Flyboy
Of course, of all nights, it had to be raining. Great Sullust weather. Stupid condensation in stupid giant caves.
So, it was raining. So he just got dumped. So what if he blew his most of his paycheck at the last bar. So what if he struck out with every female in the vicinity. Probably had something to do with the fact he looked like crap, felt like crap, and looked more deadbeat than some of the bums outside. So needless to say, bar-hopping had been a bust, but Wedge was more than determined to make it work in his favor with one last effort. He shook off his jacket in the doorframe, stepping inside the bar. It was early in the morning, not late for most of the night owls and people who went out on the weekends, but definitely past the hour where decent people hung out at the bars. Wedge sauntered up to the bar, trying to keep his composure. But with the amount of alcohol in his blood, it was really a miracle he was both coherent, walking, and talking. Well, talking, albeit with a slurred speech. The bartender knew he was Alliance military right away, just by the haircut alone. But the bartender noted that it was odd that Wedge was alone. Usually pilots, spacers, or whatever drank together. The kid must've had a reason to be twenty-something and drunk as a skunk and alone.
Single, check.
Alone, check.
Drunk, check.
Failed at trying to make an attempt with women, check.
Probably not enough money for a taxi back to his apartment, check.
At least he had a few more cocktails to get him through the night.
