The Hunt Begins.

[Dusty Lens]

William eyeballed the airlock through which Herne had made his departure for a few long minutes, mulling over the next step. Turned out it was an uncertain one away from their table and towards the nearly deserted bar. The news was playing sans text, with the gothic bret pop piping in through the bar's speakers posing a strangely unpleasent contrast to the apparently concerned visage of the reporter telling some tale of woe. But then, William just didn't like Bret pop. He gestured the bartender over, thankfully a live one rather than one of those damned useless bots.

"I need you to line me up three red snappers, a box of some protein and carb paste, as much water as you can put into as many glasses as I ask you for.. And I need two yellow jackets." He rasped the order out in halting succession, the water was restoring life to his voice, wetting down the sand that seemed stuck to his throat. "And I... Really don't have the energy for the discussion on the jackets. I know you hand 'em out to pilots, and I need some pep. Heh, and feel free to put it all on that Herne's tab."

Wherever Herne had gotten these clothes, they stank. But that they stank was in itself was delightful, that he now found himself gritting his teeth against the gin coursing its way down his scarred throat was a blessing. William grinned to himself, he was alive.

With that thought in mind he dropped the first pill and downed it with another swig of synth tomato juice, relishing in the burn of what must have been the worst gin he'd had in his adult life.

"Put some pepper on the next one, and don't spare the tobasco."

The pill was kicking in.