Chapter Text
New Mecca was hardly an ideal spot to live in, or at least, not the Third District. It was largely considered the necrosis-ridden underbelly of the area, ridden with a decently high crime rate, a severe homelessness crisis and a raging drug epidemic. Granted, it wasn’t much better outside - not to Simon’s knowledge - but he’d much rather be anywhere else than here, preferably in either the Second or First Districts. Truthfully, Simon wasn’t that interesting of a person, and he preferred it to be that way. He worked as a clerk at a downtown convenience store, tended to try and avoid direct contact with other people as to not get involved in their business should things go south, and he spent most of his free time cooped up in his shoddy little apartment down at the Murdower Hotel. It wasn’t a glamorous life, and lord knows he’d trade it in for anyone else’s in an instant, but he had a roof over his head and had food stocked in the cupboards most days, so he knew not to complain. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how he’d like to look at it, he made the choice to leave one day.
It was a small dive bar in the downtown area tucked away inside an alleyway. It looked as stereotypical as they come, with advertisements for drinks and various products strewn across the walls in an unorganized fashion, some posters overlapping the others. There was a jukebox stashed in the corner of the joint, but nobody really bothered to stand up and use the thing. The bar itself was completely void of speech, though it was made up for with the sounds of glasses clinking as they’re slammed onto countertops and a group of teens trying to get a game of pool in before they’re eventually given the boot for being underaged. It was as typical and ‘trashy’ as it came for a bar this side of the Third District, save for one small detail that caught Simon’s eye - a person sat on a stool by the counter, adorned in a New Mecca Military uniform as they were lurched over a small glass of alcohol. Their hair was done up in a ponytail, and a faint blue light bled onto the countertop coming from where their face should be. Third District being a hotspot for veterans of the Cromag War was no news to Simon, he’s heard the story a million times before and has encountered the odd beggar or two claiming to have fought the Cromags in the jungle. But never before has he actually seen one, let alone in uniform. He was reluctant to head over to the bar and order a drink, having heard stories about Cromag veterans usually being quick to anger and impulsive with their unresolved violent tendencies. He didn’t want his impromptu decision to go out for a drink and treat himself to be the last decision he’s ever made, even worse dying in a place surrounded by bottom-feeders like himself. So he decided to simply wave the bartender down and order from afar, ordering the cheapest tap beer money could buy. His wallet was feeling fairly light having just covered rent for the month, so he wasn’t exactly eager to put money down on a half-decent drink. The beer he was given was poured from a can with its label scratched off and he could tell by the smell alone that it was likely gonna taste like piss and vinegar, but he needed the buzz, no, he deserved it. Especially after going so long sober having to put up with ungrateful customers and a boss who’d drag him out into traffic if it weren’t for the fact that he was his only day-shift employee.
As it turns out, the soldier was plenty more vigilant than Simon gave her credit for. She didn’t really go by a name - not that she didn’t have one, but things like names and faces didn’t particularly matter for people like her - but even The Man With No Name was The Man With No Name. Headhunter. That’s what her boss called her, that’s what the blonde in the two-piece suit called her. She felt greatly out of place compared to the rest of the barflies, choosing to sit on her lonesome away from others to avoid having to listen to their seemingly endless bicker about lives that she couldn’t give less of a shit about. But much like anyone else who’s lived through hell and crawled out the other side, she can tell when there’s eyes lingering on her, almost inhumanly so. So as the gas-masked stranger perched himself against a wall to choke down his cheap booze, she side-eyed him from the other end of the room, sizing him up and ‘inspecting’ him from afar to wager how big of a threat he was to her. She had an inch or two over him from a glance, and judging by the bagginess of his sweater he wasn’t exactly the most physically capable - not quite underweight but it’s not like he could do anything to her unless he secretly kept a boot knife on him. His hair hung to his shoulders, not done up in either a ponytail or a bun, so if push came to shove she could use his hair to restrain him in the event that he suddenly became an issue. He didn’t look all too intimidating for the most part, but the M40 respirator that he wore over his face certainly did make her hair stand up. For all she knew, he could be another mercenary assigned to take her out or a member from a gang she hadn’t heard of. And if there’s one thing serving in the war taught her, it’s to pick her battles carefully. As far as she cared, the stranger was no more harmless than a house fly or an ant. But even with the belief that he wasn’t an issue embedded into her brain, she found herself unable to relax, the tension still built up in her shoulders as she sipped on her scotch. Again, it wasn’t the greatest tasting drink either, but between the burning in her throat and the buzz behind her skull, it reminded her that she was alive. And that was enough of a reason as any to remain seated. Of course, there were other people in the bar as well, all of which she made sure to keep watch of for any funny business. It was just the fact that Simon was glaring at her behind a mask that was setting her off. The sense of danger was practically seared into her brain, so the feeling of safety was a luxury places like this couldn’t provide.
On the flipside, Simon remained stiff as a board as he slowly chipped away at his concerningly-unbranded beer, not even realizing that the soldier was daydreaming about putting one between his eyes. All he could think about was how dank the place smelled and how badly he just wanted to run back home, throw on a movie and black out on his couch. But he forced himself to stay put in the bar, after all, his therapist did tell him socializing was a step towards improving his overall wellbeing. Though try as he might to strike up a conversation with any passerbys, they hardly even looked his way. On one hand he figured it was simply a tough crowd, but on the other he had to remember that almost everyone here was piss-faced drunk. As he reached the bottom of his glass, he slowly moved towards the countertop and placed it down as gently as he could, praying it wouldn’t draw any attention. But something in his brain screamed at him to throw any wariness out the door and just say something to the soldier. Perhaps she was silent for the same reason that he was, not really having anyone to talk to. Worst she can do is slug his jaw, right?
