Omega entered his room on the Blight Brouillard with a sigh, glad to be able to sit down and unwind from the battle. He had much to think about. This included possible strategies for further encounters with the Model W users, as well as the possibility that Legion might pursue him more fervently should Prometheus tell them the truth. It didn't seem the grim reaper Mega Man would, but he couldn't be sure. Then again, if that last confrontation had been a result of a personal vendetta against him... thoughts and considerations roiled through the red demon's mind, each connecting to each other and his memories until a whole network of concerns and potential problems formed.

Omega, Outheis now he thought to himself, slowly twirled his blade between his fingers. It was a comfort to have his original blade back, even when countless thoughts and worries continued to assault him. Thinking was such a hard thing, and for a moment he almost longed for the days when the only thinking he had to do was about whatever order someone else had given him, the days when there was no need for a mindless weapon to consider its actions. That thought was quickly shoved into the back of his mind and left to rot. Rot ad fester like that sadistic bastard Weil.

Omega began mindlessly toying with his weapons, tinkering with it to ensure no damage had been received while it had been in Legion's care. Apart from a little dirt and grime it seemed perfectly functional. He set to cleaning it.

In the meantime, he'd have to think about what to do about the matter of his gun... perhaps have the firing system integrated into his arm and palm? Yes, that might save time. Viral was great at fixing his problems, he thought with amusement. Including that one with the data transfer... No, no, he wasn't going to think about that. Viral had dealt with it, and there was no further need to concern himself with something that was in the past. He was already doing that too much already.

Viral sent him a happy little ping of emotion, as if pleased to be of service. Omega didn't even need to ask to know that the program was already working on the solution he wanted.

His mental wanderings continued for a while, completely unhindered by the outside world. That is, until there was a tentative knock on his door. He looked up, curious. It had been so soft that he could almost fancy that he'd imagined it. As such, he would have ignored it if not for the voices now permeating through the thick door to his quarters. From their tonesand what few words he could catch, it sounded as though someone were getting admonished for being shy. Omega rolled his eyes. There was obviously a small group of people out there judging by the different voices. Soon after, a hearty banging started up, and it was at this point that Omega gave up, grumbling as he stood to answer the knocking.

The platinum-haired warrior was met with a trio of raiders once he'd opened his door, all of which had some measure of heat to their faces. The middle-sized one was blushing the worst. What strange behaviour, Omega pondered. He wasn't left to wonder about their presence long; the red-faced man apparently needed no bidding to start speaking.

"Yo new guy! So this is what ya look like, good ta see ya!" he spouted with gusto. Omega gave him the same cold stare he gave everyone else, but the raider seemed to either not care or he had an unusual amount of courage for someone who still had to look up to meet Omega in the eye. "I heard we had a new bro on board and I wanted to see 'im for myself! Heard he managed to make that grim reaper bloke look like whipped pussycat! Hah!"

The smallest of the trio snickered in earnest, swaying slightly. The tall one just looked between their party and the man they were now speaking to. They seemed the smartest of the lot, if only for the fact that they didn't look like they'd come along to this meeting willingly and would have rather left the mercenary alone. The tall one gave Omega an apologetic sort of glance just as their friend spoke up again.

"So so, nice to meet'cha an' all! I'm Reg, shortie here is just Shortie, and everyone calls lanky 'ere Goggles 'cause they can't get their sorry ass out of the mechanics department nine times out of ten," he laughed. 'Shortie' protested the name vehemently, but in a tone that suggested that they'd really given up on getting called anything else.

Goggles just sighed at their partner's antics, "Reg, maybe we should just hurry up and ask him already...?"

Omega shot Goggles a look that was both appreciative and exasperated. At least someone knew when to get to the point. Reg choked out a response, "Oh right? Sorry, I tend to ramble. Anyways! Me'n'the guys here was thinking that you could accompany us losers down to the bar deck fer a drink! Everyone's curious about ya after all, and there ain't no better time to spill the beans than when yer drunk!"

Omega shot him a mildly aghast look, but quickly covered it up. His face was blank as he considered the situation he was now in. So, three of his fellow raiders wanted to go out or a drink with him? That would explain the flushed faces... He'd never had the 'pleasure' of dealing with drunk people before, but he suspected that increased circulation to the face seemed to be a side effect of alcohol (or at least, that's what he guessed caused the red tinge to their cheeks; he'd never really researched it). This was really rather an unorthodox situation for him.

"...I don't drink..." he said finally. Goggles looked relieved. You could almost see the "thank god can we please get on with our lives now" running through their head.

