Vodquila

James had been relatively fine until he heard the scream. He jumped in his seat, shoulders scrunching up as he turned around to see the source - the person, or whoever - was... changing forms. He stared at them as the rest of the conversation unfolded, finally overhearing that he was named Damascus. Not that... it was important he remember that. When the situation looked to be de-escalated, he turned around back to Boris, clearly still a little shaken.

"Uh... what were you saying again?" he asked.

"Exactly. Very useful." he nodded solemnly before letting go of the girl's hand, which he had been pumping up and down a few more times then necessary. He picked up the nearest full glass on the table, too dizzy to be worried about whose it was.

"You are definitely not going to rat me out, correct?" He glanced wearily over Schadel's shoulder at the spector.

Luckily, Damascus had managed to grab onto his own glass instead of hers. Things certainly would have been awkward if he hadn't. As it was, his last question had managed to make things a little awkward. She had no idea what he was talking about. From the way that Edward slammed his empty glass down on the table, he didn't have any idea either.

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Edward said. Schadel could already hear the beginning of a slur to his voice. How much had he drunk while she was chatting with Damascus? "I didn't even know that demons apparently existed until a minute ago, which shouldn't have been all that surprising, since Schadel's a 'reaper and I'm a ghost, but, yeah. Besides, the only person I work for is Schadel."

"Good, good. That's wonderful news." Damascus broke into a smile, feeling very relived. He was still in danger, being out in the open like this, but as far as he could tell, his superiors hadn't tracked him down just yet.

He frowned suddenly, and pawed at his leg. Unfortunately, the flask that had been strapped to his thigh had dissapeared with his other form. A pout flitted to his face, and he seemed to critically gaze at the contents of his drink.

"My strong stuff is missing." He sighed, and then glanced up at Schadel and Edward, his eyes wide and serious, "tell me the truth... how intoxicated am I?"

"I'd say very," Schadel hesitantly replied, looking Damascus with a scrutinizing gaze. Considering how this entire conversation had been the result of him being so intoxicated that he had let his disguise disappear, it was difficult to say that he wasn't incredibly intoxicated. Schadel only tended to do that when she was distracted by sleep or alcohol.

Edward nodded in agreement.

He bowed his head and let his hair fall over his face, now unable to stop the tears that freely flowed down his face. He'd fought and killed and died and given up everything he had for the one thing that always seemed to matter most - survival. And yet, somehow, after everything he'd given up to that end, it didn't satisfy him. After a century he was sick of surviving. He just wanted to live. To live without this fear and this guilt and this pain that haunted him, now more than ever. He should've listened to his brother. Gunther had been right: he should never have committed that first mortal sin.

The vampire turned an ebony cross over in his fingers, the last remnant he had of his elder sibling. Why couldn't he have listened to law over wrath?

And yet he still couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps that first kill had been the right decision. If he'd been left alone with his father he would've been sure to die or live a life debatably worse than what he had. At least now he had - or at least, used to have - some sense of purpose, until the war had taken in from him.

It was pretty interesting to see all of the overemotional, drunken characters fall into conversation with one another, and she'd been watching on the sidelined for quite some time until it seemed no one was going to comfort the poor apparently-ex-nazi guy in the corner crying his eyes out. From behind the bar, Wilson adjusted the bowtie and straightened out her black vest over her white suit shirt, making sure she looked like the upright bartender she was supposed to be. She slid quickly over to Kratzer's corner and slid him a glass of water.

"What's got you crying there, dude? Wanna talk?"

He glanced up at the barkeep. Normally, he'd have brushed her off, but in his intoxicated state his usual guardedness was all but absent. Kratzer shook his head, uttering a slightly slurred, rueful chuckle.

"I've sacrificed so damn much to survive but I don't even know what I have to live for."

Wilson blinked a few times, having expected some kind of honest reply of that sort, but also not entirely prepared for it. She leaned forward on the bar to level with the guy.

"I can get that. Sometimes the hope of things unfulfilled makes the heart sick. It sounds like you've been surviving for so long you've forgotten what living feels like." She reached out a hand and pat his shoulder. "And if that's how you're feeling, I'm really sorry, my dude."

He chuckled. "I don't even know how it started anymore. I used to think it was that first kill, but...I think it started before then. You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to play professional accordion. That was my dream. And look at me now...f***in' ex-Nazi who hasn't had a decent career since the war and kills people for a Verdammt living, who abandoned the one family he had because he thought he could fight a fight he was doomed to lose."

Wilson nodded. "Sounds like you've made lots of tough decisions. That's rough, buddy."

"Ah. Tha' makes sense." He peered again into his half-empty glass, holding it up to his eye and looking through the vodquila at Schadel and Edward. Suddenly, he seemed to remember something, and set it down.

With a gasp, he clumsily tried to grab the girl's arm. Halfway through the motion, his arm dropped and knocked his glass to the floor. He went on, unfazed.

"Advice! I need some- a'fore it's too late."

He shrugs. "Not sure how much it matters at this point, honestly. I've made it this far and I gave up everything to do it. What else is there?"

Wilson shrugged back. "I mean, It does matter. Your life matters, my dude. But I guess it depends. What else is left for you, in some ways, is up to you. I don't know all the details of your life - and I'm too polite to look into your past, or your future. But there's still a lot to be found in life. Happiness. Love. People you care about. Your own personal aspirations. Picking up music and the accordion again? I don't know. But it does matter. 'Cause you exist, and even though you might just be a blip in the expansive existence of infinite realities and timelines, yours is just as important of a story, and you get to make it your own. I think that's kind of beautiful in its own way. I mean, somehow you still came out of all this stuff with a conscience, and a heart, and I think that's commendable beyond all doubt. You're better than you give yourself credit for, especially considering all the stuff that's come your way, whether asked for or not."

He sniffled, gazing into the clear alcohol. "Everything...Everything I get attached to, everyone, they just get hurt. They die, they get killed, or tortured, or enslaved, and I-I..."