The mirror behind the bar was shattered. Bits of broken glass and the remains of a whiskey bottle littered the floor next to the kegs. As had been happening a lot lately, he'd had a violent burst of emotion (in this case anger) and he took it out on something near him.
He stood up unsteadily. He supported himself with one hand on the stool while his body got used to the concept of being upright. He looked at the mirror again. His reflection was broken and cracked. Much the way he felt inside.
He let go of the stool and carefully made his way behind the bar. He knelt slowly down to change the cd which had stopped playing over an hour before. He scanned the discs for something to fit his mood. Finding nothing, he pulled himself up. The sudden movement upward sent waves of pressure to his skull. His vision blurred and he fell to the floor, cutting his hands and arms on the broken glass. He picked the glass out of his wounds swiftly with one clawed finger. He stood again, easing his way up to the bar and began to make himself another drink.
He laughed as he pictured the looks on Silver and Nem's faces when they saw what he'd done. They had enough to worry about without an inner cirle member getting plastered every night and busting up the furniture. The recent upheaval in the BHC had had a profound affect on all members. Repercussions were still felt as more members dropped from the ranks of the BHC.
While he was disturbed by the recent events in the BHC, much more of his discontent stemmed from within him. He felt as though there were parts of himself that he knew nothing about. Ever since his descent into the sewers of New York City, all he'd known was to fight. To survive. Those instincts served him well in the BHC. His fighting skills had proved invaluable on many occasions.
"But is that all there is to me?" he asked of his distorted reflection. He downed his drink. As he brought the glass away from his mouth he stared at his claws. The blood from his wounds snaked around his talons. It was a sight he'd seen many times before. He'd almost convinced himself that it did not bother him. With his claws, he was capable of tearing steel and rending flesh. Coupled with his bio-electric blast, there were few foes he feared.
Then why did he feel a gnawing in his belly? What did he fear? He pondered these questions as he poured himself a tall glass of beer. He staggered back around to his stool and sat back down. He stared at his reflection until dawn. His beer remained untouched where he set it.