Day 53, Evening; Chair Room [F]
John settled on the floor, leaning his back on the dais of the chair. After his conversation with Christoph, he'd gone back to his quarters and gotten the bottle of Jack Daniels and then debated where to go. The most sensible thing would have been to stay in his quarters, but he hadn't wanted the reminder of Christoph taking him on the very bed he'd shared with Evan-- when they weren't sharing Evan's. He wasn't really quite sure why he'd picked the chair room. The AI was still rather schizo, missing large chunks of data, they hoped not irretrievably, but the place held nothing but good memories for him, though he knew that wasn't necessarily true for Jackson and Miller.
He poured a drink into the metal mug he'd brought with him and took a long swallow, feeling the burn all the way down. He closed his eyes, remembering Evan in the chair, making contact with the AI for the first time. "To City," he murmured. "May Rodney yet resurrect you." He tossed back the rest of the drink, then poured more, nearly filling the mug. No point in pretending he wasn't planning to get hammered tonight.
He raised the mug. "To Ford." He took another drink, the burn in his throat matching the heat in his eyes that he wouldn't surrender to yet. Not till he was a lot more drunk. Then, maybe, he could let himself grieve the men and women under his command, so many broken, dead, drained of life, only a small metal memorial left to bear witness to their existence. Only then would he grieve the lost past, the uncertain future.
He poured a drink into the metal mug he'd brought with him and took a long swallow, feeling the burn all the way down. He closed his eyes, remembering Evan in the chair, making contact with the AI for the first time. "To City," he murmured. "May Rodney yet resurrect you." He tossed back the rest of the drink, then poured more, nearly filling the mug. No point in pretending he wasn't planning to get hammered tonight.
He raised the mug. "To Ford." He took another drink, the burn in his throat matching the heat in his eyes that he wouldn't surrender to yet. Not till he was a lot more drunk. Then, maybe, he could let himself grieve the men and women under his command, so many broken, dead, drained of life, only a small metal memorial left to bear witness to their existence. Only then would he grieve the lost past, the uncertain future.