"And an Eastern storm engulfed the skies, covering the western world in fire. The women who wore no veils covered themselves as they wept over their dead children. In Rage, the West sent their own storm towards the East. And the women who wore veils wept over their dead children. This storm lasted many years until the lands of both the East and West became barren graveyards. No flower, nor tree, nor brush grew. The water became poison to man. The air suffocated many. This Aftermath lasted many years, killing the descendants of the East and West, until they paid for their kings' sins."

- The Book of Edward, -vi

This place sucks. No seriously, this place sucks. Hard. But then again, the entire world sucks. However, certain areas suck less than the others since those places actually have trees growing and you can drink their water without turning green and spewing your eyeballs straight out of your sockets. It's been forty-five years since The War ended. Things were rebuilt, food was grown (well, where it could be grown), and people were buried. Things have moved on.

Yet, not.

Forty-five years. It's long enough to let you move on, yet not long enough to let you forget. Everything. Everyone wishes to forget everything. Even kids who were born after the war have to deal with parents who want to forget. And we all know parents who want to forget anything, can't handle anything. Instability. That's what we have now - instability. Well, the better term would be controlled instability.

Grayce Farwyn, or Gray as she's preferred to be called, knew a lot about controlled instability. She was a bartender, the most famous listeners of all of society. Archetypes of the sympathetic soul. A scrubby guy with a much needed shave comes in, asking for beer. He sighs. The bartender notices the sad expulsion of breath as she gives the beer. She asks What's the matter? He says women problems. Or job problems. Or physical problems. Or even problems with his dog. She offers advice as best as she can. He smiles and his day is made brighter because of that one person. That single person who was willing to listen. No bullshit. No fancy words. Just the plain truth. That is a bartender's job. Listen. Take control of the instability that is Human. And Grace did that, with pleasure. The same pleasure a nineteen-year-old girl like her would have forty-five years ago, watching her favorite teen soap opera. But no soap operas exist anymore. The only things on TV (if you're lucky enough to have one) are government-run news and propaganda.

"Just give me a beer," slurred a scrubby man of about sixty years, in need of a shave. He was tired. Very tired. So tired, you'd get tired just looking at him.

"Charge on your tab, Ed?" Gray asked, sliding the cold can next to his hand. Now you'd think after an all out nuclear war, there'd be no more beer. But beer, like water or sex or cigarettes or any drug for that matter, is a much needed commodity that will never fade as long as humans are alive to make it (1).

The scrubby man now known as Ed, nodded lazily. "Yep, of course."

Ed is a very tired man. However, that's expected considering his profession. Ed is a writer. Now writers fifty-five years ago were penniless slumps in need of a job, but think of writers in an age where newspapers are censored and books are hard to come by unless you're rich. A writer in this age is less than penniless. He's hopeless. Being the hopeless man that is he is, Ed sighed, scratching his dandruff flaking, grey hair as he stared blankly into his drink as if it were some shiny crystal ball ready to inspire him any second.

Gray leaned against the bar in front of him. A man's sigh could only signal one thing - he had a problem. But then again, any man who goes to a bar nearly everyday to drink alone has a problem. "What's wrong, Ed?" she asked, putting an understanding smile on her face.

"The world."

An eyebrow on Gray's forehead arched up. She wasn't sure if he was plainly making a joke, which was all well and fun. Or serious, which would be very bad. The kind of bad that sends suicidal ideas into people’s heads. Very much what people who dress in all black and even black nail polish do. "Of course it is," she finally replied. "We're humans. We live in this world. Of course there's something wrong with it. And we're in this mess now because a bunch of stupid men forty-five years ago thought they could make their utopia by nuking every country who wanted to make their own utopias." She made a rough sigh, unleashing her frustration on the poor beer mug she was cleaning. By the time it was done, the glass mug was looked practically invisible, and was lost forever in the cabinet after that day. "Perfection sucks," she mumbled, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing the glass away.

