Dear devoted reader,

Please bear with me as I interject for a moment, but as the editor of these documents, I feel that the forthcoming excerpt deserves a special disclaimer considering that it was delivered to me by royal guard; the armed escort less of a reflection of the record within, but rather the status of its aristocratic presenter: Princess L.

I received this special visitor after she discovered that I was in possession of the coordinator’s records. She promptly informed me that part of her duties as monarch-of-the-night was to document any unusual or significant dreams that might be of political interest. In particular, she had been doing her own personal research into dreams induced by the consumption of Vexglove due to some obscure properties of the plant, which causes dreams that are uniquely vivid, descriptive, and characteristically disturbing for the dreamer, and thus makes them particularly useful in foreseeing possible threats to the realm. Though the princess confirmed that it is not always possible to determine the originator from which these nocturnal images arise, she was able to trace several of these dreams back to the development coordinator based on the distinctive “human” anatomy of the subjects.

On a side note, my regal guest seemed particularly interested in the whereabouts of a certain letter, which contained some rather personal information, that she had previously attached to the journals while they were still in Mr Prodder’s possession; but I digress.

The documentation that I now present to you is one of several transcripts that were derived from her analysis. More so than in the writings previously released, I have taken the liberty of doing far more than simple grammatical editing in light of the lack of knowledge or understanding, on the part of Her Royal Highness, of the customs and nuances intrinsic to the dreamer being studied. In addition, unlike the contents of the journal, I cannot fully guarantee the validity of the events that take place in the following passage due to the abstract medium from which they were derived. I trust that all parties will take into consideration that I am presenting it exclusively in an effort to be true to my obligation to relay all information given. I hope that I have been successful in my quest to be fair and impartial to those whose lives are recorded for posterity; to the reader, who seeks the truth; to the crown, under which I will always be a faithful servant; and by association, to myself.

I urge the readers, with full knowledge of its source and subjectivity, to simply make of the following what they will.

Just another Thursday evening to be washed away with another bottle of the cheap stuff. Wait, it wasn’t Thursday, his mind argued. No, it was Friday. The realization of having lost track of his days again made the man on the barstool rub his thumb and forefinger against his eyes: Friday, then. That explained why the particular bar he was in was so full and bustling. He reached out his hand, pale from not having seen sunlight for weeks or possibly longer, and grasped the shot glass in front of him. There was no countdown or hesitation as he put the glass to his mouth and threw his head back in one fluid motion, letting the bitter fluid slide down his throat. He struggled to keep the foul taste and uncomfortable burning sensation at bay by slamming his glass to the bar top. Cheap whiskey, he told himself, was always that way. When he was finally able to breathe again after the suffocating power of the pungent taste subsided, he wondered exactly how they got the ass flavor into it; must have been aged in a cask that had previously been used to hide a corpse, or maybe they stored it in a warehouse next to a cow pasture. His contemplations subsided as he drearily glanced to either side of himself to scan the establishment.

The Town Square is what that particular dump was named. Some called the name clever, but most called it bland; he just called it stupid. The inside was large enough to house whatever barflies buzzed in and back out to other bars while they searched for their preferred turd of a bar seat: One featuring a bandstand with a piano-playing jackass, or perhaps some billiard tables where credits could change hands unfairly with a single shot. The lights were a soft blue, not the oppressive yellow that most other places used, or the stark white that made the late nights even harder on the eyes. The nebulous glow made it harder to determine the hair color of the other patrons, and the dimness made their eyes almost impossible to see. Maybe the regulars there had adapted to the lighting, but it was about as useful as moonlight to the frowning man as he glanced around. His own seat felt poorly cushioned, as though all the stuffing had been spread too far out to the sides; though, he supposed, maybe so many hours of his own ass bearing down upon it had caused that. He had wondered once if it was real wood that the bar top was made of, but decided it couldn't be. Wood was too expensive up on Terriel for a local joint to afford; must have just been sawdust pressed together with glue and painted pretty. Either way, it didn’t really matter; he was not there for the name, or the lights, or the wood.

He was there to do the same thing that night as he had done almost every night for the past year: To drink. Specially for him, the bottom rung of the shelf behind the bar was dedicated to only the cheapest and most unappetizing alcohol credits ought not buy. That was perfect. A couple of times before, the welfare and disability incomes had run very thin by the end of the month. Those were the times when the harsh, sober truth had come back to mind, and he had just tried to sleep for days on end until his account got another deposit from the feds.

The man at the bar maintained at least two seats open to both his left and his right. The few stragglers who had made the mistake of trying to look past his exterior had been met with growls and snaps from him; he wanted no one to talk with. Something about him being so large, hairy, and determined to get tanked at three o'clock in the afternoon must have scared them away if what they had seen upon approaching him from behind hadn’t done the job: A man broad in the shoulders and taller than most. Large enough, in fact, that he might have once-upon-a-time done well stepping into a pair of bright boxers and throwing other large men to a mat; that would still be the case if so much inactivity and drinking had not left his body less than fit. His hair was dark red, and long enough that it needed to be tied back to keep it out of his face. Perhaps it would have been lighter, maybe auburn, if he ever saw the sun anymore. Perhaps it would have been shorter if he ever cared anymore. Viewed from the front, his face was hidden by a beard, left uncared for. His eyebrows set bushy and heavy over eyes that might have once been a bright blue, but had by then become dreary; lacking any spark in them. The coat that wrapped around him was as old as it could be without literally falling apart, with holes at the back of the sleeves and the buttons mostly missing. It did little to hide the glint of scuffed and weathering metal that started at his right hip and ended at the flat-bottomed, padded, metal boot where it fastened securely to the poorly-fabricated and refurbished prosthetic leg.

