The Bar at the End of the Universe

For the first time since he talked with Charlie outside, Gren's back downstairs in the bar

(time has a habit of getting away from me)

and he's got a cup of tea in his hands

(hot feels good)

but his saxophone is upstairs where he left it, on its stand. It makes no music that way but it's pretty to look at, and it's an inspiration, and by now Julia must be sick of hearing him play. She must be.

He knows he's tired of hearing his own thoughts, though, and two things help silence that noise in his brain: playing music and being around a lot of other people, and so today he's opting for the latter. Even if he doesn't know them all or talk to them all, it's just the being around them that matters.

It's always been that way.

( earlier today on Callisto )

The grey dress and his hands are stained with blood; his throat is dry.

His hands are empty. No jacket, no saxophone, no...

Nothing. He doesn't remember getting here. He doesn't remember anything except the sound of an explosion, looking out at the stars, confusing them with the lights from the ship towing his, growing cold, and finally, finally letting his eyes close. No memory at all of how he comes to be leaning against the wall in a corner at this place, eyes closed, shivering.

And so very, very alone.

I didn't make it to Titan.

Long duster on to protect against Callisto's frigid winds and snow, Gren takes his saxophone case into gloved hands, cradling it protectively. It's the one thing he has from before the war on Titan that didn't get destroyed and it's his friend, his lover, his comfort. He takes a last sip of his drink then backs through the Rester House's front door, waving goodnight to the bartender.

Set over: time to go home, kick back, take a shower, go to sleep. And then tomorrow, another three sets, and the same thing on Sunday and Monday and every night.

He likes playing sax at the Blue Crow: he can meet people, but he doesn't have to. Everyone there knows better than to try to hit on him. It's kind of like home away from home. And he backs out into the street and it should be dark and snowy and deserted, and at first he thinks he's made some kind of mistake or had a stroke or something -- all those drugs finally taking their toll -- because he just left a bar.

Why is he in a different one all of a sudden? He hugs the sax case to his chest and looks around. He's not frightened -- prison pretty much took all the fear he had left over from Titan away from him -- but he is apprehensive. His eyes travel immediately to the biggest window in the place and he blinks a couple times: he's traveled the Solar System from Pluto to Venus, but he's never seen anything like this.

He just stops and stares. There's no one here he knows, and that's either really good or really, really bad.