"Lucky duck," she said, swilling the remains of her beer in the bottom of the grimy glass. "If I bribed a medic, do you think I could get a doctor's note telling me not to go out?"
People were clattering in the background, fighters stopping everything they were doing in favour of rushing out into the unknown. There was a constant stream of exiting patrons from the Greasy Spoon, and Ofelia watched them with a steady -- and unimpressed -- gaze. (Meanwhile, underneath, she felt the pricklings of concern. The safety of the city was at stake and this was not a fight she could join. How far did one's obligation to king and country go?) The bartender watched them leave as well, his expression collapsing into irate disappointment as the walking wallets strolled out.
The room was almost empty.
"It's very good beer. It'd be a shame if we simply dropped it and left. Terribly disrespectful to the establishment."