Even so much as the act of looking at the other patrons as they laughed, drank, and had a good time left him feeling fatigued. The grizzled man looked back down at the bar to contemplate by himself a bit more and regain his energy; it was a dangerous thing for him to do these days. He swore that thinking often led to hoping, and that was something for younger, more ignorant men to enjoy. To avoid indulging in such a lost cause, he thought only of what little details he could observe going on around him. The bar he sat at was lacking something familiar to him: The scent of vomit, barely coated in the pungent citrus flavor of all-purpose cleaner. Instead, it smelled almost clean, aside from the aromatic residue left behind by chicken wings coated in sauce that was more spice than flavor. He listened over the laughter and repetitive conversations of the drones around him, who were merely trying to waste time until their future carnal relations could begin, to try to hear the pianist as he continued to bang out notes that he had learned from a MIRRD instead of composed himself. He sang a bluesy tune, and as with all sad songs, the lyrics had to do with love. The musician sang about a woman, calling her by name, and said she had left him a broken mess of a man; he sounded like he was smiling as he sang. "You have no fuckin' clue," growled the man at the bar, doing his best to simply ignore it all again.

There was something there that bothered him more than the patrons, or the performer with an inability to put his soul into his craft: The bartender. Every time the angry man at the counter called out for another shot, the barkeep would smile at him. He resented that damn smile, as if his server was happy to see him putting another one down; the devil in a black bar-smock, wanting him to dig his grave a little deeper, no doubt. The bartender was a Lufae: Slender and relatively young looking. Their kind always seemed to have a shimmer on their skin, but it was just an illusion created by the layer of fine, clear hair that covered their bodies. He was in his mid-twenties at the oldest, guessing by the somewhat dwarfed length of his tail compared to older Lufae. His features were too smooth for a man; he looked soft. The young fellow even kept his face shaved, aside from a little hair on his chin that matched the color of both the tuft of hair at the end of his tail, and the wavy locks of sea-green that he had to repeatedly sweep away from his eyes with his hand. His eyes seemed brighter than most, which only made the drunk man more irritable when the willowy nuisance would look him in the eye and say, “Sure thing, handsome,” before going to refill his glass.

That boy was too young, too pretty, and too frail to be doing such a man’s job, he told himself broodingly. Everywhere else he frequented had a fat, hairy, bald man cleaning out a mug while standing in front of him the whole time and giving him a wary eye-over as though he were about to run off without paying his tab. Those were the bartenders that he liked -- he knew exactly what they’d say, and what he should say back. They didn’t keep turning back every few minutes to smile at him and watch him try to hold down his booze, or lie and call him handsome, or just generally be happy.

The sound of footsteps made the man cringe in his seat, his eyes raising up just enough to catch the sight of a black-clad specter moving along his peripheral vision. “Oh great,” he murmured to himself. Instinctively, his eyes fell back down to the bar top as his shoulders hunched up protectively to ward off the bartender’s approach. Then he waited, in hopes that the Lufae behind the counter would simply grab a washcloth or a bottle and move back down to the other end of the bar.

“Hey there, handsome.”

He guessed it was too much to ask for that the little queer would go about his own business. The drunkard lowered his brows and looked up, giving a scowl to the intruder followed by a long, eerie silence. “What?” he finally barked back shortly, trying to keep from swaying in his seat from slight inebriation.

The lad still had that damn smile on his face as he leaned forward and rested his elbows against the bar. He gave the man a curious stare while keeping his face up and out of reach. “I noticed that the friend you’ve been waiting for hasn’t shown up yet. You think they’re still coming?”

“I’m not waiting on anybody,” the choleric man snapped back, hunkering back into his slouch to get comfortable.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that? It’s a shame to drink alone, you know.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m a big, scary motherfucker who wants to be left alone.”

The bartender acted coy at the response, standing up again after he had reached beneath the counter and retrieved a bottle bearing a dark red and black label that mostly concealed the smooth amber-colored liquid within. He set it down on the counter and effortlessly slipped the cork out to pour some into the overused shot glass.

Taking a look at the bottle, the swaying man shook his head and pushed the shot glass away. “I’m not drunk enough to think I can afford that. If you slip it back in the bottle before people see, you can still sell it. I won’t tell anybody.”

The brat shook his head and pushed it back across the counter, placing the cork back in the bottle to make his point. “I’m sure you can afford it, Mister. This one just costs some of your time.”

Grasping the shot glass in his large, rough hand, the drunken man shot him a leery glance from under heavy, red eyebrows. “That’s a pretty steep cost, kid. My time is just about the only damn thing I’ve got left. Don’t know if I’m willing to barter it for just a smooth drink.”

“I’m sure it’s very valuable; I’d be getting a great deal if you’d hand it over for just a shot. What if I threw in the rest of the bottle too? Would that be fair for a moment of your time?”

