Roland was three beers in by the time Manny reached him. And knowing Rolling Fuck that could mean he’d already ingested enough acid to kill a large octopus. The chromed mercenary was already wavering in his seat by the time Manny pulled up a seat.

“Hey,” Manny said.

“Heeeeeey buddy,” Roland replied in a voice that was just…super stoned. “Sorry about getting angry back there.” The post-human spun his empty pint-glass around on the bar table. It was a strange sight to see. Manny had gotten so used to seeing Roland as something akin to a Greek God. He certainly wasn’t omniscient, or omnipotent, but he was unspeakably powerful and just as irresponsible to leave out around humans.

And yet here he was, fiddling with an empty pint glass like a nervous college freshman standing at the back wall of some house party. Manny felt a surge of sympathy.

“It’s OK, man. I actually think I get it,” he said. “Like, I’ve had plenty of chances to join either the SDF or the Austin Defense Forces. I never did. Maybe some of that’s because I’m scared. Hell, up until like…a few days ago, my plan was to get the fuck off this continent as soon as I could afford it.”

Manny paused and bit his lip. It was an instinctive gesture, his gut’s reaction to a sudden burst of self-awareness. Manny hadn’t thought about any of this before.

“I dunno,” he said. “This shit’s been going on basically all my life. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t scared of something like this happening. I didn’t understand any of it as a kid. But I can remember being seven or eight years old and just being so angry at the soldiers. Even our soldiers. I thought, if all you assholes would just refuse to be led into battle, none of this could happen.”

“But you know that’s not how it works, right?” Roland asked, as he turned away from Manny and waved at the bartender.

“We love this war shit. At least some of us do, those of us who are… Oh!” The bartender arrived. Roland ordered “a mai-tai mixed with a margarita and one of those, whaddya goddamn call ’em, oh yeah a fuckin’ MO-HI-TO.”

“Roland,” Manny’s voice was gentle but firm, “how many beers did you drink before I got here?”

“Not beers,” Roland said in a casual voice, “Mushroom rum. Sweet, but not bad.” He licked his lips while he watched the bartender work through the Herculean task of crafting his requested beverage.

“Roland,” Manny said. And the chromed man turned back to him.

“Ah, sorry. It’s been too long a stretch of sober for me. I got excited. What the fuck was I saying?”

“That war is fun.”