“So, uhm. You come here often?”
Small talk. You can start with small talk, Simon, but would it kill you to say something other than the most used quote in the book? Do people even actually ask that? That nagging self-deprecation only strengthened as the soldier turned to look at him, glaring at him like he had three heads with eyes hidden behind the neon-blue visor on her own respirator.
“...sure.”
She didn’t know what else to say either. What was she supposed to say? Some complete stranger just came up to her trying to talk to her. People don’t just do that. She’s been taught that people are a poison, and with the position she was in she was more often than not neglected by others, either out of hatred or fear for her time served in the Cromag War. The ‘fine’ folks of Third District weren’t exactly kind to its veterans, as if it couldn’t be any more obvious.
“Cool. Cool, uhm. Pretty lame joint, huh?”
“I guess.”
Given her ‘limited’ responses, it didn’t take too much for Simon to put two and two together to figure that she wasn’t the talkative type. It certainly made talking to her even more intimidating than it already was, but at the very least she wasn’t threatening to take his head off his shoulders if he didn’t give her his wallet. Simon reluctantly plants himself onto one of the stools, sitting just far away to give her some space while trying not to come across as pushy.
“What are you… what are you drinking there? Is it any good?”
“Scotch.”
“Nice, nice. I just got myself a glass of beer. Or… I think it’s supposed to be beer, but from taste alone I couldn’t tell you.”
The Headhunter’s expression goes from one of scorn to one of pity. The more he carried on trying to seem social, the more she realized that he wasn’t exactly a threat - more so he was some dork trying to feel less awkward about going out drinking by himself. So she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to entertain his attempt at a conversation.
“Can’t be too bad. You finished it pretty quickly.”
“Well I didn’t wanna seem rude, and… were you watching?”
“No, but you did move from here to the wall and back fairly quickly, so it’s a fair assumption.”
The soldier spoke with a Russian accent, one that wasn’t all too uncommon within New Mecca. The area was home to thousands of people spanning from different cultures and places of origin, so it wasn’t far-fetched to believe she hailed from somewhere in Europe. Another thing Simon noticed was that he had a decently hard time figuring out just what she was saying on account of her wearing a heavy duty combat respirator over her face. He wasn’t exactly in a position to judge her for it judging by the gas mask he found himself wearing whenever he decided to leave his apartment. So hey, maybe that was something they could bond with.
“Cool mask, by the way.”
It took a minute for the Headhunter to respond to his comment, having to take time to think of and process exactly how she’d go about responding to a compliment. On the other hand, Simon’s heart shot up to his throat, praying he didn’t offend her. He was quite fond of his head being attached to his neck.
“...thanks. It’s uniform.”
And thus commenced a drawn out silence between the two. Headhunter finished her drink without paying too much mind to the other sat near her, and Simon was racking his brain, split between thinking of ways to continue his conversation and silently cursing himself out for trying to talk up a New Mecca soldier as if she was a coworker or someone he actually knew. It was his one real social interaction of the week - and by god was he getting choked up on the worry that he’s botching it.
“And your own?”
She was actually beginning to contribute to the conversation as opposed to short responses which was nice. It’s just that Simon wasn’t exactly keen on being pressed about his gas mask.
“It’s uhh… it’s… it’s just something that I wear.”
How does he even explain the mask? To him it’s just something he wears, something to conceal his mug underneath. That, and he rightfully assumed she didn’t wanna listen to his little sob story about self image and perception, so he figured it’d be best to just shove it. And much to his dismay, his stammering in an attempt to explain his fashion choice was met with a chuckle from the other.
“I’ll tell you one thing. You usually don’t see people running around here with masks unless they’re affiliated with someone or something. So now you have me curious.”
“...do I really look like I’d have any gang affiliation?”
“Kind of.”
Great, now she’s got him worrying that he’s secretly being associated with street gangs and other varieties of crooks running amok Third District. And the conversation was going so well. The Headhunter was surprisingly judgmental for someone who seemed to cling onto her combat respirator while out in public as well.
“So uh… what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
No response from the soldier. He’s pushing it, he really is. He was practically screaming at himself internally for each bout of silence that came through.
“I… take it you’re not the social type.”
“Neither are you from the sounds of things.”
Way for her to be blunt.
Simon quickly finishes his drink before standing up and giving the Headhunter one last look. Lord knows he’d like to continue talking, but given how stand-offish she seemed and how he was tearing himself apart from the inside with each question he asked, he figured it’d be best to spare himself the privilege of spending another night staring at the ceiling as he looked back at the previous day’s events with embarrassment. So he reached into his wallet, planted the money he owed the bar down onto the counter and began his trip out the door, when he was suddenly stopped by the familiar Russian voice piping back up.
“Don’t get dropped out there, Guy. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.”
It wasn’t the nicest thing in the world, but he was just happy she actually said something that wasn’t a response. And that was good enough for him.