Looking vexed, he took a long look at the bottle before darting a short glance back up at the server offering it to him. He finally gave a nod and raised his glass for a moment, toasting to no one. “You’ve got a deal then.” He threw the drink back and took a deep inhale, enjoying the slow spread of warmth as it moved down his throat and into his chest; it was slightly bitter with a smoky aftertaste to it, and much better than the scorching gut rot he had been swilling before. Setting the glass back down, he raised his head again to look at the bartender curiously, much less guarded than before. “Alright then. Deal’s a deal. What’re you going to do with my time?”

“First, I’ll see about learning your name.”

“My name wasn’t part of the barter… but it’s Mark.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mark. I’m Pernod.”

“I didn’t ask, and that’s a really prissy name; even by Lufaen standards.”

Despite his companion’s gruff and guttural comment, the barkeep merely chuckled and nodded in agreement. “Can’t help what my parents named me. How about you just call me Ricky then? Everybody else does.”

“Why Ricky...? On second thought, don’t answer that; I don’t care. You’re supposed to be the one asking the questions anyway.”

"Come on now, pal; this isn't an interrogation. I just want to get to know a little more about my new friend."

The indignant man lowered his sights once again, trying his best not to bite back at the idealistic nature of the young man”s words. He knew the boy was only trying to help, but mostly the fact that he had made a pact to cooperate kept his ire contained. "You want a novel or something then?"

"I do love a good story," Ricky responded cheerily, nodding once to acknowledge an order from the other side of the bar that he began mixing up. During the task, he continued to stand before his resentful captive, still wearing a smile. "Maybe we should just start with what's on your mind though. What does a ‘big, scary motherfucker’ think about when he's sitting at my bar?"

The chaffed drunk mulled it over for a while, taking time to think while his interrogator tended to another patron before returning to ask excitedly if he had come up with anything. "I hate your pianist and the songs he sings."

"Why's that? Not a fan of love songs?"

"My life is a bad love song," Mark muttered quietly as he took a deep breath and tried to steady his hand to pour another shot for himself. "That... or a country one, if I owned a tractor."

The bartender had a laugh like a bell; a warming sound that, given enough time, might move any companion to want to smile or even join in with a chuckle of their own. "Might want to slow it down there a little bit. Let that first shot kick in before you down half the bottle. You don't want to make yourself sick, do you?"

"I just had a transdermal morphine patch pulled out a few months back. I'd be lucky if this whole bottle would even get me to a point of being smashed," he answered with a shake of his head after throwing back the quick drink.

"Guess that means the leg's new." Ricky peered over the bar to give the prosthesis a once-over. Mark watched the Lufae’s smile mellow to a soft expression of concern as he examined the device. He must have noticed the dents and scuffs in it despite it being so recently installed, or noted the age of the model and the primitive combustion-powered design. "No wonder I haven't seen you get up from that stool all evening."

"Fifty-fifty chance that the goddam thing is jammed just from sitting down so long," the hunched man said over a loud cough. "Doesn't really matter. Isn't like I have anywhere to be anyway. Even if I wanted to, fueling the thing is so damn expensive..."

"Couldn't afford a better one?"

"Take another look at the whiskey I've been drinking tonight and guess for yourself."

Ricky pulled his lips tight, nodding in understanding as he reached for a mug and a cloth. The mug didn’t appear to be dirty, but he seemed to need something to do with his hands to keep them away from his new “friend”; the sense that he wanted to reach out to comfort the grizzled old man apparent to even passing onlookers.

"I didn't even buy this one. Feds paid for it, along with the hospital bills. A great goodbye present for my years of service planetside." Mark waited for the inquisition, but the bartender held silent politely. "I can't say anything more about it: Oath of confidentiality and all that."

"Wouldn't want to see you drop dead from breaking a binding contract, would we?"

The morose soldier did not respond, instead thinking it over seriously as he poured another shot.

"No, we wouldn't," Ricky answered for him adamantly.

Still holding silent for a while, Mark’s expression turned from pitiable self-loathing to one of gradual irritation at the answer. "That must be pretty easy for you to say, kid. You’ve got somewhere to be after this, don't you? Somewhere that isn't a lonely little tenement room? You have something to wake up for tomorrow too, I bet. It's gotta be so damn easy to think that way when you have so much going for you."

The Lufae became quiet. Despite the anger building in the incensed man’s tone as he seethed under his breath, the boy seemed to take no offense to his words or fear the hostility in his voice. Instead, the bartender set down his mug and pulled up a small stool behind the bar to sit down. Folding his arms on the bar top, he prepared to listen. His presence continued to upset the old drunk as he grew closer, but he bravely leaned even further in because of it.

The burly hand grew tight around the shot glass as his eyes turned away and coughed from the building heat of rage in his chest. "Y'know something, kid? I hate you. Did I tell you that yet? I've hated you since the moment you walked in here for your shift tonight. I still do."

"Mind if I ask you why?" Ricky asked calmly, with measured words.

"Because you...!" Mark lowered his sights and silenced the shout that had caused the pianist to stop playing. Rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger to quiet himself, he waited for the other patrons to distract themselves before starting again in a lower tone: One that hinted that he was doing all he could to breathe away the sudden, inexplicable anger. "Because... you know how to be happy. Maybe it's just because you've got a reason to be, and I don't. Dammit if I don't feel like that everyday. I hate the musician you've got here because he can smile. I hate your customers because they know how to laugh. I swear that there's nobody I don't hate nowadays."

