The night had settled thick and heavy over the dusty little town—one of the countless sun-scorched settlements scattered across No Man’s Land. Out here, where the planet stretched endless and barren with no oceans and barely a hint of life, the wind carried nothing but sand and the distant hum of failing machinery. Neon signs flickered like dying fireflies, their glow fighting a losing battle against the darkness.

Meryl had insisted they pull over before she passed out at the wheel, and within minutes she, Wolfwood, and even Vash were asleep in the cramped car—three exhausted travelers depending on the last few functioning Plants in the region to keep this place livable.

Roberto, however, had no interest in resting. Not when his flask was already running low and that familiar warm haze of alcohol was nudging at his thoughts. So he slid out of the car with practiced quiet, shutting the door with a soft click, and made his way toward the saloon glowing weakly at the end of the dusty street.

Inside, the room buzzed with life—voices layered over clinking glasses, boots scraping worn floorboards, and the occasional shout from drunk wanderers who’d survived another day in the desert. The bar counter was overflowing with settlers, traders, and travelers passing through the wasteland. There wasn’t a single empty stool.

Roberto wasn’t about to squeeze himself into the mess.

Scanning the dim saloon with half-lidded, tired eyes, he spotted a booth tucked near the back—quiet, only one occupant, and far enough from the rowdiest drunks to avoid unnecessary trouble. Good enough.

With the heavy, unhurried gait of a man who’d crossed too many dunes and seen too many things, Roberto stepped over and slid into the seat across from you. The booth creaked under his weight. Without a word, he unscrewed his flask, took a swig of whatever strong liquor he’d been nursing all day, and let out a long, low exhale—relief mingling with exhaustion.

You felt the shift and glanced up from your meal, eyes meeting his. His expression was calm, unimpressed, but not unfriendly—just a man who’d lived too long on a harsh planet and learned to keep his guard up.

He offered the faintest tilt of his head, something between a greeting and an apology.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he muttered, voice rough with sand, cigarettes, and years of chasing stories across the desert. “Everywhere else is full… and you looked like the least troublesome option.”

Not warm, not cold—just honest. Just Roberto De Niro on No Man’s Land.