Gray was always the cool and collected bartender. Nothing seemed to faze her. But any discussion about the war always seemed to press a hidden nuke button inside of her. The sudden personality change made Ed form a small smile. "Imperfection that thinks it's Perfection is worse," he added, but his tiny smile faded. His own creative sentence worked against him and he started the same I'm A Pitiful Man story that he's been telling people for the past forty-five years. Gray heard this story about sixty times already, although in different variations. And so Ed began his rant, "Take me for example. I was this hot-shot journalist for the New York Times before the war. I thought I was the best - living in this fancy apartment, having a novel on the bestseller list, having any woman I wanted...it was The Life. Then the war happened. And here I am, still writing ...for nothing, and I still think I can be a hot-shot again."

The bartender shrugged. "Who knows, Ed? You probably might have a huge best-seller someday...when things get better."

Ed's glass of beer was now half-full...or rather, in Ed's case, half-empty. The old man sighed. "Heh...to be young again...." The rest of the beer was chugged down. He banged the empty mug down on the bar. "Bah, enough about dreams," He looked up at Gray with a tired smile, "How about helping me with my story?"

Gray was about to answer, but then it felt as if a sudden warmth of sunshine entered the bar from the door, but it was still raining like the day before, and the day before that. The sky was still the same dead grey. And it was freezing as hell.

A man walked in, soaking wet. A pair of boots squeaked every time he took a step. A faded black coat, too large for his frame, covered his entire body. It looked like it most likely belonged to someone else. It's amazing what people can find on the streets these days. The hood covered his face, but what Gray could see from his half-hidden profile, he had sharp features - nose, face, and all. After a few more squeaky steps, he sat right next to Ed and took off the hood. Gray was right, he did in fact have sharp features - a long face, sharp nose. Even his icy blue, almost grey eyes had this intense sharpness to them. They were steel eyes that could pierce through almost anything in a single glance. He was on the slightly feminine-looking side, the kind of thirty-something man you would see on the cover of GQ magazine or a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Of course, GQ Magazine was banned a long time ago, so Gray would have no understanding of the term He's so GQ. And while Calvin Klein underwear still existed on the loins of old men who still wore the same underwear they had when they were twenty-five, Gray had not the slightest idea about what lurked underneath men's pants. Well, of course she did, but not underwear brand names, considering brands didn't exist anymore. Unless you consider government-issued synthetic cotton underwear worthy of being sold in Bloomingdale’s.

The sharp-faced man faintly smiled at Gray, who stared at him in wonder with her mouth slightly gaped open. She wasn't known for her manners. But who could blame her? A seemingly attractive thirty-something man suddenly walked into her bar. And the hair. Silver hair. Not the speckled grey dust of old men, but silver. Smooth and sheen. Only rich people could afford hair dye....rich people being only 1 of the population of the entire world -1.5 if you add those slightly higher middle class people who actually own a computer.

"Mind if I have a drink?" asked the man in a surprisingly gentle, flowing voice.

Gray still had her mouth gaped open. After an awkward second of processing his words, she asked in stutters, "So...w-what'll it bb-e?"

Her reaction to him was complete surprise, with even the slightest bit of attraction (for a nineteen-year-old young woman who was surrounded by middle-aged drunk men all the time, it was very understandable). On the other hand, Ed didn't have much of a reaction. Mostly it was because Ed was drunk, sleeping drunk to be exact. He was dozing off with his head resting on the bar counter.

The man smiled. "Have any wine? Red or white, doesn't matter." After an abrupt pause, he tilted his head, then added, "Although I'd prefer red."

Gray's eyebrow cocked up. Wine? Wine hasn't been in production since twenty-five years ago when they found out all the grapes were poisonous due to the nuclear waste. Napa became one large ghost town in a matter of months. "...uhm, but sir, wine hasn't been made in twenty-five years..."

