The bar was a quiet place on the night the four men decided a drink was in order. The host brought them across the deserted barroom to seat them a lonely table near the back. Although the table was designed for four, it had only three chairs. Those of the four who had legs took their seats; the one without wheeled into the fourth space. The host asked what they would be having to drink.
"Whiskey," Wolf said without looking up.
The host paused before asking, "Will the rest of you have the same?"
A long moment passed before anyone answered. All four of them seemed to be almost sedated, with their heads sagging and their eyes held slackened and unblinking, still weary from all that they had seen.
"I'll have water, actually," Falco murmured.
"Likewise," Leon agreed.
Wolf sighed before throwing in his own towel, "I suppose we're just having waters, all around."
Fox looked up into Wolf's face, studying the bags under his eyes and ragged uniform hanging from his shoulders, caked with sand and mud from a planet so far away. Fox was reminded of all that he'd left behind there. Here he was in the present, back on his home world with the only companions the universe had to offer him, but it no longer felt like home to him. It was an alien place, and he was an alien in it.
"I want the whiskey," Fox said without looking away. "Bring the bottle."