Bar: Cat/Matt
Matt was drinking at the end of the bar. It was the same position he occupied at the Roadhouse. A reputable source on the forums told him the booze was just as cheap at the Mean-Eyed Cat, so he was there, sitting alone with his third boilermaker. The shot glass was empty, stacked inside the first two, and he wasn't nursing the beer.
It took a lot to get him drunk. He didn't know why. It sat on the long list of things no one had ever bothered to explain because soldiers and animals didn't get anything explained to them. In practical terms, all it meant was he sat at the bar longer and spent more money, and no bartender he'd met had a problem with that.
He didn't drink every night, but more nights a week than not. All that waited for him back at the house was more research, more work. Drinking punctuated the endless grind of days. And, strangely, it felt...regular. Like something people did. Spending money you earned on something to drink. It added color to his cover, and sometimes, not often, he could sleep, after.
The volume inside didn't trouble him so long as he was left alone, and he was. A few people recognized him as the hermetic vet, and everyone kept their distance. His hair hung halfway into his face, and he wore his black gloves inside.
The first time he made eye contact with the bartender was to tap the bar for a fourth round.