another glass covered in condensation cradles in the sieve of his hand. the droplets cling to it until gravity forces them down the side to pool on the weathered bar top, and he curses underneath his breath. 

shit.

zeke swore he'd never be here again, in this weird bar with the strange decor and the uncomfortable memories. it remains unchanged, its wooden theme surviving a time that much of zeke's identity has not survived. the last time he was here, he was a police officer. he was a man on a mission. he was a romantic.

his calloused fingers raise the glass to his parted lips and his eyes stare down the crook of his nose into the bottom of the glass until no liquid remains. 

the last time he was here, the drink didn't go down smoothly. he suspects that this evening will be nothing like the last one spent here as he flags down the bartender for a refill on the cheap beer they'd originally supplied him. not even the beer was the same.

it is quieter here tonight than it was over a month ago. less ruckus -- probably only regulars, or those that have been displaced from slateport that don't know of better bars yet here in mauville. 

is that how long its been? a month since he'd spoken to scott? a month since the world turned on its axis and flashed him a big 'fuck you' full of cursed nightmares and murderous rocket infiltrations?

with his glass refilled, he hastily brings it to his mouth for another sip before turning to the person who has taken the liberty to sit beside him, nothing but a pensive stare on his face as he looks beyond them.

"do you know who the gym leader is around here these days?"