Reg had other ideas. "Caaww. You don't drink!? I'll be having none of that, get out here you!" He reached forward, grabbing Omega with a firm grip and dragging him from his room. "I won't have a fellow raider buddy stuck in his room all day and night, d'ya get me?"

Omega was so surprised by the action that he neglected to fight back at first, and by the time the thought crossed his mind he was already halfway into the hallway. If he fought now there'd be a huge scene. It might be better to play along at this point, and honestly? Perhaps building a rapport with his fellow raiders might save him some backstabbing and feuds later on. Now that he thought about it, as much as he wanted to remain separate from the other raiders on the ship, even he had to admit that bad relations were a bad idea.

"I'll come along, but I don't drink..." he re-stated.

"Whoo! Ha! We'll see how long that lasts!" Reg whooped. He jovially pushed the group along even as Goggles groaned in misery. Omega's instincts were agreeing with the tall mechanic at the moment, telling him he might have just made a mistake that would come back to bite him before too long. Oh well, the decision was made.

Half-way down the hall Reg made a sudden whoop. "Awesome! I just made twenty bucks off that bet! Suck it Terry!"

Shortie giggled. Omega seriously reconsidered his decision.

XoXoX

The moment Omega entered the bar he knew things weren't going to go the way he wanted. Half of the patrons went dead silent, letting Omega get a quick survey in of the dim but comfortable area before the apparent leader of the group appeared from behind him, grinning mischievously.

"Oi! Lookie whose uptight ass I got down here after all!"

Suddenly cheers arose from the crowd. Raiders whooped and clinked their glasses together, laughing joyously at their companion's success. One person swore, presumably the 'Terry' person mentioned earlier, before laughter broke out around them and Reg trotted over to grab his reward.

"Ey, it's Outheis!"

"You rascal Reg! Well done!"

"Oi blondie, get over here!"

The devil reploid found himself being directed towards an empty seat at the bar counter. He felt surprisingly few eyes on his back as he did so; it seemed most other patrons had returned to their own affairs. The atmosphere was filled with camaraderie, something Omega was unused to and actually found slightly intimidating with how unfamiliar it was. He was still blinking and looking around wildly with confusion when the barkeeper made their way towards him, grinning mildly.

"It looks like Reg dragged you down here after all," she said, a slightly apologetic tone in her voice. "Anyways, you're here now. What'll you have?"

Omega grumbled, "I tried to tell him I don't drink..."

She laughed, "Aw geeze, we've got a stiff!" She scurried away, and before long came back with something that looked entirely too colourful for Omega's tastes. It was small, the liquid in a shot-glass that would have barely fit the tip of his thumb were it not already filled. "Tell you what, just knock that down and we'll be done here. Nice and easy, eh?"

Omega stared at the drink with trepidation. These people were not understanding him. He literally could not drink, and they were ignoring him when he protested. "Look, I told you, I don't-"

"Oi oi oi! What're you doing, just drink 'er down!" Reg suddenly hollered, appearing next to Omega with little warning. Omega would have been unnerved if he hadn't already accepted that the low buzz of voices in the room would affect his senses. "Its just one little shot! Thank you missy!" he said, making a ridiculous face and fluttering his eyes at the barkeep. She giggled, waving him away coyly. Omega did not understand this exchange.

Goggles, whom had been dragged along once again, was shoved into a seat not far away from where the red reploid himself sat. They gave Omega a sorry glance, "It might be easier to just knock it down and be done with it. Once Reg has it in his head to make you do something, you have to do it. Sorry."

As Reg chastised Goggles jokingly over the comment, Omega had to make a serious consideration. The bar behind him had become quiet again, and this time the eyes were definitely on him. He had a feeling this was some sort of 'bonding' experience, something that made people trust each other more. If he failed it, it might mean dissent and distrust towards him in the raider ranks. It was such a small volume of liquid... and he did have a throat, if only to allow emergency energy rations from an E-Tank directly to his core. He stared at the shotglass and the alcohol within, making a quick query to his systems.

"Viral, I'm in a bind. I know I don't have a stomach, but do I at least have enough space in my systems to make this disappear?"

The question wasn't said aloud, instead worded mentally to Viral. In response, he got the distinct impression of Viral blinking at him in confusion.

"I, uh, yes master, I believe your body should have the room to take four or five without it becoming noticeable, but I have no idea how the alcohol might affect your circulation systems should it get into them."

"Guess I'll have to find out," he grumbled internally. With a grunt he took the glass, drank it down in one gulp, and turned to glare at Reg.