The bartender held his face still in a stoic expression, nodding knowingly towards the man. "It's okay for you to hate me; I don't mind. I just don't think it's possible for you to hate everyone."

"It is," Mark responded coldly, before swallowing hard and drawing in a shaky breath. Through his somewhat drunken expression, it was impossible to tell if his breath became short from anger or otherwise.

Ricky shook his head. "No, it's not. A man doesn't drink himself to death because he's always hated everyone."

He tried to stay calm, but the truth of it made it all the harder for the agitated man to remain apathetic as he buried his face in his hands and coughed up a troubled breath. "... You're right, kid. He does it when the only ones he cares about anymore are gone for good."

"Are they someplace better now?"

"If by better, you mean living in a fucking mansion in Keycrescents: One of them screwing my own goddamn doctor, and the other living a little rich-boy's life; then of course, they're in a better place!" Mark grabbed his maroon hair for what little comfort it could give, curling his fingers into it as he exhaled a terrible sense of helplessness in a single enraged sob that escaped him through a drunken hiccup. "If by a better place... you mean anywhere that is far away from a cripple that's of no use to them anymore... then yeah. Yeah, they're in a better place." Another wretched sob or two escaped him, unable to hold them in as the taste of liquor in his mouth triggered a wave or revulsion. The youth remained quiet, but nearby; ignoring the taps on the bar a few seats down for his attention, he sat readily beside the old drunkard. "But... you're right, kid. It isn't possible to hate everybody. As much as I’ve tried, I know I can't do it."

The bartender reached out, grasping the man's hand to pull it away from his hair and set it back down upon the bar top. He rested the calloused hand over the few drops of water that had fallen from his eyes, letting him hide them from sight. "That's certainly not what I was expecting to hear. I guess I don't understand. Keycrescents isn't that far; Judicial District 7, right? A few dozen miles isn't a world away."

Mark remained quiet for a while, composing himself as best he could despite the gentle rocking from side-to-side he had developed in hopes to not lose his balance on the stool. "There's no point in it for a dead man."

A perplexed look came over Ricky ‘s expression as he reached out and stopped the despairing man from grabbing the bottle next to him, encouraging him to hold off for a bit. "Maybe I'd understand if you told me what happened."

Mark hesitated greatly, knowing well enough that he did not want to speak anymore. In thinking perhaps he could avoid it, he pushed the bottle back towards the bartender instead. "Can I get my time back if I just give you what's left?"

"Afraid not. Deal's a deal. Afraid that I also really want to know what's put such a great guy so close to rock-bottom that he ended up at my bar tonight."

“Oh, you’re home.”

“… Yeah, it was great. A great damn day all around, babe, thanks for asking.”

“Don’t snap at me, you worthless bum!”

“Bum… yeah, that’s it. Too much to ask for a little support from my partner?”

With an exasperated sigh, the woman at the sink shut off the faucet and slowly turned about to give her husband a brutal glower. The olive-tinted skin on her hands was wrinkled as she snatched up a towel to dry them. Her dark chocolate-brown eyes burned out from beneath the raven-black locks that had managed to escape their bonds; the harsh stare she wore softened when she saw what state her husband was in after he closed the door behind him and faced her.

The man who stood before her was stooped: His back hunched up, and his head hung before him as he struggled to look back at her. His eyes unintentionally avoided hers as he stood there motionless. In his hand, he held a piece of paper so tightly that it crumpled in his grasp; the sweat from his palm had stained and smudged whatever printing was on it.

“Markus… what’s wrong? Did you find a job or not?”

The large statue reached a hand up to his face to scratch the stubble growing there, biding his time as he tried to consider a good answer. “Yeah Katherine, I found some work.” he finally admitted, looking her in the face with a defeated expression on his visage.

“That’s great! Isn’t it? Now we can pay the rent, and the water bill, and-… Markus, why aren’t you happy? What happened?” Unable to comprehend what had gotten into her betrothed , she stepped towards him with a hint of worry beginning to tinge her gaze.

“I enlisted.”

“You… did what? Enlisted where?”

“The reclamation. I enlisted for the project they’ve got going on back on the planet’s surface: Lumbering and... other things to make it inhabitable again.”

A choking silence sat between them for a long moment before his speechless wife shook her head at him. “You didn’t,” she finally said, in a voice that seemed ready to crack.

He found it impossible to answer, simply turning away from her and looking back to the door.

“Markus, answer me! You did not take that job. Less than a handful of men they send down there make it back. Not to mention, you’ll be gone for... years!”

“They promised to send a stipend to you every week to pay for food, clothes, and the house; everything you will need,” he responded, purposely ignoring her argument as his teeth clenched together. “They want me at the station overnight for inspection before we ship off.”

“You’re going to die, Markus!”

“I don’t have a choice!” A thundering thud resounded through the home as his fist met with the wall where it left a dent. He heaved as he gulped back and stopped himself from continuing to seethe with rage, not wanting her to see him in such a state. Swallowing his frustration, he lifted his head once again and spoke as quietly as he could. “I don’t have a damn choice, Katherine. It’s this, or we lose the house, the vehicle, and you two go hungry. It’s the only thing I can do.”

“So that’s it? You’re going to leave us here and go die in some pointless campaign just for a weekly stipend check?”

