A Bar for washouts.  Darion fit right in as if it was a second home.  Being a washout and all himself, shown by his barely cared for facial hair, definitely showed that he fit in perfectly.  The look in his face, blank and half way empty.  His trench coat was hanging almost down to the floor from where he sat on one of the bar stools.  It and his shirt, and pants underneath definitely look like they had seen better days.  The only thing that looked well maintained about him was the pistol in it’s holster at his side under the duster like trench coat.<br/><br/>All while his eyes were on the screen that was showing the news of fighting in the Congo.  He was barely was paying attention to the screen as he held his empty glass.  He didn’t say anything while the drunk was speaking, but he knew the drunkard was right.  The Congo was, like he was saying, another long line of conflicts.  It sounded to him like a bunch of bullshit usually.  Not that he saw most of it while he was in the PMC.  But now, looking from the bottom up, he saw a lot of the bullshit now.  It still made him miss his home up in the actual nice place in the city.<br/><br/>Just remembering it with the news playing reminded he was way too sober.  Perfect timing for the bartender to notice his empty glass so he could get rid of his sobriety.<span style="color: green">“Yeah, way too empty.  Might as well fill it with some whiskey.”</span>He agreed as he set it down and pushed it to the bartender.  Slowly eating through the credits from the last job he did.  A simple bouncer job at a dreg club.  He wasn’t sure he was going to continue that job at all.  It forced him to be too sober.<br/><br/>Beyond the bartender, and the drunk, Darion wasn’t paying attention to anyone in the room.  He had taken a seat at the bar where he could watch the entrance to the building, and he only looked at people as they entered.  Beyond that, the washouts barely warranted much of his interest as the ex-PMC drowned his sorrows away.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>