"There, happy? No can I go?" He stated. With any luck, that would be that.

Another cheer arose behind him. He looked around at the raiders applauding him, and yet again Terry was cursing up a storm. The barkeeper looked satisfied at her work as Reg guffawed. "Well done, man! Ah hah hah!"

Suddenly Omega was assaulted by a half-dozen requests and offers of more booze. He flinched away, and only then did he start feeling his systems reacting negatively to the poison he'd introduced into them.

Unfortunately, the raiders looked like they weren't taking any prisoners, and if he didn't accept at least one or two more offers he might be in trouble. He needed to put an end to this, quickly.

"Two more and I'm done. I've had a long day," he ground out. There. That was reasonable.

A few rounds of "boo" and "aww" met his proposition, but most of the rest seemed pretty accepting of the situation. He did have a point, and considering who he'd gone toe-to-toe with earlier, it was perfectly understandable that he wanted to hit the hay a bit early. He blinked, and suddenly his mind wasn't making things make sense as much as they should have. Kind of fuzzy. Oh well. Two more drinks and he'd be done.

Several offers were made, Omega shooting down any that wouldn't fit into another shot glass. Trust be told he didn't care about the flavours, while he could taste things relatively well (for self-defensive purposes only) it wasn't something he paid much heed to. He'd endured much worse than a bit of alcoholic burning, after all.

He downed the alcohol with little fuss, much to the raucous applause of some fellow raiders. He let them do as they wish, mostly because it meant that they left him alone to go propose some toasts of their own elsewhere. Some were probably directed at him, but he ignored them. At last, when he'd been given some room, he got up, made a wave at the barkeeper, and took a step towards where the door was. At least, where he sort of remembered where the door was.

The next thing he knew he facing the floor. How odd. Did the floors jump now?

It took a few minutes of solid laughing from other bar patrons for him to look up and realize that no, the floors did not in fact jump at people now. He might have asked that out loud. Oops. Also he was on the ground, somehow. Oh! He must have fallen. There was more laughter.

Part of him was enraged that they were laughing at him. How dare they! He was the God of Destruction! The oldest reploid left alive! The starter and ender of wars! The other side of his brain, the louder one, politely told him he was also the reploid equivalent of drunk off his ass and that they had all rights to laugh at him because he was being hilarious right now. Also you're an idiot, you literally have next to no defences against what you just shoved into your systems. Seriously. Why did you even do that.

Omega giggled a bit, okay, that side of his brain had a point.

He tried very hard to not accidentally destroy his allies as he brought himself to his feet in order to leave the room. This resulted in his overly-powerful limbs flailing about wildly once or twice. Several people laughed, but he let them be, focusing on not accidentally hurting any of them. It would be very bad for his reputation if he went around killing the boss's minions, after all.

Some of his thoughts brought fresh peals of laughter into the surrounding crowds, and he wondered if maybe he was speaking some of them out loud. Thankfully, he apparently hadn't made any mention of "oldest reploid' or 'god of destruction' yet. That wouldn't be very pretty if it got out.

In the end, sadly, trying to force alcohol into a system without any ways to process it was a really good method to half-fry said systems and make him look like a complete loser. Whether he defended himself or hurt someone else or not. Omega couldn't even walk three paces without banging into something. And after one such incident a few cheers of approval were elicited when he left a sizeable dent in the wall, and he wouldn't be surprised if it was going to be turned into some sort of trophy or wall art later on. Right now the best he could manage was to blink dully at it for a few seconds and move on with life, as tumultuous as it was at the moment.

A yelp sounded. Was it his? Halfway down the hall Omega was suddenly run over by a green-haired blur in skimpy clothes, the bedraggled woman screaming blue bloody murder. Had he not been struggling to get back to his feet, no thanks to the mix of alcohol smacking his senses out of whack, he might have been able to make more sense of the woman's screaming about killing some sort of sword once she got back on the right ship. As it was he huffed, blinked as the world did another pirouette without letting him in on the act, and dragged his sorry backside back to his feet before finally heading towards the elevator. Not where he wanted to be, but it would do.

A blast of cool air, leaking in through some nearby vents, was a balm for his feverishly hot body as it overcompensated trying to rid itself of the toxins he'd so unceremoniously shoved into it. Two to three shots of alcohol hadn't seemed like much at the time, but apparently his body was not happy trying to put up with it.

