Three seperate Outcast assaults on Java, long runs along the trade routes, and, of course the monotonous patrols which filled the quiet times of every day.
This was one day-cycle which truly had it all.
As Jack lazily shambled into the bar, his brownish hair holding it's shape if only by the virtue of the ludicrous amount of sweat soaking it down.
He continued his broken walk over to a rather pristine table, flopping down into the exquisite chair, and making a half-hearted attempt at straightening his flight suit.
With a quick twitch, the ICMG's Defense Director straightened up.
"I wonder what they serve, here..." he muttered softly.