Markus shook his head, sighing and muttering to himself that nothing he could do would ever be good enough for her as he turned away fully and headed back to the door he had entered. “I’d rather be a dead father than a deadbeat dad.” As his hand reached for the knob, he was stopped once more by his wife’s voice: Broken with tears that she tried bitterly to withhold as she spoke.

“What am I supposed to tell Benjamen then?” The towel in her hands was wrung tightly between them as she tried to control herself, biting her lip as she watched his back shift in a subtle shrug. “How do I tell him that you’re not coming home?” When his silence dragged on, she inhaled as steadily as she could to ask: “Aren’t you at least going to tell him goodbye?”

“… Tell him that Daddy went to go be a cowboy and fight some savages. He’ll like that… he’ll like that a lot. I love you Katherine… even if you can’t see it right now. With any luck, I’ll see you later.”

“I’m guessing that things didn’t go quite as planned planetside,” Ricky commented softly, the first time he had spoken since the story began.

Mark did not have to say an answer, merely motioning with his head towards the prosthetic leg that whirred loudly as it jammed when he tried to move was example enough. After using his elbow to beat against the hydraulic that had locked up, it eventually released with a small hiss, and the leg bent into a proper seated position.

“Sorry, I know you can’t talk about what happened down there.”

“Don’t have to. It isn’t important. What happened after it, is.”

Markus could barely remember what had happened when he first awoke to the bright light hovering above him in the infirmary shack. The world seemed filled with the droning sound of the computers monitoring his heartbeat and the repetitive whirrs of the compressor filling the stocking on his left leg with air, keeping it from sticking to him as it forced blood flow to the area. A few doctors muttered phrases about him that he could barely hear. He was not cognizant for long, as one of the medics came in with a filled syringe and told him to keep calm. That would be the first of the seemingly endless morphine injections he would have to keep him unwittingly in a hospital bed without any clue as to what was happening around him.

After a week or so, he seemed stable enough for the medics to load him onto a carrier and transport him back to Terriel to a legitimate hospital. It was certainly not by his request, but for the bleeding hearts of the physicians who could not bear to see another body bag, or the ones who really wanted that next paycheck, and it was better for the feds who could claim that not everyone they sent down there died. Mark was still so doped up on painkillers and antibiotics that he cared not what they did with him. In fact, he was often too lost in hallucinations of childhood memories, his long forgotten nightmares keeping him company in that little hospital room, to know what was even happening in the waking world.

He was at the Idollions General Hospital for two weeks before he had his first real visitor.

“Mrs. Prodder, please don’t be alarmed when you see him. Speak slowly and clearly for him; he’s under the influence of some sedatives and painkillers to help with the trauma.”

“I understand,” Katherine nodded, the forms in her hand protected from her sweaty grasp by a thick folder. Her breathing grew heavy with anticipation as she watched the nurse don a smile and reach for the knob on the door, slowly opening it.

“Good morning, Mr. Prodder! How are you feeling?” His overdue guest let the nurse enter the room first, afraid to set her eyes upon the source from which she had heard an incoherent, quiet babble in response to the question. The nurse giggled sweetly at whatever he had said and motioned for her to come into the room. “You have a visitor! Your wife came to see you.”

Her olive-skinned face finally looked to the bed at the shell of her husband resting there with a glazed look in his eyes as he stared back at her mindlessly. She bit her lip to keep from uttering a shocked sob at the sight of him: The man she had once held and loved, whose strength she had admired, was lying broken; wasting away atop a bloody bandage that embraced his hip where there was no longer a leg. He was frighteningly pale and the hair on his face was unkempt. Multiple tubes were plugged into him from machines that whirred, beeped, and hissed in sporadic intervals. “Markus…?”

The man on the bed did not respond: Though he moved his lips as if he whispered something, he did not answer her. Looking into his eyes, her hand flew briefly to her neck as she got the chilling sense that he was looking through her and had no idea that she was even there. She moved close to his bedside, letting her arm float down from its resting place across her chest to touch his auburn hair. As her fingers traced over his head, he shifted in a slight startle, looking up to her in what seemed like panic. “Katherine? Can you see them?”

Her ebony brows downturned in concern as she looked up and around the room, seeing nothing but the sterile white walls with their teal borders, and the machines and medication scattered about; even the screen hanging above them was off. “See what, Markus?”

Calming some, the drugged man looked back up to the ceiling, eyes glancing about frantically as he watched. “Butterflies. Don’t you see them? Butterflies, everywhere… blue and pink ones.” His mouth was agape in awe at the spectacle, but she could only rub her eyes with her free hand and stifle a snivel as she endured her husband’s hallucination. A few moments passed before he lifted his head to look back at her pleadingly. “Did you bring Benjy?”

The mother of his child shook her head to him as she began to fidget with the paperwork in her hands. “No, Markus. I did not want Benjamen to see you like this.” She opened the folder and retrieved a pen, quickly trying to glance over the form and ignore the disappointed stare from the man in the bed. She looked to the nurse and asked her to give them a moment. Thankful for the reprieve, the attendant quickly exited the room to see to her other patients.

“Benjy… doesn’t want to see his dad?”