If he'd had the sense on him at the moment, he would have realized how utterly ridiculous the situation had gotten. In the meantime he was leaning against a wall, stumbling along and trying to find his way back to his room. It had taken a few trips up an down elevators and hallways before they'd reached the bar, and quite honestly he couldn't remember his way back properly. The best he'd managed to do was to shove himself the an elevator, hit the button for the top floor, and try to hold on to reality as his systems made another protest. That alcohol was beginning to hurt. Viral had gone silent, presumably to try damage control.

Damn he hated social situations. Now he remembered why he stayed away from them.

Finally the elevator opened. Omega practically had to throw himself to get out. He found himself on the deck, but his core was having too negative of a reaction for him to care. Although the cold night air was a relief for his overheating systems, he really couldn't think about his current situation much more than that. The poison was going to have to come out of his body one way or another, because his self-defence protocols were surprisingly inadequate when it came to dealing with alcohol.

Suddenly he felt something bubble up in his throat. He only vaguely remembered the sensation as having occurred once before, back when Weil had been trying to test something with his systems. It didn't really matter at the moment. The only thing that did matter was that he get himself to the side of the ship. The moment he managed it he puked over the side.

It was a good thing that it was dark, otherwise the blood coming out of his systems would have sent more than a few people nearby into a panic, if there were people anyways. His mind cleared up as the harmful liquids left his body, the damaged blood and alcohol leaving all at once. Even so, the stuff he was spitting out of his systems looked just enough like other substances someone would normally puke up, all thanks to the dim nighttime light. If it weren't for the glow from the lights on deck, chances are no one would see it at all. It was nighttime. When had so much time passed anyways?

With his senses returning, Omega was able to observe his surroundings properly. To his surprise he found he was not alone. On the other side of the deck a pair of people were leaned over the side, their stomachs violently up-heaving themselves over the side of the raider aircraft. One was in a state of constant groaning, which might have been worse if not for the soothing motions made by the nurse Merrain. The busybody medic was currently rubbing her hand in circles on the poor person's back, but as she looked around she caught Omega's eye. Shewas over at his side in an instant, checking him over. She gave him a critical eye when she noticed how haggard he looked.

"Might I have an explanation?" she inquired amusedly.

Omega just scowled. "I told them I don't drink..."

"And they didn't have any of that," she chortled, "at least I know why so many men are getting hosed tonight. Ah well. You look like you'll smarten up in no time. I'll be back over there, call me if you need me."

Omega resolved not to bother her at all. Spitting out a few more mouthfuls of bodily fluids, he took some time to recover his bearings. Once his head was fully clear, if a little in pain, he returned to his cabin for the night.

XoXoX

As Omega would find out the next morning, people weren't afraid of him as much after that. The moment he'd popped his head out of his room he'd heard the rumour mill from a small group that had been, rather unintelligently, muttering about him not far away. A glare sent them scattering.

It seemed that word spread quickly. The alcohol had done more of a number on him than even the Grim Reaper could ever to manage, and his fellow raiders had soaked up that tidbit of information mercilessly. Could he blame them? When a few drinks could knock you out of commission better than a trained, professional killer of a Mega Man, you generally lost a few 'imposing points' among your peers. His whole repertoire of intimidation tactics was pretty much debunked now.

The crimson reploid groaned in misery, rumours flying through the halls like stray bullets in a battlefield.. Why oh why had he subjected himself to that? Stupid, stupid, stupid! He whacked himself in the head for good measure, causing a passerby to snicker at his actions. He locked himself in the room in disgust.

Five minutes later a knock came at his door.

Omega was instantly up, ready to rip something apart, friend-or-foe be damned. He tore open his door, shooting out a poisonous look at the person at the door long before he'd recognized him.

Goggles said nothing, accepting Omega's hateful gaze without flinching. They handed an object to Omega handle-first. Omega grunted, staring down at it as he accepted it.

"It's an electric baton. Next time Reg tries to convince either of us to go for a drink, do me a favour and smack him a good one." After that they left, rubbing at their head as if trying to soothe a headache. A hangover, no doubt.

Omega silently decided that Goggles would be a good one to leave alive, flung the baton haphazardly onto the nearest available surface, and went straight back to bed.

To the memory of Chikao Ohtsuka, 1929 to 2015:

Wily may have introduced chaos and evil into the Megaman series, but Weil is the one who ran wild with it, burning down everything we knew and loved while cackling like the magnificent, sociopathic, sadistic bastard that he is.

Thank you for portraying such a villain so well. His voice, and yours, will not be forgotten.

Bit of a late memoir, I know, but I had that quote laying around on this chapter for some reason and decided to run with it. I did an artwork before too, so meh, it works out.

R.I.P., our friend.