—staggers outside.

(The man's fingers aren't broken but they are very calloused, Zash noted. Calloused in a pretty specific way.)

(And people are very bad at inventing new stories from nothing, especially when they're drunk.)

(Curious.)

"Well I'm not going back on my word. Hilda, beautiful Hilda, don't make a liar out of me?"

"Pretty words from a pretty boy but I need to see some coin."

He has coin. He is not a liar.

Then she can get him his whiskey, sure.

"He's not worth it, you know," says a man sitting at a nearby table, leaning over to Zash. "Lost cause."

Zash shakes his head, smiling to himself. "No one's a lost cause. Everyone's worth it."

The man snorts. "Suit yourself. That idealism'll get you killed."

    "I dunno, Gabriel, did you see his gun?" asks one man who's sitting with him. "We all know Frank Marlons but that thing was beautiful."

"Beautiful don't win fights."

"I mostly try not to get into any fights to begin with."

"Then they'll find you and it'll be your funeral, pal."

"Lasted this long," he says, with a shrug.

"Hiiiildaaaaaa," calls the drunk, staggering back in. "Where's my booooooze?"

"Aye, aye, sit down you bastard and I'll get you it."

Hmm.

Zash stands up and starts to drag his table to be next to that of the two people he'd just been talking to.

"—hey, what's the bright idea?" says Gabriel.

"Drinking with friends is always better than alone."

"Hear, hear!" says drunk guy.

"We're not friends," he grumbles.

"Why don't we introduce ourselves? I'm Z, this guy doesn't have a name, how about you three?"

Gabriel snorts. "Gabriel."

"Hal."

"Paul," says the third guy who had been quiet until now.

"Nice to meet you all!" He fills his own glass (a separate one that does not contain spat-out water) with whisky (no rocks, though, ice is a commodity) and lifts it to the air. "To new friends!"

"To new friends!" says nameless drunk.