A man clad in a green flight suit walks through the doorway of the Lone Drunkard.
One of many, and yet still one, one and only.
In a holster on his thigh sits a blaster, safety off, never far from his hand. The other is indisposed, though; it carries a bottle of clear liquid, unmarked.
The man grins at the bartender as he walks by, dangling the bottle in the air as if to say, "Mine's better." The bartender scowls in his direction; he doesn't appreciate the attitude of this new stranger, but can do little to prevent him from continuing on to an empty table in the corner where he promptly sits and props both feet up on the table.
Popping the cap off of his bottle, the pilot takes a swig and looks around casually, free arm up along the seat as if to lay claim to a partner who isn't there. Yet.
