Chapter Five: Drowning Your Sorrows
After the fight, Wycost had led his friend to a nearby Irish pub – one that he frequented as often as he could. The larger was good and not too expensive, and the manager and clientele were friendly to repiloids (Wycost speculated that this might have been because of the alcohol, but he never said anything). It had been, in fact, a bar that he had visited with Harrison many timed before.
Right now, though, he and Doan came in through the oak pub door looking very haggard. No one turned to look up from their drinks and conversations, their minds slightly befuddled from the liquor. The only recognition was from the bartender, who gave them a polite nod of welcome, and turned back to the man sitting in front of him.
The two walked wearily to the bar, and sat down with a grunt. Wycost looked up to the bartender, held up two fingers, and turned to Doan. The chrome repiloid was sitting silently, his head down and his helmet resting on the bar. His short, dark brown hair was slightly burnt and covered in soot, despite the fact it had been covered by his helmet the entire time of the fight.
"So…" Wycost offered as the drinks were brought, "you alright?" Doan didn't answer; he just stared down into his drink with sad, gray eyes. Wycost sighed heavily, and took a swig from his mug, downing almost the entire contents of the container.
"Harry… he…" Doan couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. The image of Harrison being blown to hell in front of his eyes, missing the entire lower half of his torso and flooding the immediate area in blood, was still very clear in his memory. Wycost finished off his drink, and motioned for another.
"He'll be rebuilt. He has an insurance policy." He paused to take another swig of beer, "'Course, he never thought he'd need it…" he muttered into his mug. Doan said nothing, but continued to stare into his glass.
"Look, Doan; I don't mean to be insensitive, but you need to get over it. Harry knew the risks of being a repiloid cop, and he signed on knowing these risks. We were in a combat situation; people get hurt, people die," he took another swig, and continued, "it's just the way of things."
"Somehow, that's not exactly the most comforting thing I've ever heard." Wycost said nothing. He had seen this thing before, many times. He'd gone through it himself at one point, but had managed to move on – albeit, with the help of a lot of alcohol…
He sighed, and clapped his friend on the shoulder gruffly.
"Come on, Doan." Wycost said. "Let's get you drunk."
That had been about an hour ago.
"Hey, Wygost…" Doan's voice was slurred; he hiccoughed before taking another drink from his frothy mug. Wycost leaned over and looked at his friend with blurry and un-responsive optics.
"Yeahurrah?"
"Why – HIC! – why didja become a cop?" Wycost took a huge swig from his frosty tankard before slamming it back down onto the wooden bar. The bartender on duty winced, but said nothing. Wycost was a regular, and he tipped well enough.
Wycost wiped the froth of the German larger from his scruffy chin and smiled, sloppily. Doan looked back his very drunk friend and tried to focus on the pinkish-green blur in front of him.
"Weaayll Doan, I thought I might try to do something worthwhile with my time..." Wycost slammed his fist on the counter, "Bartender! Gimme another rou-und..." Wycost's speech was becoming less concise with each swig. Doan jumped as the new mug was slammed down, his systems not used to the rather strong liquor.
Wycost continued on, almost oblivious to the fresh drink placed beside him as his arms waved about. He nearly knocked it over, but somehow managed to avoid calamity.
"So, here I was, thinking to myself, ya know? What other profession can you have, in whi… whi… whii-iich – HIC! – ya' get to lug around a buster and play police man?"
If Doan had known of (and heard) the comment from the man next to him, he probably would have laughed.
"Jeeze… he's drunk as a frickin' skunk…" Doan just turned to Wycost and gave him a sloppy grin.
"Ahh… I see…" He paused a moment before going on, "Well, I have a buster… an' I shoot stuff… HIC!" Doan's scattered postironic brain struggled to maintain his train of thought, but the effect of the beer was too strong. "And… and I saved your butt! So there!" With that, he slammed his fist down on the bar for emphasis. The bartender looked at the silver repiloid, sighed, and put down another drink. Doan looked down at the new glass, not quite sure why it was there, but downed it anyway; he sputtered it out almost as soon as he realized what it was – which wasn't fast enough before much of it had gone down his gullet.
"Wha… what the hee- IC! – is this?" Wycost slammed his tankard back to the counter from another huge gulp and lazily grinned with one open eye.
"Weeyll… Doan, that's the house specialty. I helped make it, too."
"Oh. That's great an' all… but… wait – what was I saying?" Doan was stuttering almost incoherently now. Wycost guffawed, and shook his head.
"I call it the Irish Banshee… because once ya drink it, you'll swear the angel o' death's howlin; at 'yer - HIC! - back…" Doan pushed the mug away, finally giving in to whatever reason was left in his drunken mind.
"Thanks for tellin' me…" Wycost raised a hand, and dropped it back down again.
"Ahh… good liquor alwayse puts me in the mood for a SEA SHANTIE…" Doan frowned.
