woke up feeling like the

“Hey buddy, everything okay?” The voice is high, and far too inquisitive for a space port bartender. Charlie upends his glass, lets the last dribble of brew burn down his throat. There’s some tinny cover of a Andoran pop song ten years past it prime whining out of the sound system. It’s playing over and over on repeat, scraping and scuttling across his skin. His blaster presses heavy between his shoulder blades, and he shifts. He’s only three drinks into what’s clearly a ten drinks kind of evening. Time to start fixing that. After the exile, Charlie-27 and Martinex don't cope