“Half-Hot & On the Rocks”
by some barfly that lived to tell it
The place was called The Severed Ear, though no one remembered why. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was a warning. Whatever the case, it had the best recycled bourbon on Mars and the worst ventilation in the sector. Perfect place to hide if you were running from something big — or someone bigger.
Xan nursed a drink he couldn't pronounce, staring down the amber swirl like it owed him money. His plasma baton — unlit, cold, faintly humming with dormant menace — sat across the bar like a sleeping viper. His revolver was tucked in close. Too close.
On stage, JURN was lighting up the dead again.
Bone fingers shredded chords that punched through smoke and memory. The skeletal punk band had been loud before they were famous and louder still after they’d died. Nobody knew how they kept touring. Nobody asked. The music was real, and that was enough.
Xan didn’t bob his head. Didn’t smile. Just watched.
There were bloodstains on his glove. Not fresh. Not old enough.
Behind his drink, the digital readout on his chest injector blinked a warning. Something about blood pressure, or anxiety, or maybe it was trying to recommend a song. He reached up and muted it with a tap, eyes never leaving the stage.
One of the skeletons pointed at him mid-solo — could’ve been an accident. Could’ve been recognition. Either way, Xan didn’t move. The show kept going.
Somewhere outside the bar, someone big in a nine-foot ceremonial battle suit was looking for a ghost with a plasma sword.
But for now, Xan wasn’t that ghost.
He was just a guy with a drink, a busted heart rig, and front row seats to the only band that ever made the war feel like it had a soundtrack.