“I don’t want to keep Benjamen away from his father… but I can’t let him know what has become of you yet; he just couldn’t understand.” Katherine’s expression slowly began to turn to a stony visage; one that she had donned many times before in the face of difficult situations: A face that Markus recognized even in his inebriated state. He pulled gently at the blanket that covered his chest. She held a pen out to him and gave him a long stare. Her eyes were moist with guilt, but she pulled strength from within herself and remained vigilant.

Confused, he took the pen she offered him, followed by a paper that she had removed from the folder she was holding. He struggled to read the print, but all he could see were the words writhing as the letters squirmed away from his sight, making it impossible for him to decipher. “What’s this?”

“I need you to just sign right there, Markus,” she said softly and patiently as she pointed to a line near the bottom of the page; directly below a line that already held her own signature.

“What’s it say though…?” He asked her again, uncertainly, as the pen touched the paper atop the line and he began scribbling in his name slowly. M… A… R…

“It says that you love Benjamen very much, and that you want to do what’s best for him,” she said with conviction, gulping back after her words; her hand fled to her stomach as the bittersweet sentiments left her mouth, staving off the sickness that she felt as she watched her husband sign the divorce petition.

K… U… S…

“I do. I do want to do what’s best for him. Is he okay? Is he still my brave little man?”

P... R… O…

“He is. He’s growing up to look just like you. Getting good grades in school and has lots of friends.”

D… D…

“Good. I should have known. Does he ever ask about daddy?”

E…

“He does… And he knows that you’ll always be a hero, even though you won’t be coming home again.”

R.

“What?” he asked her groggily as she took the paper away from him and closed the folder. He saw that she could not bear to look into his glistening eyes again. “Why’d you tell him that?”

His ex-wife could not even force herself to answer; it was all she could do to ignore the stinging of her eyes as tears began to bead at the edges of her eyelids. Instead, she reached down to kiss him on the forehead and stroke his face before standing up and backing towards the door. “Goodbye, Markus. I know it might be hard to see right now, but I do still love you… I have to do what’s best for our son.” With that, she walked out of the room. As the door closed behind her, she covered her face with her hands, and with her back pressed against the door, let out a seething sob. Though she had tried her best to convince herself that it was the best option for her son, even as she had spoken those dreadful words, she wept in anger at the hard decisions that she had been forced to make and the hatred that she felt towards herself for what she had done.

It took many minutes to compose herself before she walked down the hallway and got the attention of a seasoned-looking doctor. He looked back down to room 309 and nodded to her. “Any questions about your husband, Mrs. Prodder? We’re still monitoring his vitals and awaiting the arrival of the prosthetic. Once we get it, I will personally be seeing to the scheduling of its installation and integration to his CCMI.”

The former Mrs. Prodder reached into the folder she had stuffed in her purse and retrieved two small, platinum-colored discs. She held them out to the doctor with a stern expression. “I only wish to ask if you would testify that he is in his right mind and able to consent at this time... Dr. Aledrew?”

The doctor looked to the discs, then glanced around quickly before grasping her hand with both of his and shaking it in disguise as he took the objects in hand with a coy smile. “Of course, Mrs. Prodder. He’s due for another dose of sedatives and painkillers very, very soon… he should be lucid as a crystal right now.”

“Please, call me Kathy.”

The shot glass rang out as it hit the bar top again, the sound laced with a crack as a web of slivers appeared at its bottom from the force.

Ricky did not flinch at the sound, even though the enraged slam caught the attention of many of the patrons around him. Dutifully, he reached out to take the damaged glass before tossing it into a waste bin behind the bar and reaching for another to set in front of the quiet man before him. The bartender poured his attentions back into the others waiting at the bar for service while his companion smoldered after finishing the difficult tale he had been forced to tell. Mark seemed to need the time alone to brood, wearing a scowl as he suffered through the pain of a figurative hole in his back.

Once everyone in the bar had been pacified; from the patrons, impatient to have the bartender’s attention; to his despondent acquaintance, who eventually slumped down to rest his forehead against the countertop in defeat, Ricky sighed. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. The Lufae stood indecisively, his tail flicking back and forth in irritation; visibly bothered to not have an answer in mind.

The drunk seemed to have fallen asleep as he sat motionless with his head on his arm atop the bar. The illusion was broken, however, when he shifted in discomfort as the barkeep took his seat across from him again. It was evident the story had simply drained him of what little will he had left. “So what happened next?” Ricky prodded, tapping his fingers against the plywood of the bar top to rouse his companion.

“What do you mean, ‘What happened next’? What do you think happened?” Mark gruffly responded, hesitant to lift his head from his arm again. With a sigh, he slowly rose up, trying to find the volition to continue at the request of the barkeep. “... I’m sorry kid, but through all the painkillers, medicinal and -- well,” he reached for the half-full bottle beside him to make his point, “not so medicinal, I can’t rightly recall anymore.”

“Well, you have an apartment, right? You didn’t just wake up with that.”

“Subsidized. So yeah, I did kinda just wake up with it. It came as a part of the little fuckin’ shadowbox the feds display me in.”

“So all you’ve done is drink since you got out of the hospital?”

Ignoring the shot glass in front of him, Mark simply lifted the bottle straight to his lips to take a swig. “Don’t give me that crap, kid. I couldn’t get a job before I left; I sure as hell won’t find one now that I’m dragging this junker around that only barely works half the time. Why would I have to? Feds pay for everything for me. Food, clothes, booze...”