"Sea shantie?" Wycost nodded, and stumbled to his feet.
"Come on! Just join in when you get the feel for it." Wycost raised his voice so that everyone in the bar could hear him. "Hey, EVERYONE! Ma...ma...me and my Friend..." Wycost blinked and looked over to the grayish blur beside him. "Eeh, what's yer name again?"
"It might be Doan... Ehh… Yeah, it's Doan… I think…"
"MY FRIEND DOAN…" Wycost bellowed loudly, "me and my friend Doan here are gonna you all a little sea shantie … In the ways of my Irish fore-fathers and how they did it, and how their ancestors before them, all the way back to when the first Irish monkey scratched himself…
Doan shook his head, grinning, "I don't like this…"
Wycost took a deep breath, coughing a bit before gaining enough muster to start up. But, at long last, silence overcame the bar, and all eyes turned to the pair of overwhelmingly drunk repiloids. The green policeman began stomping his feet back and forth, providing a stumbling rythym; a few patrons started to move their own feet along with the poor rythym.
A sound started in the base of Wycost's throat, then raised to a low growl, and began what can only be described as a drunken attempt at singing…
"Ohhh!…" the cop began, "Where do ya go when you're pissed outta your gourd?"
Doan stepped in, beginning to get a feel for what Wycost was getting at.
"Er – where do ya go when yer rusting yer sword? Wycost stepped in, replacing Doan's drunken, unsteady voice.
"You go where the women and wine are the same, you go where all the other schmucks know yer name..."
"THE BAR! THE BAR! It ain't too damn far! Just sober on up and get in the car!"
"What's better to go is a land far away, where the drinks are free and the night is the day..."
"THE BAR! THE BAR! It's really not far! Just grab yer damn keys and don't crash your car!"
"So drink up me hearties, and sail on the sea, for when you get back your cup won't be filled with tea..."
"...And when you are there, far from your home, just think of the women, and don't go it alone!" With that, the entire bar erupted into raucus laughter and applause.
"Be with yer pallies, yer chums and yer mates! Keep it in mind that danger never abates! A keen eye and keen mind will take you so far, for the rest of the way, look to a star!"
That did it; Wycost and Doan were received by the biggest round of shouts and cheers yet, with much banging of the tankards and stomping of the feet. Wycost grinned sloppily, raising his arms in victory to the crowd.
"Thank you! Thank you! We're here all week!" Laughing, the green repiloid turned back to the bar.
"Well, Doan, that was pretty shakey, but I think you've… Doan… Doan?"
Doan had passed out drunk on the bar.
An hour later, two figures staggered towards the door of South Bronx Housing Lot D, one fumbling for a keycard, the other supporting the first.
"Geeze, Doan, you weigh a ton for a little guy – even for a repiloid…"
"Well, you… uh… sh-shoot, where's the?… there it is…" Doan's voice sounded softly in the dark as he managed to get the key into the door panel, which slid open silently.
"Come on Doan… that's it… take it easy…" Wycost guided his friend slowly to the elevator, taking care not to drop the still-drunk Doan. Although Wycost was used to strong liquor, which was beginning to wear off, his silver compatriot most definitely was not.
It was another few minutes before the two made their way to the Scott's apartment, and another minute before Wycost deposited a stasis-mode Doan onto his cot.
"Sleep well, Doan; you've earned it."
As he slept, images of light and shadow drifted through Doan's mind. Some formed into shapes, some into colors, some into people he knew. Melissa walked to him and leaned towards him.
"Doan! Doan, why'd you go and kill those people?" Doan stared into her eyes silently, and turned away.
"I… they… they were just mavericks… they were going to kill everyone." Melissa looked at him quizzically.
"They were bad guys?" Doan nodded. "They were bad guys because they killed people?" Doan nodded a second time. "So does that make you a bad guy?"
"What?!" Doan looked up sharply, but she was gone, replaced by Harrison, floating in mid-air, his body spilling blood into the black nothingness that was the floor.
"They killed me. They killed me because you were too weak."
"What-? No! No, it was an accident!"
"My death was an accident?"
"Y… yes! It couldn't be helped!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! There was nothing I could do!"
"So you let me die?"
"NO! No, I didn't want you to die!"
"So why am I dead? You could have done something, Doan."
"No, I couldn't! I was too weak!"
"You were too weak to save me."
"I WAS TOO WEAK! I'M SORRY! PLEASE! I'M SORRY!"
"It won't bring me back. My control chip could be slag. I'm gone because of you. Because of you, I'm dead.
"NO IT'S NOT TRUE! IT'S NOT MY FAULT! IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"
"I'M DEAD!"
"NOOOOOOO!!"
In a swift move, Doan brought his buster to bear, and pulled the trigger. Harrison erupted in a scream of pain and fire, his remains obliterated. Doan looked on at what he had done, looked at the death he had wrought.
"No… no…! NOOOOOOOO!!"