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Thread: The return

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    The return

    The night black python limped into Serebrov Terminal, trailing plasma and when it touched down, visibly leaking hydraulic fluid. The once perfect, matt black paint, cracked and peeling, burnt away and scraped down to the bare metal.

    It lowered into the hangar and, in the cockpit, it's commander punched out the orders for re arming, re fuelling and repairs. Then he tossed his flight helmet to one side, changed into mufti and walked down the steps, treading his weary way to the nearest dive bar. They were all dive bars in Serebrov it seemed. That was ok, this place was the closest thing to a home he'd ever had. The rumours of gypsy blood in the family went back over a millennia, and every now and then, one member or another would inevitably hit the road and the others, those that stayed behind, would nod to each other in that knowing way.


    He found what he was looking for. Maggie's place. Just off the ramp and close enough to the security office that the officers could call in for a drink...If there was trouble, Maggie would sort it out before any of them could unholster a sidearm.

    He stepped into the gloom. The haze of smoke giving the dim bar lighting an ethereal aspect and, as he walked through between the small booths where deals were done, relationships started and ended and old friends and enemies remembered or , just as frequently, forgotten, he carried his gloom with him. Each weary step an effort, his face a mask. Eyes dark rimmed and baggy from lack of sleep, three or four days worth of stubble on his chin and that mouth, set in a grim line. An expression that was mirrored by a few others here as the darkness receded around them just enough to share the grief in their eyes.

    He Stopped before the counter. Not trusting himself to lean his elbows on it, lest he felt unable to rise again. Some guy, he'd never seen before was serving. just a kid really, dreadlocks, filthy jeans and some dumb imperial makeup on his face asked the stupid question and he replied "Do I look like someone who drinks anything but whisky?" He didn't wait for the kid to reply, just bored on in "Give me the local stuff, a bottle and five glasses, I will take the booth over there." He tilted his head to the farthest, darkest corner. A place where he could sit with his back to the wall and survey the whole place.

    The kid complied, a little ingot of silver slid across the countertop and he carried the glasses and the bottle to the booth. He grunted as he sat and just stayed there for almost a full minute before twisting the cap off the bottle and messily pouring the whisky along the five glasses.

    He didn't put the cap back on. This was a night to finish a bottle, not take any back and, he took the first glass up and clinked it slowly against each of the other four before throwing it back and giving a strangled little cough. It sounded like the roughness of the station brewed spirit causing it, but there were some present who understood the way grief manifests in even the stoniest hearts.

    He stayed there, drinking, eyes hard, cold, until the bottle was empty. Then he got up and left. When he got back to his Python, the repairs were complete and it bore the shiny new name plate. " COR Le Chien Noir" A wry smile indicated that even in such a funk, some things were just so right as to lift the weight of grief, if only for a moment.
    Last edited by Spenceuk99; 05-02-2017 at 00:06. Reason: spelling

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