The old man’s statement dropped off, and he looked down drearily with a sigh. A speculative gleam appeared in the bartender’s eyes as he shook his head and glanced him over. “Where’s the money really go, Mark?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded, suddenly becoming cold and turning his sights away to avoid making eye contact.

“I know disability pays better than that, especially for a vet.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve seen what you drink; you obviously don’t buy clothes for yourself; and from the look of you, you haven’t eaten well in a long time. So, where does it all go?”

Mark huddled up, feeling rebuked by the question. He wanted to remain silent, but the itching need to grab the bottle beside him for comfort made him sigh as it ultimately reminded him of the deal he had made. It took quite awhile for him to answer, his face shifting between expressions of defeat, anger, and helplessness. During one of his irritated moments, he found the strength to look up sternly and tell his tormenter, “You can call me a lot of things: Drunk... cripple... bum; but don’t you ever say I’m a deadbeat.”

“Was that part of the divorce agreement? You’re still expected to pay child support?”

Mark shook his head, heaving a sigh. “Of course not. You think I married a demon or something?”

“What she’s done to you doesn’t cast a very flattering light on her in my eyes.”

“You know that there were reasons I fell in love with her in the first place, right? I didn’t just wake up one day and find myself married to her.” He grunted in return as Ricky gave a small apology. “I’d appreciate it if you’d not insult her, and me by association. I might have made a lot of mistakes in my time, but she was never one of them. It’s just... tragic: One of the reasons I loved her, is why I lost her.” Mark sighed deeply, reflecting on the statement before returning to the topic. “Maybe she hasn’t done what’s been best for me... but she isn’t just a harpy either. She’d never ask me for money. If she thought I could fulfil my responsibilities in the first place, she’d have never done what she did.”

“You don’t mind that she ran off with your own doctor?”

“Dr. Aledrew? He’s a son of a bitch, no doubt, but he isn’t a cruel man. He’s got the means and the desire to take care of them both. He’ll... do what’s best for them. I’ll never thank him... but I won’t hate him for just doing what I failed to do.”

“Then why do you wear rags and live off of cheap whiskey if nobody’s asked you to?”

Mark gave the bartender a long stare; one that, for the first time, discomforted the youth. “I told you: You’ll never call me a deadbeat. Heavens as my witness, I’ll never let you.”

Ricky frowned as he watched the determination in the inebriated gaze lose sight of its stalwart belief within the drunkenness in the man’s eyes. His own bright eyes showed thought as he hatched a plan that led him to step away from the counter long enough to retrieve a black wallet from behind the bar.

Seeing the pouch, Mark instinctively reached for his own pocket to feel it was empty. It was hard to remember, but it struck him that he was at one of the places that held wallets behind the counter to help ensure tabs were paid. “What’re you up to?”

Flipping through the fold searchingly, the Lufae nodded when he found something that confirmed his thoughts. His deft fingers withdrew a slip of paper before he folded the wallet to toss it back behind the counter once again.

“Hey, that isn’t yours! Put that back!” The provoked man looked ready to stand up and go around the bar to make the interloper relinquish it, but between his misbehaving prosthetic and staggering intoxication, he lacked the ability to enforce his wishes.

Ricky did not heed his command, choosing instead to look over the paper in his hand before stepping close to put it down on the bar face-up. It was a photograph; a simple one, only a bust shot, that had perhaps been taken in a small studio. The subject of the photo was just a little boy. A mop of messy hair in a dark rust color adorned his head, where it had been blown about and left uncut for many weeks. A wide grin engulfed his face, showing large gaps where the teeth were still growing. The fair-skinned boy’s eyes looked straight ahead, right into the lens, and pierced his father’s heart to a point that he had to turn his sight away from the photo.

“You keep that hidden in the back of the wallet, I see.”

“Stop it. That’s none of your business,” Mark shot back sternly, still looking away.

“I want you to look at him. No, not when you get home, not when you sober up: Right now. Stop looking at the bandstand and look at the photo.”

Mark clammed up tightly, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tried to refuse further, but the delicate finger on the photograph slid it closer to him until he could not get it out of his sight. “I... I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head, fighting with everything in him to not let the dampness at the edges of his eyes roll down his cheek by clenching his teeth tightly. “Not like this... Not when I’m...”

“Then why do you do this to yourself?” Ricky asked harshly as he pulled his finger away, but left the photo in Mark’s sight. “Look him in the eye, and maybe you can tell me what he’s looking at. What do you think he sees?”

“Don’t do this to me...” Mark pleaded quietly, unable to ignore the request as he glanced down at the photo. The sight of the boy's bright and hopeful eyes drove daggers into the poor drunk, paining him to a point that it was all he could do to bite his lip to stop it from quaking. "I don't want to say it."

The bartender let the image sink in for a while, waiting as his companion's resolve slipped further and further under the melting gaze watching him from the worn paper. "He's not looking at the cowboy fighting those savages, is he? He's not looking at that hero that never came home."

All Mark could do was cry once quietly: A small sound that slipped out through a throat too relaxed from the booze. He pressed his fist to his lips, forcing himself to hush, and screwed his eyes shut to fight off the stinging guilt.

