"Catboy glided up to the bar, and watched Callan pull him a brew. He picked it up off the bar, sipped it, and raised it towards the ceiling, calling out to no one in particular "N-Y-P-D. District 32. 3rd Watch. June 4, 1987."
***
It was The Good Doctor's idea, of course. Its just not the sort of thing that anyone else here would have thought of. Well, some of us might have thought of it, but never would have actually spoken it out loud. There were certainly enough of us from America-parallels who knew about it, but it wasn't the kind of thing us tough guys did, or talked about. The Good Doctor, of course, was tougher'n all of us, really, 'cause he didn't give a damn whether we thought it made him look less than strong or not.
***
Lefty stepped up to the bar, and watched Callan pull him a brew. He picked it up off the bar, tossed about half of it back, then raised it high, looking around at the room as though daring anyone to say anything. "Sergeant Michael T. Carlton. 3rd Armored Division. December 19th, 1944. "
***
Of course, once Doc came up with it, we had to have the usual argument over how to do it. Catboy suggested candles, but Iron Face pointed out that there were several customers and possible participants whose races were afraid of fire or, in a couple of extreme cases, flammable. The Apes thought that firing our guns into the air would be a good idea, until The Real Thing got that whole "what goes up, must come down" concept through their heads.
***
Patch stepped up to the bar and accepted a glass of some sort of wine from Callan with a nod. He took a delicate sip, then lifted it to the sky. "The men of the village of Northhar. The second day after the Festival of Saint Kallid, the Year of the Devil's Fall."
***
As I recall, Grace listened to us for about an hour till she stepped up, smacked Catboy on the rear end, called us all 'a great bunch of blind mice', and told us to look around where we were. "Anyone know any race that doesn't have some equivalent of drinking?" Iron Face said that he knew of a couple, but they didn't come this far into the City, anyway.
***
Spartacus, the Gorilla, sniffed with a quiet sort of reverence as Callan poured him a Black & Tan. He sniffed it once as it settled, sniffed it again, then poured most of the drink down his gullet before letting loose with something a little less than a war whoop. "For the Gorillas of the Forbidden Land Border Patrol, the fortieth day of the cool season..."
***
In the alternate that Lefty comes from, they still call it Decoration Day. Same with a couple of saurians from some of the older timeline realities. The Kikládhean have a similar holiday that translates out to 'The Day The Oceans Weep'. The Lera have a ceremony called 'Naming the Stars'.
***
Johnny B. stepped up to the bar, his hooves clicking lightly in the silence of the room. Callan poured a half-dozen glasses of brandy; one for Johnny, the others for the ladies who quickly formed a half-circle around the satyr. As one, they took a sip, then raised their glasses to the ceiling. "Vivian Chesbro. August 21, 1996." With a blur of speed, one of Johnny's ladies reached out to snatch his glass from the air after it fell from his trembling fingers.
***
We still call it Memorial Day. Of course, considering the different kinds of wars that someone from Nexus can see, honoring our fallen war dead expands the different sorts of folks who come to out little ceremony.
***
A young man with too-big blue eyes, wavy blonde hair, and a brown bombers jacket steps up to the bar, and Callan pours him a small cup of saki. I don't recognize him. He bows to the cup, then simply holds it in his right hand. "Lieutenant Ashi Marimoto. 666nd Mechanized Armor Division. November 1, 2013."
***
Our first year we had about ten of us, the next year thirty; this year we were damn near full to the rafters. We'll have to talk with Callan and see if he knows someplace we can hold this next year. Be damned if we're gonna stop it just because good men won't stop dying.
***
Human, saurian, minotaur, skrill, cyborg, merc, Army, Navy, Space Marine, Blue Chair, Chaos Brother - they kept stepping up to the bar for almost two hours. Beer warmed, bloodwine cooled - no one noticed. Then no one else stepped up to the bar. Callan looked back and forth down the polished stone, then lifted a tarnished brass bell off the shelf on the wall behind the bar. One ring, then two.
***
"Last Call!"
***
A look up and down the bar again, then another ring. No one answers the call, so he sets the bell back in its place on the shelf. He pulls himself a Guinness, and waits for the liquid to stop its kaleidoscope swirling before taking a sip, then raises it to the sky.
"To The Good Doctor. As far as I know, you never picked up a gun, but damned if you didn't fight the good fight better than most any of us...."
Someone in the crowd murmurs an 'Amen', and everyone drains their glasses. The Mech Pilot pours his saki on the floor, and the Chaos Brothers follow suit with their beers. No one says a word.
One by one, we leave our glasses on the bar, and no one says a word as we step out into the City night. The lights go out inside the Blue Boar, and for tonight, at least, the Honored Dead drink alone."
*****
And not too far away, Chasen Burkett sits in his quiet, spartan room in a run-down boarding house with a bottle of rather fine old cognac beside him. With each sip, he calls to mind another name, another face, another date. A nearly endless litany of the dead.
His victims.
It is very late into the night when he finishes the third bottle. The last toast is to an old Vorch named Zkarsh. The date, yesterday.
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