A quiet celebration.

[Manticore]

ID: JAMES LAMBERT

James Lambert sighed deeply as he guided his Guardian down to the surface of Manhattan. The debriefing had concluded for the evening, and he was headed to the party for Primary Fleet officers that he'd received an invitation to earlier.

Still not sure who "Daler Mehndi" is, but I hope he knows how to throw a party.

It had been a long, grueling session, and he supposed one of the only reasons he had decided to attend the party at the last minute was his burning desire to consume some alcohol and just spend a few hours forgetting about everything -- especially the events of the past weeks. The other reason, he figured, was the feeling that he was somehow obliged to make an appearance, to show his fellow officers that he was, in fact, alive after all. Habeas corpus, indeed.

Surprisingly, he had been happy to don his service dress uniform once again. He felt weird wearing civvie clothing again, even though he felt he looked fairly good this evening. He wore a comfortable pair of wing-tip boots, dark jeans, a blue fitted oxford shirt, with a black leather jacket to fight off the chill of the Manhattan evening.

The navicomputer pinged as it located the venue and began an approach to the closest spaceport.

---

About ten minutes later, Lambert walked through the doors of the establishment known as "Rolling Stones". He didn't come to many places like this, and the light and sound assaulted his senses as soon as he stepped inside.

There were a number of people around, but a man was on the stage performing a song with a catchy beat and so it was relatively dark. Not immediately seeing anyone he recognized, Lambert made a beeline for the bar, which was fairly quiet at the moment.

Tonight's not a night to pussyfoot around. That means either a Dry Manhattan or a Gibson. Well, I'm on Planet Manhattan, so it would only be fitting...

[color=#33FFFF]"I'd like a Gibson, please."

The bartender frowned for a moment, then blinked and nodded his understanding and grabbed a martini glass from the rack.

It's a simple drink, after all. Lots of gin, few drops of vermouth, and an onion.

He took his drink to the back corner, where he could perhaps earn a few moments of relative peace watching the performance until someone inevitably spotted him.

Then they'll come over here, chat politely for a moment, and start the interrogations anew. Can't wait.

He smirked and took a long pull of his drink, reaching down to tap the thin, almost unnoticeable tank at to his hip.

---