The tension in his shoulders, as they remained hunched at his sides, eased only ever-so-slightly when he felt a waifish hand rest on one of them, gently pushing him back to get his sights focused on the hand’s owner. The bartender's other hand reached for the bottle that was already three-quarters empty and began to slide it away. Mark made no move to grab for it.

"This isn't want you want him to see; it isn't what you want him to think of you. Mark... this isn't you."

The old drunk looked lost in that moment, staring helplessly at the bartender, whose hand still rested on his shoulder. "Then what am I?"

Ricky broke into a smile for the first time since the stories had begun. With a shove, he tried to push the man across from him into sitting upright. "I can't answer that for you. You have to pick yourself up and find out. I do know that this isn't you... and I know what that little guy thinks you are."

Markus reached for the photo, holding it protectively in his hand as he affectionately rubbed the image with his thumb for comfort. There was a gradual shift in his stance as he looked down to the painted plywood of the bar: His gloomy face tensed up; his lips drew back firmly, instead of hanging down in a frown; and his brow lifted in thought, instead of scowled in hate. The lost look in his eyes, however, was too difficult for him to shake alone. "Ricky... I don't know what to do. Nobody'd hire me before, and it certainly isn't like my chances have gotten any better. What the hell can I do now? I just can’t see any other way to go."

The bartender withdrew his hand, losing his smile as he contemplated the question. A dire look settled in his visage, but he sighed it away as he reached to his back pocket to retrieve a slip of card stock paper with fine print on it. He handed it across the bar to Mark, waiting for him to realize that it was a business card. “I know of a guy... he’ll hire you. You’ve got the kind of appearance he likes in an employee, even if you come with a little baggage. The pay’s pretty bad, and it’s really not safe work, but I don’t think money or safety are things you’re all that concerned about these days.”

Taking the card, the sobering patron folded it up, standing from his seat with a nod. There was no real need for questions, as he agreed quietly with the statement that such things were not worries of his anymore. When he asked for Ricky to ring up his tab, the bartender refused to retrieve his wallet for him.

“Hold up, there’s something you’re going to need before you call him. You have a firearm of your own, right?”

Instantly the discussion became quite tense, the old soldier’s face scrunching in uncertainty at the question. He hesitated before answering, “Yeah. I’ve got a shotgun... used to be for home defense, but I was keeping it to pawn off if I got desperate for some credits. What will I need it for?”

“If you call him, he’s going to ask if you have one and know how to use it. Well, do you?”

Mark put his hands on the bar, lowering his brows as he leaned over and glowered across the counter. “Are you saying that you want me to kill people for money?”

Calmly, the bartender shook his head. He reached once again for a mug and dishrag, keeping his hands occupied and out of sight as he had to mull over the best way to answer. “The man I have in mind would never, ever pay you to kill someone. He’ll pay you to protect some people... and to do that, you’re going to need a gun.” He glanced up from the glass occasionally to watch his confidant’s expression, which stayed harsh and questioning as he weighed his options. “If you have a better choice, then by all means, take it. This is the only thing I’ve got for you though, and it may be the only way for you to get your foot back in the door. It’s either that, or you can sit right back down and grab that bottle again. What’s it going to be, Markus?”

There was no certainty in his voice when he finally spoke up and once again asked the bartender to ring up his tab, keeping his hand far from the bottle mentioned. A small smile of relief crept onto the Lufae’s face as he read the gesture to be an affirmative, if hesitant, answer. All debts squared away, he reached back to grab the wallet and slide it across the plywood. Before Mark walked away, however, he turned back once and stood for a moment in a hushed silence, broken only by the hiss of the pistons in his prosthesis as they released some pressure.

“... I don’t know what to say except: Thanks, kid. I’ll hold onto this card while I think about it.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“Keep my stool free, and I won’t.”

Just another late night he thought; his last customer had long since been patronized and encouraged to buzz on home to sleep off the night’s excess. The bartender took one last look at the freshly swept floor with its dottings of small, fertile table-islands: A jungle of chair legs rising from their wooden soil. The bar top passed his inspection as it gleamed softly with fresh pine oil above shabby stools tucked neatly underneath.

A hint of color caught Ricky’s attention as his eyes passed over a stool located three seats to the left of the middle one, far away from the door where he then stood. Even from that great of a distance, he could see an embroidered image stitched into the fabric of its seat, though he could not make out any detail. The dull ache in his head and hands flared briefly as he looked at the hieroglyph, reminding him of the monotonous labor that had gone into the handiwork. The lettering had actually come off better than he had hoped, making the simple inscription easy to read: “Reserved for Markus Prodder.”

Author's Notes:

A couple of notes this time!

First one: Yes, I wanted an excuse to exercise my skills in writing a third-person narrative. Working so long on the journal, first-person past-to-present format, I was starting to wonder if my ability to write other viewpoints might have begun to deteriorate. This was a good stretch to make sure I didn't lose the ability completely.

Second: The names Mark and Markus are not used interchangeably in this entry. Take another look to see if you can catch my meaning. I should probably not state that outright, but I'm just proud enough of that thought that I want to show it off. Sorry!

I do hope that this will be seen as a valid addition to the story! I do not expect there to be many of these, which are in-depth descriptions of Vexglove-induced dreams. With any luck, they will prove to be informative, entertaining, and possibly able to help bridge the gap between novels as I continue to beat my head against my keyboard.

Once again, thanks everybody for the 100 likes!