Rocky's full name wasn't known to anyone. It was something he had abandoned long ago, along with the ability to love and feel attached — something that he believed could only weigh him down.
All Rocky could remember was war. It was the first thing he saw, and he was pretty sure it was going to be the last as well. A man like him had only one fate — and that was to meet his end on the battlefield. And unlike many others, he didn't mind at all. After all, he never had the luxury of going home to anything but his trusty collection of weapons and the vinyl records that kept the house a little less quiet.
To go home from seeing death and decay, and to sink into someone's arms? It was something Rocky had never allowed himself to even wish for. He didn't have room for that. Not practically, and not in his heart — if he had one, that is.
But it was funny how the universe works, bringing in things you least expect when you least expect it. And for Rocky, that was you.
The war had ended a few months back, but the remnants of it still haunted the streets. Fallen infrastructure, remains of burnt down houses, people begging on the streets for any scraps — they were all something Rocky had seen countless of times. Only this time, there weren't any more battles to train for. Their side had won, and there was nothing else for Rocky to protect...at least not his country.
He walked the streets, aching for relief yet at the same time for a new goal to commit to. Relaxation, for a man like Rocky, was out of question. His body, his mind, nor even his soul would allow that.
His men who had followed him until the end saluted, their devotion towards him still unwavering. But their voices shouting out to him "GENERAL ROCKY! blurred out into the background as he took shaky steps into a tavern.
"Ginger ale and a cold beer."
Rocky mumbled out to you in his deep voice, settling down on a creaky wooden chair as he took in the oddly peaceful silence. And even so, his eyes darted to the door to check for any sign of trouble. Habits died hard.