didn't even want give out any more booze, but all of the soldiers were armed and even a drunk soldier will hit someone with bullets. The rest of the teams were smashed, a cheap escape from enraged and depressed. The Captain felt that more than anyone else while his A.T.L. was only sitting upright because his Captain had a hold of him with a meaty arm. New drinks were brought out and then passed around. Airhart and Walker took their shots and poured them back. Finn… he decided in his drunken haze to get up and somehow make his way over to where Chris was seated. He sat away from his team for a damned good reason. Didn't want anyone else next to him but Piers, and even then Nivans had been checked out mentally since they had boarded the chopper home, as had most the team, but Finn found himself awkwardly drawn to the way he had seemed to vacate his body while everyone else were drunken messes. Still, the explosive's expert sat next to him, shifting uncomfortably as his legs fought for a position which made sense between crossed at the ankles, or hunkered down over his rolling stomach. "Captain… hi." Chris turned his head, that ugly look on his face, which only he could muster when he'd had just the right mixture of drink and disappointment.
Eyes bat, akin to a woman, as the bomber fought to clear up his vision enough to make a valid attempt at consoling the Captain. That kind of shit didn't belong here. Not at all, enough that the belch in Andy Walker's mouth was wet with vomit until he swallowed it back down, hoping to avoid watching Macauley make an ass out of himself. "Cap… Chris, can call you that?" The eyes kept on batting as Finn jumbled for the right words that made sense in his mind and filtered with beer goggles. Chris' face was changing quickly between remorse for those lost, and the gorilla like madness of a silver back that broached close on hitting his rookie in the face. "Get away from me, Macauley. I don't have time for that bullshit." The mean look on Chris' face got meaner when the kid touched him, unmistakably the largest mistake of his life. As if it was okay to do such a thing. The vomit from Rose's mouth hit the floor with a splash which unintentionally echoed the wash of ill that seemed to come over Piers Nivans' face without committing himself to give Finn the sympathetic glance he deserved for turning himself into the physical outlet of Captain Redfield's rage. "I can help…, mayb- Captain Redfield finished his shot of booze, then introduced Finn's head to the table to put a timely end to the tenth round.
"Get me another shot."