Angel of the Damned

AotD - 22

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“Drake, you Lyrakk son of a bitch!” a voice brought the pretty blonde to a dead halt and she looked over Drake’s shoulder.  She rolled her eyes and took another swig of the blue drink, bringing a few more drops of sweat to her brow.

Drake reached up despite slightly recognizing the voice, his hand finding the grip of his sword.  It brought back memories of wheezing into bulky filter systems, orders barking back and forth too quickly to comprehend, the smell of burning flesh and exploded ordinances.  He turned cautiously, palming the well worn grip of the sword, ready for trouble. In this case trouble being an old Alliance Great War vet drunk out of any reasonable thought processes who could really hold a grudge.  Drunkards didn’t always obey the no violence law, another thing Drake found out the hard way.  He hadn’t walked correctly for a week after that fight.  When he came full circle, he was greeted instead by the beaming face of an old friend; still an Alliance war vet, just not drunk--yet--or holding a grudge. Drake lowered his hand from the pommel of his sword and into his buddies outstretched hand. “Daniel, damn, I haven’t seen you in forever,” he exclaimed as they exchanged a firm handshake. “You miss carrying around sixty pounds of gear or something?”

It had been about fifteen or so years since they’d seen each other and a lot had changed, mostly for Daniel.  He’d lost his military buzz and smooth face for a head of unruly brown hair and a short beard restrained to his jawline.  He’d put on easily fifty or so pounds and they weren’t muscle either.  What hadn’t changed was the long jagged scar cutting through his eye and tugging at his upper lip and the flinty look in his eyes from years of hard service to the Alliance during the war.

“Some of us don’t got the ability to to keep ourselves in top physical condition,” Daniel scoffed, “‘sides, I’m settled down now.  Don’t got time for the heroic stuff anymore.” He looked over Drake’s shoulder, “Sweetheart, grab us two beers, wouldya.”

The pretty blonde stood and strutted past him, ducking under the bar.  She returned moments later with two frosty bottles of golden liquid, twisting the lids off they were tossed somewhere under the bar and set down in front of Drake and Daniel. “Come find me when you want that massage,” she whispered in Drake’s ear while plucking a 9mm from Daniel’s hand, which she deposited in a jar on the shelf behind the bar.

“You’re settled down?” Drake asked smiling. “Some woman can actually put up with all of your bullshit?” He took a swig of the beer and felt a cold, wet object nuzzling up under his arm.  The feeling was unpleasant and Drake lifted his arm to alleviate it only to see a dog with it’s paws up on the seat and its muzzle now resting on Drake’s thigh.

“His name’s Sherman,” Daniel said, “He’s the most loyal, and only, family I got.” He pulled a small box out of his pocket and cigarette out. “Gotta light?”

“Not with me,” Drake said.  One of the girls removed a lighter from inside her thigh the flipped it open.  She lit Daniel’s cigarette and he thanked her.  Drake scratched the fur between Sherman’s ears, getting a wagging tail and a few drops of drool on his leg for his trouble. “They actually let dogs in here?” Drake asked. “I mean, granted, they let you in so they clearly don’t have high standards.”

“No, we don’t allow dogs in here,” a woman said walking up. “Daniel, I have told you this before.” Her pointed eyes and the slight point to her ears made Drake believe she was an elf, but there was something human in her face and then her orange eyes pointed to Decator.