Battle Scars

Grey leaned over the counter and said in a hushed tone, "five o'clock. That's a guy you'll want to meet--wait, don't look now, these fellas don't always appreciate the attention."

The men in front of her hid their heads behind their hands, trying to swipe discrete glances at whomever the bartender was referring to.

"Get back to your drinks, boys, I'll let ya know if he's open to questions."

"You're the best, sweets" one man said as she slipped out from behind the counter.

"As always." She disappeared into the clutter of tables, booths, and drunks, and the men finally looked, tracing her path with their eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of her destination.

She ended her meandering walk at a booth nestled among several others. Most of its occupant was hidden by the high walls, but what they could glimpse - a foot and an arm - were enough to pull the onlookers out of their stupor. Both appendages gleamed with the hard sheen of sculpted metal and plastic; they were obviously bionic.

"Oy, Cliff!" A boy said. "Even you might want to see this." He shook his friend, who groaned and lifted his head a centimetre from his hands before giving up and returning his face to the cradle of his hands.

Grey leaned herself against the man's table and spoke, body language casual. The men strained to hear her. A few moved along the counter until they could glimpse the rest of the man.

"Heya, welcome to the Red Dustbowl. First time here, eh? Can I get you anything?"

The man took his time replying. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. "Been hearing that this place is good for the soul. Thought I'd try'n get in on some of that magic."

"Healing, huh? Name it and we'll make it."

He shook his head.  "Get me one of those soda pops if you must."

Grey raised an eyebrow.

"Last time I had a real drink I woke up in a supply cubby short a few limbs." He thumped his bionic leg for emphasis.

"Sounds like quite a story," Grey remarked.

The man chuckled. "Oh, that's nothing. I've got real stories to tell." His face darkened. "Boy have I got stories to tell."

One of the eavesdropping men let out an involuntary whoop. The man's head whipped towards them, and for the first time, they could see the entirety of his face - or what remained of it, for much of it, including his right eye, was gone - thin, sculpted metal and wires in its place.

"And it looks like I've got myself an audience."

"Does the Battle of Tartarus Montes ring a bell?"

Gasps rang out along the counter. The man smiled, satisfied.

"That was a bloody one. My last, and I almost didn't make it out alive. We didn't march into it so much as drag our feet, for we had just received the mother of all inoculations: our ears on Earth had heard talk of biological warfare, and we would take no chances when marching into battle against the fresh forces of Earth.

"The midwinter chill threatened to soak through our suits, and the stars, which had gleamed overhead for days, had disappeared behind a haze of dust. Some took that as a bad omen; I just tried to focus on what lay ahead.

"We were hardly a few handfuls, but we hoped the terrain would help us, give us cover while we set up a mine trap ahead of their forces. But we had hardly touched the foot of the nearest mountain when we saw the lights.

"Their drones circled lazily overhead like the vultures of their home planet, searchlights sweeping the ground. We barely had time to dive under our camo tents before the lights were upon us. We waited..."