He smiled again. "Why don't you check that cabinet behind you? The one underneath the clock."

This was strange - a customer who knows where something is located. Gray stared at the man in wonder. How the hell would he know? After all, she's been working in that bar her entire life. Jerry found her wrapped up in an old ratty towel, snug inside a cardboard box with the words FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE on it, as if the person who put her in it saw the whole thing as one huge joke. She swore she never ever saw a bottle of wine in the cabinets. The only fancy liquor they had was a 2002 bottle of sake that Jerry bought off a Japanese trader from the black market.

But...the customer is always right, so of course Gray went over to the cabinet underneath the clock and opened it. And lo and behold-

There was no bottle of wine.

She stared at the man, as if a dirty trick had been done to her.

He croaked out an embarrassed laugh. "Check behind that bottle of sake."

Shrugging everything off, Gray did as she was told, and slid the sake bottle to the side. And yes, there was a bottle of wine. Red wine. Vintage Mondavi September 2001.

Gray stared wide-eyed at the bottle, deer looking into headlights look, too afraid to touch it. The man was not only strangely attractive, but also strangely weird. "You know I'm gonna have to charge you a lot for this, considering it's rare and everything..." She sighed and carefully held the bottle like it was a newly born infant. Life was a rare hope that the people of Gray's generation relished. Anything from the past was also just as rare and optimistic.

"Just pour me a glass," he eagerly answered, which made Gray’s hold on the bottle tighten . Who the hell does he think he is?

She absentmindedly blew a whiff of her bangs aside and took out a clean glass - one of the more fancy ones with a long flute. Somehow putting rare wine like a Mondavi 2001 into an ordinary beer mug felt like a crime. Not even a glancing, she automatically reached for the thrice-used bottle-opener which was in a drawer next to her right hand. If Gray were ever to become blind, she would most likely survive in the bar, without anyone's help. Bottle-opener in hand, she looked at the bottle with a painful expression on her face. It was like murder. A murder-rape. It was a necessary murder, but murder nonetheless. "You really need to pay a lot for this," she repeated again, an angrier tone in her voice. A slight flick and the cork went up, releasing the intoxicating smell into the air, and the wine's untouched purity. It gracefully poured down into the glass, swirling and hugging the bottom of the glass, perfectly red. Blood red. Life red. Past life. She quickly slid the filled glass over to the man, wanting to get rid of this abomination.

He smiled, as if oblivious to this crime he helped commit. "Thanks." He took the glass as quickly as Gray gave it to him. And he did something that would cause any wine connoisseur to have a heart attack, he downed the entire glass in one gulp, with not even the slightest swirl or sniff. A quick death, mercifully done. He opened his mouth for another glass, but Gray shoved the cork down with a quick bang. Ed stirred, but went back to sleep. The man's icy eyes coolly stared at her. "I was going to ask for another glass."

"Well you can't have it." She returned the bottle-opener back to its home and shut the drawer, her other hand clenching the Mondavi 2001. Deep inside her, something twitched. She knew she was doing something wrong. A bartender should never deny a customer a drink (unless they were too drunk, of course).

The icy eyes didn't change. Not even a hint of irritation was present. "And why is that?" He asked plainly. He was leaning closer to her, elbow propped on the bar with his chin resting on the back of his hand, relaxed and calm.

Gray took a moment to scan those eyes. His calmness annoyed her even more. "Because..." She nervously shifted her weight to her other foot, her clench on the bottle tightening. "Because now this wine will never be the same. You wasted it. You didn't even take the time to smell it or swirl it around in your glass. All you did was gulp it down like it was nothing. You know this kind of stuff is rare, but you treated it like it was a cheap commodity!" Now both of her hands were on the bottle, clenching the neck protectively. Her eyes lowered, a pair of warm blue-green ones. The man kept his calm pose, but stared intently at her. The lights above the bar softened her features, smoothing the black hair that fell carelessly, yet gently down her shoulders. Gray was in fact a beautiful girl, even though she grew up in a world where make up was only for the wives of millionaire husbands. "And you made me open it," she continued, her face hovering over the bottle as if to kiss it. "Why can't you just keep something this precious unopened? Why does everyone have to keep letting things important go to waste just for their benefit? It...it makes me mad."

The man smiled, and placed his hand over Gray's. The sudden touch surprised her. Her hand instinctively flinched away, but his hold upon it was firm. Calling it a so-called Awkward Moment was a complete understatement. With his hand still touching Gray's, he gently took the bottle from her. He popped off the cork without a dose of effort and poured himself another glass. Unlike the first glass, the redness only went up a quarter of the way, indicating that Gray's speech affected him, but of course every man needs his healthy dose of liquor. Their little touch made her temporarily speechless, so he took that advantage and gave his two cents. Or three. Or even three hundred yen, depending on your perspective, and the country you're from. "Don't you know that the best things in life should never be locked away?" He still remained calm despite everything. He even sipped his wine conservatively rather than the one gulp he did before. After something like that, only a normal, sane person would be angry and glug down the wine in front of her out of spite. But this man was far from normal...or even sane for that matter. "Call me Epicurean, but the best things in life should be enjoyed." He pensively pressed his lips tightly. "Hmm, I think that was an slogan from the Time Before." Quickly, he shook off the random thought. "Anyway, I completely understand what you mean. For nineteen years you lived in this chaotic world whose current pitiful state wasn't even your generation's fault. Of course you would be mad. I would be mad if I wasn't such a nice guy and all, but you can't let that makeyou bitter. And do you want to be bitter all your life, Miss..?" He looked at her, asking for an introduction.

"Grayce...Grayce Farwyn." Then she reluctantly, if not painfully added, "...no, I don't want to be bitter all my life." At this point, she was very, very confused. What does Epicurean mean? How did that man know so much? And how the hell did he know she was nineteen? Her eyes narrowed directly him. Gray was a mere five-feet, three inches tall, but somehow the simple act of narrowing her eyes at anyone had the ability to make her appear taller. While most young women of nineteen relied on their sex as tools of Persuasion, Gray used her eyes. "....and you?"
However, the man remained as calm as ever. He held out a hand, slender with long fingers, almost feminine in quality. It was the same hand that Touched Gray so strangely. "Name's Gabe. Nice to meet you."

Before more awkward introductions proceeded, a lion-like snort shot out from Ed's nostrils. The old man lazily drooped up. "Pleasure, Gabe," he said with a crooked, hung over smile. A drunk's heightened hearing is quite an amazing thing, even when he's asleep, or appears to be.

Gabe exchanged the smile, although it wasn't what one would call an Equal Exchange. The man flashed a group of pearly whites reminiscent of idolized movie stars. Indeed, it was worthy of People Magazine's Sexiest Man of the Year. Although she was the only woman in the room, Gray unfortunately wouldn’t understand that joke. The only Old Times magazine Jerry possessed in the house was a fading 2005 Vanity Fair, with Paris Hilton on the cover nonetheless - definitely not the most impressive window into history. "I'll pay you back for the wine," he said suddenly. "I've been meaning to make a few bucks anyway."

Gray, who was busy wiping the counter for no apparent reason other than to divert attention from Gabe, looked up. Her rainbow stained wiping rag plopped down on the wood floor. She didn't once think about cleaning the puddle of alcohol-water seeping from the old hand towel. "You mean, work in the bar?"

There was a nod. His relaxed countenance quickly faded when he sheepishly added, "I just need a place to stay, of course."

(1) Take for example, the Prohibition of the 1920s in the United States. Men known as Beer Barons, made alcohol in their basements using bathtubs and traffiked them all over major cities such as New York. Using bathtubs (no matter how clean) in the manufacturing of something that will go down your throat, perfectly shows the dire and desperate human need for alcohol.